Penguin Cam: The cause of and solution to all of life's problems

May God damn every effing one of you out there that sent me the link to Penguin Cam (and it was a STAGGERINGly large number of you). It has single-handedly added a month to my dissertation, just in the past few days, due to the ridiculous level of awesome - smothered with cuteness awesomesauce - forced upon me. I'm honestly thinking of canceling my cable plan because I have no other need of video entertainment. I do, however, have a need for a third monitor in my office: one for my dissertation, one for Facebook, and one for Penguin Cam. The dissertation monitor can be the smallest... and it really doesn't even have to work.

If you haven't experienced Penguin Cam, it's penguins. Hundreds of them. Being cute. And awesome. And penguins. And the molting one are mangily precious. AND IT'S 24 HOURS A DAY. OH! And if that isn't enough, JUST WAIT until you see them getting fed or frolicking in the fresh-from-the-hose snow. What I would give to spray their habitat with fake snow! They taunt me with their lively fleshiness, as all I have in my lab are dead, fleshless penguin carcasses. And no, I'm not kidding. About any of this.

Penguin Cam features Sea World's "Penguin Encounter" exhibit and the 24/7 live feed is in promotion of Discovery Channel's new series Frozen Planet. Sea World and Discovery Channel obviously have NO regard for my dissertation. Bastards. Well, seeing that I AM currently writing a paper about pygoscelid penguin bone histology (and 2 of the 3 Pygoscelis species are featured on Penguin Cam), I'm just going to have to pass this off as "research". Anyone know how I go about citing Penguin Cam in my references?

In the mean time, may your life be as unproductive as mine:

http://dsc.discovery.com/tv/frozen-planet/penguin-cam/

When I go insane, please change my name to Moldova

Yesterday I experienced something the likes of which I have never seen. Eurovision. Oh Em Gee. I finally found the absurdity that was missing from my life. And have come to fully realize that Europe is doomed. However, I can't express the amount of joy I got documenting the event, that could only be surpassed by the entrance of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, on Twitter. It's amazing how amusing I find myself.

In all honesty, I should have seen this coming. When I was in England in 2009 I was introduced to Mika, running around like a clown on purpose. England loves their crazy. And apparently so does the rest of Europe. However, I didn't expect them to love that level of pop; old school pop at that. With very few exceptions, the entire continent is still listening to 80's pop and 90's boy bands. Georgia, who rocked it with angry grungy hip hop, single-handedly brought late 90s music to Europe. I never thought a band who reminded me more than a little of the Black Eyed Peas would be a welcome musical experience. France tried to evoke a revolution with military jackets (which were so 2009) and a Les Mis-like score. I think they're overcompensating for WWII. And Italy and Romania unveiled their respective Michael Buble cloning projects.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, Vanilla Ice is now in Russia.

And who wins the crackpipe award? Moldova. I was warned that Moldova has a history of insanity at Eurovision, but I was in no way prepared for the spectacle. I should have looked up their performance from 2010, but that would have ruined the WTF factor. Men in 3-foot gnome hats seemed perfectly normal compared to the chick in a fairy costume with a horn riding a unicycle and the final close up of perfected monocle use. That viewing experience could have only been better with the addition of little green faries, but, alas, I'm all out of absinthe. Once I find out where this country actually is, and where they get their crack stash, I might have to go visit. And I fully expect Moldovan customs to hand out unicycles upon entrance into the country.

But all in all, I learned an important lesson thanks to Eurovision. Never mention a threesome in a Twitter posts. Hello, porn spam. This is totally Ireland's fault. What kind of name is Jedward anyways?

Europe, you're definitely living up to your US reputation and stereotype, while making Justin Bieber look good at the same time. After three hours immersed in European pop culture, I missed Bieber hair. But I can't fault them. That was by far the best three hours on a Saturday afternoon I have ever wasted. Thank you, Eurovision, from the bottom of my heart.

When dissertations get kinky...

... it doesn't bode well.

The most recent description I have come up with to describe my feelings towards my dissertation is: "I feel like I'm in a S&M relationship with my dissertation and I was never given a safe word." This is also the most accurate description. Safe words are important, kiddos. Otherwise you're just left dominated, tied up, and abused.

On a related note, it was suggested that "cloaca" be my safe word, but I've concluded that it'd be far too easy for me to work that into pillow talk.

Other people have put their grad school sentiments more tactfully. For example, in a recent article in The Nation a Columbia University professor was quoted saying, "Going to grad school's a suicide mission." How vanilla. This article, of course, was re-posted on Facebook by half my graduate student friends with various messages of "woe is me", and half my tenured friends with various messages of "sucks to be you". Unfortunately, I can only support this hypothesis with my own empirical evidence. Woe is me.

Looking at my Facebook profile and TweetStream, I guess this has been a pretty rough week between me and my dissertation. Somehow I've taken a flogging without even realizing it. And I find it rather disconcerting that it takes my social media updates to act as a status report. All of my posts from the last week have documented my tenuous relationships with my dissertation, with a highlight being, "If my dissertation is the Battle of the Bulge, then I'm sitting in a snowy foxhole getting the shit mortared out of me." Obviously I need to post more cute kitten videos to negate the documentation of my downward-spiraling soul.

I can really only end this bitchfest with the reflection that The Simpsons really provides a perfect social commentary on pretty much everything. And might I add, that middle video clip was a lot funnier before I turned 30...

(On a side note, when I first heard the term "blog" I thought it stood for Bitch LOG. I fully realize that this post is totally living up to that sentiment.)

The worst thing that has ever happened to me:

The invention of ebooks.

Which was not helped by the gift of a Barnes & Noble Nook ebook reader for Christmas. Double whammy.

Finishing up my 5th year of my Ph.D. program while being massively behind on ALL my deadlines (don't you just love the sound they make as the whoosh by?) doesn't really leave me with copious amounts of time for non-scientific reading. The fact that I've been a grad student for just a shade under a decade and my funding will likely run out before I actually finish this effing degree doesn't really leave me with copious amounts of money for non-booze purchases. So making books - my unparalleled addiction - as easy to purchase as ONE click of the mouse will surely prove to be my ultimate downfall. Funny, I always thought that would be liver failure or an unfortunate trundling accident.

This "One Click Smut" (does that sound wrong, or is it just me?) issue need to be rectified. STAT. Frat boys around the country may argue the point, but easier is not always better - especially when it involves time and money I don't have. I need to be forced to work for things, particularly things which may be soothing to my soul, but harmful to my career goals. Afterall, I think we've clearly established that I don't have much of a soul left these days, so really, what's the point? Consequently, I demand that more steps be added in the ebook-purchasing process. Perhaps a 200 question survey of our understanding of metaphysics and how it relates to experience should be instated, or a required expository essay on how the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand relates to the break up of Prussia. (And might I mention, the phrase "expository essay" always makes me think of John Hodgman, Resident Expert.) At least before ebooks I had to get in my car and drive across town to get my fix. Considering I'm too lazy to even put on pants unless I have to, extra steps would really help the chaos ebooks are wrecking on my life. And require me to wear pants less often. Somebody needs to get on this. Now. Before I buy anymore books this week. I mean, how am I supposed to charge my Nook when they shut off my power because I can't pay my bill?

