It was Grettle's last day in the lab, her last day in LA, hell, her last day in California. I came in at around 11am. She never showed. She mentioned this'd probably be the way things went down. I think she'd already done whatever testing needed to get done and left. Anti-climatic in a way: I wanted to thank her for making the lab more fun and efficient, maybe give her a hug for the moral support she's given since february. Grettle will be greatly missed in the Zivago lab. Of course, on the festively selfish day-glo neon side, I may just get her salary. I'd like money. Money is good. I'd like money for doing something I've been doing for free. I want the Canon 10d camera that takes regular manual camera lenses. Mmm, buttery photography goodness.

Back to Friday -- My own extended work niblet was another grand romp through the fields of bureaucracy and justification. See, at Mt. University there's a council of elders who meet every month and decide the fate of various protocols (i.e. experiment procedures). This is the great Anti-Research Consortium, a cabal wielding the power of scientific progress itself in their hands. I say this because if the elders do not approve of your experiment, you cannot buy animals for it, buy the drugs for it, create the programs for it, etc.

The council is very, very strict about what you do with research subjects of all kinds, from monkey to mouse. In principle this animal protection is a good thing. I agree that rats should have clean bedding, water and not be electrocuted with 3 volts just for jolly kicks, like we scientists used to merrily do back before we had such councils of elders to civilize the savage, inhumane barbarian scientists (/sarcasm}.

The battle-ax I have to grind with these guys is two-fold: 1) The question of how much information is really needed on one of these applications; 2) The strangle hold the consortium and cabals like them have around the neck of science. With those points in mind here are two sub-sections for this, our happy horseshit hour.

So I could ramble about how unrealistic the cabal is in its' established guidelines. I could point to the fact that most behavioral scientists only stick to what they think is humane without being the colon-retentive, bureaucratic basket case corpse snorters that the elders want. Instead, I'll just ask one simple question:

I guess doing the whole damn thing again is partly bureaucracy, true, but the guidelines are gettin' more and more strict. Since we traumatize rats for our research, our ability to do our research is constantly under scrutiny. And by scrutiny I mean every detail of the experiment has to be there: how you inject a drug, how you handle an animal, how you can minimize pain and discomfort throughout the whole experiment, etc. Again, I understand the humane reasons for all of it..and I don't knock them.

I am, however, increasingly pissed off at the lengths we have to go to validate our research.

For example, there's no point in forcing scientists to do a 'pain literature search' within the past 90 days (i.e. you look through a bunch of citations and science paper summaries to see if someone has discovered a kinder, gentler method of whatever you're doing). If we could find a kinder, gentler way to traumatize rats without shocking them--all the meanwhile making it more pleasant for them--then by God we'd do it.

The only point to this step is to please political groups and insurance companies. I'm not going to be an idealist and say science can or even should exist in a vaccum, but I think more understanding on the parts of these groups for what we already go through would be appreciated. Edited it, finished it, sent the bastard off.

Traffic was as encouraging as Parkinson's Disease. Much more encouraging in a pleasant way, though, was my friend John Iming me. He wanted to know if I was interested in going with him to the Rocky Horror Picture Show (RHPS) on saturday in Santa Monica. I hadn't seen the guy since a little over a month ago at the RHPS in Long Beach. I missed his company, so I agreed. He asked if he could pick me up on his motorbike. I was disturbed but really intrigued by the idea, like Ethics Committee members watching gay mexican midget horse porno from the 70's to classify just how terrible and devoid of societal value it was--how very..very naughty and mmm'ingly terroristically terrible it was. I said yes.

----

I spent most of Saturday alternating between editing photographs, editing my journal, editing writing and going on a small hike to take a break from editing. Time jogged by steadily, though, and the witching hour of midnight was not far off. John was scheduled to come at 11:00pm. Mom and I had gotten wrapped up watching "My Cousin Vinny"; I always thought the 'Buick Skylark' sounded like a weird model name for a car. The plot weaved along as 11:15pm stopped by to say hello. Pretty soon 11:30pm showed up and was getting irately pissed at the lack of booze Scott's brother Jack Janiels and his wife Jenny Bean had left. I started waiting outside, the wind solemn in the chilled air as silence waltzed itself with masterwork. 11:45pm drove by and flashed me. I began to circulate between being outside and inside, taking my coat on and off, progressively deciding I'd get a full bout of sleep for Sunday festivities.

