Monday, February 9
Roscoe's Non-Chicken, No Waffling
So after Ben and I saw The Phantom of the Opera yesterday at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood, we went to an early dinner nearby at Roscoe's Chicken 'n Waffles, legendary for its...wait for it...chicken and waffles. Seriously, though, the Scoe's #1 — 1/4 fried chicken and two waffles made from their homemade mix — is to-die-for. And they have lots of other great Southern-style food: grits, collard greens, cornbread, biscuits, all that good stuff.
As we drive down Gower Street toward the restaurant, we see this huge charter bus parked a half-block away from Roscoe's with about 15 people standing around on the sidewalk next to the bus, hugging and laughing. Ben and I wonder aloud what a charter bus from Santa Barbara full of rich white people is doing in downtown Hollywood (why not in Beverly Hills?) but whatever...maybe they went to Phantom too.
So we park and as we walk up to the restaurant, we see that the charter bus people are walking toward the restaurant as well. Uh-oh.
Now the building set-up for the Hollywood Roscoe's Chicken 'n Waffles is well-designed to keep the riff-raff out. The restaurant has two adjoining dining areas and two doors: the entrance is in the smaller dining area and the exit/cash register is in the larger one. So when you walk up to the entrance with its nondescript door and very small entryway, it looks like you're at a total dive, because you can't see the second dining room. The restaurant uses the small entryway to its advantage by keeping most of the waiting guests outside until the host seats them and occasionally roping off the entrance if the waiting people get too pushy.
Ben and I slide inside just ahead of the tour group and get our names on the list right before one of the tour group guys in his swanky leather jacket says: "We need a table for 30." Ben and I both look at each other like "Where does he think he is? A banquet hall?"
The host this afternoon is an African-American kid, probably in his early 20s, who doesn't look particularly imposing since he's pretty lanky (plus he's wearing the Roscoe's uniform of dress pants and the logo polo shirt). However, he's got some sort of neck tattoo and has clearly worked at Roscoe's for awhile because as he takes names down for the waiting list, he lays down the law. "We're gonna seat you guys at three tables of 10. It's gonna be about 20 minutes," he tells the Leather Jacket Tour Guy. And before LJTG can say anything else, the kid walks away to help clear off tables.
It's a smart move on the host's part because if he stands there, LJTG is just going to keep bugging him about when the tables are ready. As it is, the tour people are cranky because it's only 56 degrees today in L.A. and there's a wind chill and they have to wait outside. And they keep opening the door, holding it open and trying to see what's going on while the rest of us who are waiting inside are subjected to the cold air.
Periodically, the host comes back to check on the waiting crowd and see if anyone else needs to get on the list. Every time he does however, the tour people do, in fact, start bugging him:
"Do you have a place inside we could wait?"
"Is there a bar we can sit at?"
"Do you know how long it will be?"
"What's going on with our table?"
After a couple rounds of this, with the host reiterating that they do serve beer but they don't have a bar, that it will be 20 minutes for the table and that they're sitting at three tables of 10, he gets fed up, ropes off the entrance and walks away. The tour people act all put out by this egregious offense and continue to hold the door open letting in all the cold air.
When the host comes back, I ask him quietly if he can make the tour people close the door and he agrees, unclipping the rope, stepping outside, clipping it back again and telling the tour group that they need to wait with the door closed.
He gets back inside, re-clips the rope and gets the door closed only to have it open again to some gray-haired lady with a heavy accent, asking if she can use the bathroom. She's also part of the tour group. When the host relents, unclips the rope and lets her use the bathroom, everyone else in the tour group jumps on that bandwagon, again holding the door open to plead their cases:
"Oh I need the bathroom too."
"Can we just use the bathroom?"
"We just want to go to the restroom."
After five people pull this trick, the host clips the rope authoritatively and says, "No one else is using the bathroom until you've been seated." Then he makes them shut the door again and walks away. But when some plasticized lady, who hadn't heard his admonishment, opens the door and finds him gone, she reaches in, unclips the rope herself, steps inside and walks to the bathroom.
That was where I just about lost it. I wanted to open up the door and shout at the people: "You are the rudest tour group I have ever seen — and that includes tour groups from Japan. You have a warm charter bus, which I'm 99% sure has a bathroom, sitting half a block from here. If you're cold, sit on the bus until your table is ready. If you have to use the bathroom, go use the one on your goddamn charter bus. But most of all, stop holding open this door and letting all the cold air in so everyone else who is already in here is freezing. And stop being such total assholes."
Fortunately, Ben and I got a table a couple minutes later so I was able to restrain myself. But we were seated near the door and continued to watch the spectacle. As the host walked back to the door to let the first group of 10 inside, I was able to better see his tattoo: a rather large elaborate skull covering almost the entire left side of his neck.
And as the first 10 members of the group filed in, including LJTG, I wanted to stand up and yell: "Please tell the rest of your asshole tour group that the host as a skull tattooed on his neck and they probably shouldn't fuck with him anymore."
I think my waffles might have tasted even sweeter if I'd actually said it....
As we drive down Gower Street toward the restaurant, we see this huge charter bus parked a half-block away from Roscoe's with about 15 people standing around on the sidewalk next to the bus, hugging and laughing. Ben and I wonder aloud what a charter bus from Santa Barbara full of rich white people is doing in downtown Hollywood (why not in Beverly Hills?) but whatever...maybe they went to Phantom too.
So we park and as we walk up to the restaurant, we see that the charter bus people are walking toward the restaurant as well. Uh-oh.
Now the building set-up for the Hollywood Roscoe's Chicken 'n Waffles is well-designed to keep the riff-raff out. The restaurant has two adjoining dining areas and two doors: the entrance is in the smaller dining area and the exit/cash register is in the larger one. So when you walk up to the entrance with its nondescript door and very small entryway, it looks like you're at a total dive, because you can't see the second dining room. The restaurant uses the small entryway to its advantage by keeping most of the waiting guests outside until the host seats them and occasionally roping off the entrance if the waiting people get too pushy.
Ben and I slide inside just ahead of the tour group and get our names on the list right before one of the tour group guys in his swanky leather jacket says: "We need a table for 30." Ben and I both look at each other like "Where does he think he is? A banquet hall?"
The host this afternoon is an African-American kid, probably in his early 20s, who doesn't look particularly imposing since he's pretty lanky (plus he's wearing the Roscoe's uniform of dress pants and the logo polo shirt). However, he's got some sort of neck tattoo and has clearly worked at Roscoe's for awhile because as he takes names down for the waiting list, he lays down the law. "We're gonna seat you guys at three tables of 10. It's gonna be about 20 minutes," he tells the Leather Jacket Tour Guy. And before LJTG can say anything else, the kid walks away to help clear off tables.
It's a smart move on the host's part because if he stands there, LJTG is just going to keep bugging him about when the tables are ready. As it is, the tour people are cranky because it's only 56 degrees today in L.A. and there's a wind chill and they have to wait outside. And they keep opening the door, holding it open and trying to see what's going on while the rest of us who are waiting inside are subjected to the cold air.