Ebooks. The worst thing that has ever happened to me.

Oh yeah. And that time I got run over by an ATV-wielding Canadian in the Arctic was pretty bad, too.

Let’s take a moment for….

Slime mold. It's big, oozing, and asexual with suicidal tendencies. What more could a girl ask for?

I’m taking time out of my intense campaigning for more flightless birds in romance novels to bring you this public service announcement about the awesomeness of slime mold. I’m completely serious - I don’t joke about things like slime mold. My Master’s advisor turned me on to slime molds when we spent an entire class period talking about them because he loves them so much. Loves them to the point that one of the most prominent dinosaur paleontologists said, “If I didn’t love dinosaurs so much, I’d totally study slime molds.” Ok, he probably didn’t throw in a “totally”, but I’ve found that with each advanced degree I get I talk more and more like a valley girl, so in my memory, that’s how he said it.

Anyways, here are just a few of the reasons why slime molds are so awesome:

(1) Hey baby, check out the size of my cell

Those big, sometimes brightly-colored oozing masses you may sometimes see in the woods? Yeah, that’s one cell. One. Cell. With multiple nuclei. How cool is that! Additionally, some slime mold cells can also join together to form big multicelluar colonies. Ultimate teamwork. Actually, they kinda remind me of myself. Most of the time I really just want to sit on my couch and enjoy solitude. But during a zombie apocalypse I would want to be around other people. You know, to use as weapons and bait.

(2) Slime mold wants you covered, wants you smothered like its Waffle House hashbrowns

These guys move. Honest to God. They’re the things that blob-like horror movies are made of, except they don’t try to eat you. Actually, they're totally harmless. And I'm sure they were Steve McQueen's biggest fans.

(3) When I think about me I touch myself

What’s sexier than confidence? Slime mold has such confidence in its evolutionary superiority that it doesn’t need to look outside it’s own DNA to supplement its gene pool – it just gets it on with itself and BAM! Houston, we have spawn. Don’t let the fact that the above statement makes it sound like an inbred Nazi turn you off. Sometimes, when the conditions are perfect (and by perfect I mean that they happen to run into a compatible slime mold in heat. Which I'm sure happens ALL the time...), slime molds can reproduce sexually. But everyone knows that budding off is way more fun. Wait…what?

(4) Taking one for the team

You thought Dumbledore made “For the Greater Good” look sexy? Wrong. That was slime mold. As any child who ever had their innocence ripped from them by watching hyenas kill baby cheetahs or crocodiles eat the mangled bodies of baby elephants or orcas toy with baby seals on the Discovery Channel (back when they showed nature shows) knows, Mother Nature can be a brutal bitch. So when environmental conditions turn harsh, and slime molds are forced to extremes to ensure survival, some of them commit suicide. Nothing says survival like death. Dictyostelium discoideum cells, for example, congregate together (essentially forming a multicelluar organism) and form “puff balls” (for lack of a better term) that are raised on a stalk. The slime mold cells that make up the stalk undergo altruistic suicide or “programmed cell death” to lift the puff ball up higher. The ultimate point of their sacrifice is that spores form within these puff balls and can then be disseminated to colonize new areas. Despite the video footage of cute baby animals being brutalized, this is why nature is so great: it’s all about eating and sex.

So long story short, slime mold makes up the awesomesauce that is poured over things. You have a piece of awesome covered in awesomesauce? Yeah, that’s slime mold. You’re welcome.

The Role of Flightless Birds in Romance Novels

Now, I take my science very seriously; but I take my fun seriously, too. Last time I gave a research talk to my department, I titled my talk "Paradigm Broken: New study shows 65 million year old bird should be served with red wine". This started as just a joke title when my friend who was running the graduate student seminars was pressuring me for a talk title. However, when I started building my presentation, I thought to myself "why stop at just a title?" I proceeded to put together a full 10 minute talk on wine pairings with the extinct birds I study - including a Principle Component Analysis. Obviously it was much more fun than my actual research talk. While that talk was without a doubt one of the highlights of my grad school career (I know, sad, right?), I have yet to share that talk publicly - aside from a teaser - for the reason that I fully intend on giving it as part of a presentation at a professional conference one day. Can't let the press get wind of this hard-core research before I can publish it, after all.

Well, last Friday I gave another seminar talk to the grad students in my department. And of course I thought about coming up with another joke talk. However, the fun I get out of creating fake figures set up an internal struggle with the fact that I'm the laziest person I know and didn't want to do more work. But then I saw that it was April 1st, and just had to suck it up and put a few more hours into my powerpoint. This time, it started with an abstract. Indulging my laziness, I just cut and pasted the abstract from my most recent paper, then added the summary for the second half of my presentation: "I will then proceed to talk about something else. Possible topics include (1) blah blah blah dead birds blah, or (2) the role of flightless birds in romance novels." I figured no one was going to read the abstract - I hadn't read one all year for the seminar speakers - but I immediately started getting emails from friends saying they were going to be disappointed if I didn't really talk about romance novels. Well shit, I had officially committed myself - something I strive never to do. Alas, at least now I had a topic. A topic that includes my two favorite subjects: dead birds and smut.

As for the talk, I'll start with the conclusion: the role of flightless birds in romance novels is UNDERUTILIZED. In my extensive research through (1) obsessively reading romances, (2) Google searches, and (3) Twitter, I have found only one romance featuring flightless birds: "Seize the Fire" by Laura Kinsale. Though I actually had to go through the unheard of lengths of ordering a paperback online to procure a copy (I have a Nook and have gotten used to instant gratification, something that is deadly to my bank account and dissertation), I now own this love story of flightless proportions. I must also add, however, that "Seize the Fire" is now available as an ebook for the Nook because Ms. Kinsale is totally awesome and talked to her publisher (seriously, does anyone know a Laura that isn't awesome? I didn't think so.). Needless to say, we're now Twitter friends.

"Seize the Fire" follows the story of Napolean the Rockhopper penguin in his wing-propelled adventures searching for that one perfect cloaca to compliment his own. Ok, technically it follows the story of Naval captain Sheridan Drake who adopts Napolean the Rockhopper penguin, but the penguin plays an important role in humanizing our jaded hero. And that's it, kiddos. That's all I could find, with the exception of several webpages claiming there's a Harlequin Romance entitled "Lover Boy" that features the Chandler, Arizona Ostrich Festival. Sadly, "Lover Boy" is a rather innocuous and banal title. If I were writing a HQN featuring an ostrich festival, I think something like "The Ostrich King's Lover's Secret Chick" would be a more appropriate title. Even if ostriches aren't in the plot line. Subsequent searches have failed to turn up any evidence of this book outside ostrich festival websites, so if either of the two people who might read this post know of this book's existence, PLEASE let me know! [EDIT: A friend has helped me locate "Loverboy" by Vicki Lewis Thompson! It is currently winging (har har) it's way to me!]