Just about when I was losing all hope, though, I heard an engine rev in the distance. I somehow knew it was John; Pacos Viernes residents would rather have their sons and daughters marry mexicans than ever drive motorcycles. John was stopped a little ways down the slope of the hill that eventually lead to the main street. I shouted half-heartily at him, waving. He didn't see. I was tempted to yell louder, but I'd had quite enough of PV cops and sheriffs the first time. He'd drive a bit, stop, look at an address then drive on some. I was confused, but I ran down the slope and after him. Finally he turned around and noticed me. We yakked about how he'd had the directions and address on two separate papers, had lost the address and then couldn't get back online to get it because of a phone bill. I figured it was lucky as all hell that we found each other. He handed me a helmet. I put it on my head. I wasn't sure what to do after this part. I asked how to secure the straps. He obliged, I climbed on and we sped down the mountain.

For those of you who've never been on a motorcycle, the sense of balance is very unique. At first it seemed as if I could be thrown very easily. The turns felt too wide, the bumps in the road looked too damn big and�as we turned right and sped toward the 110 freeway/motorway�the wind mercilessly sucked my eyeballs dry. Along the freeway, somewhere around 85MPH, I met Zen Master Quan in my mind. Our conversation went roughly like this:

Me: "Oh shit, wait, am I actually going to die like this? Spilling out on a motorcycle? I have sandals on, no chaps and this tail-pipe is smoking my foot like weed."

ZMQ: "There is no need to be tense; relax; you know he is a competent and trustworthy driver. All shall be well, for nothing in this life truly matters."

Me: "Hrm, you are right, Zen Master Quan, all of this is inconsequential�my trying to nail down a job, the set-backs at the lab, my hobbies, life in general�none of it needs to be set in place like stone. Everything lakes permenance. Wow, the immediacy of death makes things very calm."

ZMQ: "Yes, you can let go."

Me: "Hmm..yeah, but not of John."

ZMQ: "Well duh."

After awhile of getting used to what it felt like to stop and turn, though, I was comfortable (except for the tail-pipe). We stopped for gas, got slightly lost but then found the neon-spraying smut palace of joy: The Nuart, our great lady of alternate movie entertainment in Santa Monica. People had already gone in. John walked up and asked if he could get the 2 dollar fee he'd paid last week instead of the usual 9 bucks. The box-office woman was more confused than anything. Finally a very fat but pleasant guy with a multi-loop dog collar said we could get in for 5 each. I was pleased. This would be the�20th or 21st time I'd done RHPS, I think.

As usual, trying to describe RHPS is like trying to describe sky-diving, you have to do both to truly appreciate how fascinating and exotic either experience can be. But just for fun, why not try a little? I'd remembered The Nuart as having many more regulars and pretty consistent call-outs/heckels from the crowd. That'd been about four years ago. The vast majority of the folk were RHPS virgins that night. There was no doggy style violation of individual members, but a vast fleshy miasma of PVC, skimpy tops and discerning apparel being jump fucked en masse by several dedicated regulars. John tried getting his mack on with a triple set of petite girls behind us. They were dressed as cute pixies but gave off that 'eaux de stuck-up bitch' aroma. It almost worked. Kinda too bad, really.

John and I were some of the few consistent hecklers throughout the movie; even got a few other shy ones to join in occasionally. There were some hall-roamers that'd watched this movie far, far too many times (even compared to me or John's 28 times), but had some damn funny and original call-outs. I'd have to say the whole experience was much better/less depressing when going with somebody else. Afterwards, John and I headed to Norm's, talking about our recent lives with a specialization in romantic entanglements. We both concluded that there weren't many women that were local and doubled as a decent person. I sympathize with John. Boy did I sympathize with John.

We eventually made out way back to my place and randomly switched locations to find a place to talk. 4:45am was lumbering along in a jog-suit and gave us the finger. John offered to go so I could get a few hours of sleep. We said goodbye with one of those male shake with one hand, hug with other dealios. I wished John luck: he was going down south at 7:00am to hang at a nude beach. Y'know the problem with a nude beach? No quality control. I wished him luck again.

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