I went back home (regardless of where I move or how long I live there, the Stalbert will always be home) this weekend to see my family doctor (bad news), my brother (who is himself bad news), and as many friends as possible. What I didn’t expect to see was the Musee Heritage, but I had an hour to kill after the doctor’s appointment and it was at the Grandin clinic, so I just walked over to the library. The museum is free and not very big, but kind of nice in that ‘free, not very big’ way many non-tourist attractions can be.

And when I say not very big, I mean “This case is their science exhibit.” Note the seashell, skull, and model heart above the insects. They also had a neat watchmaker’s bench exhibit and I did my best to photograph some of the cool old watches, but the ‘behind glass’ setting on my camera kind of crapped out on me. Here’s one that turned out:

Two-thirds of Team Godzilla was able to re-unite for a nice supper at Kyoto on Friday and then, at John’s suggestion, hanging out at Suite 69 (even though my brother, who is wise in the ways of the adult beverage due to having started so early that he’s celebrating his ten-year drink anniversary before me, insisted that you’re never supposed to eat sushi before going to the bar). On the way there, we ran smack into the Fringe, which we didn’t even know was going on until we had literally wandered into the maze of tents near the Transalta Arts Barn. And then it was a lot of “Huh, what’s all this then” and “Let’s get mini-donuts!”

I lurve Sarah… and mini-donuts. But the best moment of the night was still to come: I wanted a ‘proof that we were at the Fringe’ picture, and managed to set up John and Leah in front of a suitably cheesy backdrop, but then John was all, “Wait, wait, I got new socks!” and Leah gave them two thumbs up just before the shutter snapped. Love it.

To top everything off, Tyler (of Rhymes with Tyler fame… also Richard S. Fowler fame, if that can be called famous) happened to be at Suite 69 celebrating his birthday! Apparently, turning 27 feels like sinking slowly into a warm bath. I’m looking forward to it now.

On Saturday, my brother and I spent about the entire day at West Ed, and then the final kicker was brunch this morning at the Urban Diner, or I guess breakfast since it was 9:30, but the place is popular (and justly so) and we figured we wouldn’t be able to get a table if we went later. For those Edmontonians who read this blog and couldn’t make it to breakfast, I highly recommend it - the staff is nice, you can get mimosas starting at 10:00, and the huevos rancheros come with sweet chili sauce and sour cream. What an awesome weekend - I don’t even mind going back to work now, because I squeezed every last drop out of those three days and I’m so ready to take on Big Oil again.

I’m rather taken with the phrase - I think it’d make a good name for a metal band from Sweden or Japan (in fact, maybe it already is a metal band from Sweden or Japan and that’s why I think it). But this article uses it in its other, non-metaphorical sense. It’s short, but a good read; I look forward to reading more about ‘cynical shyness’ in the psych journals.

When I was younger, I was the other, ‘normal’ kind of shy. I was a sweet and quiet kid, generally praised by my teachers and reasonably social with a very small group of friends (one of whom I still haven’t forgiven for kicking me in the mouth and knocking out my first tooth: DAMN YOU, TYLER). But junior high was kind of a teetering point for me - I was being seriously bullied nearly every day, physically and emotionally assaulted. I wobbled on my fulcrum as I debated retaliation, violent retaliation, against my attackers - since the teachers dismissed it all as ‘boyish fun’ and told me to grow up, suck it up, ignore them, etc.

Taking the higher road lost its appeal quickly. In grade 8, I wrote a short story called ‘Pavilion’ about a boy (well, obviously a boy: what girl is going to bring a gun to school, I figured) who gets bullied in school till one day a kid sets fire to his locker, and that’s the last straw; the boy goes to his uncle’s house and steals two guns and brings them to school, intending to intimidate the bully. But after the first bullet leaves the barrel there seems to be no reason to stop shooting, just as during his weekly attacks the bullies seem to have no reason to stop hitting. The story ends in a suicide, of course, and the boy’s dog going crazy in the yard while his mother gets the news on the phone. The last sentence went something like, “Toby barked and barked till the fireflies came out, and still the silhouette in the window did not move, only stood holding the phone to her ear not even hearing the barking, just the voice.” (I know, it’s so bad. But pain is pain. Sometimes it doesn’t read well. And I was very young.)

I got lucky; I was saved from purely cynical shyness by a handful of intensely loyal friends who pulled me out of my own head in time and deprogrammed me from my own cult of one. But just think of the knife-edge kids like that end up on every day. They turn their worst violence onto themselves by denying, or being denied, human companionship. They hurt themselves to the precise degree that they wish they could hurt others for forcing this solitude onto them. (I am reminded of the Involuntary Celibacy movement, too. These are very, very unhappy human beings.) Where is this post going? I’m not sure. But if you know kids like this - if you know people like this of any age who appear to be only hurting themselves - just know that if nothing is done it’s only a matter of time before the violence is turned outwards.