Periodically, the host comes back to check on the waiting crowd and see if anyone else needs to get on the list. Every time he does however, the tour people do, in fact, start bugging him:
"Do you have a place inside we could wait?"
"Is there a bar we can sit at?"
"Do you know how long it will be?"
"What's going on with our table?"
After a couple rounds of this, with the host reiterating that they do serve beer but they don't have a bar, that it will be 20 minutes for the table and that they're sitting at three tables of 10, he gets fed up, ropes off the entrance and walks away. The tour people act all put out by this egregious offense and continue to hold the door open letting in all the cold air.
When the host comes back, I ask him quietly if he can make the tour people close the door and he agrees, unclipping the rope, stepping outside, clipping it back again and telling the tour group that they need to wait with the door closed.
He gets back inside, re-clips the rope and gets the door closed only to have it open again to some gray-haired lady with a heavy accent, asking if she can use the bathroom. She's also part of the tour group. When the host relents, unclips the rope and lets her use the bathroom, everyone else in the tour group jumps on that bandwagon, again holding the door open to plead their cases:
"Oh I need the bathroom too."
"Can we just use the bathroom?"
"We just want to go to the restroom."
After five people pull this trick, the host clips the rope authoritatively and says, "No one else is using the bathroom until you've been seated." Then he makes them shut the door again and walks away. But when some plasticized lady, who hadn't heard his admonishment, opens the door and finds him gone, she reaches in, unclips the rope herself, steps inside and walks to the bathroom.
That was where I just about lost it. I wanted to open up the door and shout at the people: "You are the rudest tour group I have ever seen — and that includes tour groups from Japan. You have a warm charter bus, which I'm 99% sure has a bathroom, sitting half a block from here. If you're cold, sit on the bus until your table is ready. If you have to use the bathroom, go use the one on your goddamn charter bus. But most of all, stop holding open this door and letting all the cold air in so everyone else who is already in here is freezing. And stop being such total assholes."
Fortunately, Ben and I got a table a couple minutes later so I was able to restrain myself. But we were seated near the door and continued to watch the spectacle. As the host walked back to the door to let the first group of 10 inside, I was able to better see his tattoo: a rather large elaborate skull covering almost the entire left side of his neck.
And as the first 10 members of the group filed in, including LJTG, I wanted to stand up and yell: "Please tell the rest of your asshole tour group that the host as a skull tattooed on his neck and they probably shouldn't fuck with him anymore."
I think my waffles might have tasted even sweeter if I'd actually said it....
Labels: crappy, food, hypothetically, jerks, theatre, traffic, vacation
Saturday, January 31
Stuck in the Middle
So yesterday a California judge ruled the names of people who donated to Proposition 8 (the one that wipes legal gay marriage off the books) couldn't be shielded from the public records.
And here's what a jackass for Protect Marriage (the group that sponsored the measure) said to the judge during the hearing (as quoted in the San Francisco Chronicle):
By requiring disclosure, "The government is getting in the middle (of the issue) and saying, 'Here are the people to go after,'" Richard Coleson, a lawyer for the committee, [said].
THE GOVERNMENT IS GETTING THE MIDDLE OF THE ISSUE?! REALLY?!
Gee, I never thought that putting a moral issue on a government ballot and having the public vote on it would put the government in the middle of everything!
Be careful what you wish for, Dick C. You just might get it....
And here's what a jackass for Protect Marriage (the group that sponsored the measure) said to the judge during the hearing (as quoted in the San Francisco Chronicle):
By requiring disclosure, "The government is getting in the middle (of the issue) and saying, 'Here are the people to go after,'" Richard Coleson, a lawyer for the committee, [said].
THE GOVERNMENT IS GETTING THE MIDDLE OF THE ISSUE?! REALLY?!
Gee, I never thought that putting a moral issue on a government ballot and having the public vote on it would put the government in the middle of everything!
Be careful what you wish for, Dick C. You just might get it....
Labels: embarrassment, FAIL, news, politics
Monday, January 26
The Truth of the Matter
I wrote this a few years ago for some sportswriting scholarship contest that I didn't win. However, when I stumbled across it this morning and read it again, I thought it might be worth showing to someone besides the selection committee:
My love of sports began with baseball — Grandma has been a Braves fan since 1953. The love was cultivated with the Cougar football family vacations — Hawaii, the Aloha Bowl and Mike Utley at age eight; Arizona, the Copper Bowl and Drew Bledsoe when I was twelve. My love of sports multiplied spreading to hockey, gymnastics, basketball, horse racing and ice skating. I love sports and I love sport — the concept, the essence, the metaphor of our existence.
My love of sportswriting, however, began with bowling. More specifically, when Frank Deford went bowling in Sports Illustrated’s article "Frank Deford Goes Bowling."
Until college, I took my writing ability for granted. Teachers complimented me on my essays and stories but I didn’t think I was much better than many of my peers. Effective writing was standard in my house; my parents were English teachers and it was a given that one wrote as if one’s livelihood depended on it. Writing was fine but I had no desire to live my parents’ life — I had other plans.
For three-fourths of my college career, I questioned why English literature and theater and psychology became ultimately unsatisfactory majors. After briefly leaving college, due to poor health and severe indecision, I realized what I had been missing. My livelihood truly did depend on writing.
Most writing students prefer fiction but, in my first attempts, I struggled with character development and plot choices. Everything I wrote seemed so artificial — the reader already knew I was "making it all up."
I perused pieces I’d written in the past — pieces written strictly for my own enjoyment — and I saw the pattern of nonfictional accounts. In my spare time, I had drafted an essay reflecting on Edgar Martinez’s eighteen-year career with the Seattle Mariners, analyzing the sense of clarity his retirement brought me: what would I remember eighteen years from now? Certainly Martinez’s last at-bat. Certainly not the trivial turmoil that seemed so important today.
My first published sports article covered the Yankees’ June 2005 losing streak, suggesting the Bronx Bombers represented a trend in America: extreme capitalism’s rise and fall. When the article ran nationally at Collegesports.com, I knew my decision to write again was probably a sound one. However, every sportswriter can cover the Yankees, Barry Bonds, the pitches, the touchdowns, the free-throws, the scores.
Sportswriting is more than sports. Sportswriting captures the theater of sport portraying the performances on an enormous stage: both the playing field and the public eye. Sportswriting captures the psychology of sport, digging deep into the thought behind of each action, each interaction. Most importantly, sportswriting — effective sportswriting — captures the humanity of sport: the people who occasionally wear the label of "athlete" and how lives are forever affected by, essentially, games. The Yankees commentary was a start but I can do more than scratch that worn surface.
Frank Deford sets out "to examine bowling academically," two words which, most likely, never resided side-by-side until that article. Deford then examines passionately, thoughtfully, painstakingly — other adverbs that wouldn’t be found next to “bowling” under normal circumstances.
I want to push past the normal circumstances, the game recaps and the milquetoast questions. I want the true stories in sport: the bowler in America’s heartland, the player forever loyal to a losing team. I love sportswriting because it is the truth and, for me, truth is better than fiction.
