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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
There are some issues that don’t come up early in a relationship. In the early dating phase, everyone’s on their best behavior. We sit up straight, use the right forks, and keep all of our little foibles and imperfections firmly under wraps, never to see the light of day. As far as our datee is concerned, we’re as good as perfect:
“Poop? Who poops? I don’t poop. Oh, I used to poop — and it smelled like honeysuckle blossoms, obviously. But I gave it up during that time in the Peace Corps when I was helping orphaned starving babies escape rabid Nicaraguan lions. All that stopping to freshen up the jungle was really slowing down the relief work.”
We can keep this up for a while. But eventually, reality sinks in. You were never in the Peace Corps. There are no lions in Nicaragua. And the closest you’ve come to saving a baby from a rabid animal is the time you told your crying nephew to ‘take it like a man‘ when a toy poodle licked him at the pet store.
But your sweetie doesn’t know that. Not right away.
(Maybe the ‘Nicaraguan lion’ thing. Let’s be honest; you’re laying it on a bit thick there. Dial it back a notch or two, there, Indy.)
But over time, if you stay together — eat together, talk together, live together, read Encyclopedia Britannica entries on Central American fauna together — the truth will come out. You’ve got your issues. You can’t hide them any more; you’re simply not perfect. Nobody’s perfect.
Take my wife, for instance.
Oh, she fooled me for a while. Quite a while, actually — years and years. But gradually, ever so slowly, the facade crumbled. Her crafty subterfuge and misdirection could only hide the truth for so long. The dead, stinky cat is out of the bag. I know my wife’s haunting filthy secret:
She has no taste in bath towels.
“We carry a wide assortment of towels with highly-varying degrees of utility, absorbency, frayitude and ghettoness.”
(I know. It’s shocking to see it just written out bare-faced like that, isn’t it? Scandalous.)
Here’s the thing — every morning, my nearly-but-evidently-not-entirely-perfect wife gets up at the crack of five. Or six. Quarter to eight, I don’t know. Some ungodly hour when only farmers and chickens and walk-of-shamers should ever be awake.
She grabs herself a towel and washcloth from the linen closet, and — because bless her heart, she’s still pretending to be sweet to me, after all these years — she gets a set for me, as well. When she’s done with her shower, she leaves a fresh towel and washcloth on the sink for me to use when I get up. Hours and hours later, when most humans find it convenient to be awake.
I should probably say a word about our bath linens here. My wife and I have been together for a long time — through thick and thin, fluffy and threadbare, luxurious and ratty. Those aren’t our times, of course; those are our towels. And for some reason, we seem to still have most of them. We carry a wide assortment of towels with highly-varying degrees of utility, absorbency, frayitude and ghettoness. Some are old, some are new, some are borrowed, and some have apparently been used to clean up toxic spills or ‘chamois’ down the dog after a good roll in… something. Dirt? Poodle plop? Barfed-up Alpo? I’m not staring directly at it long enough to find out.
(My wife assures me it’s “probably just nail polish remover”, after a small spill emergency she once had in the bathroom.
My response: “Probably” just isn’t good enough in a situation like this. Typhoid Mary “probably” felt well enough to work. The Trojans figured there was “probably” nothing in that big honking horse statue. There are “probably” house cats in Nicaragua that look like vicious lions, if you see them out of the corner of your eye.
So yeah. Those towels? Dipped in dog shit until proven innocent. That’s my policy.)
None of this would be a particular problem — assuming you don’t consider harboring putative terrier turds in your hallway closet, which is a whole other ball of something I don’t want to know about. See, I fold the towels and put them away. And I’m very strategic about it. Good towels out front, old thinning towels on the bottom of the stack, and the ‘poodle plop’ culprit I stick way in the back, on the bottom shelf. With tongs. Hidden under a box of Q-Tips.
But when my wife picks them out, she just grabs whatever she grabs. She’s got no plan. No strategy or forethought whatsoever. She just yanks towels out of the closet willy-nilly, as though this isn’t the most critical decision in the history of our life together.
And then I get up and take a nice hot shower, reach for the towel and find some ratty pink rag, woven poorly by indentured Thai schoolchildren back in the ’60s, and possibly — “probably?” — befouled by some dank hairy beast with a diet of horse meat and Beggin’ Strips.
That’ll suck the Pert right out of your shampoo, let me tell you.
I’d think she’s just doing it to torture me — because, duh — but no. On the towel rack I’ll often find another old scrap of cloth just like mine, freshly damp and smelling faintly of shower gel and Lady Remingtons. So she’s pinging us both, only — she doesn’t care. She remains fully and completely indiscriminate in her choice of bath towels. A fact which, if I’d discovered while we were dating…
Well. We’d still be married, I think. This isn’t a ‘dealbreaker’ like bad taste in something important, like beer or sitcoms or whether the toilet paper roll goes overy-undery or undery-overy. But I’d have made some adjustments, that’s for sure.