The lack of data turned up in my extensive literature searches (and by extensive, I mean I'm pretty sure I spent more than 30 minutes on Google) is very disappointing considering all the romantic potential flightless birds have to offer. In fact, I now consider flightless birds to be the prefect romance allegory. Let's look at the two largest groups of flightless birds: ratites and penguins. Ratites are the group of Southern Hemisphere birds that include ostriches, emus, cassowaries, and kiwis (no, not the fruit). All of these birds have secondarily loss the power of aerial propulsion, but several species still use their wings in some form of function. The ostrich, for example, primarily uses it's wings in courtship dances - splaying it wings, bobbing it's head, swaying back and forth on bended knee. How much sexier can an ostrich get? I'm all hot and bothered just thinking about it. I think the importance of courtship, and women adorning themselves with ostrich feathers, in romance novels speaks for itself. But if not: it's important. Ostriches will also use their wings to scare off predators to protect their young - another noble use of flightless wings. Despite all the abundant alpha asshattery shown by heroes in novels along the way to HEA (Happily Ever After), they're always excited by the prospect of participating in the game of evolution by the end, and that includes protecting their genetic investment.

Penguins are perhaps an even more romantic group of flightless birds. Not only are they so damn cute that you just have to go "Awwwww" every time you see one (with the possible exception of the dead ones in my lab...though I do find their tarsometatarsals absolutely precious), but many species are monogamous and mate for life - at least once they find the one cloaca that in the darkness binds them. Additionally, both parents generally help in raising their chicks. How romantic - HEAs for all! Oh-ho, but don't be fooled, it's not all commitment and monogamy out there in this flightless paradise. You still have Emperor Penguins, who are essentially the rakes of of the penguin world - finding new partners every year. And every good story needs a devious rake.

Most of the rest of flightless birds (that we haven't eaten to extinction, and well, even those that we have) are found on islands, or island-like settings (like isolated South American lakes where you can find flightless ducks). Honestly, what's more romantic than being marooned on an island with flightless birds...and perhaps a pirate? You can get ravished AND dinner!

All-in-all, flightless birds are vastly underutilized by romance authors as either heroes and heroines or as plot points. Consequently, I will now dedicate the rest of my career to lobby for more aeronautically-challenged avians in romances. In fact, I will even go so far as suggesting the new sub-genera "Cloaca Erotica" for the hard-core aviaphiles out there. No cloaca-loving judgment here. To date, people sadly don't find flightless birds as sexy as I do. Yeah, I know, I don't get it either. But hopefully together we can change that so our children can be raised in a world more embracing of flightless cloacal kisses. If I were in the least bit apt at creative writing, and less lazy, I would write them myself.

How to write a dissertation

Need a Ph.D. to find a job in your field but freaking out about writing a dissertation? No problem. Just follow the seven-step program below and they'll be calling you Dr. Malcolm-Jamal Warner in no time. By the end of it, you'll probably even have enough alcohol-induced false confidence to operate on people, too.

1. Head to your favorite bar. *
2. Order a drink.
3. Open Word.**
4. Drink
5. Type
6. Repeat steps 4 and 5 as needed.
7. Don't forget to tip your waitress.

And remember, being a scientist doesn't mean that your committee doesn't want to read a dissertation written in first person stream-of-consciousness.


*Hell, it doesn't have to be your favorite bar as long as it serves booze. Lots and lots of mind-numbing/opening booze.

**More serious dissertators (read: those in their 4th year and above) might want to consider a ToughBook or good ole pen and paper to reduce chances of permanent damage from overturned beers. After all, by this point, you're probably starting your day with whiskey in your coffee and just continuing on from there.

Fossiliferous Smut

This is not a book review. This is me sounding my barbaric yawp over the smut-loving rooftops of the world.

In a recent bout of unproductiveness (which, let's face it, really comprises about 85% of my day, with 10% of the remaining 15% being eating, and you have to work bathroom breaks in there, too...) a little web searching led me to a list of romance novels that involve paleontologists. I've always had this rage of jealousy deep down in my soulless soul at the thought that archaeologists got all the romantic glory. But apparently sometimes being wrong is awesome. Oh Happy Day! After cross-checking with my library's online catalog, I found that a local library actually had one of these books. Days just don't get better than this, so I immediately placed a hold. Granted, with a title like "Ravished" (by Amanda Quick), I wasn't sure how this was going to play out - perhaps the sketchy little website had lied to me. After all, if I were to write a paleo romance, it would be titled "Dirty Little Bone", "Old, Hard, and Dirty", "Hard as a Rock", or "Bones of Contention" at the very least. My fears were compounded when I went to pick up the book and it had a photograph of flowers on the front. Flowers? Really? You don't even find fossil where flowers grow...unless it's a prickly pear. However, I was slightly comforted by the fact that this was the Large Print version, and everyone knows large print versions always have plot-inappropriate images on the cover. So I let this slide; old people need to get their daily dose of bone, too, even if it's disguised behind flowers. It's like hiding their blood pressure pills in the pudding.

The online library summary provided no clue as to plot points, and I was far too lazy to actually look up the cover copy on Amazon, so needless to say I was surprised to find this alleged paleo smut to be a Regency. Although, with a title like "Ravished", OF COURSE it was a Regency. Every self-respecting historical is entitled "Ravished" or "Seduced", followed by the optional prepositional phrase. Seduced by a Duke, Ravished by a Viking, Seduced by a Ravishing Viking Duke - you get the picture. But the point of all of this is to say that I had no clue what I was going to get when I started reading "Ravished", but I was assuming that my emotional investment in the hope of paleo smut was going to result in nothing more than a spiteful tease by an archeologist-loving website. Boy was I wrong.

Harriet Pomeroy is a rector's daughter in (where I can only assume) southern England, and has a fossil problem. Most Regencies involve heroes and heroines with whoring problems, money problems, gambling problems, petticoat problems, and overbearing ass7wipe family problems (the 7 is silent), but few have fossil problems. (As an aside, though, I will note that I know several non-Regency people with a fossil problem, so they do exist outside Romancelandia.) And it came as a further surprise that it was the heroine who is the eccentric fossil hunter - though, upon reflection, in a historical this makes sense as the heroes are generally off being irresponsible, except when needed to save the day, and wouldn't be able to fit in fossil hunting amongst their alpha asshattery schemes. Regardless, female paleontologist = double rainbow. But Miss Pomeroy has a fossil problem that gets her into all sorts misguided adventures. And it gets her ravished. In a good way. By Gideon, who is less of an assclown than many romance heroes. While the plot held my attention (hell, the promise of a brooding alpha asshat and a hot sex scene at some point in a book can hold my attention these days), it was the "Romance Novel Guide to Paleontologists" that totally did it for me.

First we have the descriptions of paleontologists:

A fossil collector will resort to anything when he gets desperate.

And a warning about the dangers of other "professionals", which is surprisingly accurate given some of the stories I've heard over the years:

I can tell you, sir, that there are those who would steal my fossils and claim them as their own discoveries without so much as a flicker of remorse.

