Max, God of Worms

For the last week and a half, I have been working in Dr. Lesilee Rose's lab. I'm being trained by a guy named Adam. Adam is very nice and laughs through his nose. He's taught me how to do a lot of the basic stuff around the lab. He's getting married this week.

I have a desk with a window. With a view! That's my desk lit by my window. I recently arrived on the perfect lunch: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a mason jar of tea.

The Rose lab studies developmental biology. Specifically, we study biological control of polarity during cell division. It ultimately plays an important role in body development, but we're concerned with things like mitotic spindles and protein gradients. Our lab is a "worm lab", which means that our studies focus on a worm called C. elegans. It is a tiny, near-microscopic worm that is grown on petri dishes.

C. elegans is a model organism like mice, fruit flies, and E. coli. Biologists extrapolate principles discovered in these organisms to understand more complex organisms. Much of the work in the lab revolves around the worms. I have learned to make plates and to handle the worms. I've also been making gels and running proteins. Adam pointed out that you could drink 90% of the chemicals in our lab and be fine. Biology: 1. OChem: 0.

Our lab uses hundreds of plates every week, so we have to make up new ones almost every day. First I measure some digested protein powder and agar into a large flask, pour in water, mix it up and put the flask into the autoclave for an hour and a half. We let it cool for another hour. As soon as it's not scalding I thread a sterile tube into the flask, through a dispenser machine, and back out onto the counter. I take stacks of empty plastic petri dishes and position the nozzle while the dispenser squirts the media into each. The machine measures with rhythmic pumping, so imagine holding a nozzle that is rhythmically squirting hot gooey liquid over and over and over again.

We handle the worms under microscopes with platinum wire picks using sterile technique. We can use the scooping method or the sticking method. I use the latter. I get some bacterial goo on the spatula and then dab the worms. With luck and a little practice they stick on. I can even get a bunch of worms on the pick at a time, writhing in a sticky ball. When it has too many, the worms keep falling off every time it's dabbed. My record so far is 19.

Thus, I am God of the worms, reigning doom with impunity on their little jelly world. Just like "the claw", I choose who will go and who will stay. Sometimes they go to a better place with a virgin bacteria colony and lots of space to lay eggs. Sometimes they get flamed till my platinum wire glows white hot.

Top 15 Albums

These are albums that I would recommend to anyone. I will give them to you if you don't already have them. Please listen to them.

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band- In 1967, the greatest band in the history of rock released their greatest album. The rest is history. Since then the album Revolver has been pushed as usurper to that throne, but the cohesion and charm of Sgt. Pepper assures its placement on top. "You're such a lovely audience we'd like to take you home with us." This album makes me happy every time I put it on, but it's hardly fluff. Saturated in empathy, Sgt Pepper deals with life problems from all walks of life.

In Utero- The most harrowing forty minutes of your life, Nirvana's In Utero is the crystallization of alternative rock's abrasive experimentation and philosophy. Noise rock, grunge and early emotional hardcore had been developing methods for expressing alienation, pain and catharsis. The tools were there, it just took a band with the songwriting and technical talent of Nirvana to articulate them into a perfect statement. Cobain gave voice to directionlessness, paralysis and self-loathing, writing as he descended into depression and heroin addiction. It was written with the intention of shaking off the eager masses who had made Cobain into an icon and he largely succeeded. Nevertheless, four songs from the album hit the radio in force, and they happen to be Kurt Cobain's best four songs after Teen Spirit.

White Light/White Heat- This album sizzles with the intensity of the Velvet Underground's loudest, feedback-washed musicianship at their prime. The results are in turn raucous, haunting, epic and positively electric. Though not as breathlessly prophetic as the debut that preceded it, White Light/White Heat is another brilliant synthesis of the avant-garde with rock. The album concludes with one of the most legendary single-takes of all time, the seventeen minute Sister Ray.

Loveless- My Bloody Valentine, the band that had invented shoegaze with its previous album, returned to write the genre's defining document. You needn't listen to another shoegaze album. The staggering production costs required for the meticulous production nearly bankrupted Creation Records. The results justified every penny. Chuck Klosterman wrote, "Whenever anyone uses the phrase swirling guitars, this record is why. A testament to studio production and single-minded perfectionism, Loveless has a layered, inverted thickness that makes harsh sounds soft and fragile moments vast." Bathe in the beautiful trance-out melodies and you'll feel your worries being methodically pummeled out of existence.