My love of sports began with baseball — Grandma has been a Braves fan since 1953. The love was cultivated with the Cougar football family vacations — Hawaii, the Aloha Bowl and Mike Utley at age eight; Arizona, the Copper Bowl and Drew Bledsoe when I was twelve. My love of sports multiplied spreading to hockey, gymnastics, basketball, horse racing and ice skating. I love sports and I love sport — the concept, the essence, the metaphor of our existence.
My love of sportswriting, however, began with bowling. More specifically, when Frank Deford went bowling in Sports Illustrated’s article "Frank Deford Goes Bowling."
Until college, I took my writing ability for granted. Teachers complimented me on my essays and stories but I didn’t think I was much better than many of my peers. Effective writing was standard in my house; my parents were English teachers and it was a given that one wrote as if one’s livelihood depended on it. Writing was fine but I had no desire to live my parents’ life — I had other plans.
For three-fourths of my college career, I questioned why English literature and theater and psychology became ultimately unsatisfactory majors. After briefly leaving college, due to poor health and severe indecision, I realized what I had been missing. My livelihood truly did depend on writing.
Most writing students prefer fiction but, in my first attempts, I struggled with character development and plot choices. Everything I wrote seemed so artificial — the reader already knew I was "making it all up."
I perused pieces I’d written in the past — pieces written strictly for my own enjoyment — and I saw the pattern of nonfictional accounts. In my spare time, I had drafted an essay reflecting on Edgar Martinez’s eighteen-year career with the Seattle Mariners, analyzing the sense of clarity his retirement brought me: what would I remember eighteen years from now? Certainly Martinez’s last at-bat. Certainly not the trivial turmoil that seemed so important today.
My first published sports article covered the Yankees’ June 2005 losing streak, suggesting the Bronx Bombers represented a trend in America: extreme capitalism’s rise and fall. When the article ran nationally at Collegesports.com, I knew my decision to write again was probably a sound one. However, every sportswriter can cover the Yankees, Barry Bonds, the pitches, the touchdowns, the free-throws, the scores.
Sportswriting is more than sports. Sportswriting captures the theater of sport portraying the performances on an enormous stage: both the playing field and the public eye. Sportswriting captures the psychology of sport, digging deep into the thought behind of each action, each interaction. Most importantly, sportswriting — effective sportswriting — captures the humanity of sport: the people who occasionally wear the label of "athlete" and how lives are forever affected by, essentially, games. The Yankees commentary was a start but I can do more than scratch that worn surface.
Frank Deford sets out "to examine bowling academically," two words which, most likely, never resided side-by-side until that article. Deford then examines passionately, thoughtfully, painstakingly — other adverbs that wouldn’t be found next to “bowling” under normal circumstances.
I want to push past the normal circumstances, the game recaps and the milquetoast questions. I want the true stories in sport: the bowler in America’s heartland, the player forever loyal to a losing team. I love sportswriting because it is the truth and, for me, truth is better than fiction.
Labels: baseball, college, Mariners, sports, words
Tuesday, December 23
No Fighting Irish here...
So word on the street is that the Cleveland Browns are dealing "in house" with a donnybrook in the weight room between face-of-the-franchise quarterback (former Notre Dame Fighting Irishman) Brady Quinn and defensive tackle (former South Carolina Gamecock) Shaun Smith. Apparently, Smith punched Quinn in the face.
Now I'm all for people standing up for themselves and "[not taking] shit from anybody," as Billy Joel would say. But I also don't think the average person confronts professional football lineman on a regular basis. If Quinn really did set out to get into a fistfight with Smith after they exchanged words, you have to wonder if Quinn had been hit in the head by something else prior to the fight.
Because Shaun Smith weighs 325 pounds. He's certainly not afraid of some 235-pound pretty-boy quarterback. And if Quinn had processed all this and was still high on adrenaline, pissed about losing again (despite being injured) and looking for a fight, attempting to stare down this:
...might make you think twice. Dude, this guy shoves people around for a living.
I have a feeling that, ultimately, there were two hits: Shaun hitting Brady and Brady hitting the floor.
Now I'm all for people standing up for themselves and "[not taking] shit from anybody," as Billy Joel would say. But I also don't think the average person confronts professional football lineman on a regular basis. If Quinn really did set out to get into a fistfight with Smith after they exchanged words, you have to wonder if Quinn had been hit in the head by something else prior to the fight.
Because Shaun Smith weighs 325 pounds. He's certainly not afraid of some 235-pound pretty-boy quarterback. And if Quinn had processed all this and was still high on adrenaline, pissed about losing again (despite being injured) and looking for a fight, attempting to stare down this:
...might make you think twice. Dude, this guy shoves people around for a living.
I have a feeling that, ultimately, there were two hits: Shaun hitting Brady and Brady hitting the floor.
Labels: dysfunction, FAIL, football, misunderstanding, news
Sunday, November 23
In Plain Cite
If you're anything like me, you've gone to college and, at one point during your time in college, had to write a paper using Modern Language Association (MLA) formatting. And I'll bet you half your college tuition that you can't remember how to cite a single item in a Works Cited page off the top of your head right now. No, no — don't go look it up. It's totally fine. In fact, I can tell you off the top of my head now how to cite a single basic book. I know because I did it the other day at work:
Author Last Name, Author First Name. _Title_. Publishing Co. City: Publishing Co., Year published. Page numbers, if applicable.
...And that is the extent of my offhand MLA knowledge.
That's the thing: we can't remember because we shouldn't have to remember because the whole concept of Works Cited/References/Bibliographies is pretty much useless outside of academia and research. And if you're in one of those fields, you will constantly have access to guides that will tell you how to cite whatever it is that you need to cite.
So why should you have to remember?
Furthermore, even if you tried to remember, you would probably FAIL because MLA is just one of several citation formats. The American Psychology Association decided that, for some reason, the MLA wasn't good enough for them and made their own citation format (APA) that's used by some of the social and hard sciences — except for sociology which has its own format (ASA).
So while MLA would cite one of my Theory of Teaching books this way:
Rafoth, Ben, ed. _A Tutor's Guide: Helping Writers One to One_. 2nd ed. Portsmouth, NH: Boynton/Cook, 2005.
The APA would cite it this way:
Rafoth, Ben (ed.). (2005). A tutor's guide: Helping writers one to one (2nd ed.). Portsmouth, NH: Boynton/Cook.
You see the difference? Yeah, me either.
Then the University of Chicago decided neither one of the previous formats did their anthro and and history writers justice and wrote the Chicago Manual of Style — which has two different systems within its one format: the humanities system and the author-date system. Plus, Chicago says you can cite one text in various ways depending on what you're doing. An example (and a link for reference):
I am not making this up.
It's just so goddamn arbitrary — and why in the world do we, as academics and researchers, need at least five different citation systems? Doesn't one appropriately convey the information needed for citation? I mean, they all seem to cover the same material.
And as a result of puzzling over this for at least 45 minutes with my Theory of Teaching class last week, I decided to invent my own manual of citation. I mean, associations and universities seem to not care one way or the other if an adequate system already exists so why should I?