Like burning all our old towels, and setting up our wedding registration at Bed, Bath and Two-Ply Combed Egyptian Cotton Towels Unbesmirched With Shepherd Dung.
(Seriously, it’s probably nail polish remover.
BUT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY TAKE THE RISK? That’s all I’m sayin’.)
Permalink | 1 CommentI work in science. Genetics, specifically, and oncogenomics — or the genetics of cancer — super-duper-specifically. You might think it sounds kind of hard. I always thought that — and figured I’d be shining shoes or giving squeegee jobs for spare change down by the underpass by now.
(Where ‘squeegee job’ is some sort of uncomfortable euphemism. Or maybe it isn’t. Either way, it’s fairly grim.)
I knew that to have any chance in this field — as opposed to living, probably, in a field — that I had to find a way to put science into terms that I could understand. Simple terms. Single-syllable terms. Maybe with finger puppets, or funny hats or something like that barnyard-animal toy that makes noises when you pull the string:
‘The mitotic spindle goes: *OooooWEEEEEOOOOOoooo!!*‘
(I don’t know if that’s true, actually. I’m forty years old and I’ve been married for years. I haven’t heard a mitotic spindle since the Clinton administration.)
“I’m forty years old and I’ve been married for years. I haven’t heard a mitotic spindle since the Clinton administration.”
Anyway, I tried taking science classes in school. Too hard.
So I tried looking up information online, where people talk slower and might animate a GIF or two. Still too hard.
I tried learning from cartoon picture books. That was better; I laughed at some of the pictures. But the words? Too hard.
(Like, Doonesbury hard. I almost blew a cortex trying to ‘get’ one of those strips one Sunday. Beware the long-form ‘thinky’ funny papers, folks.)
I finally decided that if I was ever going to understand any of this nonsense, I’d have to put it in terms that I could understand. Nobody else was going to do it for me — everybody who knew anything about science was too busy engineering intelligent corn stalks or begging the government for grant money or picking out lab coat pocket protectors. They weren’t going to stoop to my level.
(Also, some of them were pretty gangly, or sort of old. Nobody with bad knees should be stooping that low, that long. A major league catcher or world-class reverse limbo-er, maybe.
But a bunch of corn-diddling pocket-protected Professor Frinks? Not so much.)
So I sorted a few things out for myself. And here I am, a few years later, still kicking around in the oncogenomics field. And I barely have to polish any loafers or squeegee any lab coats to keep my position. A couple, around budget time. But otherwise, I’m virtually squeegee-free.
How’d I do it? By breaking just a few basic genetic concepts down into ideas that I could relate to. And in case there are youngsters out there now who are in the same boat I was — no direction, none too bright, goofy haircut — I’d like to share some of those ideas. For inspiration. You can join a field like oncogenomics, if that’s what you want. It just takes a little creative thinking and determination to make it happen.
Also, it doesn’t hurt if you own your own squeegee. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s look at some science:
DNA Base Pairing:
Here’s all you need to know about basic genetics: DNA stands for deoxy-something-that-goes-on-for-six-or-eight-more-syllables-about-something-no-one-ever-remembers. Might as well stand for de-Englished-something-something. Snore.
More practical is this — DNA is made up of four building blocks. These each have names that sound like someone cursing you out in Lebanese.
(Guanine, seriously? Sounds like a slur for someone who’s a little light in their falafels. I’m just saying.)
The rudimentary textbooks — or in my library, all of them — will tell you that the four blocks are represented by the letters A, C, G and T, and that there are specific combinations in which they get together — A always paired with T, and C with G.
Yeah. Too hard.
I prefer to think of our DNA as being made up of beer.
(Which for some of us is perhaps closer to the truth than others. ‘You are what you spill all over your shirt at three in the morning when your motor coordination finally falls to hell,’ as the old saying goes.
Yes, I’m paraphrasing. No, you shut up.)
Once you put these things in beer terms, it all becomes obvious. The Guinness, which is a stout, of course, would naturally want to hang with the delicious extra stout from Coopers Brewery. And the Anchor Steam beer, a light and refreshing brew, would snuggle nicely up to a Tetley’s Bitter. Simple.
Also, it’s obvious that the Tetley’s, from Yorkshire, would never get along with the Irish Guinness. Ditto SanFran’s Anchor Steam and Coopers waaaay over in Australia. It’s a beautiful system.