While (whilst?) organizing one of my old e-mail accounts last night, I ran across a page that I had intended to use on my old U of A website but never put up. I present it here in its entirety (except for the so-called links, which I obviously never got around to putting in) and encourage everyone to try it. (Note: don’t judge the cocktail recipes too harshly. I was 17 when I did this page and I was dying to be old enough to drink.) (Note 2: I also actually did do it with an onion, and I really don’t recommend it. But all the bar equipment works well enough.)

There may be pictures later - I’m going to do it this Sunday, because I already think I’m going to be stood up again.

“The Egg-White of Life”

As you go through this tutorial, you can click on the links to see the background science behind each of the steps. Warning : these explanations are slightly more than slightly bio-weenie friendly, so in case of confusion (i.e. not being a genetics undergrad), my advice is as follows: hide in a corner and weep.

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Materials

Equipment and glassware - can substitute similar-shaped containers if needed!

Shot glass
Measuring spoons (or teaspoons and a really good eye)
Two or three small, preferably glass bowls
Garlic press, grater, blender, or huge man with scimitars
Champagne flute
Coffee filter
Glass cocktail swizzle stick
Small vial

Reagents - attempt not to substitute!

Ice!
Distilled (or deionized, bottled) water
Salt
Baking soda
Dishwashing detergent (or cheap shampoo)
A fruit or a vegetable, eg. banana, cauliflower, your brother
Isopropyl alcohol (highest percentage possible!)

Step 1: Making the buffer.
Measure about 1/4 tsp of baking soda and about 1 tsp dishwashing liquid into the clean glass bowl. Then add 4oz of distilled water on top of that. (This is where the markings on the shot glass come in handy. Also, the shot glass will subsequently be so clean that you can mix yourself a shot in it. I recommend a Fallen Angel: 1 oz Sambuca, on which you gently float 1/2 oz bourbon. Down in one gulp. Weep for lost innocence.)
Chill this buffer very thoroughly on icewater or in your fridge. I also recommend keeping instruments in an icewater bath when not in use.

Step 2: Homogenizing the source tissue.
Mush your fruit or vegetable (I did it with an onion: not recommended at all) in a food processor with about 1 oz of water, pulsing in 10-second bursts; or use a garlic press on the bastard if you haven’t got the patience. (I never tried extracting DNA from mint, but you may as well use the garlic press while you have it out, right? Have a Mint Julep to reward yourself for getting this far: Crush 2 sprigs of mint and put them in a julep cup or highball glass. Add 2 tsp water and 1 tsp superfine or confectioners sugar. Fill to top with crushed ice. Top off with 3 oz bourbon, if your shot glass is clean enough. If not, drink from the bottle and eat the ice and mint with a spoon.)
Chill your fruit/vegetable mush too, while you get the rest of your experiment ready.

Step 3: Separation of DNA and plant matter.
Put about 1 tsp of the cold vegetable puree into a clean container and mix in about 1 tbsp of your buffer. Don’t be tempted to use more buffer or puree: it really just slows things down. Stir vigorously for at least two minutes. You can even cover it with plastic wrap (tight, mind you) and shake your booty for about that long. (If picking the DNA out of vegetables doesn’t interest you any more, have a Bloody Maria to take your mind off it: mix 2 oz tequila, 4 oz tomato juice - hope you kept your shot glass clean - half a lemon’s worth of juice, 1/2 tsp horseradish, dash of worcestershire sauce, dash of tabasco sauce, and whatever else you feel like throwing in a clean highball glass; strain over ice cubes and drink in Mexican bar.)
Once you’re done shaking it, chill the mix again.
Separating the DNA from the visible plant matter is a tricky business. If you don’t have a centrifuge at home, fold a coffee-filter into a cone and poke (don’t cut) a very small hole in the bottom. Set it in your champagne flute and tape into place. Pour the chilled mix into the filter, then sit back and wait. This tends to take a very long time due to the viscosity of the mixture, but again, do not use extra buffer. (While you’ve got the time, and the coffee-filter packet out, may as well make some Irish Coffee, Buena Vista style: Heat a glass mug with boiling water, dump it out - but not into your DNA - add about 3 sugar cubes to the hot glass, 1 oz Irish Whiskey, and strong black coffee to about 2/3rds full, then pour cold cream over a spoon to the top of the glass.)
While you’re letting the stuff drip through, or finishing off your Irish Coffee, chill some isopropyl alcohol in the freezer until it is ice cold (don’t worry, it won’t freeze).