Here — for the first time ever published — are the Bartlett Citation Manual rules:
List the items below in your citation in order of the list given here. Put a smiley-face emoticon between each item except for the author name — you should put an exclamation mark after the author's name.
2005 :) (Key the is Focus: Ideas Organizing) L.; Alice; Trupe! _A tutor's guide: Helping writers one To one_ :) Ben "King Raftastic" Rafoth :) _Portsmouth, NH_ :) Boynton/Cook :) Up-To-Date 2005 :) 13.190906 :) B+ :)
Simple enough, right?
Right?
Addendum: I would have posted this last week right after the class discussed it but it took me so long to actually cite something using those old systems that I had to take a week-long break and then come back. Thank God for the Bartlett Citation Manual!
Author Last Name, Author First Name. _Title_. Publishing Co. City: Publishing Co., Year published. Page numbers, if applicable.
...And that is the extent of my offhand MLA knowledge.
That's the thing: we can't remember because we shouldn't have to remember because the whole concept of Works Cited/References/Bibliographies is pretty much useless outside of academia and research. And if you're in one of those fields, you will constantly have access to guides that will tell you how to cite whatever it is that you need to cite.
So why should you have to remember?
Furthermore, even if you tried to remember, you would probably FAIL because MLA is just one of several citation formats. The American Psychology Association decided that, for some reason, the MLA wasn't good enough for them and made their own citation format (APA) that's used by some of the social and hard sciences — except for sociology which has its own format (ASA).
So while MLA would cite one of my Theory of Teaching books this way:
Rafoth, Ben, ed. _A Tutor's Guide: Helping Writers One to One_. 2nd ed. Portsmouth, NH: Boynton/Cook, 2005.
The APA would cite it this way:
Rafoth, Ben (ed.). (2005). A tutor's guide: Helping writers one to one (2nd ed.). Portsmouth, NH: Boynton/Cook.
You see the difference? Yeah, me either.
Then the University of Chicago decided neither one of the previous formats did their anthro and and history writers justice and wrote the Chicago Manual of Style — which has two different systems within its one format: the humanities system and the author-date system. Plus, Chicago says you can cite one text in various ways depending on what you're doing. An example (and a link for reference):
- Note: 1. Wendy Doniger, Splitting the Difference (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), 65.
- Bibliography: Doniger, Wendy. Splitting the Difference. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999.
- In-text citation: (Doniger 1999, 65)
- Reference list: Doniger, Wendy. 1999. Splitting the difference. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
It's just so goddamn arbitrary — and why in the world do we, as academics and researchers, need at least five different citation systems? Doesn't one appropriately convey the information needed for citation? I mean, they all seem to cover the same material.
And as a result of puzzling over this for at least 45 minutes with my Theory of Teaching class last week, I decided to invent my own manual of citation. I mean, associations and universities seem to not care one way or the other if an adequate system already exists so why should I?
Here — for the first time ever published — are the Bartlett Citation Manual rules:
List the items below in your citation in order of the list given here. Put a smiley-face emoticon between each item except for the author name — you should put an exclamation mark after the author's name.
- Alphabetize by year
- In the title, capitalize verbs and prepositions only
- Italicize and underline the title
- For articles, list the article title in backwards word order in parentheses.
- For author's names list by middle initial; then first name; then last name (using the semi-colons as shown). If the author's middle initial is not available, choose a random letter and assign it to the author
- For subsequent authors and/or editors, include a clever nickname in quotation marks between the first and last name. If the person is an editor add the word "King" to the nickname
- Underline the publishing city
- Italicize the publishing company
- If there are multiple cities where the company has a publishing house, list them all
- For each edition, write the phrase "Up-To-Date" and then list the year
- List the square root of the page numbers
- Grade the book's usefulness on an A to F scale.
2005 :) (Key the is Focus: Ideas Organizing) L.; Alice; Trupe! _A tutor's guide: Helping writers one To one_ :) Ben "King Raftastic" Rafoth :) _Portsmouth, NH_ :) Boynton/Cook :) Up-To-Date 2005 :) 13.190906 :) B+ :)
Simple enough, right?
Right?
Addendum: I would have posted this last week right after the class discussed it but it took me so long to actually cite something using those old systems that I had to take a week-long break and then come back. Thank God for the Bartlett Citation Manual!
Labels: articles, books, college, conundrums, FAIL, grad school, hypothetically, parody
Thursday, October 23
I Don't Know What That Is....
My semi-photographic, fully-auditory, steel-trap memory is both a blessing and a curse. I should have figured this out long ago but it only now just occurred to me.
You see, I absolutely heart the show Arrested Development to the point where I have memorized various quotes and large chunks of dialogue almost involuntarily after watching the episodes repeatedly. And when various situations in life remind me of the show, my memory kicks in and automatically spouts off a quote or bit of dialogue.
For example (click on the links for the references in context):
While watching the Vice Presidential Debate...
SARAH PALIN: Blah blah Joe Six-pack blah [winks at camera]
ME: I wonder how I can talk her out of ever making that face again. (1 min. into clip)
******
Giving a presentation in class on the book Invisible Cities...
ME: So the stories in the novel can be charted to emulate skyscrapers. Of course, in Venice, they can only build up not out.
JERK IN CLASS: But what if you made your chart going horizontally instead of vertically.
ME desparately wanting to say: Maybe you should make land. On the ocean. There's no land on the ocean. (30 sec. in)
ME actually saying: Because Venice can't build out — only up [narrowing eyes in icy stare].
******
My mom is cleaning out the refrigerator...
MOM: Whose...Latin food is this?
ME: It's not just Latin food, Mom, it's my Latin food....and I think it's Colombian or something.
******
After our ex-roommate stole our ice cream scoop...
BOYFRIEND: If it's really bothering you, I'll buy you another one.
ME: She can't just go buy her own?! It's an ice cream scoop! What could it cost? Ten dollars?
The problem, of course, is that not a lot of people have seen Arrested Development (hence why it's no longer airing). So the quotes and dialogue go over the heads of these people which is a little disappointing since I know many, many people would enjoy the show if they would just watch a couple episodes.
But the part where I realized that my memory was even more of a curse, was when I noticed that several of my friends and family who have seen the show don't pick up on the quotes or dialogue; they don't remember the scenes word-for-word like my auditory memory allows me to.
So while I'm hanging out with people who've seen several episodes, I crack what I think is a hilarious inside joke about "girls with low self-esteem" or "a FIRE!...sale..." or "No more B.S.!" or "figuring out a way to make money while I'm working!"
And....crickets.
Occasionally, people chuckle when I say, "You know...Arrested Development." But it really doesn't have the same effect. And I don't like hating my memory but it's not exactly helpful in these situations.
I guess in the coming years, as Arrested Development continues to not produce shows and fewer and fewer people will have even heard of the program, perhaps I'll get tired of the all this funny business.
But until then, life is an endless array of mundane instances that only I find funny and, as a result, a steady stream of odd looks and awkward smiles that ultimately say: "I don't know what that is...and I don't care to find out." (@ 5:45 in).