Even better, you can change it to suit your tastes. More of a Coors or Anheuser-Busch fan? No problem — you’re halfway to DNA already! A few more pints, and you’ll have it all sorted out.
Best of all, with this system homework tends to happen on a bar stool, (re-)convincing yourself that yeah, these two stouts really do taste great together. Or working your way through the ‘T’ beers to complete a set. Or arguing loudly with a bunch of drunken geneticists that if DNA doesn’t have room for ‘V for Victory Hop Devil‘, then to hell with DNA — as soon as you sleep this off, you’re switching over to being a silicon-based life form, that’ll show stupid D-N-A who’s in charge around here, by golly.
You may not pass many molecular biology tests this way. But those nine years of college will just fly by, let me tell you.
Genetic Recombination:
Sometimes, when a man and a women love each other very much, they mingle together their genetic material using techniques that we could only talk about if we were doing this on the Spike Network, after 1am when the kids have all gone to bed. But we’re not, so let’s stick with ‘mingling’.
In the process of this subcellular ugly-bumping, a thing called ‘recombination’ occurs.
(I know, I know — it sounds like something that floppy-hatted engineer from ‘Conjunction Junction’ would warble on about:
“Recombination, what’s that station?
Minglin’ up genes and assortin’ the gametes…”
Don’t worry. It’s not that.
Though when Schoolhouse Rock can’t dumb it down enough to make sense, you know you’ve got some work to do. Moving on.)
Recombination just means that little bits of genetic material fling themselves from one bit of DNA to the other, in somewhat random and unpredictable ways. Which is still too hard. So think of it this way:
Let’s say you’re having a nice romantic dinner with your sweetie. By the time the meal arrives, you’re cooing sweet nothings to each other across the table, leaning in close for meaningful touches and Eskimo kisses.
(Other patrons are asking for retching bags. Could be you, could be salmonella poisoning — you don’t care. You’re in wuv.
This is exactly how it happens in the nucleus, by the way. “Get a room, you two,” growls the endoplasmic reticulum. But no, the chromosomes just keep on spooning. There’s no fighting with horny double helices.)
Now imagine that your meals are made up entirely of salty snacks — hers with Ritz Crackers, maybe, and yours with Chee-tos, or those little mini pretzels you get on the better budget airplanes these days.
(Hey, I said it was ‘romantic’ — I never said you weren’t a cheap-ass tightwad. Maybe you’ll splurge later to split a pack of HoHo’s, eh Romeo?)
And further imagine that you continue to coo and baby talk at each other while you eat your meals. Which leads to a barrage of spitting back and forth, as the crumbs fall and fly and flick where they may.
Now the science. The food is the DNA. The little bits of cracker on your face are from her, and those pretzelly crumbs all up in her eyebrows — nice distance, by the way — are yours. You’ve each got mostly what you ordered, and a little bit of random goop from the other. Congratulations, you’ve recombined. Have a drink of water — and maybe hose off before you split those HoHo’s. There might be young impressionable mitochondria watching.
Mutations and Cancer:
In the academic world of ‘teachyness’, they’d tell you this: DNA is replicated by molecular machinery in the cell nucleus, centered around the DNA polymerase complex. The polymerase has a high fidelity for maintaining proper DNA base pairing, but may introduce a random error in the DNA sequence every ten thousand bases or more. When this happens, the sequence is changed, and — if not repaired — a genetic mutation is the result.
Yeah, that’s great. Also, you lost me at ‘teachyness’.
Here’s my version:
DNA Polymerase — or ‘Pol’ for short — is a lonely guy who scored a job working the door at the sorority house on campus in town, so he’s on his best behavior at all times. Two sets of twins live there, split up in two rooms — Teri bunks with Abby, and Carrie shares a suite with Gabby.
They’re all on young Pol’s radar. I mean, it’s two sets of twins, for crissakes, and he’s a strapping young enzyme and he’s got a subscription to Protein Penthouse Letters. It’s instinct. Don’t judge.)
It’s also his job to check them in — and check them out; how you doin’? — and send them up to the appropriate room before curfew. Meanwhile, he’s a distracted twitchy mess, so while it mostly goes well, it doesn’t always. Mutations are always a possibility.
“Evening, Miss Teri. Go on up to see Abby.”
Good job, Pol. We’ve still got exactly ten fingers, and nothing is webbed. Yet.
“Hi there, Carrie — looking good. Gabby’s already upstairs.”
Awesome. No sickle cell anemia. Nobody ever asked for sickle cell anemia. Nice going, Pol.
“Oh hey, Abby. Go ahead up.”
“I’m Gabby.”