Step 4: Extracting the DNA from the liquidy stuff.
This is the really ‘fun’ part!
Hopefully the liquidy gook will not have filled more than an inch or so of your champagne flute (or other suitable skinny vessel). At this point you can toss out the coffee filter with the leftover vegetable stuff on it, or alternatively, put it in another Bloody Soapy Maria.
Carefully dribble cold isopropyl alcohol onto the surface of the liquidy stuff left in the flute. This is easiest if you tilt the flute slightly and pour along the inner surface of the glass.
Now for the cool part - collecting a snotball composed of the chemical of life. Slide your glass swizzle stick into the interface between the liquidy stuff and the alcohol, and gently move it up and down through the layers. You should see some cloudy, egg-whitey stuff sticking to the, uh, stick. Transfer this carefully into your clean vial by scraping along the edge and repeat until there are only cobwebby pieces in the alcohol. (And if seeing DNA makes you randy for egg-white, have a Classic Fizz: shake 3 oz dry gin, half a lemon’s juice, 1 egg white, 1 tbsp heavy cream, 1 tbsp sugar, 1 tsp orange flower water, and some ice together until your arms get tired. Then shake for another ten minutes. Strain over ice into a large glass and top with tonic water. Stir and, if you can find your mouth, drink.)

Step 5: DNA Party with Your Friends!
Invite all your friends over and show them your cool DNA in a vial. Then have everybody pick a fruit or vegetable and do it all over again! Woohoo!

From ‘The Arthur Rackham Fairy Book,’ a lovely volume of well-known literature appropriate for little folk, such as ‘Blue-Beard’, ‘The Barmecide’s Feast,’ and ‘What the Old Man Does is Always Right.’ Below: illustrations from ‘The Story of Sinbad the Sailor’ and ‘Jack the Giant-Killer.’

In 1933, it would have been inconceivable for a child to be raised without knowing all the stories in ‘The Arabian Nights,’ or lacking familiarity with Hans Christian Andersen’s canon. Arthur Rackham himself in the preface writes, “There’s no doubt that we should be behaving ourselves very differently if Beauty had never been united to her Beast, or Sir Richard Whittington listened to the bells. Or if Sister Anne hadn’t seen anybody coming; or if ‘Open sesame!’ hadn’t cleared the way, or Sindbad sailed.” I’m sure he would have been revolted by some of today’s kiddy lit - sanitized, Disneyfied, the day generally saved by friendship or luck rather than trickery or the point of a sword. They have all, in his words, ‘fallen into uninspired hands.’ Sigh.

My kids, if I ever have ‘em, will be raised on the goriest, funniest, cleverest fairy tales I can find. Hope they turn out OK.

Sometimes, kids turn out weird because you beat them or lock them in closets or make monsters out of balloons to hover outside their bedroom windows (Gary Larson fans know which comic I’m referring to). Sometimes they turn out weird because they don’t have any friends, were attacked by koalas at too tender an age, or drank LSD-laced breastmilk. However, sometimes they turn out weird because their well-meaning parents buy them strange books of nursery rhymes from 1806.

I was digging through my book collection to find stuff for my coworker (well, for my coworker’s children) and came across this well-loved volume, covered in small fingerprints. How could I have forgotten my favourite storybook?! A note in the front indicates that this book was purchased at Christmas 1986, so I would have just turned five a few months before. Wow. I just… wow.

(Some of the other rhymes are much less bizarre, and actually really charming. My favourite as a child, other than the alphabet-based Aldiborontiphoskyphorniostikos, was ‘Sam Syntax’s Cries of London.’ Try to picture me on my first day in kindergarten at ‘the big school’ - Vital Grandin - reciting ‘Red and white currants, your thirst to allay/ Refreshingly cool on a warm summer day./ A penny a pint! Then come taste them, and try/ My red and white currants! Come buy, come buy!’)

Aren’t those illustrations awesome, though?

So after digging through my DVD collection the other day (many of them labelled in a totally illegible code that slightly looks like the writing used by the predators in ‘Predator,’ also in ‘Alien vs. Predator’ - but where was I going with this? Oh yeah) trying to find, I think, season 2 of ‘Rocko’s Modern Life,’ I found my old Pilates DVD instead! Immediately I resolved to get back on it, since it makes me feel so very strong and centred and kick-ass.

Anyway, I did it twice, skipping a day - it kind of creeps up on you - and today I have been wracked with bolts of pain shooting through my torso, or my ‘powerhouse’ as the stupid, chirpy instructor keeps calling it. I keep forgetting that Pilates builds a girdle of muscle around one’s visceral fat, which then punishes you with cramps if you try to relax your abs at all. This is very good for one’s posture and very bad for everything else. But you can’t relax, because the instructor keeps barking ‘Engage! Engage your powerhouse! ENGAGE!” during each exercise.

I’m like, lady, I’m engaging the powerhouse. That’s so the closest I’m getting to engaged these days it’s not even funny. (But yes it is. Because bitter singlehood kind of rocks, and the reason it kind of rocks is that it is funnier than contented couplehood.) (And Pilates is funnier than running on a treadmill because I keep sitting up between exercises and yelling “I hate you!” at the instructor on the screen. So I’m going to keep it up. What price humour?)