...weighed a fucking tonne. < Youtube to explain the swearing...
I'm in Washington DC. Which is nice. Raining a fair amount and very warm, but nice.
Yesterday was a full day in the lab. Picked up the plasmids from my PCR, digested out the original bacterial ones (don't carry the useful mutation) and then forced some poor, unsuspecting E.coli to take up my new groovy plasmids by electrocuting the hell out of them. And hoping that they don't all die. That's the plan. Those then got plated out on agar and I'll check back in a couple of days to see what's happening.
Anyhow, that was yesterday.
Today was an entirely different kettle of fish. Fishes. Fish. Fooshe.
Eels.
It started with a dream about walking back to 106 with Karmen, McLeod, Gary, Page, JP and Guen. Walking through the park we espied three gently slumbering tramps on a park bench and a cute girl in the distance. A girl in sight, Page (with McLeod in tow) starts a rousing serenade promptly embarrassing the filly (Page = just as smooth in dreams) and awakening the sleeping hobos.
At which point, annoyed at having been woken they charge our group with a pitchfork (
two prong variety) and
hand scythe. We scarper and, being long of leg and fleet of foot, I am quickly out of harm's way. Thing is, I realise, that the shorter of our group may still be in peril so I run back to check, just in time to hoik Karmen out of the path of a rusty old scythe blade.
Unfortunately, in throwing her out of the park, thanks to that prick
Newton, I find myself headed back into the park towards our bumbling assailants, who by this point have managed to surround me.
Now, manners dictate that one must try not to harm confused old men. But, that becomes increasingly difficult whist one is dodging pointy things and bladed weaponry. An it becomes less appealing once one has been jabbed hard enough to draw blood. In the but-tock.
Thing is...the thing is the thing is...the closer we get the street lamp, the worse these poor fellows look. Sallow and pale skinned, with horrible red conjunctivitis and a fair number of unhealed wounds. I dive back as a scythe blade swings through where my pancreas had been seconds before. The tramp to the left however wasn't so quick and took the blade firmly in the abdomen, spilling his intestines and their contents.
Which he started picking up and throwing at me as another form of weaponry.
So, right, zombies then, not tramps. That makes more sense. It also removes any worries I may have had about doing them any damage, so one gets a kick to the chest, the other gets pinned to the wall of a barn using the pitch fork and the third gets his head removed with the scythe.
A job well done I thought as I turned to leave the park. Or rather, turned to be faced with the first tramp. These guys don't stay down for long. And to make matters worse the gent pinned to the barn has started throwing whole potatoes and curly fries from his open abdomen. Nice. Rotten stinking food and blood that have been festering in a dead gut for weeks.
Oh, come on! Not on my shoes! You horrible thing. I'm now running about trying to stay out of range of the Artilleryman and out of reach of the (now scythe-wielding) Footsoldier. I think a tree is in order.
So, as you can imagine. Things went from bad to worse: Old Mr Slicey is climbing up to meet me and Shiteflinger has managed to drag himself along the fork, climb the edge of the barn and make the short leap to the tree above me. And, of course is now raining down infective particles of digesta and egesta while trying to kick me in the head.
I plot quickly and plan a simultaneous attack on both parties: I lash out with a boot at the head of Old Man Scythe and try to grab the exposed shin of Rainman. Needless to say, things backfire as they each grab the respective limbs and start trying to pull me apart diagonally. Pain sears across my collar bones and one hip. And I think, right, maybe now is the time to rethink my - never wake from an unresolved dream - rule.
And I wake up. I looked outside at the dawn over Cornell and I felt beaten and depressed. I *never* wake up if the dream isn't done! Never! I'll feel haunted by the failure of it all day. Do I relaly want that? Just for safety from being torn apart and eaten? Do I ?
Right, I'm going back in to finish this.
I open my eyes again and everything is still. On pause. I rewind about a minute. I'm still in the tree. One below. One above. But no limb grabbage has happened by this point. I erase the barn, there isn't a barn in the park, what was I thinking? I also put a 9mm semi-automatic in my left pocket. And press play.
...eedless to say, things backfire as they each grab the respective limbs and start trying to pull me apart diagonally. Pain sears across my collar bones and one hip. My right hand is in the clammy cold grip of Dribbler and my left leg is about to be torn off at the socket by Farmer Death, so I grab the grip of the pistol and knowing I have 11 shots, put five in the face of each monster, with one for emergencies.
Un-undead, they fall from the tree and I, trying not to inhale too much infected sewage, breath a sigh of relief. And wake up again.
A much more respectable start to the day. Five thirty AM. Get up, read a couple of papers pertaining to the lectures I'm attending tomorrow and get ready to go photographing with Eliza. (Half an hour late? Seriously? :P ) Which is where today's photos come from.
Apart from that it's all been sitting in a van, choosing radio station after radio station as we drove on and on and on. Apparently, the choice out here is Country, Country and Western or Country.
So, that puts me here. Awaiting a certain name's appearance on Skype and a nice shrimp dinner.
Later
G