Whoops! If you’re lucky, Gabby’s in a good mood and will shrug it off. That’s what happens most times. Or she’ll be fooled by a quick:
“Yeah, I know. That’s what I said. ‘Gabby’. Gosh!”
But if it’s just the wrong day — maybe she just sat through Genetics 101, say, and is feeling vindictive — then *bam*, she gives you melanoma. Or leukemia, or some nasty brain tumor. Gabby’s kind of a bitch sometimes, frankly.
(Also, Pol, you’re never getting that threesome with any of these four. It’s an all-girls’ school. Do the math, buddy.)
So that’s mutation. And one of the many reasons why I can never work in a sorority house populated only by twins. The chance for genetic disfigurement is simply too high.
Hey, that was fun. Maybe I’ll try this again sometime, with a few more concepts and examples involving the seven dwarves, beer pong, or something horrifically dirty involving Golgi bodies. Maybe all three at once.
(Yeah. Wrap that around your mitotic spindle and smoke it, textbook writers.)
Until then, I’d say, ‘Keep looking at your genes‘. But they’re really small, and you can’t see them without asking one of those lab coat people to help you, and they’d just try to explain what you’re seeing in no-nonsense science-y terms, and where the hell would that get you? Nowhere and a headache, that’s where.
You stick with me, kid. We’ll win a Nobel yet.
Permalink | No CommentsToday was Patriots Day — explained once or twice in the past here, if you’re unfamiliar — around these parts. In general, it’s a fine holiday, because it lets us witness the Boston Marathon, because the Red Sox play a special eleven AM game at home, and — most of all — because we get the day off, and no one else does.
Of course, in specific, it’s a poopy dumb holiday, because this year, for the first time since I moved to Boston over a decade ago, I didn’t get the day off either. Our office worked on Patriots Day, like the rest of the schlubs schlepping to work on a Monday morning in the lower forty-eight.
Seriously, what good is a private fake holiday that you don’t get to share in? Stupid, that’s what.
(I don’t care if that didn’t make sense. I’m busy whipping up a good petulant over here. Mind yer business.)
I happen to live just a couple of blocks off the main thoroughfare that the runners hurtle down on their way to the Collapsing Line. And the office happens to be a few blocks on the other side of said thoroughfare. So for most of my commute to work today, I was treated to the sights of people walking to and fro, setting up chairs, lining up water stations and arranging rows of gleaming new Port-A-John stalls.
(I hope to god they were new. Otherwise, the ‘gleaming’ is far more disturbing.)
In other words, I watched a bunch of people preparing to leisurely spend their days off getting front-row coming-down-the-stretch seats to the Boston Marathon. Or planning an especially rowdy bout of ‘drinking in public on a random April Monday’.
(If you’ve ever been here for Marathon Day, then you already know these are one and the same thing. What better inspiration for chugging a couple dozen brews over the course of a weekday morning than watching hundreds of two-percent-body-fat stick figures nearly kill themselves hoofing it downtown from the outskirts of the suburbs?
It can be a little intimidating, to be sure. At least, until you find your purpose in the bottom of that frosty mug in your hand: Those runners have their job; I’ve got mine. It’s a delicate symbiosis, but it works. And everyone wakes up feeling hung over tomorrow.)
Her leg flailing and puffing and Elaine Benes-like thumb juts would be tragic comedy fodder at best, like sending a clown into the lions’ den before the Christians, to be eaten hilariously first.
But I couldn’t join in the festivities; not this year. In fact, I had a meeting in the morning, so I was forced to hustle past the gawkers and water cups and shiny john closets on the way to work. I’ll admit it soured my mood a bit. I wanted to stay out in the fresh air and sunshine, taking in the sights and the sounds and whatever that unsteady guy leaning on the lamppost is drinking at a quarter after nine in the morning. I felt my liver squoosh against my skin, like a fat kid pressing his nose up to a candy store window.
Alas, the office beckoned, so I hurried across the street and on my way. As I reached the other side, I saw a remarkable thing — a young woman, maybe in her mid-20s, wearing spandex pants and running garb and rocking a high-tech pair of running shoes. And jogging.
On Marathon Day. And right beside the main race artery, of all places.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before. I mean, the nerve. Sure, people run along this street all the time, on other days. Those times are then. But now — with dozens of world-class distance jockeys careening down the road at you? What’s the angle, sister?
If you were really serious about running, you’d be out there with them. If you’re not, then why flaunt your amateur moves right down the runway of prime-time Marathon central? You don’t see me warbling Carmen off-key outside the Metropolitan Opera House, or acting lazy and belligerent on the steps of Congress. Those places are where the REAL people do their work. Not schlubs like us.
