I just handed a thick packet containing a printout of the final grant to my admin assistant Becky, who is now running it over to Research Management. They have a few days to peruse it and recommend corrections, mainly of the formatting and organizational variety. Then i get to print up 6 copies and mail the resulting mass of papers off to NIH. For the most part, this means the R01 is now complete. I can sit back and alternately congratulate myself on a job well done or contemplate the various criticisms reviewers may throw back at me. On the whole i'm quite happy with my first attempt at an R01. I like my argument, and i like the research i propose. Check back with me in six months to see if the NIH agrees.

V called me yesterday afternoon and asked if i was done with the grant, to which i responded that is was basically complete save for a few quick figure corrections and insertion of a couple of supporting letters from colleagues. Turns out her query wasn't based solely out of concern for my sanity. I got home around 6:30pm, and fed Tara dinner which she greeted with typical rapture. I awaited Veronica's return from work, and fell asleep watching Jim Gaffigan's Beyond the Pale special on Comedy Central ("i bought the extreme chunky peanut butter, it was just peanuts. That is extreme, trying to spread that stuff ... aww, this is radical!"). Despite Veronica's assurances that she was leaving work at 6:30pm, i awoke around 8:15pm and was still alone except for a lazy white dog. I called her cell and got no response, but she called back a few minutes later saying she was on her way down the 101. She picked me up and we grabbed a drive-thru dinner in the Mini, then returned to eat in front of the final American Idol showdown of the season. Our friend Lucy is coming for a visit from England on Thursday, so we began cleaning the apartment, beginning with breaking down the huge box and styrofoam pieces that encased our new Pottery Barn lamp. When i moved on to tidying the kitchen, V asked me if i would go grab a box from work she'd left in her car. I grabbed my keys and some recycling to put in the bins outside, and went out back. And there in the trunk of her Mini was a beautiful white box containing an Xbox 360 Pro bundle, which V had bought on her way home to reward me for finishing the grant. That girl knows how to take care of me.

After letting V finish watching the day's All My Children, i removed the old "super Xbox" from the entertainment center and wired the new 360 in its place. The old one will most likely go live in the rec room now. I was amazed by the sheer size of the 360's AC adapter, and had a look at its specs. Wall AC in, 12 V DC out ... 16 A? 16 freakin' amperes?!?! What in god's name is going on inside that sleak little white case? Oh well ... as long as it doesn't burn my house down. I plugged the 360 into my AV setup using the component inputs, and fired it up using one of the wireless controllers. My Xbox Live account was quickly converted into a "gold" account, and i loaded up Ghost Recon: Advanced Warfighter, which Veronica had correctly selected as my maiden 360 game. Playing through the training level, my first impression was that this system may be too hi-def for its own good. It was very difficult to read some of the in-game tutorials, particularly the miniscule diagrams showing which button does what. But the visuals are undeniably mesmerizing. Before long i was ordering my squad around and taking out enemy soldiers using an impressive array of next-gen technology (on a next-gen console ... how fitting). I was patrolling a street in Mexico City when i noticed my HUD began experiencing a weird kind of distortion, a bit like when you lose the vertical hold on a TV, for anyone still familiar with pre-cable television. My first thought was my new baby was already crapping out, but i quickly calmed down and ran the other direction down the street. Distortion goes away ... hrm. So i advanced again, and the ripples reappeared. I had a quick look at my surroundings and noticed i was standing directly underneath high voltage power lines. Sweeeeeet. I'm still mastering the mechanics of the game, but so far, color me impressed. Tonight i'll explore more of the online features using my "pr0f3xx0r" alias.

The new Radio Dept. album Pet Grief is absolutely wonderful. The neo-shoegazing Swedes have wrested the title of "best Scandinavian indie act" from their brilliant but inconsistent compatriots the Legends.

About halfway through my final proofread of the R01. Oh, happy day. To make my afternoon even sunnier, the biweekly Stanford barbecue tent reopened today on the CCSR lawn after an extended hiatus because of the rainy spring. Mmm, turkey burger.

The full version of Adobe Acrobat is great, allowing you to convert Word documents to PDFs on the fly. My only semi-negative comment is that when i convert big documents like the body of my grant (6 MB), Word goes into a sort of conniption fit as it performs the umpteen steps necessary to generate a PDF file. It looks like it's puking up random portions of the document for five minutes, until the pristine PDF magically appears in a new window.

we're like crystal
we break easy

Oh man, i'm really out of the loop when it comes to American sports. When the hell did Colts all-star running back Edgerrin James sign with the lowly Arizona Cardinals? Are there any other big name moves i've missed? Kobe Bryant is still a Laker, right?

Speaking of Bryant, there's a fairly laughable article on ESPN.com's Page 2 arguing that "Black Mamba" (as he likes to be called now) can't win in the public opinion polls because of the inevitable comparisons to Michael Jordan. Never mind the fact that Bryant all but asked for these comparisons to be made. The author comments how Bryant's season this year was nearly identical statistically to Jordan's 1986-87 season, when he was a budding superstar and playing spectacular on a losing team. The key distinction is that this was prior to Jordan's ascension to glory, before he found his leadership style and helmed his team to six NBA titles. Kobe's already won three titles, but then decided he wanted all the credit for a team that was anchored by Shaq, convinced management to send him to Miami in a horribly lopsided deal, and is now suffering the consequences. He's moving in the wrong direction, displaying that he is not a Jordan-esque leader but a potent scorer with a huge ego. Bryant craves that Jordan mystique, but has no concept of how to command a championship-winning team other than by shooting 50 times a night. When Phil Jackson tries to get him to play team ball, albeit with a subpar cast, he gets irked when his teammates don't perform and goes and sulks, à la Game 7 of the Suns series. Jordan built up his teammates, giving average players like Steve Kerr a chance to shine, playing the perfect triangle offense but having that innate sense of when to take over the game. Kobe just doesn't get it.

