My First Veto

Our president exercised his veto power for the first time in six years, an action only accomplished by John Adams in 1820. Brilliant. Did he veto a bill to continue financing the death of Iraqi civilians, expand surveillance on US citizens, or increase runaway spending? No. He vetoed a congressionally-approved bill to end the ban on federal funding of stem cell research.

What an asshole. How can a non-scientist be trusted to make a scientific judgment? He can't. He is speaking from belief, not fact, and it is bad for the US and bad for science.

At least thinking nations like Korea, Japan and some in the European Union will continue this important work under a federal directorate. The sad part is, once they develop therapies that work they will belong to foreign countries. Sure, he'll be able to get them, but they won't be there for Joe Six Pack. Bush is pro-life, as long as you are a life he can manipulate for political gain.

I want our president and all that oppose stem cell research to sign a contract. It will be a contract that declares that they and their descendents will NOT be eligible for any therapies that come from embryonic stem cell research. If they won't let others have it, they should not be allowed to have it either.

When push comes to shove W will be dropping embryos into a blender as fast as he can get them, especially little black and Mexican ones, if he can make a paste to cure his father, mother, brother, wife or daughters of some horrible disease.

Bottom line... he can't stop it, he'll just delay it. Technology always wins and he is just slowing the expansion of science and medicine-- two things he knows NOTHING about.

TSA-holes

As most of you know, I am a scientist that works in association with a facet of crop science. I have been appointed to a commission to define protocols and strategies to select and maintain important genetic lines of certain crops. It is a mandate from the United Nations and the Department of Homeland Security. The concept is that we may need certain genes someday and it might be good to have a catalog of important plant material that contains them. Ancient (1900s) breeding lines may be very useful in the event of a disease or import problems.

Part of the job was harvesting naturally-occurring species and moving germplasm between storage repositories. I had a box, a small box, a box that might make an appropriate cell in a gerbil prison. It was filled with tiny amounts of plant material to index and store, preserving the unadulterated genes and genetics under the high auspices of food security. La vida loca.

Then I get to the airport. I asked the TSA agent if I could carry the plant material through the metal detector with me and present it for manual inspection. I would happily allow they airport to x-ray the box and the cold pack, but I wanted to carry the plant material through the metal detector. She said no. I asked, “Perhaps someone might give it a visual inspection, I am a scientist and these are research materials”. I presented a business card and she was not impressed.

I explained that the idea was to preserve the genetic integrity of the plants. Sure, airport x-rays are low power, but this was a long-term food security issues! We didn’t want to take a chance at adulterating the genetics.

She was unwavering in her demand that the living plant material be x-rayed. She told me that she was the supervisor and that those were the rules and there would be no other way to do it. It must be x-rayed. Period.

Think about this. We were both working for important security issues. Me, for long term food security, her, to make sure grandma wasn’t packing heat. It was her time to shine, her moment to assert herself and push around a lowly scientist. Her dream of being a gym teacher or cop was not realized, but the TSA position gave her supreme authority to push around others irrationally.

Finally I gave in. I didn’t want to argue with a person making minimum wage that could put me into jail for life without a trial because I was an enemy combatant. I had a better idea. I was wearing cargo pants, so I went about 30 feet away and packed every pocket with plant material in plastic bags. When I walked it made noise like I was wearing a diaper, and my clumbsy gait suggested it was loaded. I got to the metal detector looking like MC Hammer in my giant puffy pants. The TSA-hole asked me to walk through the metal detector. I said “Hammer Time” and danced through crab-walk style unchallenged.

Once on the other side, in plain sight, I pulled the material from my pants and put it back into the box. I figured it made more sense to just be open about it. Nobody said a word.

Again, a perfect example of how zero-tolerance takes the place of thinking. Here a person could easily assess that I was of minimal threat and actually on a reasonable mission. Instead she chose to play strictly by the book and take the party line over rational thought. I guess she does work for George W. Bush, so what should I expect?

See You in Hell, Christian Bitch

The Convenience Christians are a hoot. They live and love the way of the lord, that is, until it stands in the way of issues of self. I was traveling through Portland OR, riding the TriMAX train from downtown to the airport. It was a full car, but I managed to sit down, sweating and tired from hauling suitcases around town. I rode the train through the first several stops.

At the next stop people got on behind me and I could tell that there were a few females. Without looking I got up and offered my seat. They accepted. Turns out that it was a mom and her 25-ish daughter, the latter a mega-fox. I mention this only because I think it develops the character a bit more deeply. They were accompanied by the husband/father. They sat, I stood. All is well.

The loudspeaker announced that riders should relinquish their seats to the elderly or disabled, at which point I said to the mother, “That isn’t why I gave it up for you”. She laughed and commented that I was a perfect gentleman and that it was the Christian thing to do.

I said, “We’ll it was the right thing to do, it was just the way I was raised, to always offer something I didn’t need to others that might use it”.

The father asked if I was with the “Worldwide Project” or something. Apparently they were there for some church conference.

I said that I wasn’t and he had to push THE button. “You just exhibit such good core Christian Conservative values that I figured you were with us”.