I figured if she made it as far as the main street, she’d be laughed off the sidewalk. It was nearly time for the first wave of professional runners to skitter by; Her leg flailing and puffing and Elaine Benes-like thumb juts would be tragic comedy fodder at best, like sending a clown into the lions’ den before the Christians, to be eaten hilariously first.
The most humane thing I could do was prevent this girl, this… jogger, from making a fool of herself by the raceway. So I made sure to catch her attention, and as we passed I snorted and said:
‘Child, please. You’re no Tatyana Pushkareva.‘
For the record, that did stop her in her tracks. I kept walking and didn’t look back, but I assume she saw the error of her ways and walked — with a slow, even gait — the rest of the way to the spectator area. No need to thank me, young runner. Just don’t bring that weak game around the count when the big girls and boys are playing, is all. Everybody else we’ll see running today entered a big honking race. What did you do this morning, eh? Have a nice big bowl of “Working Up to My First 5K-Os”?
As for me, I made it to work. I did not get the day off; I did not pass ‘GO’ and collect two hundred dollars. But I did save one young stranger from making a fool of herself. And if I can do that for just one person, then it’s all worth….
Nah; who am I kidding? I’d still rather have the day off. A whole parade of ostrich-kneed yobbos could hobble their way down the marathon route, and I wouldn’t give two sweat-stained lycra ass flaps. I was just glum about not having the holiday, and took it out on some random awkward waif.
So Patriots Day wasn’t all bad. But still the day off would be better. Next year, I’ll just have to loaf harder. Until then — practice, practice, practice.
Permalink | No CommentsI woke up yesterday to what I assume will be hereafter called the “Great New England Electrical Nightmare of 2011”.
(Or “that time the power went out for a couple of hours one spring”.
Clearly, mine has a much better ring to it. I know which one CNN would run with, is all I’m saying.)
In the end, the crisis wasn’t so extreme, I suppose. Sometime between six and eight in the morning, our power — and the electro juice flowing to several of our closest neighbors — shut off. From what I could piece together later, our building and a few others were affected. Maybe a whole city block, give or take a brownstone. Not exactly a major grid failure, I guess.
That doesn’t mean it wasn’t hellish for those of us swept up in “Nor’Eastern Nightmare ’11”.
(Just trying that one out. Little catchier; might be easier to fit on an “I SURVIVED THE…” T-shirt. Successful disasters are ninety percent marketing, don’t you know.)
I woke up around nine to a dark and bewildering reality — no lights, no internet, no television, no computers, no microwave, no radio, no appliances of any kind. The power company managed to restore service around noon, but the intervening hours were quite the harrowing ordeal. Here’s a partial blow-by-candlelight-blow account of “Boston, Violently Unplugged”:
(Yeah, scratch that name. Sounds too much like a story about repo men coming for a certain ’80s band’s equipment. We don’t want to panic the general public over the wrong travesty.)
Some indeterminate time — I wake up. The room is spinning very gently round my head. Or at least it would be if I could see it which I can’t.
It is pitch black. I have a splitting headache, and no tea.
With a queasy monochrome sense of deja vu, I make a note not to stay up reading Douglas Adams again on the night before an impending disaster. And wonder where the hell my towel’s gotten off to.
Some indeterminate time, plus three minutes of towel worry: It actually is really dark in the bedroom. With the alarm clock down, I have no idea what time it is. Could be four AM, could be noon. Could be Tuesday, which would get me out of some tremendously tortuous meetings the office has planned for Monday. But I can’t be that lucky.
I reach over to see if my wife is still in bed — nope. So it’s either eight-to-nineish and she’s at yoga class, or the grues that live in the dark of night came to get her first. Either way, my motivation to get up is nil. I roll over for another nap.
Thirty seconds later — “Full bladder detected. Abort nap. Repeat, abort nap. This is not a drill. We are at PEECON Four and counting. Man the zipper hatch and prepare to evacuate!”
The next two minutes — You’d think I could safely navigate from my bed to the bathroom in my sleep by now. I’ve only made the trip every single freaking morning for nearly two years. It’s not exactly crossing the stupid Himalayas.
“Evidently, the traffic controller in my internal control tower was still in the middle of that nap. Or drunk. Or an idiot. Leave it to me to have Gary Busey running my internal GPS.”
In the twelve feet from the bed to the toilet, I banged my shins, toes, knees and hip no fewer than nine times. Evidently, the traffic controller in my internal control tower was still in the middle of that nap. Or drunk. Or an idiot. Leave it to me to have Gary Busey running my internal GPS.
9:18 — After the bathroom break, I find my phone — still mostly charged, thank goodness — and see the time. It’s mid-morning; though my eyes are starting to adjust to the dark, I think about raising a window blind to let in some light.