Coupled with delightful character references that perhaps explain why I'm still single:

He wondered if it was the lack of an inheritance that had kept her unwed or if her evident enthusiasm for old bones had put off potential suitors. Few gentlemen would be inspired to propose to a female who displayed more interest in fossils than in flirting.

Followed by an appropriate emphasis on the utter and total obsession with fossils. Upon first meeting her mother-in-law (a countess, no less), rather than engaging her in charming conversation, Harriet prattles on about her newly-found fossil tooth. As Gideon tells his mother,

And that is the end of all polite social discourse this evening unless you forcibly intervene, madam. Once my wife is launched on the subject of fossils, she is very difficult to deflect.

Shortly followed by:

There she goes again...You had better stop her quickly unless you want for the conversation to revert to fossils.

We learn the important lesson that digging up fossils predisposes a woman to deadly schemes and supernatural strength, and when using a fossil as a weapon against ravishing in a bad way, make sure it's a forgery.

Harriet ignored him. Her goal was the large stone sitting on top of the last cabinet in the aisle, the one that contained the fossil impression of a [fake: this was mentioned earlier] large, spiny fish. She prayed the stone would not be too heavy for her to lift.

Bryce [bad guy] never guessed her intention. It probably did not occur to him that a woman would resort to such a means of defending herself or that a woman would be strong enough to do so even if she tried.

But Harriet had been digging fossils out of solid rock for years. She had spent hours wielding a mallet and chisel. She knew she was no weakling.

She grabbed hold of the chunk of stone and hurled it down at Bryce's blond head just as he reached up to grasp her ankle.

We also learn how to use bone analogies in pillow talk. Just in case it wasn't obvious.
Says Gideon:

Perhaps you will show me just which portions of my anatomy you consider equal to or more impressive than the old bones you collect, madam.

Says Harriet:

I would have to say that I have rarely encountered fossil metatarsals of such size...And one seldom is lucky enough to find a tibia of such proportions...Very impressive...And other than the femur of an elephant I once had the privilege of examining, I have never seen such a magnificent thigh bone...Now we come to a most interesting discovery...

Says Gideon:

Do not tell me you have found fossils of that particular anatomical item.

Says Harriet:

No, but this is certainly as hard as any fossil I have ever dug out of stone.

Ladies and Gentlemen, that's how paleontologists do it. Lesson learned. The only thing I would add would be a reference to how I once drunkenly bid $300 on a walrus baculum during a live auction at a conference. To which the auctioneer commented, "Batteries not included".

Our last lesson is in how to title a scientific paper. Harriet entitles her paper:

"A Description of the Great Beast of Upper Biddleton" by Harriet, Lady St. Justin

And that settles it. I'm working "Great Beast" into my next paper title, and I am adopting "Lady" over the more traditional "Dr." as my required prefix. This includes in the classroom, in the mail room, and in everyday life. Especially at professional conferences. Even if I'm dancing on a table.

All in all, I really can't praise this book enough, or the experience of reading it, mocking tone aside. The scientific ideas are vague enough not to cause violent flinching to the paleo-knowledgeable, but are appropriate to the time with discussions on fossil succession, deep time (vs. the deluge), mountain building events (sadly "orogeny" was not used in any bedroom ...or cave... scenes), and extinction. The paleo romance I'm currently reading is a contemporary and I find myself talking back to the characters when they're wrong. 'Tis the curse of the well-informed.

Moral of the story: everyone should be ravished by "Ravished", impressive anatomical specimens and all.

I can't wait to post about this on Facebook

It’s a sad state of affairs when my first reaction to a situation is “I can’t wait to post about this on Facebook”. Sad, but true.

Like everyone else, I’ve been joking about TSA and gropings at the airport; I’ve even dreamed about it. But in my dream, I had to take an SAT-style test to get through security. Sadly, I can’t even get felt up in my dreams. This test was hard as hell and I kept yelling belligerently at security, “I’m smarter than most people, how are people supposed to get through security??!!”. This just got me taken to my own room to be dealt with later. So it should have come as no surprise when I failed the screening test at the airport. I rarely set off metal detectors – more often than anything I get selected for random screenings. Because I’m an average looking, well educated, white girl who’s always polite to TSA, and that just screams “SKETCHY!”. Or perhaps I have that desperate look of someone who needs to be frisked. Sadly, the latter seems more likely.

My local airport has changed to the full-body X-ray. I don’t have a problem with this. I’m all for airport security and really just feel sorry for the people who have to look at those images. But I’m used to walking through with my ID and boarding pass in my back pocket. Apparently this ain’t cool no more (double negative aside). Fail #1. This transgression got me my first pat down. The TSA woman seemed disgruntled, but was completely professional and made sure I knew exactly what was coming and where (yeah yeah, bad choice of words. Get over it.). But because I was pulled to the side for additional screening, I had to have my hands schwabbed and run through the chemical analysis machine. I failed this test, too. And this is not the test you want to fail.

Failing this test gets you a one-way ticket to a private room where return-trip tickets are only issued upon re-test. Even when you know you’re completely innocent “Explosives positive” is NOT something you want to see associated with your name at the airport. A very official-looking female TSA employee came to escort me and my baggage (which I was not allowed to touch) to a private screening room. This was a first for me, and despite the questions in the back of my mind of what would happen if I failed additional tests, the excitement of the new experience brought about the initial thoughts of future Facebook posts. I do love the challenge of coming up with good, amusing Facebook updates.

I’m not gonna lie, when I first walked into the room I expected to see a chair with stirrups. But, alas, it was just a normal chair and the table didn’t have the delightful layer of paper covering it. The women who escorted me into the room – particularly the main pat down woman – were very jovial, polite, and professional. I honestly have no complaints about my experience behind the closed door. I was told in full detail where I was going to be touched, how, and when (which I think we can all agree on, is not always the case when behind closed doors). And, like I said, they were in quite good spirits. I was most uncomfortable about the fact that I didn’t get around to washing my jeans after 4 hours of dancing at the cowboy bar earlier in the week – I was hoping main pat down woman was mouth-breathing. But perhaps this is why I got shot down when I offered to take off my sweater if it made the process easier. Alas.

Everyone and everything got schwabbed again, and apparently this time I passed the test! I always did rely on the curve on chemistry tests. I was told I could collect my belongings and was wished a safe and good flight. I felt that we parted as friends with none of the typical post-frisking awkwardness.