Then I add, “No, in fact, I’m an atheist. I just do things that are kind because I want to”.

Surprisingly, he didn’t push it any further. At the next stop he and his wife bid farewell to the daughter that was proceeding to the airport. So those of you keeping score of good deeds done it is Evil Atheists 1; Conservative Christians 0.

The daughter made faces at someone’s baby probably thinking of the 100 that she’d have someday. She asked me where I was going and what I did for a living. It was small talk, just to politely pass the time. She was nervous about missing her 8:08 flight, and it was 7:15 so she was cutting it a bit close. Suddenly, the train ground to a halt and froze in place. A voice over the loudspeaker told us that we needed to exit the train and that the power was out on the line and there would be no train to the airport. Stuck we were.

After several moments of deliberation she popped open her cell phone and called a cab. She spoke quickly, made her arrangements, said goodbye to me, and then sped away to wait for the cab’s arrival.

The irony. I gave up my seat, was commended about what a good Christian thing it was to do by good Christians fresh from Christian brainwashing. I would guess that Jesus might ask me if I needed a ride or at least if I would like to pay for half. It didn’t even have to be me, I would have declined, as there were many others stranded that probably were late too. It was all about that bitch and catching her stupid bitch plane back to her stupid bitch house in Bitchland. Oh, for those of you keeping score of good deeds done it is still Evil Atheists 1; Conservative Christians 0. Game over.

Seconds after she left, the train conductor announced that there would be a shuttle bus and it pulled around the corner seconds later. I loaded on with the other strandees. As the bus sped away towards the airport we passed that evil bitch, standing and waiting for HER cab. Under my breath I vowed to trip her in the airport if I saw her there. However, I think her savior was doing a fine job of crapping on her plans.

Southern Fried Oregon

So I'm stuck in Corvallis, OR with a science buddy of mine. It's 1:00 AM at home, only 9 PM locally. We're tired, but we have to adjust, so it is important to burn the midnight oil.

He thought it would be good to hear some live music. Sure, cool college town, Friday night, should be easy. No F'n way!

We went to one of the town's three bars. The first had some boring jazz trio and $5 beers. The next had the band cancel-- no dice. The last was a place called Platinum, looked like a teeny-bopper dance shithole. However, upon close inspection it was revealed that there was a band playing that night, a creepy band. The flyer showed "The Brand" and featured 6 portly fellows with cowboy hats leaning against some cars or something. Each had a guitar. We paid the $4 cover to experience what was sure to be a Southern-Fried, Ass-Kickin', guitar extravaganza. I figured they'd play "Flirtin' with Disaster" by Molly Hatchett, a loser standby.

Within 30 minutes we were leaving, disappointed.

First of all, there were 7 guys in the band, 5 guitars, bass and drums, which was precisely 4 more than were present in the audience. A rule of thumb states that if you don't have many friends DON'T invite all of them to be in your band.

They started their set and I thought it was a warm up. Guitars were out of tune and the mix was a mess. They fumbled through some old standards with heinous harmonies. Then, I heard the droning "A" that could only be.... yes.... "Flirtin' with Disaster". I shit you negative.

Now, I played this song in 8th grade in my Warren Zevon tribute band, the Bloodworms. We rocked its ass off then. What I heard tonight would make Danny Joe Brown keel over and die if he weren't already dead. Instead he's spinning in his grave with a fury that may reverse the earth's magnetic field. 5 Fucking guitars and they couldn't work out the simple solos, the sailing harmonies that made Molly Hatchett a smudge this side of obscure.

The singer didn't know the words and I even hit the "Wa bop bop yeah..." in the right place where he missed it.

I wanted to stay because they had an American flag draped over a box with a tambourine on it, so I think a "It ain't no rag its a flag" tribute was soon at hand. However, my colleague had had enough and we left. As we did, there were half the number of non-band people in the room as there were before. We also didn't get to see/hear them play their confederate flag guitar. They was savin dat for "Freebird".

By the way, one guy was semi-talented. In case the band reads this review they can all injun wrestle to figure out who it were.

I suppose that when I get back to Northern Florida I'll see them there on tour. That place is much more their scene.

We Got Lay'd

That slimy motherfucker managed to get off the hook, by dying, allegedly. Ken Lay, founder of Enron Corporation and conspiratorial theif that hijacked the shareholders' faith and stole from employee retirements apparently has died. Conveniently.

In May he was found guilty of scamming the shareholders and was awaiting sentencing in October. He died in his Aspen CO vacation home.

Why is it that when I drove without a headlight and had a suspended license because my car didn't pass the emissions exam I had to go to jail? Some dope with some dope gets 10 years... today... not in October, but NOW.

He did not serve a day, now he's dead.

I want to see a body. I want DNA. I somehow see him sitting in a puffy leather chair in Kennybunkport with a snifter of brandy while the butler he poisoned is in the casket with his business-guy suit on. Fucker.

At least I am going to visit his wake and jam a pencil into his face. Maybe we can all get together and piss on his grave?

You might have won this round Kenny Boy. See you in hell.