But I’m still in my pajamas, and who knows what I look like now? The bathroom mirror is useless, and there’s no way I’m unleashing myself on the world without a self-check. Did I even get my pants back up after the bathroom emergency? How could I even tell without the lights? The blinds stay down, for everyone’s safety.
9:24 — I determine the problem is not simply a tripped breaker, by feeling my way through the condo and attempting to turn on every light, radio and kitchen appliance I could find. Nothing works. I cower in a corner, staring with horror at the spot on the microwave where the time used to be.
(Thanks to my efforts, by the way. this ordeal would also later be referred to as the “Really Loud and Bright and Embarrassing Thing That Happened with the Immersion Blender When the Power Returned 2011”.
But that’s not something I really want getting around, frankly. And it certainly wouldn’t fit on a T-shirt.)
9:33 — I need to know whether the outage is affecting the rest of society, too. Am I alone in this, or has the Technopocalypse finally arrived to smite us all?
With great trepidation, I peer out of the front door peephole into the condo foyer, fully expecting to see wolves literally at the door. Instead, I see darkness. The light in the hallway isn’t working for some reason — oh, wait, duh. Of course.
The wolves have eaten all the light bulbs. Obviously. I bar the door with a pile of my wife’s purses and hide in the bathtub.
9:51 — It occurs to me that we might still have hot water. I take a shower in the dark, as best I can. I’m not entirely sure I was fully undressed, or whether everything I washed was actually mine.
(Either my calves have gotten a LOT hairier since last I checked, or the dog snuck into the tub for safely, too. Either her or one of the wolves; I didn’t ask. Loofah first, and ask questions later, I always say.)
Dressing is a particular challenge, since I couldn’t see what I was pulling out of the drawers. But I got something that felt like socks onto my feet, a pants-like contraption pulled up to my waist, and a shirt that more or less fits, so I’m feeling a little more human.
(When the light returned, I found that I was wearing one tube sock and one half of a pair of my wife’s black hose, a backwards hoodie — which explained the generous ‘chin pocket’ that I thought was maybe the latest fashion thing — and a pair of the missus’ sweatpants with “PINK” emblazoned across the back.
Only the pants were on backwards, too. I’m pretty sure if I’d left the house in those, I’d have been auto-registered on some sort of ‘assumed sex offender’ list. Particularly if I was rocking the chin pocket at the time.)
10:03 — An hour into the ordeal, and reality is starting to set in. My entire morning routine — really, pretty much my entire life — requires electricity to properly work. And I’ve got none, which means no television, no music, no gaming, no email, and no microwave burrito for lunch. And without any of that, what the hell else is there? I’d say it’s like living in caveman times, but even Neanderthals had basic cable and AOL. They weren’t complete savages.
Meanwhile, I spend half an hour at my desktop computer, clicking my mouse and loudly pretending that I’m reading email and surfing the web:
“MY, THAT’S AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE! I’D BEST SAVE THAT IN MY ARCHIVE FOLDER!”
“HEAVENS, WHAT AN INTERESTING PAGE I’VE FOUND! TIME TO BOOKMARK ANOTHER WEB GEM!”
The line between ‘trying to maintain some semblance of routine’ and ‘convincing myself that I’m really reading The Onion right now’ is blurring pretty badly now. It’s somewhat disconcerting to find yourself making up clever parodies, pretending that you’re reading them and then deciding, “not bad — but I could come up with better”.
I’m just in the process of deciding whether or not to pretend-Digg a story that never existed on a website that I couldn’t currently see, when I’m saved by…
10:35 — My wife comes in, wearing her yoga clothes and a thin sheen of perspiration.
Or is it alien slime? Perhaps the body snatchers can’t help but ooze a little when they’re wearing their people-skin costumes?
Before I let her through the barricade of purses, I make her answer a barrage of questions only she could answer — “What’s my middle name?”, “What are you thinking right now?”, “Why hath god forsaken us — and where did you get these fabulous ‘PINK’ pants?”
She passes with flying colors. And she makes me change pants. Says I’m ‘stretching them out’.
(In all the right places? ‘No. In the butt.’
I don’t see why we can’t both be right.)
10:53 — I’ve now gone nearly two full waking hours without proper internet, and I’m twitching badly. I’ve checked email on my phone and tried surfing, but it’s just not the same. Even if I slide the phone around on the desk like I’m clicking a mouse, it’s still hollow and wrong. My left-button finger ‘clicks’ the air every few seconds, out of habit. My world is pain.
I look over at my wife. She’s perfectly cozy in her chair by the window, sitting with the shade half-raised and reading a book.
That’s right. An actual book, like some kind of Oliver Twist street urchin. Poor girl doesn’t even know our world is falling apart.