Additionally, I felt that main pat down woman and I really hit it off. I had The A-Team movie in my bag, and she saw it when she was wiping down for chemicals. She hadn’t seen the movie yet and asked how it was. I just can’t say enough good things about any movie that involves Bradley Cooper without his shirt on. Throw in Liam Neeson, and I’m a happy happy girl. She more than agreed with me on both accounts and I’m pretty sure she’ll be renting it tonight. In return, she recommended Unstoppable. I had to refrain from claiming Chris Pine as the future father of my Space Babies. I had already gushed over several actors and didn’t want to come off as too Hollywood stalkerish. I mean, who does? She also countered my Bradley Cooper shirtless love with a Marc Whalberg shirtless love and recommended The Fighter. I had hesitations about this one because I can’t stand Christian Bale. American Psycho ruined him for me, and he’s done nothing to redeem his creepiness since then. Despite her Marky Mark adoration (at which point I should mention that we both enjoyed Date Night), main pat down woman confessed that she couldn’t stand Christian Bale either and was very surprised she liked the movie. We found yet another thing in common in our dislike of Bale. By now back up TSA woman had come back in with the chemical test good news, and we filled her in on the conversation. She didn’t understand our mutual dislike of Christian Bail, so I had to explain that he has freaky sharp vampire teeth. And American Psycho. Main pat down woman and I bonded again, as she wholeheartedly seconded my analysis. At this point, I felt that main pat down woman and I could have been really good friends and I was sad to see our relationship end as I would have loved to hang out with her and maybe watch a movie. I wanted to ask if we could stay in touch, but I didn’t want to sound too clingy.

Upon leaving, I felt like I had lost a friend, but at least I had a Facebook status update, which is what’s really important. Luckily my airport has free WiFi, so I could update Facebook as soon as I got to my gate. Followed immediately by Twitter.

If in doubt, season the shit out of it

Last night my culinary standards sank below the standards of drunk frat boys. A proud moment in my grad student career.

Upon getting home last night I realized I had nothing to make for dinner. I have no excuse for this other than pure laziness, seeing that it's the beginning of the month so I recently got paid. I clearly can't blame this on End-Of-The-Month syndrome where I'm down to pennies in my bank account and I'm saving the last few dollars available on my credit card for something important. Like beer. But then I've never claimed to not be the laziest person I know. By the time I got home I had already had to fight the urge to slaughter a pedestrian and eat him, so I was ready to get dinner started. I commenced rummaging through my fridge and pantry. Here's what I found:

- Frozen ground turkey
- Carrots
- Pearl onions
- Garlic
- A can a of peas
- Baby spinach
- Tomato sauce
- Leftover "Garden Vegetable" pasta sauce
- Penne pasta

It seemed like I could make something out of that. I was really hoping I still had a can of cream of mushroom soup (in my head this would have TOTALLY saved the day - cream of mushroom (or chicken) soup makes any dish magical), but, alas, I only found Bean with Bacon soup, and that didn't sound like it would work out very well (which seems ironic now that I could have just had soup and forgone this exercise in creating vomitous masses). So I went with what I had and started getting creative.

Let me first of all say that I consider myself a pretty good cook, but there's a reason I've never gotten into creative writing or pretty much any form of art. Arm-waving? Sure I can handle that sort of invention, but creating something out of nothing isn't really my thing. But I was hungry, so I gave it a shot.

Firstly, I have no clue where the turkey came from. It apparently isn't my roommate's and I've never bought ground turkey in my life. It had a May expiration date (it was frozen, it keeps, right?), so I guess it couldn't have been her's since she moved in in September. Come to think of it, I never checked the May of which year it expired... Regardless, if it was left in the freezer, it's fair game. So the turkey was thawed and then browned in a pan. I wanted to soften the carrots, so I put them in the pan early with with turkey. It was only then that I realized the carrots needed to be high-graded seeing as some of the specimens were a color that could no longer be described as orange. So I took the carrots that still looked edible on the outside and stood behind my theory that "It'll cook out" and threw them into the pan. [Note: I deliberately use the word "theory" as I feel like I've tested this hypothesis enough times without suffering death that it now moves on to theory.] Don't worry, the rest of the carrots got tossed out, as well as the oozing tomatoes I found in the produce drawer of my fridge.

I'm proud to say that the onions and garlic were in no way questionable. Not a single sprout. So those got chopped up and thrown in the pan.

While rummaging around looking for the can of Cream of Mushroom soup I was convinced I had beneath my 8 bags of powdered sugar, rice (yet another possible, if boring, option I could have gone with after all), and coconut, I had found a can of peas. The first thing I noticed about these peas were that they were in an Albertsons can. That's all well and good, except for the fact that I haven't seen an Albertsons since I moved from Montana. 4.5 years ago. So I can only guess how old the peas are... Well, despite the dubious age of the peas (see a theme here?), they smelled fine. They're in a can after all! So I added some to the pan once again figuring anything bad will just cook out. Of course it wasn't until later that I realized I had a >4.5 year old can of peas because I really just don't like peas. Alas, if only that were the greatest of my problems...

What should have come next was the question: What was I actually making? Ok, maybe it should have come first. But it DEFINITELY should have come before I committed to a liquid substance. In retrospect, I should have gone with a stir-fry theme. In fact, while writing this, it sounds like I'm making a stir-fry. But no, I had to be all rash and shit and open the can of tomato sauce rather than just pouring in some soy sauce. Damnit. So tomato sauce goes in. Unfortunately I don't feel like this adds enough liquidy substance to the pan, so I add what was in the bottom of the pasta sauce jar. And have no fear, I did check for fuzz in the jar before adding it. And the chucks were supposed to be there. C'mon, do I seem that stupid? Actually, don't answer that.

Lastly I added some salt, pepper, rosemary, and savory. Because if in doubt, season the shit out of it.

I then put it over some pasta and attempted to consume it. Yes, it looks pretty identical to dog vomit (see picture), but it did taste better than I imagine dog vomit tasting like. Actually it didn't taste half bad (my roommate was bold enough to try it and confirms my assessment), but just looking at it turned my stomach. I guess the important thing is that I'm still alive. And I brought leftovers for lunch!

Perhaps this should be my new diet scheme, because just thinking about having to eat it makes me lose my apatite. And I also have a new understanding why undergrads always seem to keep Ramen in their cupboards...

Slytherin' through the zombie apocalypse

I have noticed that the amount of time I'm in grad school correlates with certain trends in the results of social media quizzes, like those found on Facebook. The most notable trends include: the longer I am a grad student, (1) the greater the chance to be sorted into Slytherin House, and (2) the longer I will survive in a zombie apocalypse. I guess grad school is paying off after all!

As I approach the 7.5 years of grad school mark, I can now pride myself on having apparently learned the skills needed for post-apocalyptic domination - whether it be apocalypse via zombies, noseless wizards, all-seeing eyes on a pedestal next to a mountain of doom, or communists. (Yes, I can now confidently say I would weather a "Red Dawn" situation well.) There are many factors that push you over the line between For the Greater Good and burning a personal beeper into a minion's flesh, between being braincandy and the ultimate deliverer of zombie asskickery, and I think the most significant is your use of 5 year olds. Are you willing to use a 5 year old as a weapon? And when does using a 5 year old as a weapon become a first choice versus a last case scenario? For many these are tough questions, but the zombie apocalypse takes natural selection to a new level - and many would argue rightfully so - making them important questions that need to be considered. The souless venture of grad school prepares you to make these important decisions; decisions that could possible alter the fate of the human race. A decision that now seems simple: "Bring on the 5 year olds, I don't want to waste ammo."

How about you? Would you have your brain sucked from above your yellow and black scarf-wrapped neck, or be a master of 5 year old-wielding badassness? Maybe you should go to grad school to figure it out.