I spent most of my weekend at work ... after lunch with Veronica on Saturday, i drove over to my office and set to work revamping the grant yet again, this time incorporating the comments of my radiobiology colleague Amato. His suggestions were very good, but involved another extensive reorganization. That took me until about 10pm Saturday, with a brief interlude to meet up with V at the Stanford Shopping Center to pick up the new lamp she'd bought at Pottery Barn. On Sunday i'd arranged to have a radiochemistry lunch with my friend and collaborator Fred. We met up at Stanford then relaxed at the Cheesecake Factory over a meal, discussing his thoughts on the grant. After lunch we reconvened at his office and hashed out preliminary syntheses to generate some of the molecules i discuss in my research proposal. After that, i again holed up in my office (again enjoying the freedom of solitude, blasting my iTunes without the annoyance of headphones), but decided to call it a weekend at 8pm. Today i'm polishing the other sections of the grant, including an extensive description of all of the scientific toys we've got here at Stanford and a compilation of the biosketches of all of my collaborators. This involves extensive bickering with Microsoft Word and the NIH research grant application forms. Tomorrow i'm supposed to submit a finalized copy of the grant to research management. Then i'm free! Free i tell you, free!

Amazingly, i found the energy to do something other than sleep and veg while at home this weekend. Awaking at 10:30am on Saturday morning, i donned some sweatpants and went to battle the weeds that had usurped our front yard. After two hours, i'd removed the hideous overgrowth and restored some sense of order to the several planters in front of our house. On Sunday morning, i again got domestic and trimmed the hedges along our driveway. Some weekend in the future i'll have to wage war against the weeds that have overgrown our back lawn. Tara looks like a jungle explorer when she goes in there to do her business. I guess the bright side is that the billowing weeds give her some semblance of privacy.

Unfortunately, over the weekend i became aware that i will be in Atlanta at the annual meeting of the American Society of Clinical Oncology when the Liars visit Bottom of the Hill on June 5. Doh ... i think the Liars are a truly unique indie rock outfit and am pretty sad to miss them. But Atlanta will be a chance to recharge my batteries after the R01 ordeal, even with having to give a 20 minute talk on June 6.

I've taken a big interest in former head-Soft Boy Robyn Hitchcock lately. Back in the day i never paid much heed to Hitchcock and the Egyptians, but i do remember Robyn playing a solo set to open for Billy Bragg at the Warfield sometime around 1997. He was very entertaining, and left me with vivid memories of a fantastic acoustic version of "De Chirico Street" from his 1996 album Moss Elixir. And here, almost ten years on, i'm finally getting down to checking him out more fully ... that's some traffic jam in my musical inbox. All hail the king of psychedelic imagery.

i was followed home by a weighing machine on de chirico street it said, "what do you know?" i said, "what do you mean?" on de chirico street and the numbers turned to fingers and the fingers turned to flies and they buzzed around your portrait

It never fails ... there's a part in "Keep Me in Mind", one of my favorite songs by heroes the Primitives, where a kind of phantom background voice says some incomprehensible phrase. It happens towards the end of each chorus. And without exception, whenever i listen to this song on my headphones at work, the voice always makes me turn around and look at the door, expecting one of my colleagues to have snuck into my office. Dammit.

Speaking of the Primitives, listen to the original and beat versions of "All the Way Down" on Pure. What a brilliant dichotomy, the same song posing as both an introspective ballad and a bouncy party anthem. "i'm eight miles low, you just don't know ... falling down, all the way down"

Another previously considered thought regarding Goal! The Dream Begins that escaped me earlier has reintroduced itself. Specifically, aren't there any bands from Newcastle that could've provided something to the soundtrack? The music accompanying the film was a collection of great brit pop from the last ten years, including Kasabian's driving "Club Foot", South's cathartic "Paint the Silence", the new single "Playground Superstar" by the amazingly not-yet-dead-of-a-massive-overdose Shaun Ryder and the reformed Happy Mondays, and remixes of the Oasis hey-day standards "Morning Glory" and "Cast No Shadow" as well as the original towering b-side "Acquiesce" (with the incredibly appropriate chorus "because we need each other, we believe in one another, and i know we're gonna uncover what's sleepin' in our soul"). Lots of Manchester, but Santiago played for the Toon ... no brit pop acts from up north? C'mon! Freakin' China Drum, if no one else?

i know you think we're all over the place and we're such a disgrace but we'll be fighting dying living crying i know we're gonna get out of this room only me, only you and we'll find out why it's not logical to prove why they're changing our name why they're changing the game we've got to get physical to move all the objects they make all the objects they fake we'll fuck on the radio, ooh ooh we'll fuck on the radio, lady oh we'll fuck on the radio, ooh ooh we'll make it go ooh waaah

Caught the entirety of today's Champions League climax ... a rarity for me this season, getting to watch a complete match. The finale pitted this season's most consistent performers in the competition in a high profile encounter at Paris's Stade de France. Former European underachievers Arsenal, who despite winning a multitude of trophies in England have failed to make their mark in Europe, reached the final on a defensive high, having not conceded a goal in their last 900 minutes of Champions League play. Meanwhile the free-flowing attack of Barcelona, spearheaded by two-time world player of the year Ronaldinho, has catapulted the Catalans into the role of favorite this year. An epic matchup. On paper, at any rate. As usual, nerves and fear of losing stifled the beautiful game in a cup final. But that doesn't mean there wasn't anything to talk about. Quite the opposite.

The match opened brightly, with Arsenal focal point and all-world striker Thierry Henry forcing Barça keeper Victor Valdes into two brilliant saves, the first at point blank range when one-on-one with the keeper. On 18 minutes, the match was indelibly altered. Ronaldinho sprung Samuel Eto'o from the offside trap, leaving the deadly Cameroonian forward with only Gunners keeper Jens Lehmann to beat. He played the situation brilliantly, flicking the ball around a diving Lehmann at the top of the box. The big German keeper, beaten and flat on the ground, reached out and grabbed the passing Eto'o's ankle, bringing him down. The ball rolled to a free Ludovic Giuly, who slotted into the empty net. However the Norwegian ref had already blown for the foul, much to Barcelona's dismay as playing the advantage was in order and would've given the Catalans a 1-nil lead. The ref had no choice but to send off Lehmann for a foul by the last defender, leaving Arsenal to play 10 on 11 for the last 72 minutes. Arsenal were forced to take off prolific midfielder Robert Pires to bring on substitute keeper Manuel Almunia, ending both Lehmann and Pires's Champions League final dreams. Ronaldinho failed to convert the ensuing free kick, so Arsenal was down a man but level on the score sheet. Barça decided to use their man advantage to build their attack patiently, controlling the ball and probing for an opening. Arsenal reverted to playing defense and launching the occasional counterattack.

