Uh uh man, nah man, you don't wanna rile me man, you just riled the wrong motherfucker man, nah you don't even know man, i'm, i'm the last guy you wanna fuck with man, cuz you don't know me man, i'll fucking, i'll kill your ass man, you don't even know man, you don't know man, i'm like a motherfucking earthquake ... wrapped in a hurricane ... nestled in a box of tsunamis man! That's what i am man, i'm gonna fucking kick your ass, i'm like a motherfucking natural disaster times triplicate man, fucking waiting to kick your ass, you don't even know man, cuz i'm trained in super secret martial arts man, shit i can't even tell you man, i had to live underwater for a year, man, learn this shit, i can't even avow any of this stuff, i've got tricks, i know fucking 43 ways to kill you with a pimento my man, so don't fuck with me, you don't wanna fuck with me cuz i know super ninja shit man, like ... right now! I just turned invisible! You didn't even know that, i just turned invisible man! See you're looking at me cause you hear my voice, but i just turned invisible, you think you see me but i just put all my visibility onto you so you're double visible now. What you gonna do motherfucker? You can run, you can't hide man, i'll fucking find your ass cuz you're fucking double visible and i'm invisible, so fucking, that negates itself man, so we both disappear. How about that shit man? You don't even know man. I'll fucking ... i know a super secret way to fucking, i just take my eyelash man, take my eyelash go *bleep*, you know, and then you fucking put it in your eye and you fucking dead man, you dead for an hour, you don't even know it man, you'll be walking around thinking you're alive but you've been dead for an hour man, going "hey man, this jukebox is okay, i'm going to play some Ozark Mountain Daredevils," you know whatever man, you don't even know man, you're dead! I'm laughing at you man, all invisible and shit, just laughing at you. You opened up the wrong motherfucking can of worms bitch, you opened up the wrong can of worms man, cause this is you going "aw man, what's this can of worms? I'm gonna try this can of worms out man, see what's up in here man," and you fucking open it up and you know, takes you a long time cause you've got one of them old fashioned, uh, you know, can openers, ain't electric, that crank out like this and all that shit, and you finally get the top, and you know, and you go to peel the top off, and be careful cuz that shit is sharp, but you pull it back, and you're just looking at it, "look at that, that aint nothing but a stupid little can of worms, what's that about? I don't give a shit about that little can of worms," then when your back's turned, all them worms climb up on top each other and FORM ONE BIG WORM! And kill you with its worm-like voracity! That's what it is!

Words of wisdom from Onions past (a "going to college tips" special, to be precise): "If you're having trouble deciding between Yale and Princeton, cry me a fucking river, Fauntleroy." Words that have minimized the amount of complaining I've done lately about my current situation. Let me elaborate.

About a month ago, I was happily proceeding along at work here at CMIR, becoming involved in more and more projects and feeling really good about my place here. My advisor Ralph Weissleder laid out a plan for me to stick around after my postdoc ends next July, giving me a chance to create my own research program here and take up a leadership role. Sounds great to me. I'm essentially on my way to his office to accept his offer when lo, the phone rings. It's Art Boyer from Stanford, offering me the assistant professor job I applied for almost a year earlier.

Now I know what you're thinking: "Oh, whatever shall I do? Stay at Harvard, or go to Stanford? Fate, why do you curse me so?" (said in my best Thurston Howell III voice). But allow me to whine for a sec. The problem is that while both jobs offer great opportunities for me, neither is what I would call the "total package". Harvard has the edge in terms of cool research, but lacks the fiscal compensation (read: salary) and status that Stanford is offering. However, having spent 4 undergraduate and 2 graduate years living in Berkeley, I am not too enthused about joining the ranks of the hated Stanford Cardinal.

The Bay Area is ultimately what I would call my home. I love Boston and am in no hurry to get away from here, but I always thought that I would end up back in Californ-i-ay. But does that mean I need to jump at the first chance to go back? Probably not. But will an offer this good come along again? Dunno.

So that was the reason for my recent trip to the Bay, to get wooed by Stanford. And believe me, they did an awfully good job of wooing. Plus I got to hang with old friend Michael Shameless and knock back a multitude of free hard ice teas, stay with my parents, see my auntie, and spend a day at my old lab at UCSF and see all my friends there. All reasons to head back to California. Not to mention that it would make Veronica's year.