As for me, I might have to reconsider my bitterness towards my poor life decisions. Perhaps grad school really is about finding yourself. Or at least what you would do if you found yourself surrounded by zombies with nothing but an ice axe.

The one shamrock to rule them all

When I passed my comprehensive exams in 2009, my advisor gave me a purple shamrock. It wasn't that it was a luck thing, it was mostly that it was probably the closest plant she could find to hot pink. For the most part, she supports my decision to be out of the closet about my love of hot pink (though she doesn't necessarily support me when I argue for hot pink archival storage mediums, but otherwise, she indulges me). But in addition to it's near-pink awesomeness, I have discovered that this plant has magical powers of prediction.

Up until this point in my life, I have failed to keep any plant alive for a sustained amount of time. I generally kill mint within a week or two, and I have been told that mint is like a weed and generally very hard to kill. I'm simply a horticultural failure. (It goes without saying that I'm also a failure at fish since they seem to prefer suicide over living with me.) So when my advisor told me that shamrocks can be high-maintenance (as in I have to water it and keep it's temperature moderated - things I don't even do well for myself), I figured this wasn't going to bode well for my innocent little purplish Shammy the Shamrock.

But surprisingly, for months and months - over a year, in fact - my shamrock thrived. We had some unfortunate experiments with trying to have Shammy live outside and lessons in "What happens when I don't water you", but he's always bounced back. And eventually I started taking better care of him.

Then something sad happened at the end of the spring: Shammy started to die. His little shamrocky shamrock things pulled out of the soil and no new ones popped up. One new shamrocky thing did sprout at one point, but didn't last for long. I was heart broken; Shammy seemed dead. And, rather suspiciously, so did my dissertation. As soon as Shammy's shamrocky fronds respirated their last breath of carbon dioxide, all progress on my dissertation halted. I didn't recognize this correlation at first, it wasn't until the fall that I saw the direct connection between Shammy's health and the health of my dissertation. Meanwhile, I fell into my smut, crotch rocket, and 4x4 ridden mid-dissertation crisis. See ya, dissertation!

But as is the academic cycle, conference season rolled around and I was mercilessly forced to say an emotional (and temporary...I hope) goodbye to my beloved smut and figure out how to do science again. As I got my act together and started to read articles, put together presentations, remember how to count, and learn how to pronounce big words again, Shammy started blooming. One morning I woke up and Shammy was popping up little shamrocky frondy things! And now that conference season is over, and I can focus on my dissertation again, a new frondy thing has sprouted. I have hope of actually graduating one day again.

Empirical evidence obviously indicates that Shammy really is the Paul the Octopus of my dissertation.

And now I live every day in fear he's going to die.

Assless Chaps. Just Sayin'...

With as many romance novels there are about cowboys, and as swoontastic as covers can get, you'd think there'd be more assless chaps in smut.

Just sayin'.

The Mid-Dissertation Crisis

I gotta admit, I didn't see this one coming. In April I was psyched for this summer - I had had a productive winter and spring and I was going to get SO much done by the time September rolled around. It was my first summer in 9 years without doing fieldwork - which killed a bit of my soul - but I was going to be uber productive in the lab to make up for not getting to play in the dirt and have an excuse for not showering regularly. Come September 1, I have nothing to show for myself except a few hundred more dollars in debt and the unsurity of when I had last showered. How does that even happen when I've cut back on my drinking? At least I think I have...

As August wrapped up with the realization I hadn't worked on my dissertation since May, I sounded my barbaric "WTF" over the rooftops of the world. How have I done the bare minimum of work - 20 hours a week - to get paid and done nothing on my dissertation or several other projects in the other 20 hour MINIMUM I should be allowing for research? This is a new low in which I don't think even I can find pride. I've hit bouts of burnout before, I've spent far too much time reading romance novels during the summer, but something felt different about this. After designing three cars online (a Silverado, Xterra, and Wrangler), contemplating a tattoo, and comparative shopping for a motorcycle I realized I've reached my mid-dissertation crisis. I've also decided I'm getting a hesperornithiform tattoo when I defend, and a dark gray Siverado crew cab pick-up and a Kawasaki Ninja when I graduate.

And might I just add: NOT cool, Library, for this free borrowing of books nonsense. You're enabling my smut habit.

Now I also have to admit that I don't know what to do about this crisis. But if I want to be able to afford my new pick-up and bike, I sure as hell have to get my butt in gear so I can graduate, get a job, and move into a higher tax bracket. Or actually get out and interact with humans so I can meet a sugar daddy...

One week without

I would argue that most professional graduate students out there, especially by the time they hit year 3 or 4 of graduate work, would agree that prolonged ventures in grad school kill a bit of your soul. That’s why I call all of my projects my little horcruxes. Like any graduate student out there that has been in grad school so long they have indeed relinquished part of their soul, alcohol is a good friend. I’m in no way saying that we’re all hard-core alcoholics; I’m not even saying that I am; but we all get by with a little help from our friends. And sometimes our friends are wrapped in Jack Daniels, Jose Cuervo, PBR, or <$10 bottle of wine labels. Lately, my preferences have moved to Balvenie, Oban, McCallums, and Hendricks labels, but habits I can’t monetarily support is the subject of a separate post.

Recently, I took a group of teenagers camping and rafting. Understandably so, it was an alcohol-free trip. I was pretty confident in my ability to handle myself without a drink for a week, though I had never done it while also being around 11 teenagers. As another precaution to ensure appropriateness around kids, I also refrained from taking any smut along. Now, I’ve been out of the closest for a while now about my love for romance novels, especially during the summer. I don’t even get embarrassed when I have a guy ringing up my smut-tastic purchase at the bookstore or feel like I need to slip in a Churchill biography or collection of scientific essays to distract them (though self-checkout at the library is an amazing thing for those shy of their smut habit). However, I just didn’t feel that it would be an appropriate topic for conversation if a kid saw what I was reading. Consequently, I took book that had graced the best sellers list for a while this year…and I’m still not really sure what it’s about.

The last days of any period of self-denial are the toughest. It’s why when I was doing fieldwork in the Arctic a few years back and we were living on dehydrated food (plus something that could only be termed as “meat stick” along with crappy Kraft cheese by the kilo, which hardly qualify as food), we weren’t allowed to talk about real food until at least 2/3 of the way through the trip. The second to last night on this last trip was trying on the Beer-O-Meter; after all, I hadn’t been on a river without beer since high school. But the last night is what took me by surprise. I missed smut. Horribly. And this is saying a lot since I have notoriously horrible taste in romance novels. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying anything on the order of Smut > Alcohol, but…a girl’s gotta get her fix.

And just for the record, I did buy beer before I bought smut upon my return.

Lastly, here’s a project I deeply lament not being a part of: "Smart Bitches Trashy Books". After all, a good beach read is nothing to be ashamed of - even in higher education. It's why the tower is off-white and not pure white.