I try rocking gently in a corner, imaging what Facebook statuses other people are writing and muttering under my breath, “Charlie likes this. Charlie likes this. Charlie likes this.” It’s no help.
11:14 — My wife is still ‘reading’ — though how you call it that without a working LCD monitor is beyond me.
I’ve gone back to surfing the internet on my phone, but it’s draining the hell out of my battery. I decide it’s very important to take a picture of a Google search, so future generations can at least have a glimpse at the pinnacle of our technological achievements. While I’m at it, I should probably snap a pic of NASA’s site or something, too. It’s so much pressure deciding what information to save — does CERN have a Facebook page? Was Einstein on Twitter? How many pages are in the LOLcats archive, anyway?
I rush to get started and grab the digital camera. The battery’s in the charger. Dead. No juice. Humanity’s greatest feats, condemned to the obscurity of time because we don’t keep a cheap disposable camera around the house.
But wait! My phone has a camera — I’ll just use it to take a picture of… uh, itself, showing the internet because all the computers are down. I just need three mirrors, a unidirectional light source and a glare filter app that I can download from-
‘Battery at 0%. Shutting down…‘
“KHHHHHHHAAAaaaaAAAANNNN!”
11:56 — The power finally comes back on. I’ve spent the last half hour making ‘boop-boop-beep‘ noises at the microwave, hoping to jog its memory enough to thaw a burrito for lunch. No such luck.
I’m just in the process of beating the ice out of the burrito with a stick (hence the embarrassing incident with the immersion blender) when the power suddenly and miraculously returns.
My wife calmly puts down her book and checks her email. I propose out of the blue to the TiVo, in hopes that will keep it from leaving me ever again.
(I’m a big proponent of the old saw, “If you love something, check the ‘Record Suggestions’ box. If it tapes ’30 Rock’ and ‘Archer’ for you, it’s yours. If you find fourteen hours of ‘Hee Haw’ on your play list, it simply wasn’t meant to be.”)
Anyway, things are pretty much back to normal now. I spent the last day and a half glommed onto every electrical device I could reach, equilibrating my system on bad sitcoms, web sites, internet radio and nutritionally-questionable interpretations of Mexican food staples. Now I just need to buy a backup generator, a backup-to-the-backup generator, fourteen emergency disposable cameras, and tasteful flowers for the civil union ceremony with the TiVo, and I’m all set for the next power emergency.
Maybe just one more generator. In case the other two have problems. You can never be too careful with these things.
Permalink | No CommentsI’ve found in my travels — and in the travels of other humans to visit my nearby vicinity — that people have a lot of misconceptions about the city of Boston. Having lived here for a dozen years now, I’ve been disabused of any misconceptions myself. I have a clear and concise understanding of all things Beantown, which I’m happy to share for your further edification. It’s now time for me to disabuse you.
Bend over. This might hurt a little.
Boston Misconception #1: Winter lasts for nine months here, with snow and frigid temperatures daily.
This is probably the biggest knock on Boston from afar — “It’s too COOOOOOLD there! I’ll freeze my precious tuckus off!”
Allow me to set the record straight. I moved here after seven years in Pittsburgh, and I’m happy to report that it does not, in fact, get significantly colder in Boston than it does in a relatively temperate mid-Atlantic location like “the ‘Burgh”.
(Also, your tuckus? Not especially precious. Particularly in those pants. Sorry.)
Of course, it does stay cold longer in Boston than in anywhere this side of Mrs. Claus’ frigid underbloomers. So it might snow in April (as it has), or freeze in September (which it probably will), but it’s not as though the temperature is ‘Eskimovian‘ during the whitening season. Just in the twenties or so, mostly. And some days, it doesn’t even snow. Much.
Unless it does, and then it dumps like a flock of diarrheal pigeons taking turns unloading on a freshly washed Beemer. But that’s only once, twice a week, tops.
Okay, fine. Let’s just call this a ‘practice misconception’ and move on. I’m getting the hang of this, I swear.
Boston Misconception #2: That whole ‘tea party’ thing is still a pretty big deal.
“Sure, the Boston Tea Party caused a bit of a minor stir back when it happened. Don’t tread on me, viva la revolution, we hold these truths, yadda yadda yadda.”
Sure, the Boston Tea Party caused a bit of a minor stir back when it happened. Don’t tread on me, viva la revolution, we hold these truths, yadda yadda yadda. Putting a foot down over the rising price of oolong was a major factor in goosing the Colonies toward building a nation of their own.
(I would have guessed beer would drive us over the edge first. Who’d have thought the rousable rabble would go more for orange pekoe than oatmeal stout?)