Verdict: it's better to have many options than none. But not much better.

I'm in the bay area at present, staying with the folks (I'll elaborate later). Managed to catch a second run showing of Minority Report this evening. I'd been very keen to check out this flick, but never made it to the theaters while it was out. Luckily for me, a local "All Seats $3" theater was showing it, albeit a single show daily at 9:30pm. The movie starts out nicely, an interesting foundation, storyline developing well, and of course beautiful cinematics courtesy of Mr. Spielberg. About halfway through I began to notice that a lot of the dialog seemed contrived, to the point where the actors appear to be just spitting out words solely to advance the plot. Or beyond advancing the plot, advancing the thinly veiled moral message of the film. The precogs, the psychic zombies that predict the future to police waiting to prevent murders, whisper disjointed lines in scenes that seem like outtakes from that SNL parody of the Calvin Klein "Obsession" commercials (except for the fact that instead of being dressed in evening wear sipping champagne, the players are in ribbed bodysuits floating in a pool of goo).

As you can tell, I was developing some reservations about where the movie was headed, but nevertheless I was still convinced of the potential of the story. However, the last third really destroyed any possible appreciation for it I may have had. The pivotal scene in which Tom Cruise is confronted with the murder he has been foretold to commit ("will he or won't he?") is ruined by the precog in the background whispering "you can choose!". The ultimate villain of the film is then gradually exposed in a manner so predictable and unshocking it would hardly be worthy of a B-grade thriller, let alone a film Roger Ebert gave 4 stars. The overall problem of the movie is that the possible issues it could have intelligently explored (the exploitation of the precogs, the nature of free will) are steamrolled in order to put together a run-of-the-mill action/suspense pic. It ends a lousy action flick with a black and white moral draped on top. Such a shame ... I really believe Spielberg could have made another Blade Runner with a better screenplay.

lights go out and i can't be saved tides that i tried to swim against you've put me down upon my knees oh i beg, i'm begging please singing "come out of things unsaid shoot an apple off my head and a trouble that can't be named tigers waiting to be tamed" singing "you are, you are ..." confusion never stops closing walls and ticking clocks gonna come back and take you home i could not stop, that you now know singing "come out upon my seas curse missed opportunities am i a part of the cure or am i part of the disease?" singing "you are, you are ..." and nothing else compares "you are, you are home, home, where i wanted to go"

Woman: "Who are you?!"
The Devil: "My card, pretty lady."
Woman: "Devil May Care Music Production, Beelzebub Present"
The Devil: "I like your style, too bad you're not a singer."
Woman: "Oh but I am, I am a singer!"
The Devil: "No fooling!"
Woman: "No, no, listen ... aaaaaah!"
The Devil: "Fantastic, uhhh ... different!"
Woman: "I want to be a star, oh please!"
The Devil: "You talked me into it. Contract! Just our standard contract. Nothing fancy."
Wheeze: "Fame, fortune, fans, gold records, concerts, world tours, your name in lights!"
The Devil: "Take your time, read it all."
Woman: "Oh, I give up. Can I trust you? Okay, I'll sign."
The Devil: "Right. Pen!"
Woman: "Where's the ink?"
The Devil: "(chuckle) We always use blood. It's more ... permanent."
Woman: "Oh, I don't know. Can't we wait for Dan?"
The Devil: "Oh sure, I'll be back next year! C'mon, Wheeze!"
Woman: "Next year?! Oh wait wait stop stop, I'll sign! What about a band? I know a drummer ..."

Wheeze: "She can't be bothered kid, she's got an interview!"
Interviewer: "How do you feel about your sudden success?"
Woman: "Well, I, I feel like ... being a big star ... it's really great, you know? It's like ... fabulous ... lonely too ... sometimes."
Interviewer: "Oh, that's nice!"
Wheeze: "This is the biggest thing ever to hit rock! You're at the top now, sweetie!"
Woman: "Yeah, but where do I go from here?"
Wheeze: "Don't worry!"
The Devil: "I want you. We have a bargain."
Woman: "No! I didn't mean that! Wait!"
The Devil: "I've been waiting, now it's my turn!"
Woman: "Noooo!"
The Devil: "According to our contract, at precisely midnight on the night of her greatest triumph, the party of the first part ... that's you ... agrees to render up her soul, now and forever more, to the party of the second part ... that's me. Shall we go?"