You see, I absolutely heart the show Arrested Development to the point where I have memorized various quotes and large chunks of dialogue almost involuntarily after watching the episodes repeatedly. And when various situations in life remind me of the show, my memory kicks in and automatically spouts off a quote or bit of dialogue.
For example (click on the links for the references in context):
While watching the Vice Presidential Debate...
SARAH PALIN: Blah blah Joe Six-pack blah [winks at camera]
ME: I wonder how I can talk her out of ever making that face again. (1 min. into clip)
******
Giving a presentation in class on the book Invisible Cities...
ME: So the stories in the novel can be charted to emulate skyscrapers. Of course, in Venice, they can only build up not out.
JERK IN CLASS: But what if you made your chart going horizontally instead of vertically.
ME desparately wanting to say: Maybe you should make land. On the ocean. There's no land on the ocean. (30 sec. in)
ME actually saying: Because Venice can't build out — only up [narrowing eyes in icy stare].
******
My mom is cleaning out the refrigerator...
MOM: Whose...Latin food is this?
ME: It's not just Latin food, Mom, it's my Latin food....and I think it's Colombian or something.
******
After our ex-roommate stole our ice cream scoop...
BOYFRIEND: If it's really bothering you, I'll buy you another one.
ME: She can't just go buy her own?! It's an ice cream scoop! What could it cost? Ten dollars?
The problem, of course, is that not a lot of people have seen Arrested Development (hence why it's no longer airing). So the quotes and dialogue go over the heads of these people which is a little disappointing since I know many, many people would enjoy the show if they would just watch a couple episodes.
But the part where I realized that my memory was even more of a curse, was when I noticed that several of my friends and family who have seen the show don't pick up on the quotes or dialogue; they don't remember the scenes word-for-word like my auditory memory allows me to.
So while I'm hanging out with people who've seen several episodes, I crack what I think is a hilarious inside joke about "girls with low self-esteem" or "a FIRE!...sale..." or "No more B.S.!" or "figuring out a way to make money while I'm working!"
And....crickets.
Occasionally, people chuckle when I say, "You know...Arrested Development." But it really doesn't have the same effect. And I don't like hating my memory but it's not exactly helpful in these situations.
I guess in the coming years, as Arrested Development continues to not produce shows and fewer and fewer people will have even heard of the program, perhaps I'll get tired of the all this funny business.
But until then, life is an endless array of mundane instances that only I find funny and, as a result, a steady stream of odd looks and awkward smiles that ultimately say: "I don't know what that is...and I don't care to find out." (@ 5:45 in).
Labels: conundrums, hilarious, quotes, references, television
Sunday, September 28
Green Thirty-seven! Blue Fifty-two! ....Heidi?
Ben and I couldn't remember why CBS and FOX stopped showing two NFL games each on Sundays (because they used to) and so we moseyed over to Wikipedia.
In the Wiki description of the licensing contracts and how the media markets are determined, the phrase "Heidi Game" was mentioned. Neither one of us had heard of that reference, so we clicked the link.
In a nutshell, here's what we found: On November 17, 1968, the Jets were playing the Raiders in Oakland on NBC (this would be the Oakland Raiders Part I; in 1982 they moved and became the Los Angeles Raiders, then moved back to become the Oakland Raiders Part II in 1995. Thanks, Al Davis, for that big waste of time).
The game was considered a big matchup because both teams were at 7-2 and it did not disappoint. However, NBC had scheduled Heidi, a made-for-TV movie based on the children's novel, to air at 7 p.m. EST, assuming the game — which started at 4 p.m. — would be finished. NBC's contract with the movie's sponsor, Timex, stated the film would run from 7 to 9 p.m. and the network executives told the broadcast supervisor to cut from the game to Heidi at exactly 7 p.m.
With 1:05 left in regulation at nearly 7 p.m., the Jets scored a field goal to go ahead 32-29 and the Raiders returned the ensuing kickoff to their own 23-yard line. NBC went to commercial and the executives attempted to contact the station in Burbank to request that the broadcast remain with the game. However, the execs were unable to get through since thousands of viewers were also calling NBC, asking that the football game be aired in its entirety.
Thus, at 7 p.m. NBC came back from commercial and began airing Heidi — while the Raiders scored two touchdowns in three plays: a reception with a penalty, a 43-yard run for one touchdown and a fumble and recovery for the second touchdown on the ensuing kickoff to the Jets. The Raiders won 43-32 but the majority of America saw goats in the Alps.
Here, however, is my very very favorite part of this whole debacle, from the Wikipedia article:
"At 7:20 pm, a crawl across the bottom of the screen announced the ending to the game (during a dramatic point in the movie when Heidi's paralyzed cousin Clara fell from her wheelchair and had to summon enough courage to try to walk)."
Now we all know it's horrible to laugh at paralyzed people and so let me tell you that I am not laughing at Clara being paralyzed or falling out of her wheelchair (or the unfortunate use of the word "crawl" in that excerpt).
No, what I'm laughing at as I read that line over and over again is the mental image of the sickening dissonance that permeated the room when the Oakland Raider fan in Detroit cheered upon seeing the bulletin, only to have his eight-year-old daughter burst into tears because she thought her dad was laughing at poor Clara crumpled on the ground. (Or, alternatively, the dad in Queens who starts swearing just as Clara pulls herself up and begins walking).
Don't believe me? Watch this (the sickening dissonance part is just after the 2:45 mark). And don't miss the part about angry viewers blowing out the switchboards at the New York City Police Department.
Man.... Truth really is stranger than fiction.
In the Wiki description of the licensing contracts and how the media markets are determined, the phrase "Heidi Game" was mentioned. Neither one of us had heard of that reference, so we clicked the link.
In a nutshell, here's what we found: On November 17, 1968, the Jets were playing the Raiders in Oakland on NBC (this would be the Oakland Raiders Part I; in 1982 they moved and became the Los Angeles Raiders, then moved back to become the Oakland Raiders Part II in 1995. Thanks, Al Davis, for that big waste of time).
The game was considered a big matchup because both teams were at 7-2 and it did not disappoint. However, NBC had scheduled Heidi, a made-for-TV movie based on the children's novel, to air at 7 p.m. EST, assuming the game — which started at 4 p.m. — would be finished. NBC's contract with the movie's sponsor, Timex, stated the film would run from 7 to 9 p.m. and the network executives told the broadcast supervisor to cut from the game to Heidi at exactly 7 p.m.
With 1:05 left in regulation at nearly 7 p.m., the Jets scored a field goal to go ahead 32-29 and the Raiders returned the ensuing kickoff to their own 23-yard line. NBC went to commercial and the executives attempted to contact the station in Burbank to request that the broadcast remain with the game. However, the execs were unable to get through since thousands of viewers were also calling NBC, asking that the football game be aired in its entirety.
Thus, at 7 p.m. NBC came back from commercial and began airing Heidi — while the Raiders scored two touchdowns in three plays: a reception with a penalty, a 43-yard run for one touchdown and a fumble and recovery for the second touchdown on the ensuing kickoff to the Jets. The Raiders won 43-32 but the majority of America saw goats in the Alps.