But is the whole leaf-heaving mess something we dwell on today? Nah. Not really.
Oh sure, there are tourist attractions and guide books and commemorative plastic lapel pins available in the gift shop as you exit — but the nouveau tea party movement that’s all the rage this cycle isn’t coming from here, mostly. It’s centered over in the middle of the country, in places like Kentucky, apparently.
(Kentucky? And tea? I don’t get it, either. It’s not the ‘Bourbon Party movement’, fer crissakes. Weird.)
As for the locals, we appear to have gotten over our collective aversion to tariffs and levees, and headed in the other direction. They don’t call it ‘Taxachusetts’ for nothing. And the price of Earl Gray around here is scandalous.
Boston Misconception #3: Bostonians are jealous of New Yorkers.
This just simply isn’t true. It appears to be a nasty rumor perpetrated by Manhattanites — probably hatched and texted around while they’re stuck in gridlock rush hour traffic.
In reality, the two towns are distinct enough to foster strong preferences for one or the other — but hardly jealousy of what the other has going on. If you want an academic atmosphere, distributed green space and roads that take thirty-seven years to build and never have their potholes patched, you come to Boston. If you’re more interested in metropolitan boom, one big-assed park and getting felt up, propositioned or drooled on in a subway car, then NYC is the place for you. I don’t see the controversy, frankly.
I will admit that there have been times in history when the Boston-New York sports rivalries got a bit heated — and were pretty one-sided, in the New Yahkahs’ favor. But the times for green Boston envy have passed. The Pats and Giants and Jets have all enjoyed recent success. Ditto the Rangers and Bruins. And there’s nothing about the Nets or Knicks that’s particularly covet-worthy.
Of course, you could make the case that the Red Sox and their feeble limp out of the gate might currently be ‘jealous’ of the Yankees. But please. The way the Sox are going right now, they’re jealous of the fricking Kansas City Royals. That’s not a thing. That’s just sad.
Boston Misconception #4: Everyone for miles around graduated from MIT or Harvard.
Sometimes it does seem that everyone you run into around here is some kind of PhD brain surgeon designing three-stage rockets and programming sentient robots in their spare time.
Then you get them behind the wheel of a car, and you find that these Massholes are idiots on the road, just like everyone else. Failing to use your turn signal — one of the two great social equalizers for those of us who lurched our way through a paltry liberal arts degree.
(The other, of course, being the atomic wedgie. Though those were much more effective back before the brainiacs became celebrated published authors or Nobel Prize-winning physicists. Or partners in large local law firms. Those can be some awfully expensive stretched-out elastic waistbands.
Totally worth it. But awfully expensive.)
Boston Misconception #5: Local folks call Boston ‘Beantown’, as per the intro paragraph.
I still fall into this trap, because I didn’t grow up here — and ‘Beantown’ is just so gosh-darned cute. But I’ve been told by more than one local to ‘cut it aaaaht with that, kid‘.
I don’t know what the hell that means, exactly, but I take it as a sign of displeasure. Evidently, using ‘Beantown’ in Beantown is a bit of a faux pas.
I’ve never figured out quite why — though if you were going to nickname your local borough after a food, I can see where beans (beans, the magical fruit) might not top the list. You’d perhaps be more inclined to say you were from ‘Lobster Thermidoretown’ or ‘Ribeye Steakville’. Even ‘The Home of the Goop That They Make Chicken McNuggets From’, maybe. Though the bumper stickers would have to wrap all the way around the car for that one.
In fairness, Boston doesn’t have a whole lot of reputation to work with, foodwise. ‘Beantown’ may be out of favor, but it’s probably the city’s best bet for a culinary draw. Think about it — what other foods are associated with Boston?
We can’t very well call ourselves ‘Cream Pie Town’ with a straight face. ‘Chowderburg’ isn’t much better, if slightly less porny. And though the city used to produce a good bit of molasses, that gooey ship sailed quite a while back.
(Look. Twenty-one people died from being candied in warm sugar. There’s no coming back from that. The end of time will still be ‘too soon’.)
So no ‘Beantown’, if you please. And no more rumors or misconceptions about what goes on around here. If you’re really interested to know, come and visit the area. You’ll see that it’s just like anywhere else, mostly.
We’ll just clear the latest blizzard out of a parking space for you, help you get a loan to pay the out-of-towner meter luxury tax, dodge the Einsteins driving over the curb at us, slip into our best ‘Yankees Suck’ T-shirts for dinner, and take you out for a nice local specialty. Baked beans, say. Maybe some chowder. I think we have a place that makes Chicken McNuggets, too. Though the import tariff on those things is outrageous.
I think you get the picture. I’m so glad we had this little talk.
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