So, in my usual fashion, I'll begin the week at the end of it...

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*Monday*

So, Dr. Zivago (see cast list) has left for the next two months on vacation time. L has been left in charge of the lab. Our motto for the summer is "productive, but casual...real casual."

We figured this part out during the first lab meeting on Monday at noon. See, I'd been hoping for afternoon meetings, since getting up at 6am every monday sucked. This new time works out much better traffic-wise--not so great parking-wise, but it's still an improvement.

The meeting itself was short--30 minutes. Besides a few of the undergrads from last quarter, we finally met 'Santa Barbara girl'. Santa Barbara girl is a recent graduate of Reed College in Oregon. She wants to do some research work before going off to graduate school. She doesn't have any previous experience and a really complex work schedule for this summer. Needless to say, L and I aren't thrilled about having to train someone from the ground up who'll only be here a few months, but a volunteer is a volunteer, right?

In terms of lab shit, I've been breeding more rats and have about 50 new weaned ones that'll be ready for experiments in another month. We should have another 40-60 on top of that in two months.

Using these rats, I need to figure out why we're not getting the 48 hour effect (first paragraph with an asterisk). To me, these inconsistencies don't make any sense. Dr. Zivago used adult rats, I used teeny boppers. The adults get depressed, the teens don't. What's going on here? Did I fuck up my drug measurements? That difference in age shouldn't make any difference, since we're fucking with the immune system and brain chemicals that shouldn't change between those ages. I figure one of two things are going on:

1) For some obscure reason, only adult rats get can depression that can be modified by immune activation (i.e. you get sick, then go back to normal).

2) You have to have a disease in the body (sepsis) in order to have immune activity, and that activity is what makes it possible for the immune system to influence late-stage (i.e. 48 hour mark) depression.

Unfortunately I don't know Dr M's testing parameters. I should email him and ask him again.

Anyway, after the lab meeting we dispersed, showed Santa Barbara girl around the lab, planned out some shit in terms of getting practice surgies underway and then I left early.

At home I edited some photos, talked to people, did the usual shit.

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*Tuesday through thursday*

I've mentioned the GRE (test o' doom) before and my studying for it. In general I seem to be well-prepared for the verbal section; that fact makes all the time I spent learning vocabulary this past year worthwhile. I need a hell of alot of work on the math/quantitative part, but I knew that going in. As for the essay writing analytical part, not sure how to practice for that. I'll figure something out.

So I spent some time (read: 2 hours) studying for that every day, editing photographs and commenting on other people's work.

I think the highlight of the week was Scott's brother Tracey and his wife Maria suddenly descending on us. We got two days notice that they were coming in. I spent the better part of those two cleaning up parts of the house. We didn't know what to expect from these people. This is the same guy who's fucked over Scott and their father's trust out of hundreds of thousands of dollars--mostly to invest in boat houses and other schemes to make money.

I'd never met these fucks before. I'd heard nothing but reasons to hate them. And the first thing I saw when I got home on Wednesday: them walking away from my room, looking through all the closets. Tracey looks up and gives me a shit-eating grin, saying I must be [my name] (well yes, I obviously must be) and that they're just going on the ten cent tour.

Americans who use cliches and catch phrases bother me; ones who also have to laugh after every fucking time they say something along those lines pisses me off even more. You are not being funny, for example, if you look at me, smile and say that "you need to make more noise! Heh, you're too quiet."

They make me extremely uncomfortable. They've tried to talk to me on a few occasions--mostly his wife--but I can't feel anything but contempt for people that screwed Scott so hard.

On the plus side, they see how renovating this house for sale is a good investment.

Thank Jebus and sundry divinities that they've mostly been drinking, going out, or going out to drink most of the time.

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*Friday*

So amidst the usual writing, hiking, editing of photographs and occasionally having to deal with Scott's relatives, I had plans to go out friday night at midnight and see 'Hedwig and the Angry Inch', a gender bender blender of glitzy rock opera and transvetite excellence of the first nut.

I'd been led to believe a few weeks ago, at Rocky Horror Picture Show in Long Beach, that the theatre screened 'Hedwig' every other friday night. So, with my new hawaiian shirt (which I'd bought on a 5 hour errand excursion with Mom for the sole reason that I didn't want to do laundry), my old wool London Fog trenchcoat and my photography equipment for early morning fun, I set out over bridges and piers to cheer queers on film.

I've mentioned it before, but Long Beach has no parking. None. Your best bet is to lie in ambush--lights off-- waiting for someone to pull out of a spot and grab it. It doesn't help that the section of Long Beach where the Art Theatre is happens to be a high crime chicano/black area. I have nothing against either race or crime itself, I'm just listing area statistics.

My first problem was finding parking. My second was the hatch on the truck's cab not being locked. A 300 dollar comforter set and an expensive pillow were inside. I tried pawing around the underside of the truck for this box that has a key for the back. Try as I did for 20 minutes while nearly being ran over, though, I couldn't find it. Hell, I couldn't even contact mom at her place. I finally got fed up, put the shit in back of my seat and speed-walked to the theatre.

I saw many, many goths flocking and thronging in front of a small club up on 10th street and Cherry. I thought it odd that noone was going to 4th and Cherry--where the theatre is--but I just put on my best out-of-place white boy routine and kept walking. The theatre was closed. I was confused and really pissed off at myself. I'd driven all that way, dealt with mom's shit in the back of the truck then walked through a nasty set of blocks only to find out I'd been mistaken. I guess the plus side was that I got some exercise in.

I then spent a few hours driving around the LA harbor trying to find parking. Like Long Beach, there isn't jack. No curbs, no open parking lots, just lots of tollbooths and lots of big-rigs moving to and fro. There were some dirt shoulders I could have parked at, but I bummed and didn't want to get my arse in trouble (just then).

I think I'll try again today. Whether or not that follows another Rocky Horror Picture Show outing is something I'm still thinking about.

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