Eight minutes before the half Emmanuel Eboue won a very soft free kick for Arsenal after a phantom push by defender Carles Puyol. Thierry Henry crossed the free kick into the box, where Presas Oleguer had lost his mark Sol Campbell. Campbell headed the cross into the corner of Valdes's goal, giving undermanned Arsenal a 1-nil lead. Barcelona looked shellshocked, but didn't alter their patient approach. Eto'o executed a brilliant turn on Sol Campbell just before the half, but his fierce shot was diverted just enough by Almunia to bounce off the post out of play. The substitute keeper was looking stable in between the sticks, repelling what attacks Barcelona could muster.

By midway through the second half, the Spanish side looked reduced to a mid-table English team, showing little invention and squandering their overwhelming advantage in possession. Arsenal had several chances to get a killer second goal, but the usually lethal Thierry Henry wasted two one-on-one chances. He looked totally exhausted, operating the Arsenal attack by himself while the rest of the team retreated into defense. He was involved in an ongoing discussion with manager Arsene Wenger, apparently requesting that he take off the mostly ineffective Alexander Hleb and bring on Jose Antonio Reyes to assist him in the attack. Wenger didn't agree, and left Henry increasingly frustrated. And after 76 minutes and another weakly taken chance for Thierry Henry to put the game out of reach, Barça's vaunted attack found another gear, provided by substitute Henrik Larsson. Another probing Eto'o run was found, allowing the Cameroonian to slot home past Almunia from a tight angle. Arsenal claimed offside, but to my eye Eto'o was level with last defender when Larsson flicked the ball on.

The equalizer gave Barcelona new life and invigorated their game. Conversely, Arsenal suddenly looked completely exhausted. Playing against an extra man for so long had taken its toll, and apparently only the knowledge that they were protecting a lead was keeping them going. Four minutes later, the game was decided. Henrik Larsson again played provider, supplying substitute Juliano Belleti with a ball down the right, which he lashed at goal from an extremely tight angle. The previously competent Almunia was in the way of the shot, which was destined to fly wide. However, it careened off the inside of his far leg into the back of the net. 2-1 Barça. The last ten minutes were a study in possession football as the Spaniards effortlessly passed the ball around, while Arsenal were too tired and too broken to regain possession and search for a goal to force extra time.

Now that i've gotten my sports writing fix out of my system, my personal thoughts. Arsenal are now bemoaning the refs, with Thierry Henry claiming he was fouled constantly and that Eto'o was offside for the equalizing goal. A load of sour grapes. They can't argue Lehmann's sending off, that was a textbook red card. So they'll go with more intangible gripes. Thierry Henry can't complain, he missed a couple of sitters that would've sealed the title. Granted he had no support and was exhausted, but that's not the fault of the refs.

As i said when they beat Chelsea, Barcelona were the better team. A worthy European champion, even if this wasn't their most convincing performance. Ronaldinho was especially unimpressive, failing to conjure the magic for which he's become famous. Substitute Henrik Larsson deserved to be man of the match for setting up both goals and reversing Barcelona's fortunes, but the honor went to Samuel Eto'o who was a constant menace on Barça's front line.

In World Cup buildup, Matthew and i have been discussing England's chances over the last few days. Matthew contends that England are much stronger than four years ago, with the emergence of Chelsea boys Frank Lampard and John Terry as well as inspirational Liverpool skipper Steven Gerrard. Which is absolutely true ... no scrubs like Danny Mills in the squad this year. However, i'm eyeing the loss of Wayne Rooney as a potentially fatal blow. Even with this talented squad, England failed to impress in qualifying. About the only consistent positive was Rooney's omnipresence and effectiveness in the attack, and now that's out the window. Their midfield is brilliant on paper, but has not truly gelled in competition. The bottom line is if they couldn't beat Northern Ireland with their full strength squad, what's going to happen without Rooney against Brazil, Argentina, or Italy? I'm also not at all sold on the bright side of hearing "starting at striker, Peter Crouch". Eek. Michael Owen has passed fitness for the Cup, but England remains dangerously thin at forward.

In other, less credible sporting news, it's TV sweeps time which means assorted reality shows are reaching their climaxes. Tonight winners were revealed on America's Next Top Model and the Amazing Race, and the American Idol field was narrowed to the final two. Facing an evening of reality TV, i buckled and followed a tip from my aunt. While Veronica caught an early evening nap, i logged on to a few message boards and got the night's results from east coast posters. The outcomes were generally favorable to my sense of justice ... the self-obsessed Jade got the early boot on Top Model, and the hippies beat the frat boys at their own game of trickery to win the Amazing Race. I mostly like the latter show, although some of the contestants have bizarre ways to rationalize screwing over their fellow racers while whining when they get the same treatment (eg, Mojo and the frat boys).

Only six days until the R01 must be finalized and submitting to Stanford research management for subsequent submission to the NIH by June 1. Which means six days of further slaving to work out every little twist and detail. I'm happy with how it's shaping up, and will be even happier when i regain some semblance of freedom.

All due respect to Substance ... after all, it was my introduction to New Order, purchased at the Wherehouse after convincing my parents to drive me there one 8th grade evening, listening to it with my family on the ride home and lying that i was familiar with "Everything's Gone Green" ... but the remix of "Confusion" is a stripped down, piss poor version of the raw groove of the original 12" mix.

My latest mp3 obsession again involves cleaning up my cover art. In addition to ensuring i have clear, good quality scans of all my covers, free of annoying jpg compression artifacts (Gibbs ringing and whatnot), i've lately been on a campaign to find (or create) images free of the silly PRMC "Parental advisory explicit lyrics" warning. I'm tempted to write an idiot's guide to using a flatbed scanner as i'm getting mighty tired of finding images on the web that look like they were acquired using a 4 color pallette.

While Veronica attended a friend's going away party in the city late last night, i stayed at home with doggie and watched my tivoed copy of 1986's Platoon. Intense. The scene where they raid a Vietnamese village is difficult to watch, as only haflway through it i was shaking my head and thinking this couldn't get any more disturbing, and then it did. In typical Oliver Stone style, no point is left unclear, and all messages are delivered with a sledgehammer. Charlie Sheen rails between the drug-induced escapism of Willem Dafoe and the retaliatory rage of Tom Berenger, almost so much that you can see him flipping the switch back and forth. However, the messages of the film are told in a brutally unflinching style so it works. I think i prefer Full Metal Jacket (Kubrick vs. Stone, no comparison), but i'm glad i finally checked out Ollie's take on Vietnam as well.

