Guidos: A guide.
Guido [m], Guidette [f], n. Originally an ethnic slur against Italian immigrants to America, since Guido was a common Italian Christian name (cf the Florentine poet Guido Cavalcanti, the Benedictine music theorist Guido d’Arezzo, the graphic artist Guido Silvestri), the term has been reappropriated, Judith Butler-style, by some Italian-Americans along the Jersey Shore [see entry] and now refers to a complex of aesthetic and moral choices made by young Italian-Americans. Among the values espoused by the self-described “Guidos” of “Jersey Shore”: heavy tanning, muscular definition, a labor-intensive toiletry regimen, family and hooking up.
I survived Uganda and all I got was this lousy…
Michelle Barnes, survivor of Marburg Fever.
When scientists trying to develop a Marburg vaccine at the National Institutes of Health heard about Ms. Barnes, they were eager to take blood samples from her. She agreed. They invited her and Dr. Fujita to Bethesda, Md., last June, to present her case to a standing-room-only crowd of researchers who had never seen a Marburg survivor.
Oh, just fuck me.
I’m watching a lecture video, and every time the prof uses the words “the situation” all I can think of is Jersey Shore. FML
Not to be outdone, YaleFML.com
And hey, since Facebook isn’t exclusive to Harvard anymore, something had to replace it. This is it.
Naturally, Yale has followed suit.
Empire State of Mind
These are two people who, simply, understand the ethos of New York.
Thanks, Caroline.
A few days ago someone halfway around the world wired me enough money to buy a Ferrari. And, though I’m shamed to admit it, I just spent the day indulging my spendthrift ambitions, going so far as to buy a down featherbed and cashmere socks. (Ridiculous, I know.)
This someone, however, was not a total stranger. I’ve known him all of three days, from this past August, when he came to visit my factory in Uganda with the intention of investing. And, despite my company’s many problems, invest he did, because he saw what I see: potential.
His decision is vindication, in a way. You see, I once knew a girl — her name was Caroline — and I thought I’d drop everything in my life for her, including the factory. Sadly, she didn’t feel the same way about me. So she left, in search of something better, bigger, though with the same despondent look you see on chubby teenage girls who spend weeks scouring Internet dating sites for their Edward Cullen, only to fail, miserably.
Now I know what you’re thinking: pobre Jaime; he’s had it rough. But “hey,” I respond, “wait a minute, I was in the best position possible.” I didn’t get the girl, but hey, I got the money — and, unsurprisingly, I got another girl. So, in essence, I’m much better off than before, which means Caroline actually did me a favor — so shame on me, cashmere socks and all, because I never properly thanked her.
Chicken and Rice.
Holy shit. Did you know the chicken-rice guys have their own website? Not to mention a wikipedia page and review on Yelp?
Just had some today — and the website is right on the yellow sweatshirts…
The Social Anthropology of Union Square Park
This particular post is dedicated to my awkward friend, Miss Nancy Zhou. I’m sure that, in the summer, when temperature and humidity are unbearably high, you wear a baggy dress (in your inimitable style) and head down to Union Square Park (because Washington Square Park is too much fun for Fancy Nancy) to eat some Whole Foods lunch out in the sun.
Enter Normal Bob Smith, anthropologist of Union Square Park. Mssr. Smith takes meticulous video recordings of people in the park — the regulars — and informs us of their place within the square’s ecosystem. His observations are precisely what you’d expect to find in New York, from a veteran New Yorker’s perspective… and yes, it’s necessarily creepy (and, at times, hilarious).
My fave? Quarter guy.
Also worth watching? The Methods of a Peeper.
Babies
This looks fantastic. (Seriously.)
To die for.
If you’re a New Yorker, chances are you already know about the chicken-rice stand on sixth avenue, just north of Times Square. Anyway, two guys got into a fight after one tried to cut the line. Knives came out, someone died, and hilarity ensues in the NY court system.
GluRs come into focus.
Finally, a glimpse of a full-length tetrameric glutamate receptor.
The structure presented by Sobolevsky et al. is of one of the main glutamate-receptor subtypes, an AMPA (α-amino-3-hydroxy-5-methyl-4-isoxazole propionic acid) receptor from the rat. It is made up of four GluA2 subunits (GluR2 in older nomenclature) that are identical in terms of amino-acid sequence, and it encompasses three structural/functional domains. Two of these domains are located on the external side of the cell membrane, and we have seen them individually before — the modulatory amino-terminal domain (ATD) and the ligand-binding domain (LBD) with its clam-shell-like arrangement. The third component is the transmembrane domain (TMD), which forms the ion channel, and this is our first view of it. In many ways the structure is comforting, because it consolidates and verifies much previous functional and structural work. But at the same time it is exhilarating, owing to the unexpected way in which these domains are intertwined and linked together.
Article here.
An American Christmas
This is what I’m missing.
If you didn’t already know, that’s Cliffs of Dover — one of the greatest solos, ever. Look:
Christmas Schedule
You want me? Here’s where I’ll be:
Now until December 18th: London
December 18th to x-mas: New York City
Dec. 25th to January 10th: Uganda (also: Dubai, for a couple of days)
January 10th and onward: London
The Darkness: I believe in a thing called love.
Fantastic, gutsy guitar riffs. You need that. Right now.
Upcycling Plastic?
The NewScientist reports a process in which polyethylene plastic bags can be “upcycled” into nanotubes.
Pol made the nanotubes by cooking 1-gram pieces of HDPE or LDPE at 700 °C for 2 hours in the presence of a cobalt acetate catalyst and then letting the mixture cool gradually. Above 600 °C the chemical bonds within the plastic completely break down and multiwalled carbon nanotubes grow on the surface of the catalytic particles.