#1 Record/Radio City- A CD rerelease of Big Star's first two albums, the work set down here is legendary in alternative music and the reputation is matched by the brilliance of the sound. Big Star was among the first bands to combine pop with guitar crunch, making them a founding band of the style known as power pop. Lead man Alex Chilton once said that his talent was not in songwriting but in production. This confused me for a while, because the songs are excellent and the trebly production took some getting used to. After a few more spins I not only understood this, but lived by it. Listening to Alex Chilton's wavering voice amidst the effervescent production is only comparable to sex for pure caught-in-the-moment pleasure.

The Velvet Underground and Nico- The most influential album of all time according to Rolling Stone, the Velvet Underground's 1967 debut wrote the rulebook for punk, indie, experimental and alternative rock by successfully fusing the avant-garde with rock and roll song structure. Nearly all of the songs can be thought of as templates for a different subsequent genre and they represent the peak of songwriter Lou Reed.

Rubber Soul- Another contender for the Beatles' greatest album, the US version's sequencing and song selection made it cohesive in a way the world had never before witnessed. Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys was inspired by it to create his magnum opus Pet Sounds. The album marks the turning point in the Beatles' career when their youthful sparkle met with the emotional depth of their later work.

Surfer Rosa- While not as song-oriented as followup Doolittle, the Pixie's first outing is the catchiest, prettiest, most abrasive thing they ever did. Noise pop like the Jesus and Mary Chain's Psychocandy, this is going to take some time to sink in, but once it does you will be singing these songs till kingdom come.

Psychocandy- In 1981 an obscure Scottish post-punk band called the Jesus and Mary Chain made this document of one of rock's greatest innovations: the union of sweet pop melodies with crushing white noise known as noise pop. If that sounds crazy, it just goes to show how crazy genius these people were to think it up. The album is undeniably fun, melodic, and catchy, and on this it will win over just about anyone. Once you realize that the noise enhances and accentuates all of these qualities, you will recognize this for the paradigm-shattering album that it is.

Raw Power- When this was recorded, the Stooges were on the verge of collapse. Lead man Iggy Pop screamed threats like a madman and the entire band generally sounded like a nuclear explosion. David Bowie's production is one of very few to capture the saturated sound of live rock amped well beyond the human capacity to hear. After listening to this, it's no surprise leader Iggy Pop is referred to as the godfather of Punk.

Nevermind- Smells Like Teen Spirit. Alternative Rock Explosion. This album single-handedly put 1991 on the map.

OK Computer- Radiohead's OK Computer is sometimes interpreted as an ode to postindustrial alienation. The sound is alternately terrifyingly dense and sweepingly open. This is great music for driving alone at night.

Tropicalia: A Brazilian Revolution in Sound- While this is actually a compilation of various artists rather than a legitimate album, it would be criminal not to include this. Tropicalia was a mindblowingly creative fusion of Brazilian music with psychedelic rock, and this is its definitive document. Originally written with political motivations, what comes through is the radical invention. It sounds like they didn't have enough time to streamline the synthesis, but the players involved were so creative that it just meant the fusion maintained all of its energy without sacrificing true synergy.

Pet Sounds- Normally the Beach Boys are thought of in the context of fluffy summer music, but following the release of Good Vibrations, Brian Wilson wrote an album of amazing depth and sonic magnificence. The lyrics and lush vocal harmonies are full of tenderness, wisdom, and youthful optimism.

Forever Changes- Completely overlooked in the whirl of great music that was 1967, this album by Los Angeles psychedelic band Love is as melodic and artistic as late-period Beatles. I've decided this album is reverse-Impressionist; the closer you put your face to the painting, the more sense the lyrics and aching melodies make.

The Dream Where I Chat Up George Bush

I guess it's the warm weather and my screwy summer sleep schedule, but it seems like every morning I wake up remembering some wild dream. The other day I had the craziest of them all.

The first thing I remember is that there were thousands of people piled on a couple of huge yellow plastic sheets, floating in the ocean. They were refugees, I think from Katrina or something, and I don't know why the plastic sheets supported them, but they did. Now the bigger one started sliding over the smaller one like two icebergs or two continental plates. I knew the people covered over would drown, so having somehow moved from an observing position to being among the refugees I got someone I knew to hop into the water with me to help pull the larger plastic sheet towards shore and off of the smaller one. We swam hard and pulled and soon we had freed the other raft. Don't ask me where I got the strength because I haven't done anything remotely grueling all summer.