One other thing about Goal! ... the cameos by football superstars including David Beckham, Zinedine Zidane, Raul, and Santiago's Newcastle teammates Alan Shearer and Jermaine Jenas were fairly hilarious because of the footballers' lack of acting prowess. My favorite was a group shot of the Newcastle first team eyeing Santiago during practice, with Lee Bowyer staring at the camera with a stupid grin on his face.

My R01 preparations continue ... i had a meeting with our new division director Paul on Friday morning, during which we dissected the proposal for an hour. He had a number of good criticisms that i think really shore up some of the weaker aspects of the grant. Of course said criticisms involve a considerable amount of rewriting for me, but all for good. I had to get Sam Gambhir's comments back this week, and have my collaborator Amato give it the once over from the radiation biology perspective. Ever forward. At least i know that by May 23rd i will have bid farewell to it and can relax. Although i have an R21 resubmission due by late June, so the relaxation had better be quick.

I skipped my Friday workout with Fred to decompress at home. Veronica arrived around 8pm, and we hashed out a quick plan to grab dinner at the ever-delectable Bombay Garden, followed by a movie in downtown San Mateo. We settled on the newly-released and horribly titled Goal! The Dream Begins, the fictional tale of Santiago Munez, a Mexican kid who immigrates illegally to Los Angeles with his family. He works various menial jobs but lives to play soccer with a loosely organized local team. After being spotted by a former scout for English giants Newcastle United, he's invited to come to England for a trial. Defying his father and the odds, Santiago makes it across the Atlantic and begins a meteoric rise to prominence. The film is painted in hugely broad strokes, and succumbs to every sports film cliché ever conceived. But its heart is in the right place, and it does a wonderful job of capturing the ups and downs of the sport from the perspective of both the fan and the player. If you like soccer then it may be for you, but if not you might be rolling your eyes before the halfway mark. Veronica found it particularly hard to swallow that Santiago's grandmother spoke English. Hrm ... everyone's got their hotbutton topics, i suppose. The film is actually the first of a trilogy, with Goal! 2: Living the Dream (another dreadful moniker) coming out later this year. Having seen the first, it's no secret what will develop in the second ... expect a heavy dose of the temptations of celebrity and money. According to IMDB Munez gets sold to Real Madrid in the sequel ... not sure whether that gives me hope or dread.

A trailer for an upcoming documentary on the New York Cosmos was shown before the movie ... apparently the purveyors of U.S. soccer are attempting to spike interest in the sport with the upcoming World Cup. I'm a bit suspicious of the claim in the trailer that the Cosmos were up there with Studio 54 in the New York scene. I stick to my verdict that the quality of the MLS and the American national team needs to rise to international levels before the public will pay much attention. The Galaxy losing 3-nil to Real Madrid last summer impressed only the American commentators, who offered feeble excuses like "they played the Spaniards hard".

Veronica had to work on Saturday for a second consecutive week, but as luck would have it so did i. My colleague's biannual course on image-guided radiation therapy was going on, and my Friday talk had been rescheduled to Saturday afternoon. I gave my 45 minute shpiel and drove back home to Tara. Our house has descended into disarray, and i felt compelled to rectify the situation. I began by tidying the bedroom, dusting the desk and TV and organizing the assorted papers and clothes littering the room. I moved on to the living room, and by 4pm had these two areas in order. I also had sinuses full of dust and mucus. My evening was spent in and out of sleep, while V came home and left again for a night at New Wave City vs. Popscene in the city. I awoke for a while and set about watching the epic Ben Hur. I never come into this movie at the beginning, and i have yet to watch the entire thing. Not because i'm bored, quite the opposite ... it just seems circumstances are always against a full viewing. This particular instance i was fairly dazed from sinus congestion and medicine. Amazingly, i still haven't witnessed the chariot scene. I love the scenes on the Roman warship though. I tivoed Oliver Stone's Platoon on Friday night, winner of the 1986 best picture Oscar and another renowned flick i've yet to see. Hopefully i'll get a chance to give that a viewing this week.

Mostly recovered on Sunday morning, V and i arose and headed over to Fremont for a Mother's Day lunch with my folks. I had bought two gift certificates to Teatro ZinZanni for mom (Mother's Day) and dad (birthday on May 15th), a cabaret-style dinner and show experience in San Francisco. Those had arrived in the mail earlier in the week, but my dad hadn't noticed there were two certificates. I thought my order had gotten screwed up, but luckily i found the two pieces of paper were just stuck together. That's right up their alley, and with dad retired and mom's summer vacation approaching, they'll be able to go enjoy it. I had thought we were going out for lunch, but arriving in Fremont i found my parents had made a lunch of barbecued carne asada and rotisserie chicken for Veronica and i and my sister Hilary and boyfriend Jeff. Unfortunately, this meant my fragile sinuses were exposed to my parents' cats for a few hours. I made it through lunch, but had to escape shortly afterward. Their senior cat Milenko is now allowed outside (years ago he was an outside cat, but had his hip crushed slumbering under a parked car and crawled home after several days awol, and after recovering was kept inside from then on). He loves it in the great outdoors, and seemed to delight in stalking Veronica from his cover in the bushes as we walked up to the house.

I needed more sleep to alleviate my congested head when we got home, and that took most of the rest of Sunday. I watched the new episode of Family Guy ... still not sold on its most recent efforts. This last episode was a blatant Simpsons knock-off, something the show has been prone to in recent episodes (Peter's stint at the New England Patriots smacked of Homer's boxing days). Worse, clips of next week's season finale revealed it to be nothing more than the 90 minute DVD i bought a few months back. And that wasn't particularly good either. American Dad was better, featuring Francine's crazed attempts to destroy George Clooney.

This morning it was made official, Michael Ballack is now officially a Chelsea player. I've always liked Ballack, but i'm still unsure of how his addition will improve our squad. José Mourinho has declared Ballack to be the first of "not many but few" summer signings for the Blues. We'll see. Andriy Shevchenko has announced his intention to move to England from AC Milan, all but paving the way for a deluge of Chelsea bids. It's ominous that i added him to my Winning Eleven squad over the weekend, and he's so far been a big letdown. Whether that's a statement on his value to the Blues or my crappy WE skills, i dunno. The pessimistic portion of me is awaiting the massive on- or off-pitch player meltdown where our expanding stable of superstars breaks ranks and demands playing time or formations, or simply devolves into a mass internal brawl during a match. It's up to John Terry and Frank Lampard to set the tone and keep the troops in line and moving forward. But that's getting to be a taller order every day.