Science is delicious

I think it's an important aspect of those doing research in the biological sciences to eat their study group. Take the inspired, wholly accurate Onion article for example: New, Delicious Species Discovered. Granted, this is easier and and more palatable for some scientists than others. And to the others, I say: suck it up, princesses. Organismal biologists have it pretty easy - every study has it's causalities than would likely be delicious on the grill, sauteed, or with a white wine sauce. For those studying viruses, would they not work harder to find cures and treatments if they were to ingest the samples in their petri dishes? And do those studying human anatomy and physiology really not get curious? I mean, I'm not going to rush off to join the Korowai tribe or hope for a plane crash in the Andes, but I'm honest enough to admit that I'm curious.

Now, many would say I have it easy since I study birds, but it's not a smooth sailing as one would think. Yeah, duck and geese are easy to get and are best served with a cranberry or orange sauce and paired with a mellow red wine. I prefer a pino noir or chianti. However, my other study groups are not so easy to get my hands on - penguins and auks. Unfortunately, all the specimens I have in my possession arrived fleshless. Well, not that unfortunate since I don't really do flesh - thank goodness for dermestid beetles. And due to the Antarctic Treaty and Antarctic Conservation Act, there's no chance of penguins showing up in markets and restaurants in the U.S. anytime soon. Bastards. There are reports of penguin-eating before they became contraband. One source describes penguin meat as "If it's possible to imagine a piece of beef, odiferous cod fish and a canvas-backed duck roasted together in a pot, with blood and cod-liver oil for sauce, the illustration would be complete". Nothing a little BBQ sauce wouldn't take care of. I've also read that penguin tastes rather like seal. I've had seal, which makes me think that perhaps I shouldn't be so eager to taste penguin after all. But I wonder if their eggs taste fishy, too....

I don't know if there's any legislature against eating auks (puffins, murres/guillemots, auklets, ect.), but I'm guessing not based on the results from googling "eating puffins" and "what do puffins taste like". When I was in the Arctic in 2007, there weren't any in the area to sample, or buy off the Inuits, and I've never been to other places within their habitat. I wonder if they ship them from Maine like lobsters... I wonder if this could be a business opportunity for me... But, to help appease my curiosity until fleshy specimens become available, I can rely on a delight I discovered (or possibly re-discovered) on a camping trip last week: Puffins cereal. And let me just say, peanut butter flavored Puffins...omg, I'm addicted. I was not above shamelessly high-grading the food from the 7th graders we were leading on the trip in the name of making sure I got the Puffins. They are one of my study animals after all.

And my final study group are fossil birds. These are a lot harder to find a suitable way to consume. After spending years cleaning off microvertebrate fossils in the field by putting them in my mouth to remove the dirt, I find that I'm not too interested in eating fossils in the traditional manner. There are always rumors of explorers, scientists, and commoners eating frozen mammoths, leading to various gastrointestinal catastrophes, but the truth behind these wives' tails are unsubstantiated. However, I spend a remarkable amount of time thinking about all the studies on delicious and exotic animals out there, as well as considering what my fossil birds tasted like. In fact, I have a conference talk already prepared discussing which wines to pair with my fossil birds. I've provided a little teaser. The reports of soft tissue being found in fossils gives me hope, though. Perhaps if I boil them long enough...

But in reality, this is pretty much just a long ad for Puffins cereal. The cereal of ornithologists.

Avain leprosy: The next pandemic

I recently came into the possession of 40 freshly plucked Branta canadensis and Anas platyrhynchos legs. To the layperson, those are Canada geese and mallards, respectively, but I like using the scientific names because I think it makes me sound like a real scientist...until my office mate points out that I pronounced the name wrong, and I just help confirm his low opinion of the intellect of Southerners. At least in writing, I'm safe (as long as I cut and paste from a reliable source so the names are spelled correctly). I say "freshly plucked" since the legs were FedExed to me from my mom's friend's husband just after shooting them on a hunting trip the weekend before. Who knew you can just FedEx freshly shot body parts? It seems like someone should be checking into this kind of thing, or at least including it in an episode of CSI. But after being FedExed cross country in ziploc bags in a Tupperware cake carrier without ice, lets just say that "fresh" was no longer an accurate adjective. And after leaving them in my office overnight, which has a tendency to get warm, to baste in their own bloody juices, let's just say that "fresh" was even more of a stretch... and it's good thing my office has a window that opens.

For some inconceivable reason, my advisor and the collections manager forbade me to open the bags and play with the legs in the paleo labs. Instead, I unleashed my odoriferous wrath on the zoology department, who are apparently used to rotting flesh. After gearing up in gloves, mask, and lab coat in case there was a Shamu-type splash zone (yeah, I don't do flesh), I braved the bags juicy juicy bird legs. I should perhaps have mentioned before now that my research involves comparing the internal structure of fossil and modern bird leg bones - I don't just randomly have married men send me dead bird parts. (Though would it really be infidelity if they did?) Upon opening these bags of festering juiciness, I discover that I was just sent the feet - tarsometatarsi down. My research focuses on the femora and tibiotarsi - the upper and lower leg bones. Essentially, I was sent nothing I could use for my dissertation.

So the next natural question was what to do with 40 rotting bird legs. Well, you see, my office has a balcony outside the windows that you can get to through the kitchen next door. Typically this balcony is just used by me for reading or lunching when I feel a case of Rickets coming on, but, could conceivably be used for things like shooting champagne corks at undergrads. Not that I'd ever do anything like that. And while thinking about things that I would never do on the balcony that would also imply that I drink champagne in my office, I spawned a wonderful solution for anyone with extra rotting bird legs in their office. Avian leprosy. You hear about avian flu, swine flu, hoof-in-mouth, but nothing about avian leprosy - just Google "avian leprosy" or "bird leprosy", and all you get are hits from blogspot, livejournal, etc. (not that those aren't respectable scientific and journalism outlets....I mean, just look at my blog). My idea is a fabulous social experiment by testing the mindset "ignorance is bliss". Because they've never heard of it, no one fears avian leprosy. We'll see about that. Using the tactical position of the balcony, I would lob rotten bird legs at passersby. This would be followed up with a public posting on the threat of avian leprosy (I could use this blog, but I wouldn't want to overwhelm the world, knowing what a mass media outlet this is), perhaps even a scientific report showing photos of up to 40 disarticulated bird legs . Then I would just sit back and sip champagne on the balcony watching the panic spread. Honestly, I think it'd do a lot to get people's minds off the economy. So it'd really be a benefit to society.

The Sexual Selection of Cankles

Quite unexpectedly, I have found myself a fancier of flightless birds. Perhaps this comes from doing my dissertation on flightless birds. Perhaps I have always had a fetish for feathery cloacas incapable of flight that has only recently been embraced. Perhaps they're the same thing. But as a flightless avian cloaca lover, I read a lot about birds. I have recently come across the word "caruncle". It seems unlikely that I haven't run across this piece of anatomical awesomeness before, but then I'm blonde and sometimes it take a few times for something to stick. In general, a caruncle is a fleshy outgrowth; in birds, the caruncle is the wattle - the fleshy outgrowth on the neck, throat, or below the eye. Though, upon discovering this word "caruncle", I now refuse to use the inferior term "wattle". Turkeys, chickens, and cassowaries are choice examples of birds with caruncles. while nothing will ever surpass my love of the word "cloaca" (and who doesn't love a universal hole?), "caruncle" now comes in a close second.