Here, however, is my very very favorite part of this whole debacle, from the Wikipedia article:
"At 7:20 pm, a crawl across the bottom of the screen announced the ending to the game (during a dramatic point in the movie when Heidi's paralyzed cousin Clara fell from her wheelchair and had to summon enough courage to try to walk)."
Now we all know it's horrible to laugh at paralyzed people and so let me tell you that I am not laughing at Clara being paralyzed or falling out of her wheelchair (or the unfortunate use of the word "crawl" in that excerpt).
No, what I'm laughing at as I read that line over and over again is the mental image of the sickening dissonance that permeated the room when the Oakland Raider fan in Detroit cheered upon seeing the bulletin, only to have his eight-year-old daughter burst into tears because she thought her dad was laughing at poor Clara crumpled on the ground. (Or, alternatively, the dad in Queens who starts swearing just as Clara pulls herself up and begins walking).
Don't believe me? Watch this (the sickening dissonance part is just after the 2:45 mark). And don't miss the part about angry viewers blowing out the switchboards at the New York City Police Department.
Man.... Truth really is stranger than fiction.
Labels: celebrities, conundrums, FAIL, football, hilarious, sports, television, trivia
Thursday, September 25
A Musing Thought
Here's a great one:
This week, ABC Television is promoting their season premieres as part of a National Stay-At-Home Week, implying, of course, that one should stay at home and find out what's happening this season on ABC shows (the network would add an "!" after this sentence but that's not happening here).
While I enjoy watching Dancing With the Stars and Pushing Daisies, I wasn't too sure about this whole "promote lethargy!" ad campaign. Then I saw the announcement for the new ABC special airing September 30th — at the tail end of National Stay-at-Home Week:
Half Their Size "!": The People Magazine Weight Loss Challenge
Of course, the premiere promo logo is slapped on the end of the ad.
How do you spell "irony"? A-B-C.
This week, ABC Television is promoting their season premieres as part of a National Stay-At-Home Week, implying, of course, that one should stay at home and find out what's happening this season on ABC shows (the network would add an "!" after this sentence but that's not happening here).
While I enjoy watching Dancing With the Stars and Pushing Daisies, I wasn't too sure about this whole "promote lethargy!" ad campaign. Then I saw the announcement for the new ABC special airing September 30th — at the tail end of National Stay-at-Home Week:
Half Their Size "!": The People Magazine Weight Loss Challenge
Of course, the premiere promo logo is slapped on the end of the ad.
How do you spell "irony"? A-B-C.
Labels: ads, FAIL, irony, medical, sad, television
Tuesday, September 16
Three Things I Think I Think Today
(Taking a page from Peter King with the title...)
1. As I was driving home from class, taking my usual route through a nice residential middle-class neighborhood, I noticed a jet black Lexus towncar with tinted windows parked next to the driveway of a nondescript two-story house. As I got closer, I saw that the license plate of the towncar read: "4HITMEN"
So if that had been my nondescript two-story house I was driving up to and if I hadn't called those people, I would make the fastest U-turn this world has ever seen and never go home again.
2. I've noticed that my university is posting flyers with lots of contacts and help information for victims of sexual assault. This would be wonderful — if the place the information was posted wasn't inside the women's bathroom stalls.
I understand some of the apparent reasoning behind it: if women are afraid of others finding out they've been sexually assaulted, they need somewhere private to read the information. But then there's this great thing called school e-mail where everyone has a private account and doesn't have to go sit on a toilet in the second-floor bathroom in Random University Hall to get the information through their email.
Furthermore, the first thing the flyer states is: Make sure you're in a safe place.
....Yeah. For most women who have been sexually assaulted, a "safe place" is not a public bathroom if the actual door to the bathroom (and not just the stall) can't be locked. So, if you are supposed to take the flyer's information literally, you would read the first line and leave the bathroom — missing all the other important information on the flyer.
Finally, is there a particular reason these flyers are only in the bathroom stalls and nowhere remotely visible on campus? Are people really that sensitive to the topic of sexual assault and so we're still stuck in the Stone Age and Not Talking About It? Or, even worse, is there something we need to know about sexual assaults in campus bathrooms that the school isn't telling us? Because if that's the real problem, I don't want to know what information someone needs after a sexual assault. I want to know where I sign up to help track down the asshole rapist before he assaults anyone else and if I get to kick him in the balls when he gets arrested.
3. Every single day, something reminds me of the apparent truth that "time is money." Because it totally is. I was sick on Monday so I couldn't get to school early enough to make copies of my manuscripts for class using my printing quota. I decided that hitting up the Kinko's between my house and school was the best way to get my copies and make sure I wasn't late for class. Copies were 9¢ per page and I copied about 350 pages. Then I hopped in the car and drove the rest of the way to school, arriving in class just as everyone was getting seated.
Later, my housemate, who's also in the class, told me that the Staples two blocks north of the Kinko's offers copies for 8¢ per page. So I had to explain that if I'd had more time I would have gone somewhere else and saved money — but since I was sick and didn't want to be late to class, I had to go to the copy place that was fastest and on the most direct route between our house and school.
Had I gone to Staples, I would have saved over three dollars on my copies. Had I used my school printing quota (almost all 400 pages of it), and probably waited in line to use one of the school printers, I would have saved almost ten bucks.
Time is money. If I want more time, I spend more money. If I want more money, I spend more time.
(And while the copy story is good, my all-time favorite example of the "time is money" concept has to be packaged shredded cheese.)
1. As I was driving home from class, taking my usual route through a nice residential middle-class neighborhood, I noticed a jet black Lexus towncar with tinted windows parked next to the driveway of a nondescript two-story house. As I got closer, I saw that the license plate of the towncar read: "4HITMEN"
So if that had been my nondescript two-story house I was driving up to and if I hadn't called those people, I would make the fastest U-turn this world has ever seen and never go home again.
2. I've noticed that my university is posting flyers with lots of contacts and help information for victims of sexual assault. This would be wonderful — if the place the information was posted wasn't inside the women's bathroom stalls.
I understand some of the apparent reasoning behind it: if women are afraid of others finding out they've been sexually assaulted, they need somewhere private to read the information. But then there's this great thing called school e-mail where everyone has a private account and doesn't have to go sit on a toilet in the second-floor bathroom in Random University Hall to get the information through their email.
Furthermore, the first thing the flyer states is: Make sure you're in a safe place.
....Yeah. For most women who have been sexually assaulted, a "safe place" is not a public bathroom if the actual door to the bathroom (and not just the stall) can't be locked. So, if you are supposed to take the flyer's information literally, you would read the first line and leave the bathroom — missing all the other important information on the flyer.
Finally, is there a particular reason these flyers are only in the bathroom stalls and nowhere remotely visible on campus? Are people really that sensitive to the topic of sexual assault and so we're still stuck in the Stone Age and Not Talking About It? Or, even worse, is there something we need to know about sexual assaults in campus bathrooms that the school isn't telling us? Because if that's the real problem, I don't want to know what information someone needs after a sexual assault. I want to know where I sign up to help track down the asshole rapist before he assaults anyone else and if I get to kick him in the balls when he gets arrested.