Today is dad's birthday, for which the local family will be convening at Bucca di Beppo in Palo Alto. V's been given two tickets for Wednesday's A's game in Oakland, courtesy of her boss. As he's a season ticket holder, the seats are right behind home plate. That'll be a nice diversion from the endless working and reworking of the R01. Eight days to go.

While i've got mixed feelings about whether Chelsea were a success a last season, i'm anxious to get a heaping dose of soccer come June 9 and the beginning of the eighteenth World Cup. My plans to head to Germany and attend the festivities were inevitably half-baked and didn't come to fruition, but i'll partake from afar.

It's a tough contest to call ... the popular bet is that Brazil will go home with the Rimet Cup for a record sixth time, and with a squad boasting Ronaldinho, the undisputed best player in the world, as well as a Kaka, Adriano, Ronaldo, and the experienced and still dangerous Cafu and Roberto Carlos in defense, it's hard to argue with that speculation. England have taken serious injury knocks in recent weeks, with figurehead Wayne Rooney potentially out altogether with a broken foot, and Michael Owen's fitness in question. They've still got a load of talent, but the question is whether Sven Goran-Eriksson can conjure some magic in his final tournament as England manager. The dull-as-mud and tactically inept Swede surprised me by calling untested Arsenal project Theo Walcott into his squad. However, i didn't think England had a chance to come out on top with Rooney playing, and without him i think they'll struggle to get to the quarters.

Other possibilities? The African nations are tough to read ... Ghana and the Ivory Coast could alternately play spoilers or get dumped in the group phase. The Netherlands and manager Marco van Basten have gone with promising young players rather than battle-tested veterans, so that experiment could also go either way. The hosts always tend to do well, and Germany did make it to the finals in Korea, but i'm not convinced that they have the talent to really challenge for the title. Argentina has underperformed in the last few tourneys, is this their year? If Barcelona prodigy Lionel Messi is healthy and Hernan Crespo, Carlos Tevez, Gabriel Heinze, Pablo Aimar, and Roberto Ayala play to their ability, they could certainly reach the final in Berlin on July 9. France were humbled in the far east in 2002 and in the Euro 2004 tourney, but any team fielding Thierry Henry and David Trezeguet is dangerous. They seem a bit light in midfield though ... Zinedine Zidane is clearly past it ... so i have to think they'll fail to impress once again. Italy? Never a team to count out, and with bulldog Gennaro Gattuso marshalling the midfield, Alberto Gilardino, Luca Toni, and Real Madrid brat Antonio Casano providing the goals, and Alessandro Nesta and Fabio Cannavaro anchoring the typically stingy defense, anything is possible. Can Spain finally muster a worthwhile effort at a major competition? My intuition says no.

Last but not least (or maybe so, we'll see), the United States are again fighting for international recognition ... as well as domestic recognition by the sporting masses who don't know they exist. We did well in Korea, but having been subjected to the dreck that continues to pass as soccer in the MLS, i'll keep my hopes in check. Nobody on the roster is a stellar talent, so team play will be key. Landon Donovan has a chance to establish himself, but then the tournament does last a month and is being held in Germany. Last time he spent a month in Germany, the poor boy got homesick and ran home to L.A.. A tough qualifying group might spell the end of the Americans' adventure on June 22.

So many plots, so many possibilities, and such beautiful football to behold. This is the spectacle of the World Cup. Game on!

The weekend was intended to be more celebration/cursing of the R01, but i needed at least a partial break to recharge my batteries. Naomi spent the weekend at our casa, as unfortunately her and Geoff have parted ways. I won't go into the details and i'll try not to take sides, i hope they both emerge from the post-breakup malaise no worse for the wear. Veronica had to work on Saturday, so as previously described N and i spent the afternoon watching fairly mindless movies. Come evening i tried to rally the troops to get out of the house for at least a meal out, but after cruising around the peninsula we couldn't settle on anything and instead opted for takeout at In 'N' Out. A 4x4 at 11pm is definitely not the way to end an evening. On Sunday i had resolved to replenish my strangely depleted supply of pants. We took Naomi down to Valley Fair (which i've learned is now called Westfield Mall, but it'll always be Valley Fair to me, only a few miles from my grandparents' house). She was out of it, but graciously followed me around as i struck out at Kenneth Cole and Nordstrom, but finally found four pairs of work-or-casual pants at Banana Republic, as well as a pretty swanky suit jacket on sale. Coming home, i finally concluded my weekend long sojourn and returned to labor on the grant. I holed up out in the rec room in the garage with my laptop, forcing myself to outline experiments for the last two specific aims while new episodes of Family Guy and American Dad played in the background. I took a brief interlude to grab fast food with the girls, then resumed work. By 1:45am i at least had something down, albeit something that needed a significant amount of molding and critical rethinking. I also had a splitting headache and was flirting with vomiting. I gave up and went to bed, after sending a copy of the fledgling grant to Stanford molecular imaging head honcho Sam Gambhir for his comments.

Mojo just got kicked off the Amazing Race ... thank god. What a couple of self-important jackasses. "The hippies yielded us ... that's totally not fair. They don't play fair, and we don't respect them. Yielding someone is such a crappy thing to do. We don't play like that." Never mind the fact that if Mojo had arrived at the yield point three seconds earlier, they would've been the ones yielding the hippies. In other reality TV elimination news, the last rocker got booted from American Idol. He wasn't anything memorable ... destined to front the next mediocre Godsmack or Nickelback ... so it's not really evidence of an anti-rock bias on the Idol. Three milquetoast singers remain. Woo hoo.

Thankfully my headache had subsided by the time i woke up on Monday morning, and i headed to work for more masochism with the R01. I had lunch with my postdoc Ivana at the reasonably tasty Clark Center café while we prepared her talk for the afternoon's Radiation Biology seminar. When she successfully wrapped that up at 5:50pm, i ran over to Munzer auditorium for the monthly MIPS seminar, this month given by a biomedical engineering professor from Davis. Her talk on ultrasound molecular imaging went well, and afterward we gathered our regular contingent of MIPS faculty for dinner with our visitor, this month at the good Vietnamese/Thai style Straits Café on El Camino. I returned home just before 10pm to feed the doggie, and was readying for bed when Veronica returned from the evening's Goldfrapp show at the Fillmore, which i'd been forced to forgo because of my academic duties.