Our work done, we started swimming for shore. What I had taken to be New Orleans levees now appeared akin to the breakwaters of Dana Point harbor. We had a quarter mile to go. By the time we swam into the harbor the person with me was this girl I was interested in. Not one with any correspondence in real life, before you ask. When we were only a hundred yards from the docks, John Lazur and an unidentified buddy of his swam out to meet us and John offered to swim me to shore. I may not be the fastest swimmer, but I can certainly hold my own, so naturally I felt a little patronized. I said we didn't need the help, but John replied that it would be silly to refuse when it was no trouble for him. Before I could respond, he grabbed me tightly and swam fast as a rocket to the main dock.

While we were getting out of the water, I thanked John for a bottle of wine he had given me for my birthday. It was a really good bottle of wine, I said, like probably a twenty dollar one. He said it was just something he'd had laying around. I insisted, but he repeated that it was just something he had lying around and refused to admit it was an expensive bottle. He explained that he had been thinking about giving me one of his one-third-full bottles of good gin (apparently he owned an array of brands), but had rather give away the bottle of wine.

On our way home I was still trying to catch the interest of that girl. We were in a bus with a bunch of people. The girl spoke up and proposed a group party with pizza and cake and offered to host. I sat there trying to figure out if it was a good sign, fully aware that I was completely over-analyzing the situation.

I found myself visiting Washington DC in the late afternoon. There was some sort of convention that evening that I was attending. I presume it was Democratic, because the proximity of the DNC and of all the time I've been spending with politically-obsessed Democrats. Looking for a way to kill time I noticed the White House was nearby and walked over to check it out (it looked suspiciously like a super-sized version of my great-grandmother's old house). I noticed none other than George Bush chilling in the back yard. A little star-stricken, I struck up a conversation. He turned out to be friendly and easy to talk to. I mentally confirmed that poll about Bush being a good guy to have a beer with. While we were talking the White House collapsed. George Bush didn't seem concerned and we continued chatting. I started asking him about his Presidency. Being mindful of my historic hatred of the man, I was careful not to say anything that might offend him. I asked him about how his administration worked internally. Perhaps he perceived it a loaded question or maybe it was too journalistic, but at that George paused and before he had a chance to say anything he began to fade away. He faded away until he was gone completely and with it, my dream.

The Ash Maiden and Other Stories

For those of you who don't know, the Ash Maiden is my bicycle. The story of the Ash Maiden is a cherished one, and I will share it with you now.


During the summer after senior year in my preparations for moving to Davis I asked my dad about acquiring a bike. He related to me how his friend and his wife had resolved to exercise more and so purchased bicycles. Years later it occurred to them they would likely die of old age before touching those two bikes and so they asked around to see if any of their friends would take the ill-fated machines off their hands. My father, not being one to pass on an opportunity to enlarge his already-terrifying pile of unused possessions, gladly took them and left them out in the elements for two and a half years. Thus, I was faced with two sad looking bikes, covered in rust and grime. The first, least rusty one was decked out with mirrors, all-terrain tires, and all manner of useless contraptions. The second was a criminally shabby but functionally intact road bike of subtle, elegant lines. I don't need to tell you it was love at first sight. I used a wire brush to scrub most of the rust away, washed away the dust and applied WD-40 to every nook the beleaguered road bike had to offer. She was a grey 1980's Panasonic with upright handlebars, cracked whitewalls and a bike rack. I named her after a Grimm fairy tale, the Grimms then being a recent discovery of mine.


A few months ago I changed out the upright handlebars for the sleek, aggressive ones you now see. They're called bullhorns, and my dad was very concerned that I'd gore someone with them. Howard and I made them from a racing handlebar with a hacksaw. Hacksaw ftw.


Around the same time I completed my long-time goal of fitting the Maiden with more reflectors than God. You can see a bunch in the back, but at one point I had roughly twice as many (in the spokes, off the front and attached to my bike rack). When I replaced the rear wheel those douchebags at B&L didn't give me my reflectors back.