3. Every single day, something reminds me of the apparent truth that "time is money." Because it totally is. I was sick on Monday so I couldn't get to school early enough to make copies of my manuscripts for class using my printing quota. I decided that hitting up the Kinko's between my house and school was the best way to get my copies and make sure I wasn't late for class. Copies were 9¢ per page and I copied about 350 pages. Then I hopped in the car and drove the rest of the way to school, arriving in class just as everyone was getting seated.
Later, my housemate, who's also in the class, told me that the Staples two blocks north of the Kinko's offers copies for 8¢ per page. So I had to explain that if I'd had more time I would have gone somewhere else and saved money — but since I was sick and didn't want to be late to class, I had to go to the copy place that was fastest and on the most direct route between our house and school.
Had I gone to Staples, I would have saved over three dollars on my copies. Had I used my school printing quota (almost all 400 pages of it), and probably waited in line to use one of the school printers, I would have saved almost ten bucks.
Time is money. If I want more time, I spend more money. If I want more money, I spend more time.
(And while the copy story is good, my all-time favorite example of the "time is money" concept has to be packaged shredded cheese.)
Labels: bizarro, conundrums, dysfunction, food, grad school, hygiene, medical, money, technology
Monday, August 18
Gut Instincts
I still struggle with sugar/carb cravings and have a very hard time ignoring my stomach when it begs for ice cream, pastries or cookies. I know this isn't optimal for my overall health since I'm hypoglycemic and insulin resistant which can lead to Type II diabetes. Yeah, that six-hour glucose tolerance test complete with tremors, belching and exhaustion was good times. And I never want to go through that kind of thing on a regular basis as I might with Type II diabetes.
But while I rightly try to ignore my stomach's pleas for candy, sometimes I wrongly ignore the other gut instincts...and I always end up paying the price.
I found a doctor in Washington who did more extensive hormone testing than most — since I also have crappy hormones which I wanted to get checked. However, this doctor, Dr. R, seemed more concerned with my sugar cravings. He correctly pointed out that insulin resistence and hormone problems are often co-morbid. So against the protests of my gut (it's just the addiction talking, right?), I agreed to do a particularly disgusting body-fluid test and, when that came back positive, try a protocol to help curb the cravings. I would get my system more used to eating protein, veggies and small amounts of natural sugars and dairy — instead of the other way around. And not only would this help with the cravings but I wouldn't be "eating my way to diabetes" as I always say of MCTV.
The protocol was OK — until I discovered that one of the medications Dr. R prescribed did not play nicely with the sleep-cycle medication I've been taking for several years. And Dr. R knew about my medications from my very first appointment.
He had already irritated me with his condescending tone and offhand comments. And with his semi-obsessive need to do allergy testing — regardless of me saying that my allergies acted up in Washington but not California and that I had no food allergies. This guy was on a mission to do exactly what he wanted to do and not really listen to the patient. And when I showed a very mild reaction to dairy foods (and nothing else), he was convinced that I should eliminate dairy from my diet altogether:
"Do you eat dairy?" he asked me.
"Yes, I eat dairy for the protein," I told him, implying that I intentionally did so to help my blood sugar issues and not "just 'cause."
"Well, protein comes in a lot of forms," he told me — as though I was five years old. "Meats, eggs, pinto beans, soy..."
At this point I wanted to interrupt and say, "Yes, but haven't you heard that soy screws up your hormones if you have high estrogen which I do?" Alas, I refrained. He wouldn't have cared anyway since hormone testing, which I had specifically requested, was the last thing on his mind.
So this latest development with the drug interaction just further confirmed my suspicions that Dr. R wasn't all that. And when I brought the drug interaction to his attention, he asked if I could stop taking the sleep-cycle drug and "just take a Tylenol PM" while I was on the medication he prescribed.
...Yeah. What a great idea.
Guess I'll trust my gut next time even if it is addicted to sugar. And never let anyone but Dr. N prescribe extensive medications for me.
Speaking of Dr. N: The efficiency and effectiveness of Dr. R's office staff and answering service leaves something to be desired. Sure, they respond quickly to a phrase like "drug interaction" because that can lead to phrases like "in a coma" and "filing a lawsuit." But try a phrase like "lab results" or "reschedule my appointment" or "why doesn't he listen to my requests as a patient?" and it goes in one ear and out the other.
Dr. N's staff, on the other hand, takes notes when I call, immediately gives him messages and returns my calls in a "timely fashion." In fact, Dr. N led an international medical delegation to China and still found time to check his messages several times a week while he was gone.
Honestly. Priorities, Dr. R. Priorities.
But while I rightly try to ignore my stomach's pleas for candy, sometimes I wrongly ignore the other gut instincts...and I always end up paying the price.
I found a doctor in Washington who did more extensive hormone testing than most — since I also have crappy hormones which I wanted to get checked. However, this doctor, Dr. R, seemed more concerned with my sugar cravings. He correctly pointed out that insulin resistence and hormone problems are often co-morbid. So against the protests of my gut (it's just the addiction talking, right?), I agreed to do a particularly disgusting body-fluid test and, when that came back positive, try a protocol to help curb the cravings. I would get my system more used to eating protein, veggies and small amounts of natural sugars and dairy — instead of the other way around. And not only would this help with the cravings but I wouldn't be "eating my way to diabetes" as I always say of MCTV.
The protocol was OK — until I discovered that one of the medications Dr. R prescribed did not play nicely with the sleep-cycle medication I've been taking for several years. And Dr. R knew about my medications from my very first appointment.
He had already irritated me with his condescending tone and offhand comments. And with his semi-obsessive need to do allergy testing — regardless of me saying that my allergies acted up in Washington but not California and that I had no food allergies. This guy was on a mission to do exactly what he wanted to do and not really listen to the patient. And when I showed a very mild reaction to dairy foods (and nothing else), he was convinced that I should eliminate dairy from my diet altogether:
"Do you eat dairy?" he asked me.
"Yes, I eat dairy for the protein," I told him, implying that I intentionally did so to help my blood sugar issues and not "just 'cause."
"Well, protein comes in a lot of forms," he told me — as though I was five years old. "Meats, eggs, pinto beans, soy..."
At this point I wanted to interrupt and say, "Yes, but haven't you heard that soy screws up your hormones if you have high estrogen which I do?" Alas, I refrained. He wouldn't have cared anyway since hormone testing, which I had specifically requested, was the last thing on his mind.
So this latest development with the drug interaction just further confirmed my suspicions that Dr. R wasn't all that. And when I brought the drug interaction to his attention, he asked if I could stop taking the sleep-cycle drug and "just take a Tylenol PM" while I was on the medication he prescribed.
...Yeah. What a great idea.
Guess I'll trust my gut next time even if it is addicted to sugar. And never let anyone but Dr. N prescribe extensive medications for me.