Tuesday was intended for more R01 pain, but i ended up getting sucked into testing the motors on our now-installed collimator on the microCT scanner. As my graduate student Raja who designed and assembled the whole thing is away for a week, i was missing a few key pieces of information and was unable to get the motors spinning using the parallel port interface and controller software. I had to give up so i could meet Fred at the gym for our weightlifting session. I've been making it once or twice a week, not quite the daily ritual that Fred has instituted. My chest has been getting exercised weekly (my most routinely worked out body part), although i'm not strong enough to get on bench with the heavy lifters at the gym yet. My goal is to get up to two 45 pound weights (the big ones) and the bar soon, so i can feel more manly. Working out has been feeling good, definitely a good way to release the stress of grant writing. That's an immediate benefit, now i'm waiting on muscle definition.

"International Jet Set" certainly isn't up there with "Nite Klub" or "Ghost Town", but it's a crucial Specials song. Jerry's opening organ line floats in above a wash of noise, with digitized voice announcing flight information. A wandering xylophone and blasts of horns enter, as Terry Hall begins spinning one of his tales of love foibles ("phone my girlfriend to ask her how's her weekend, i say 'hi, Terry here', and she says 'Terry who?'"). As the song reaches its climax, the horns begin to spill beyond the lines of the rhythm, suggestive of the titular plane spinning out of control. An engaging work on many levels, and representative of the band's singular chemistry.

Today was take Tara to the vet day. We had scheduled a minor surgery for her, involving removal of a few small benign growths from her ear and a dental cleaning. She was supremely puzzled at why i was withholding her breakfast. She kept making eye contact with me as i was getting dressed, then trotting off to the kitchen expecting me to be right behind ready to place goodies in her bowl. I got her into the car by 7:30am, and dropped her off at the MSJ Animal Hospital in Fremont at 8am. I then headed back to Stanford, unfortunately not arriving until 9:30 because a) i stopped off for a drive-thru Burger King breakfast, b) my orange juice toppled over on my passenger seat and i didn't notice until a sizeable puddle had formed, c) i stopped to clean the car and gas up, and d) i got caught by a series of metering lights, toll booths, and freeway accidents. Another day locked in my office reworking the grant, which is actually reaching a sort of steady state. Whether that's because i like how it's shaping up or because i'm saturated, who knows. I crossed the bay a second time around 5pm and fetched poor doggie, groggy from the medication and moaning a bit, ostensibly from either the dental cleaning or the staples in her side where the doctor removed a benign hemangioma. She was subdued in the car, and has spent most of the evening asleep on her bed. I'm sure she'll be scrounging for food at 7am tomorrow morning.

Condolences to Middlesbrough on their UEFA Cup final defeat at the hands of Sevilla. I'm still in a sort of Chelsea haze as the highs and lows of last season fade into the past and thoughts of another summer spending spree simultaneously fill me with dread and giddiness. I had Michael Ballack on my Chelsea master league squad in Winning Eleven 6, now it seems he may be coming in real life. That would've been fantastic three years ago, but i'm now wondering what the hell he's going to do in a midfield anchored by Frank Lampard and populated with automatic first choices like Damien Duff, Arjen Robben, Michael Essien, and Claude Makelele. Is Ballack still a World XI candidate? Or is he more of a hot name to sell more Chelsea kits? During the Abramovich/Kenyon era, you never know. The current hot rumor is Hernan Crespo being sold to AC Milan, with Andriy Shevchenko going the opposite direction. Another brilliant player, who may or may not have already peaked. Hopefully this offseason will see the squad pruning we've needed for two years now, with Wayne Bridge, Paulo Ferreira, Ricardo Carvalho, Geremi, Asier Del Horno, Shaun Wright-Phillips, and Nuno Maniche (now what was the point of that?) potentially on their way out. We'll see what stars are made (or broken) at the World Cup in June, and how that affects the July/August transfer market.

Off to fold laundry before bedtime, in this oppressive heat. Summer is here early. Spring is DOA.

I was shocked to learn late Sunday night that Grant McLennan, one half of the brilliant Go-Betweens, had passed away in his sleep at his home in Brisbane. In the brilliant work performed after their reunion in 2000, McLennan penned the heartfelt ballads to offset partner Robert Forster's quirky, tortured tales. I'm saddened to think that the spellbinding show i witnessed last summer at Slim's turned out to be a once-in-a-lifetime event. Thanks for ... everything, mate.

i recall a schoolboy coming home through fields of cane, to a house of tin and timber and in the sky, a rain of falling cinders from time to time, the waste, memory wastes i recall a boy in bigger pants like everyone, just waiting for a chance his father’s watch, he left it in the showers from time to time, the waste, memory wastes i recall a bigger brighter world a world of books, and silent times in thought and then the railroad, the railroad takes him home through fields of cattle, through fields of cane from time to time, the waste, memory wastes further longer higher older

Naomi and i have spent our afternoon watching movies on cable and eating Subway, while Veronica suffers at work for the day. First up was the Punisher, tivoed last night as part of our brand new six month free trial of seven or eight Showtime channels on our DirecTV. I wasn't expecting much, and i didn't get much. I like the Punisher as a story and a comic book hero, although i've never read any of his exploits. Perhaps that should be my next comic book adventure, as the movie was downright silly in parts. His duel with the Russian while his neighbors make dessert listening to opera music, loud enough to drown the sound of a freakin' grenade apparently, was just ridiculous.

Now we've moved on to Air Force One, featuring Harrison Ford as the President, or alternately a kick ass, take names über-soldier, battling Russian extremists aboard his private jet. Not bad so far, although frankly i'm amazed at how many bullets have been fired without the cabin depressurizing and everyone getting sucked out into the atmosphere. Head terrorist Gary Oldman is firing into the air, for god's sake. I had to laugh at the scene where MIGs assault Air Force One with the President as ad hoc pilot. "Countermeasures unavailable"? I'd be f@$#ing amazed if Air Force One had missile countermeasures to begin with!

