Tuesday, December 08, 2009


Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go
I wanna be sedated
Nothin' to do and no where to go
I wanna be sedated
Just get me to the airport
put me on a plane
Hurry hurry hurry
before I go insane
I can't control my fingers
I can't control my brain
Oh no no no no no
-Jeffrey Ross Hyman

Monday, November 09, 2009

But seriously...

Exactly one month. Oh boy.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Friday, October 09, 2009


I... I... I understand a piece of art?

The BME department commissioned a monument, to spruce up the front entrance a bit. Construction began this summer, and the rumors started to fly about how expensive it would be, and how it would look stupid, and how it was a waste.

Not knowing anything about the project, I agreed implicitly. Art is great and all, but is it worth a few dozen grad salaries worth of expense? No.

When the monument was finally unveiled, my friends' concerns were realized, and they expressed their vitriol every time the subject came up. Meanwhile, I still hadn't yet seen the damn thing, because I work in the Diaspora that is the Engineering building.

Eventually I had some business in the BME building, and as I approached the monument, I had no idea what I was looking at.

So I walked around it, and as made my way to the front, it became obvious.

And I got it.

People in my department still hate it, and yes, it probably was way too expensive. But, was it capricious? No way.

This monument embodies everything about Biomedical Engineering, everything that is good and everything that is complicated. It is nothing less than an introduction to the department, and the tone is set by its implications in exactly the way we should hope.

Some disagree with its imagery, the "Running Man" being a macro concept in a field that is mostly interested in cells and particles and atomic bonds. Certainly a sculpture that evokes molecules or organelles or the infamous double-helix would be more fitting? Wrong, I say.

Our work in the trenches may require us to concern ourselves with microscopic (or smaller) science, but we must not forget the end to which these tools are the means. We work within our thesis topics, but looming at the horizon is the all important question: how will this help a person?

It is the whole human that is the beneficiary of our work, and it is the whole human that should inspire and motivate us.

Why the running man, then? Was the artist invoking a once-iconic, now-ironic dance move? Is this an obscure homage to the department's marathon relay team from a few years back? Why not just a human form, but a running human form?

One doesn't have to be an athlete to recognize the power of this image. Healthy people run. Running is arguably the purest competitive sport there is. We should all aspire to be runners, or better, to restore someone else's ability to be a runner. My colleagues' tumor necrotizing projects and bioactive polymer projects and nanomolecular telekinesis projects (okay, I made that last one up) are all supposed to someday make people healthy enough to run.

Most brilliant of all, in my ever-so-humble opinion, is the construction of the monument out of metal pipes. It may be a bit jarring, especially if you approach the building from the quad, as I did, and see nothing but a haphazard stack of pipes.

But, oh, the implications of it! The subtle message here is that Biomedical Engineering approaches the human condition in a completely novel way. The truth is, we are puzzles, and the pieces are whatever we want them to be. Are we cells? Are we tissues? Are we subatomic particles? Of course we are!

I model the variability of motion to gain insight into the brain's control scheme. My classmates modify polymers to encourage nerve growth, and manipulate chemical balances to differentiate stem cells, and apply algorithms to classify stages of cancer with unprecedented accuracy. Mathematics and Materials Engineering and Chemistry and Computer Science inform the identification of the puzzle pieces, often in ways that are counterintuitive and exciting.

It is up to us, the Biomedical Engineers, to turn the puzzle pieces into something useful. The whole comes from the parts, in a way that is absolutely unique to our department. And it is with that unspoken message that newcomers and visitors are welcomed to our building.

Thursday, October 08, 2009

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

Rejected Letter of Intent

In my professional communications with other science-y people, I have to keep the tone professional and science-y. There's a time and a place for cheeky language, and both are entirely contained in this blog.

It has not been uncommon for me, in these past few months of constant writing, to generate an idea that I love, but that is not at all suitable for advancing my career. Like this one, they only belong on the blog.

theninjadon.blogpost.com: where fun ideas that wouldn't advance my career come to die.

Here's my latest well-deserved act of self-censorship:
"I'd like to start a discussion about potential research projects, about how your lab is organized, and about my many, many skills and qualifications."
It really would have fit well in that letter, if only I wasn't actually trying to get the job.

Thursday, October 01, 2009


1. I got a very short, no-need-for-scissors haircut as an experiment.

2. Two days later, I'm still not sure whether it works.

3. It doesn't matter, because my hair will grow back soon.

4. Most of it, anyway.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009


or, "Please approach the bench"
or, "Benchmark"
or, "How much ya bench?"
or, "Pepe le pew"

okay, not so much the last one.

It all began with a sketch.It wasn't a good sketch, but Cor and Sloan and I had been talking about a bench all day, and it was the sort of thing you just want to get started on. We were walking around Point Pleasant, and I was babbling about arm-rests and shelves and supports. The ladies were less enthusiastic, but they were generally happy to, y'know, have something done for them.

A half-dozen blueprints later, I was ready to build a bench. Out of posterboard.
The neurotic engineer in me needed to see the finished product before committing, plus it helped me picture how the boards would need to be joined (which, somehow, is not the same as joinery).

I read magazines on furniture design. I found DIY websites. I planned every detail.

And of course, I messed up. Often. While it might be fun to catalog my many slip-ups, of which there were a wide variety, it is better to point out the improvisations those accidents allowed. Mis-measured the bench? Well that support beam would supplement it nicely. And so on.

So the design changed, and the novelty of the thing increased with each audible. Aesthetic flair was the unintended byproduct of my mistakes. A simple plank with a decorative board at each end became a suspended shelf that highlighted negative space, somehow. Which I was okay with, and was actually totally on purpose, I swear.

I think it works pretty well. The paint scheme is unusual, too; my clients were going for a "beach-worn" look, like the weathered whitewash so common on the beaches of Pt. Pleasant. They described their ideal coloration, and I did my best to meet their expectations. But let's be reasonable: they were trying to verbalize an unusual look, normally produced by decades of weather exposure, to an inexperienced "craftsman". Who also happens to be colorblind.

What were they expecting?

As I've said, I'm happy with the way it turned out. Not the least of which is based on the fact that it's still intact! To wit:

If it can handle these two fatasses (one of whom seems to be perplexed by a bottle of Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA), it can handle anyone.

I said before that it started with a sketch. That's not true. It started with a Pinewood Derby car, in the spring of 1991. For which, you know who you are, and thank you.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Heroes limits my eyewear options

Because if I wear any one of a few dozen fashionable frames, I look like Sylar. Apparently.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry