Month: February 2009

Bigwigs from the National Institutes of Health (NIH) toured/inspected our lab yesterday.  Specifically, the ones who have written the checks that have kept our lab labbin’-it-up for year and years.  Yesterday morning I got frenzied instructions to set up my experiment by tour time to demonstrate an example of our lab’s research (or more accurately: to show off how sick our stunts are).  

I did. 

Everything fell into place perfectly (in contrast to every other shit-hit-fan demo I’ve attempted).  Boss and sub-boss sauntered in and talked polished talk as monk remained engrossed in his neuronally-controlled video game. The visitors nodded feign-interestedly when bosses described my experiment as if they themselves had set up and run it.   It could not have gone better… for my bosses. 

To the visitors, boss said: “this is Ryan Eaton, a grad student here in the lab”.  He then patronized “shake hands Ryan…  now nevermind us, we know you’re busy”.  And before I got the chance to utter anything awkward or embarrassing, bosses continued their carefully-scripted orations.  Nodded and smiled they did at everything these business-suited big-cheeses said, no matter how ludicrous.

Eventually the group headed downstairs for a more “official” discussion.  I remained up in the lab, doing what I do best: the grunt work.  Following the meeting between the bigwigs and just about all other lab personnel but me, I was informed that my project was the subject of much interest and discussion. 

Maybe someday, when I learn to make nice and talk pretty, I can sit at the grown-up table and actually get the opportunity to speak for myself.

Office personnel laugh, yell and swear loudly about my closet of an office all day, everyday.  But when MS Turd randomly swallowed a chunk of text and regurgitated it, mirror-imaged, ten pages up my .doc, surrounding office personnel fell eerily silent (for once) after I growled angrily and slammed my fist on my desk in response.  From the other side of the wall I hear “What was that?  Is there a monkey loose!?!”  And I thinks: “yeah a big, mean, fur-less one in here having at a computer.  Stay away.”

This was not my first outburst at work.

In one tantrum of boss-induced rage, I landed three barefisted blows into a steel elevator wall.  I was alone.  Or so I thought.  When the elevator door opened, the lady who reads my Tuberculosis test every 6 months found me standing there, panting, with two sets of inflamed knuckles.  She said “uh… I could hear you out here.”  She still got on the elevator with me.

During another impressive display, after another happy meeting with my boss, I made sure to loudly snap open a folded biohazard suit in the airlock adjacent bossman’s office.  Taps on the airlock window followed.  Who could it be?  None other than Tb lady who then said “didn’t you get the email? As of today, you don’t have to wear those anymore”.  I snarled back “well, nobody told me!”  She replied calmly “I’ll forward it you.”

After my in-office outburst, I decided to take a break.  Embarrassed, I timidly crept out when nobody was watching.  Rounding the corner, guess who?  “Fuckabees” I thought to myself.  Tb lady’s path and mine do not cross except for twice-annual test reads and my shit-fits.

I wonder what my future jail cell will look like.

…would a person not bat an eye at this:

My club makes me laugh out loud.

To my left, I watch Mad Max’s frizzy-haired girlfriend run for her life from post-apocalyptic road thugs.

Ahead of me is a dance floor packed with 25 women and -3 guys dancing their hearts out to It’s Raining Men.

To my right, two bouncers crowd the ladies room, mops in hands, urgently cleaning up whatever mess I’m glad I didn’t get to see.