I quite liked the first two Mission: Impossible movies when i saw them. I remember watching the first one more than a few times on HBO. However recently Naomi expressed displeasure with them, and while reading Roger Ebert's review of the forthcoming third installment i noted his lack of belief in the action sequences of the series. Now that i think about it, a helicopter being pulled into the Chunnel via a chain attached to a high speed train ... not too likely that that scenario would end in any way other than the helicopter laying in a fiery pile at the tunnel entrance. I suppose the IMF team also probably did things the hard way in the famous "Tom on a harness hacking a computer scene" ... why didn't they just hack it when after the guy had deactivated all the security? This would of course require them to incapacitate him ... too inelegant? Why didn't any of this bother me before? Maybe part of me is worriedly expecting the dark lord Xenu and possession of body thetans to play a sizeable role in the third flick.

a police car and a screaming siren pneumatic drill and ripped up concrete a baby wailing, stray dog howling the screech of brakes and lamplight blinking that's entertainment, that's entertainment a smash of glass and the rumble of boots an electric train and a ripped up phone booth paint splattered walls and the cry of a tomcat lights going out and a kick in the balls i say that's entertainment, that's entertainment days of speed and slow time mondays pissing down with rain on boring wednesdays watching the news and not eating your tea a freezing cold flat and damp on the walls i say that's entertainment, that's entertainment waking up at 6am on a cool morning opening the windows and breathing in petrol an amateur band rehearsing in a nearby yard watching the telly and thinking about your holidays that's entertainment, that's entertainment waking up from bad dreams and smoking cigarettes cuddling a warm girl and smelling stale perfume a hot summer's day and sticky black tarmac feeding ducks in the park and wishing you were far away that's entertainment, that's entertainment two lovers kissing amongst the scream of midnight two lovers missing the tranquility of solitude getting a cab and travelling on buses reading the grafitti about slashed seat affairs i say that's entertainment, that's entertainment

We had our first practice for our fledgling Stanford intramural softball team yesterday. I ran out between my afternoon meetings to Big 5 to buy a new glove. I knew something was amiss when during warmups, consisting solely of playing catch, i was getting seriously winded. Luckily my catching abilities had survived from my childhood, and after a few errant test tries my throws stabilized as well. My gym buddy and taskmaster Fred ran some fielding drills, during which i found i significantly misjudge fly balls these days. I was doing okay at shortstop though. The afternoon wore on and i decided to head home to feed Tara. Fred wanted me to get in some batting, which to be honest was the least of my worries getting back into softball. I agreed to hit a few, so i took a bat and stood at the plate to receive a few lazy underhand pitches. Pitch one .... *whiff*! Hmm, what happened there? Dunno. Must've been daydreaming. Pitch two ... *whiff*! What the hell is going on? And on and on. Somehow in the ten years since i last swung a bat i've completely lost my hitting skills. A few comments from ad hoc coaches Fred and Julie improved matters a bit ... i wasn't following the ball with my head, and was moving my feet as i swung. I got in a few good line drives before heading home. But that didn't remove that pathetic feeling that ... gasp ... i've lost it! Where were the towering drives i used to hit when i was 12? I guess that was almost twenty years ago. What do you GET rather than LOSE as you get older? Knowledge? What a crock.

According to Veronica, Naomi, and a variety of other pundits, Editors were the band of Coachella day 2. They certainly rocked Popscene a few months back, and i'm glad they're keeping it up. They convey their sound so well live, and are among the most deserving of the neo-Joy Division to transcend and escape that categorization. Bums me out that i missed them at the festival, but then i guess i can look at the silver lining that i avoided the mess created by the Queen of Schlock's performance. Veronica probably likes Editors because they're from Birmingham. Which reminds me, i was sorry to see Birmingham City get relegated. They always gave Chelsea a tough match. It's bizarre how they've disintegrated this season, especially considering their talent pool hasn't changed significantly. Hopefully they'll bounce back up to the Premiership. I wonder who Veronica will support in the Premiership now. She's threatened to tout Manchester United recently. Egad. If she opts for Liverpool then we may be over.

you fall from grace
but fall with such grace

one more time we're gonna celebrate oh yeah, alright, don't stop the dancin' one more time i'm just feelin' celebration, tonight celebrate, don't wait too late mmm, no, we don't stop you can't stop, we're gonna celebrate one more time, one more time celebration, you know we're gonna do it alright tonight, hey, just feelin' music's got me feelin' the need need, yeah, c'mon we're gonna celebrate one more time music's got me feelin' so free we're gonna celebrate celebrate and dance so free one more time

My new division chief Paul told me that my R01 grant application would occupy the next two months of my life, and so far he's been spot on. I spent the majority of last week producing the first 17 pages of the grant. It wreaked havoc my second week of working out, causing me to miss three sessions with Fred. On top of that, i've got to get three papers out asap. This effort will provide a basis for my Stanford career, and i'm approaching it with renewed vigor. But it's long and hard work nonetheless.

In addition to my workout schedule (weights and cardio five days a week, barring the unavoidable work and personal interruptions), i'm going to join a softball team being organized by my colleagues at Stanford. We'll see what my catch and throw skills are like after all these years.

Our Coachella expedition had some shake-ups in the week preceding it, with Geoff and Jenz dropping off our roster. We regrouped and gathered Veronica and myself as well as Naomi, Michelle, Kevin, and Amy to attend the festival. V and i departed Redwood City on Friday morning, taking Tara for a vet appointment in Fremont at which her ears were emptied of copious amounts of wax. We left an unhappy dog there to be boarded for three days, then drove south after a quick lunch at Panera. V slept for most of the drive as i listened to a good four hours of Howard Stern on Sirius. We arrived in Bellflower around 6pm and had dinner with Michelle and Sean. Then it was on to San Gabriel to fetch Naomi, and east to Palm Springs and Indio. We reached the Miramonte Spa & Resort around 11:30pm. V had negotiated a sweet deal on a big room at the beautiful resort. We had a late dinner of Domino's pizza delivered and passed out. We awoke on Saturday and had brunch at the restaurant, then lounged at the pool for a while until Kevin and Amy arrived. Then our day 1 odyssey began. After returning to the resort at 2:30am, Kevin, V, and i immediately headed out again and fetched Jack in the Box for our crew. That took about an hour given the post-show line at the drive-thru. We ultimately did the unhealthy act of eating Jack in the Crack right before going to bed.

Random show memories ... with the dance tent adjacent to the indie-centric Mojave tent, i was continually drawn to the thumping beats emanating nearby, but unfortunately only managed to see the climactic Daft Punk performance ... the grounds are a great festival location, but i have trouble believing the polo-playing owners are keen on letting thousands of drug-crazed delinquents tear up the fields once a year ... the Bamonte brother who plays backup keyboards for Depeche Mode live these days is like a completely unwelcome Billy Joel, playing a sort of honky tonk "Shake the Disease" ... i came dangerously close to peeing in a discarded water bottle amidst the throng of concertgoers after seeing the line for the port-a-potties ... we exited the parking lot incredibly quickly despite the hordes of people leaving, of course "quickly" excludes the half hour walk to the car.