Not only are fleshy protuberances awesome, but "caruncle" reminds me of the word "cankle", another favorite. And it's rather fitting - are cankles really anything more than fleshy outgrowths? Mine aren't. That being said, it's upsetting that cankles have come to have such derogatory connotations. For example:

• http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=cankle&defid=2633
• http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l15/ffivnik8/CANKLES.jpg
• And my personal favorite: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpIgvTxSgmk (cankle reference at 27 seconds)

And I think it benefits society to note that while googling for links, I came across this little gem: Gold's Gym has launched a "Say No To Cankles" campaign and even a Cankles Awareness Month. http://saynotocankles.com/. Thank you, Internet. And thank you, Gold's Gym for doing your part for raising cankle awareness. That's just one step closer to social acceptance.

Because caruncles and cankles are both fleshy growths and have so many letters in common, there's no denying that they could have much more in common. In fact, I propose that cankles are a human analog for the avian caruncle. Parsimony and actual logic be damned! Consequently, it's important to point out that the caruncle is used for sexual selection in many birds (though I'm not yet suggesting that cankles have erectile tissue like many avian caruncles do). In birds, the larger the caruncle, the more dominant the male. So, the next obvious step is that humans need to stop the mocking of cankles and start considering them when selecting mates. Gold's Gym even acknowledges that there are hereditary reasons (i.e., genetic controls) for cankles, implying that cankles are susceptible to natural and sexual selection. No, that's not just the steroids talking. Cankles are inadvertently selected in drunken hookups (as referenced in the energy drink video above) that result in pregnancy. It's time for cankles to step out of the drunken haze of bad decisions and take the sober limelight. In fact, it's past time sexual selection takes the forefront in human evolution. With advances in modern medicine saving people from their own stupidity, it may be all we have left.

Trains with British Accents

It's no secret that I have a masochistic fascination with train travel - see my December posts on my attempt to take the train home for Christmas for reference. I can make my mother hang up on me by merely mentioning that I'm taking the train home for Christmas again; my father gladly aids and abets. In my plans (as I tell my mother), this year I'm taking the train west to California, where I can then take a Southern route to Atlanta, rather than having to go to Chicago, the only direction trains go from Denver. I figure this way I'll run into less bad weather (in case you missed my Christmas train adventures, metal tracks contract when they're cold), which I thought would make my mother happy. My father and I have now progressed in our machinations to him flying to California to meet me, and then we'll take the train home together from San Francisco. So, if this winter is as bad as they're predicting, my dad and I will be spending Christmas in El Paso. My mother's silence is filled with anger.

While I was in England I took the opportunity to take the train from Bristol to Birmingham. Granted, it was just a two hour trip, but nowhere in England is actually more than a few hours away (unless you're trying to drive, where upon you realize that their roads don't go anywhere useful and they don't have road signs telling you where you are or where you're going). Meanwhile, I've always heard that trains actually work in England/Europe, and I was ready to test this hypothesis.

Firstly, I found the train situation very confusing – the trains don’t have numbers like planes and US trains, they have final destinations and departure times. Birmingham is not the end-of-the-line for any train. After a week of drinking and very little sleep, this was quite daunting. There also weren’t any employees on the platform to point clueless Americans in the right direction. Luckily I happen to glance my destination on the list of stops for the Edinburgh train, so I cast my dice and got on that train. On the platform I was instantly faced with the painful realization that neither the outside or inside of my train looked like the Hogwarts Express, and I died a little inside. All British trains should look like the Hogwarts Express by principle - have they no national pride? The cars on the train also aren’t labeled, and all I had was a seat number, so I went in and out of several cars before I found that some man was sitting in my seat – at that point I figured it was just a free-for-all. Sitting on the train in the station I realized no one had yet checked my ticket; apparently I didn't need to buy a ticket after all and England is run on the honor system. Excuse me, honour system. I could have just gotten on any train I had wanted to without ever buying a ticket, in fact I seriously contemplated staying on the train and just continuing to Scotland. I could have gotten better prices on Scotch there. However, after a few stops someone finally came around to check tickets, so I guess I would have been busted…or could have just hidden in the bathroom. Sometimes it's just too easy it's not even worth it.

On the train, I was sitting across from an old man who didn’t realize I couldn’t hear him if I had headphones on and started drinking Guinness at 10:30am. What can I say, I liked him...even if we didn't understand each other very well. But towards the end of my trip he started telling me that we were taking an unplanned detour around the city and were at least an hour behind schedule. I immediately lost all faith in the British rail system and considered all trains a failed way of travel. I also started texting my friend meeting me in Birmingham that I was going to be late. Five minutes later we pulled into the station on time. I regained my faith in non-American trains as an acceptable way to travel, but learned to never trust people with accents.

Running around like The Hoff on purpose

I recently visited England on a combined business and pleasure trip, and took delight in many of the unique features, deliciousnesses, idiosyncrasies, and pure crazy of a foreign culture. Pubs are fantastic. I've always loved them in the States, and in England (shockingly) there are even more of them. Cask ales aren't my favorite, but I always enjoy trying new beers; and the ciders are delicious. Additionally, in the north, they actually serve their beer at a respectable temperature. Cream Tea is to die for. I first thought this was tea with cream. What's so exciting about that? But no, cream tea is crack. It's a scone smothered in jam and clotted cream. It's crack. After eating this you immediately feel like you're about to vomit, you then proceed to have a minor heart attack (or massive, if you've already had a scone that day...not that I would have three scones in one day or anything), and wake up the next morning ready for another. On the less tasty side, The British have a love of coins that I don't get. If there's anything more useless than a pence coin, it's a two pence coin. Why two pence? I think the sagging pants trend started in England as a result of all the coins they have to carry around. If the U.S. ever produces a two cent coin, I'm defecting to Argentina. Good for them, but it's not for me. However, the Brits have some passions that are completely unforgivable.

The Hoff. It's just wrong. My British friend with whom I was staying in England for the vacation portion of my trip is obsessed with The Hoff. She had a picture of him hanging in her bathroom. I had to pee with my eyes closed. Prior to visiting England, I thought her obsession was just because she was a freak, but apparently it goes frighteningly deeper than that. The British love David Hasselhoff. He's constantly talked about on the radio. I heard several interviews with him on BBC radio, and they talk about him all the time even when he's not being interviewed. Apparently every topic can be related to The Hoff. And I think all TV channels are under contract to show constant airings of America's Got Talent and Meet the Hasselhoffs. I'm getting ill just thinking about it.

But, what's to be expected with a country that produces this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p2Gh1U14RZA. British music at its best. I heard this song in England and it got stuck in my head; who knew the video was going to be the highlight of my life. The first time I heard the song the DJs were just playing snippets because they thought the lyrics were "like a cow on purpose", rather than clown. So they would play the refrain and the shout "COW" over the the "clown" lyric. Craziness. Craziness that was stuck in my head for 5 days straight. I can't wait for a video of The Hoff karaoking the song to surface on youtube.