This has got to be one of the stupidest scientific (if you can call it that) debates ever. A vaccination will not encourage a teenager to have sex. Nothing encourages teen girls to have sex more than teen boys or other teen girls who have already done so. Even if your daughter’s a huge slut, do you want her to get cancer for it? This is the same party that thinks graphic sex education and contraception information encourages promiscuity. Hormones cause promiscuity. That and ‘being cool’ with your group of friends. Nothing’s more influential in a teenager’s life than their friends opinions, usually. Your sex-ed textbook, or whatever they call it these days, is probably close to last on the list of things that would influence that decision.


Like teeth on a chalkboard

Please refrain from coming to R&D meetings in the conference room wearing your filthy, contaminated lab coat, buttoned to the neck, open cup of yogurt in hand.

The point of PPE is to keep it where the nasty stuff lives. Not to get it all dirty and spread it around for the rest of us to get sensitized like you did.

I do not like the sound of your plastic spoon ever so efficiently scraping every last smear of Harvest Peach Yoplait out of the container. And then going back to check you’ve got it all again in ten minutes. This is not a breakfast meeting. Slurp your coffee, that’s fine. I’d rather listen to you crunch granola, or you know, PopTarts are pretty quiet food, than smack your chops and suck your mustache. That is ew. At least you didn’t wipe your mouth with the stained sleeve of the labcoat.

Aunt Anna’s Memories, Part Two

“Papa purchased the house in the spring of 1928, a large 8-room, 3-story frame with a spacious bathroom, located at [somewhere], Akron, Ohio. It had gas jets and electricity for lighting. We used only electric light bulbs. We could pump water from a well in the backyard and from a pump in the basement. We used city water piped into our house for all our needs. However, Mama preferred to shampoo her hair with the well water and Papa cooled his homemade wine and homemade beer, bottled, of course, in a pail that he suspended into the well in summertime. The backyard had a quince, plum, and three species of apples. The side area had a mulberry and a pear tree and we enjoyed the fruits throughout the spring and summer. A gigantic oak tree was to the far side of our lot, providing beauty and shade.

Today is March 6, 1983, and I’m 64 years old, as I write this. But the story will commence with February 26, 1870. On that day my father, Domenico, was born in Castel di Sangro, province of Aquila, region of Abruzzi, Italy. He was the third child of Luigi and Domenica. There were two older sisters, Tecla and Carmela, and a younger one, Maria.

Luigi was orphaned at a very young age and was looked after by an uncle who at one time worked for a baron of the royal family Savoia in Rome. Luigi became a farmer and shepherd. By the time Domenico was eight years old, he was shepherding in Castel di Sangro from spring, through summer, and into autumn. As winter approached, the older shepherds aggregated their flocks into one huge flock and wended their way to the warmer climate in the region of Puglia. There they lived the entire winter, tending their sheep and carving wood or tanning leather.

One of my father’s prized possessions from his boyhood was a leather-bound storybook belonging to his father. Mama brought it to the States in 1928. It was titled, “Mille e Una Notte.” Translated, it means “A Thousand and One Nights” like our Aesop’s fables. Mama preserved it with care and allowed us to read the many stories it contained. Papa would tell them to us from memory as Marie sat in his lap and I at his side in the early 1920’s. The book is no longer in our heirlooms because I, the culprit, donated it together with other Italian novels and textbooks to St. Anthony Church to be sent to Italian prisoners of war housed at Camp Perry, Ohio, during World War II.”

End page one. Okay, I’m going to attempt to tag all my posts so we’ll kinda have categories. Whoa. Am I this organized person? That’s inspiration.

I can’t take it. One of my best friend’s little brother just found out that he’ll be going to Iraq as part of this ‘troop surge.’ It’s making my physically ill. I always have to laugh at the idea of not getting personally involved in one’s work. How is that possible? Just be an apathetic asshole? If you care, you care. If you don’t, well, I bet that makes life easier. Can you move from one to the other without abandoning principles, changing values?