Something about Coachella weekend seems to click with my beloved Chelsea, as their 3-nil victory over nearest challengers Manchester United on Saturday morning (our time) ensured the Premiership trophy would remain at Stamford Bridge. I caught the match highlights on Sunday, and was puzzled a bit by the subdued nature of the celebrations at the final whistle. The weight of expectations at Chelsea is almost unbearable at this point. Sour grapes from a club that has had unprecedented success in the last two seasons? Perhaps. But i tell you, my less rewarded football supporter readers, it is real. In the post-match interviews, José Mourinho admitted that he is not able to enjoy his successes because of the negative image of the club. Is he on his way out? I wouldn't be surprised, and despite my displeasure with his hatred-inspiring demeanor, i would miss his passion and personality. However, if the club replace him with the dull-as-mud Sven Goran Eriksson, i will be royally pissed. If the media thinks we're boring now, Eriksson would take that to a whole new level. Rumor has it the summer will see widespread changes at the Bridge, with Ferreira, Carvalho, del Horno, Gallas, Duff, and even Robben and Lampard suspected of exiting. The last five would be a huge mistake in my opinion, but as a Chelsea fan i'm somewhat resigned to the reality of supporting a club with aspirations to rule the world. At any rate, congrats to the boys on the win (thumping our rivals 3-nil was the perfect way to claim the championship!), and here's to further conquests and beautiful football at Chelsea.

Speaking of beautiful football, i have to say that Barcelona are the best team to watch at the moment. Ronaldinho is bar none the best player in the world, a constant source of inspiration as he casually executes spellbinding moves on the pitch. Coupled with the innovation and striking instincts of Samuel Eto'o, the probing runs of the soon-to-be-more-well-known Ludovic Giuly, and the surprisingly solid defense partnership of Carlos Puyol and Rafa Marquez, Barça are a pleasure to behold. I feel about them as i felt about Jordan and the Bulls teams of the 90's ... i'm not a fan persay, but they are a sporting force that is an absolute joy to witness. Good luck to them in the Champions League final ... and not just because i wouldn't mind seeing Arsenal get spanked.

About three weeks ago i learned i was due to give radiobiology faculty meeting on Monday, May 1 at 8am, ie, right after Coachella weekend. I could've rescheduled, but this talk was particularly important as i was charged with presenting my forthcoming R01 grant application. So i ditched the second day of the show and bought a plane ticket from Palm Springs to SFO via Vegas for late Sunday night. As an alternative, i booked a massage for myself at the spa for 3:30pm Sunday afternoon. I hung out with our collective until then, bidding them a good afternoon at the hotter-than-yesterday Polo Fields. My first ever massage in Orlando was a relaxing experience, but in Palm Springs i got a battle axe. This woman tore the s@$t out of me. Elbows, knuckles, everything ... there were times i was writhing in pain. Today it's almost as if i lifted more weights yesterday. Egad. I collected my broken body and relaxed in the hotel room until my taxi arrived at 7:30pm. My puddle jumper from Palm Springs arrived in Las Vegas at 10pm, and i had two hours to grab a Burger King dinner and work a bit on my forthcoming presentation before my flight to SF departed. When boarding began, a quick glance at my ticket revealed something curious ... somehow i ended up in first class. I totally expected this error to be corrected when the proper owner of my seat showed up, but it didn't happen. I watched the masses of people file past me into coach with a smug smirk on my face, sipping my complimentary pre-flight ... water. I was too tired for booze. I intended to enjoy my big comfy seat, and i guess in a sense i did ... i slept the entire flight. That never happens with me, so i must've enjoyed the royal treatment. We landed at SFO at 1:30am, and i picked a good cabbie who got me back to Redwood City by 2am. Instead of crawling into bed immediately, i made a pot of coffee and completed my presentation, finishing at 4am. My recent caffeine consumption prevented me from falling asleep even at that point, so i watched that night's episodes of Family Guy and American Dad before finally slumbering.

My enjoyment of Family Guy has decreased a bit since seeing its brutal treatment on South Park recently. As is no secret i've always loved Family Guy, but Trey Parker and Matt Stone's claims that the show is lazy and derives its humor from a series of pointless pop culture references are impossible to deny. I don't know if the show has gotten lazier lately (some of its references seem particularly uninspired in recent episodes) or if South Park's public skewering has colored my perception of things. Well, last Sunday's episode was decent so i'll keep my hopes up.

Continuing with recent form, my 8am presentation was apparently accentuated rather than hampered by my paltry two hours of sleep. Comments were positive, and i was very pleased with the exchange of ideas. I took care of the most pressing of business for the rest of the morning, including having a welcome breakfast with our newly arrived division director, the amicable Paul Keall. At noon, i took Veronica's Mini over to Fremont to fetch Tara from her incarceration. As expected, she nearly did backflips upon being released from the kennel and spotting me waiting for her. After bringing her home, i found the energy to take my shirts and pants to the cleaners and wash and gas the Mini. Then my lack of sleep caught up with me and i took a late afternoon nap on the couch with Beastmaster playing in the background. V should get home from her drive northward late tonight, and it's back to the grind tomorra.

V and i reconsidered the timing of a scooter purchase and have decided to wait until next year before incurring any more debt. Not that we're strapped, but a little moderation in the financial department will do us well. I thought that delay meant i could purchase an Xbox 360 post haste, but V reminded me that i'm way too busy to indulge much in video games at the moment. When i need video distractions, i'll return to Winning Eleven 9 for now. June 19th perhaps?

V and i are reviewing our current housing situation, debating our plans for staying or moving on. Our house has actually increased in value quite substantially, giving us some options. I hope to enlist my newly retired dad to help me execute a few projects around the homestead. including building a new porch and back staircase. He built the deck at our house, and i could definitely use his skills on this work. If he's interested in the challenge ... "the challenge" referring to both the work and the remedial education of the home improvement dunce Ted. Dad has been exploring new activities since leaving the workforce, including collecting signatures for an environmental petition on Earth Day. I'm glad he's now getting to explore new pasttimes.