A new chapter in the life of the Maiden was written today when the last of her original whitewalls blew out, scaring small girls for miles around. I purchased a matching solid black tire on my way home today (yellowed whitewalls were never to my taste).

The Bitter Max

I invented a drink and I call it the Bitter Max. It is essentially a glorified rum and coke, designed as a way to drink cheap Bacardi rum with utmost style and alarming speed.

To make, take a slice of lime and squeeze it into a small glass with enough aggression to bruise the rind (muddling works well). Drop in the slice, then add two dashes angostura bitters. Fill the glass completely with ice, then pour a shot of white rum over it. Add two equivalents of Coca-Cola and drink once it cools to ice temperature.

The bitterness of the lime rind combines with the bitters and the high alcohol content to make for a strong first sip. Successive sips reveal the drink to be rather quaffable.


I am very proud of my jam jar cocktail glasses and 50mL beaker.

On Hope

Barack Obama has been criticized for his fluffy overuse of the word hope. Though I like Obama very much I know this criticism is completely justified. He is not the first to abuse the word, nor the first to bury a thoughtful platform in vapid reiterations of sugar-baited words. That the American public tolerates this indicates a problem with our use of the word. Many a sappy film's moral revolves around it, but do we think for a second what the word means or why it is assumed it is a virtue? I mean, surely everyone knows that hope is a double-edged sword. In the progress of life, mostly we make baby steps. But every now and again we run into a daunting gap, where a stark canyon deep and hard threatens us with a nasty fall. To proceed requires a leap of faith and risking that fall is better than halting progress. In short, progress requires hope. Too little and people stunt like mountain trees. Too much and people jump into every abyss without regard for reason. Thomas Edison needed hope to invent the lightbulb, but he didn't continue his attempts thousands of times merely based on hope. He kept trying because he could see the "light" at the end of the tunnel. People say that "hope keeps us going" and that is true, but I don't think most of us are hope deficient. We should never keep going when we're on a doomed path. You can hope all you want that the pretty girl will like you, but at some point you've got to call it a day. The same goes for slot machines.

Since cultural assumptions tend to be utilitarian we must ask ourselves why our culture promotes hope to the point of impracticality? The answer is that people like the sensation of hope. Independent of its practicality people enjoy hoping. This is a sensible human quality that encourages a needed trait. However this pleasant sensation makes "hope" ripe for romanticization. In public statements using a word like hope brings warm bubblies to the audience. This builds an irrational valuing of hope, which forms a feedback loop, producing a more and more positive connotation to a word whose definition never changed.

Hope remains a double-edged sword and on an internal level people naturally work to find the balance between those two edges in spite of a constant cultural barrage. So if we find the same balance regardless of a cultural barrage, what purpose do these inspirational speeches and story morals serve? I cautiously propose that the glorification of hope serves only as an exploitation of a knee-jerk reaction for the purposes of selling something.

Summer in Davis

I'm a little bored and anxious up here in Davis (simultaneously and chronically, as it should be). I'm sending my acceptance to a professor of cell biology for a research position. My garden is (mostly) planted and there happens to be a blackberry bramble nearby that we've been picking. When Caius visited for my birthday he made me a pie from scratch. Since then I've made two more. My roomate's brother is visiting. In an effort to fight the heat-induced lethargy and boredom of not having anything to do in Davis except hang with my family equivalent, I have decided to take up photography and... nightrides. I photographed a fair chunk of senior year and have since been eternally grateful to myself for doing so. My camera has sat unused for the last three years. I realize I need a photographic document of my life in college beyond a few people's party pics that I hardly remember and that certainly don't flatter me. I inaugurated this endeavor with a photo shoot of the Ash Maiden and I. As soon as I find the camera's chord I'll send a couple to you. Now nightrides, I have decided, are defined as spontaneous (or pretend spontaneous) nocturnal bike rides without a predetermined objective. And of course I ride like the wind. Yesterday Brandon and his brother Spencer and I went to the farmer's market and bought peaches (only from the best stall and of three different varieties) and a beautiful smelling melon. The combination is completely intoxicating. This afternoon I felt compelled to read Goblin Market out loud for the millionth time-- this time to Spencer. If I do say so I think my renditions have improved. This morning I did my third radio show of the summer (Krautrock) and Spencer came in and read a Grimm's fairy tale on air.