A lot of catalyst is needed to get good results – about a fifth of the weight of the plastic being converted – and it cannot easily be recovered afterwards. But Pol says this is still one of the cheapest and environmentally friendly ways yet found to grow nanotubes.
OK. Hear me out. HDPE plastic melts at around 250 °C (depending upon how pure it is; HDPE melts at a higher temperature than LDPE). Knowing that, how is it that you can cook it at 700 °C without having it burn?
David Sedaris’ Reading List
David Sedaris tells us what he’s read — and liked — in 2009.
Reason for dying.
I am not the type of man to mess with.
I have trained extensively in Muay Thai kickboxing for the last 15 years under Guru Surachai and Kru Mark Dellagrotte. Before moving to Uganda, where I learned how to streetfight out of necessity, I trained with Renzo Gracie in NYC. I have a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and am proficient with a variety of killing tools, including stick, machete, and 2×4 (”dos manos” escrima). Oh, did I mention I can handle an AK-47 with relative ease?
I usually keep my martial arts training a secret, since “dangerous” is not something I like being associated with (I do, after all, make balloon animals for kids in my spare time); however, something happened today that’s made me re-evaluate that.
You see, I had a lab meeting today. At this lab meeting, where I drank champagne and had ONE chocolate-covered biscuit, I started to get sick (which sucks, because any lab meeting where champagne is served is worth attending). Naturally, when I left the lab meeting, I decided to go to the UCL toilet to have a bit of alone time… if only to reflect on why I needed to eat that sole biscuit.
After working long days at Fuji Bank, where I was an intern once upon a time, I learned to take catnaps on the toilet, and this evening, post-biscuit and all, seemed like a particularly good time for a momentary rest.
So, I’m in the toilet, paper barrier over seat in place, resting comfortably, when, suddenly, someone crashes against the door in front of me, which annoyed me a bit, momentarily, the way clean laundry taken out and thrown down on a dirty floor annoys its owner. But what could I do, really? I let it go…
A couple of minutes later, someone starts kicking my door. I can see the shadow of his legs moving in the space underneath. It’s a rapid scissor motion, as if he were a miniature Rockette.
I ignore the first barrage, but upon the second, the kicker calls out to me.
“What!” I answer.
“COME OUT, NOW! Right this minute!” he scowls back.
“Here comes the party,” I think to myself.
I pull up my jeans and button the top button around my waist. Belt still undone, I open the door so the yelling can begin.
“What did you chuck over at me?” he growls, repeatedly.
“I didn’t throw anything,” I reply, repeatedly.
I know a fight is brewing, so I start calculating. His face is just far enough in the stall for me to smash it with the open door. (Why he would move in towards a pot full of shit is beyond me.) So I do. And miss.
I miss spectacularly; the deafening slam causes the door to break along with all its metallic trimming, confusing everyone in the crowded bathroom for a few moments — precisely enough time to adjust my jeans above my waist.
With jeans properly buttoned, I open the door… and approach.
By now, he has picked up a metal rod that has broken off from the door, and is standing with knees bent, wild-eyed, threatening to kill me. I stand in front of him, confident, knowing I have been hit by much larger, heavier things.
Then, hilariously, the guy realizes that he can’t possibly win, so he drops the rod and walks out of the bathroom, mumbling something under his breath.
“Incredible. A hapless imbecile and yet, so smart,” I think.
To celebrate Uganda’s lack of foresight in attempting to pass legislation against homosexuals, I would like to make a public announcement: from here on out, if you threaten me or those I care for, you must be prepared for the consequences. I have a skill-set reserved only for specialized military personnel — i.e., people who pay the bills by killing other people. Thus, if you threaten me with a weapon, I will assume I am in a life-threatening situation, where anything goes. So, THINK AHEAD OF TIME. Please. Especially when I’m on the toilet and I’m thinking of wiping my ass on your broken face. (Note: Christian asserts ending a fight this way is gay. Adam and I, however, believe there’s a certain something to wiping your ass on your opponent’s face in victory. We have all agreed to settle upon a final answer whenever someone decides to threaten me in a bathroom again.)
Three stars at the New Yorker
John Colapinto dines with a US Michelin guide inspector.
Michelin has gone to extraordinary lengths to maintain the anonymity of its inspectors. Many of the company’s top executives have never met an inspector; inspectors themselves are advised not to disclose their line of work, even to their parents (who might be tempted to boast about it); and, in all the years that it has been putting out the guide, Michelin has refused to allow its inspectors to speak to journalists.
Once upon a time in the ’80s.
I grew up in New York City during the 1980s, when it was a shithole, the kind of place where guys in skinny jeans would walk up to a family in the Village and try to sell them some coke (my dad would always refuse, though with a smile). But it was beautiful then — gritty, raw, surreal, powerful. Hope prevailed over the stench of dashed dreams and urine, that is, until the Republicans stepped in office and made us respectable.
Having spent the last few days in Berlin, I’m compelled to compare its grittiness and hipster chic to Democratic New York. Particularly intriguing is Berlin’s graffiti culture, which reminds me of Norman Mailer, who once likened graffiti to a record of war, a recording of a rebellion against the monotony of convention, of concrete and asphalt and Emporio Armani. Beautiful, the way democracy can sometimes seem.
Particularly recommended? The doner within Alexanderplatz station, between the S and U platforms — worth the trip. Also: pretzels; the Germans invented them and it shows.
Time Out has a list of things to do, but I would skip most of it. I would go clubbing and make a trip or two outside the city limits — and I did happen to enjoy a free walking tour available at the Eastseven hostel — but the main attraction is immersing oneself in the city, getting to know its rhythm and sounds, because, like all good things, it’s not destined to last.
Lo, the sad face of America’s future.
Harvard Quidditch.