Speaking of Dr. N: The efficiency and effectiveness of Dr. R's office staff and answering service leaves something to be desired. Sure, they respond quickly to a phrase like "drug interaction" because that can lead to phrases like "in a coma" and "filing a lawsuit." But try a phrase like "lab results" or "reschedule my appointment" or "why doesn't he listen to my requests as a patient?" and it goes in one ear and out the other.
Dr. N's staff, on the other hand, takes notes when I call, immediately gives him messages and returns my calls in a "timely fashion." In fact, Dr. N led an international medical delegation to China and still found time to check his messages several times a week while he was gone.
Honestly. Priorities, Dr. R. Priorities.
Labels: alcohol/drugs, crappy, FAIL, irritants, medical
Tuesday, August 12
Story Problem(s)
If it takes me one half-hour to write one page of my thesis that I consider satisfactory and one half-hour to edit each thesis page, how many days will it take me to complete a 200-page thesis?
Show your work below:
So, if I remain at a constant rate in thesis writing, a 200-page thesis (a collection of 10 short stories at 20 pages per story) will take me 100 hours.
Subtract about 30 hours for the pages I've already written, then add in 100 for the editing process for a grand total of 170 hours to write and edit my thesis.
Since a day is comprised of 24 hours, search multiples of 24 to find the number closest to 170. 24 multiplied by 7 is 168. It will take me 7 days and 2 hours to complete my entire thesis... if I write 24/7.
ANSWER: Break out the No-Doz and let's get cracking!
Show your work below:
So, if I remain at a constant rate in thesis writing, a 200-page thesis (a collection of 10 short stories at 20 pages per story) will take me 100 hours.
Subtract about 30 hours for the pages I've already written, then add in 100 for the editing process for a grand total of 170 hours to write and edit my thesis.
Since a day is comprised of 24 hours, search multiples of 24 to find the number closest to 170. 24 multiplied by 7 is 168. It will take me 7 days and 2 hours to complete my entire thesis... if I write 24/7.
ANSWER: Break out the No-Doz and let's get cracking!
Labels: conundrums, grad school, hypothetically, words
Friday, August 8
Shower to Shower
It is an exercise in futility for me to take a shower anymore.
Normally, this wouldn't be a problem since we all know how much I hate having wet hair. But since I've been living in California in August, all that has changed.
I have never sweated so much in my life. Because I am literally sweating every minute of every day and I'm one of those people who normally can exercise for twenty minutes and barely perspire. I'm jealous of my housemates who are guys and can walk around in just shorts. Adam is boycotting shirts.
I have the fan on during the day, the fan on and the windows open at night, I keep the lights off, I wear tank tops and light cotton shorts — in fact I usually spend most of the day in my pajamas because they're the lightest cotton things I own. And I've already sweated in them so there's no point in changing.
And yet, I still sweat. Profusely. It's 3 a.m., I just got out of the shower, the fan is on, the window is open and I can already feel the sweat between my shoulder blades because I've leaned up against a pillow to type this and I'm wearing a t-shirt. And now I'm lying on my stomach, propped up my elbows and the crooks of my elbows are starting to sweat. I just got out of the shower and now I need to take another one.
It comes down to two choices: either I shower every hour on the hour or I don't shower at all. Since taking a shower twelve to sixteen times a day would make my skin like sandpaper, I think I'm gonna have to go for not showering at all. So if you smell my armpits from fifty feet away, it's not my fault — it's California's fault.
Heh, puns...
Normally, this wouldn't be a problem since we all know how much I hate having wet hair. But since I've been living in California in August, all that has changed.
I have never sweated so much in my life. Because I am literally sweating every minute of every day and I'm one of those people who normally can exercise for twenty minutes and barely perspire. I'm jealous of my housemates who are guys and can walk around in just shorts. Adam is boycotting shirts.
I have the fan on during the day, the fan on and the windows open at night, I keep the lights off, I wear tank tops and light cotton shorts — in fact I usually spend most of the day in my pajamas because they're the lightest cotton things I own. And I've already sweated in them so there's no point in changing.
And yet, I still sweat. Profusely. It's 3 a.m., I just got out of the shower, the fan is on, the window is open and I can already feel the sweat between my shoulder blades because I've leaned up against a pillow to type this and I'm wearing a t-shirt. And now I'm lying on my stomach, propped up my elbows and the crooks of my elbows are starting to sweat. I just got out of the shower and now I need to take another one.
It comes down to two choices: either I shower every hour on the hour or I don't shower at all. Since taking a shower twelve to sixteen times a day would make my skin like sandpaper, I think I'm gonna have to go for not showering at all. So if you smell my armpits from fifty feet away, it's not my fault — it's California's fault.
Heh, puns...
Labels: conundrums, hygiene, irritants, stress
Monday, August 4
Statheads exploding
So I'm watching Monday Night Baseball on ESPN which normally I'd watch anyway while I write because A) it's inspiring when writing about baseball and B) it's nice white noise in general. (Don't believe me? Give it a try and see....)
But today, there's a C) it's the Cubs versus the Astros at Wrigley Field and since my collection is set in Chicago, it's imperative that I watch any Cubbies' game I can see (and on the West Coast, we don't get many opportunities).
Unfortunately, something has always bothered me about the ESPN broadcasts regardless of who's playing. I enjoy looking at players' stats and seeing situational stats — i.e. Raul Ibañez is 2 for 8 this year for grand slams in bases loaded situations. That's an important stat to know when Ibañez comes to the plate with the sacks are drunk because it tells us the probability is that Raul hits a grand salami — which will instantly change the game.
So what is it that ESPN does that bothers me? Somehow someone has dictated that the national baseball broadcasts show every single hitter's situational stats for every single count. That's not just obsessively weird, it's absolutely frightening. Who the hell is forced to calculate all those figures late into the night? Because you've got every single hitter on every single team (since every team plays at least one game on ESPN) and those stats change with every single at-bat. So if ESPN has Albert Pujols' batting stats in May, when the Cardinals play on ESPN again in July, some lowly unpaid intern has to recalculate all those statistics.
An example:
Cubs player Jim Edmonds is up to bat.
If the count is 1 ball and 0 strikes (1-0), Jim Edmonds is hitting .226 with 7 HR and 23 RBI
With a 1-1 count: Edmonds hits .240, 7 HR, 20 RBI
2-1: .231, 4 HR, 13 RBI
3-1: .087, 1 HR, 4 RBI
3-2: .132, 1 HR, 5 RBI
And then the 3-2 average goes up because Edmonds hits a double.
But, except for the Cubs' manager and the Cubs' catcher, no one in the entire world needs to know those stats. Not even Jim Edmonds because all he can do is take pitches and hope they're outside the strike zone so he doesn't rack up strikes which would lower his average for the different counts (and, obviously, eventually make him strike out). Edmonds doesn't want to try to hit every single pitch because the probability will always be against him regardless of the stats he posts (remember: in baseball, you're considered great if you can hit a ball three times out of ten).
So out of the entire 6 billion people on earth and the millions of people watching this broadcast, two people and the ESPN intern who adds up the stats, have a need to know this information.
I feel bad for that intern because what a freaking PITA (my new acronym for Pain In The Ass).
But today, there's a C) it's the Cubs versus the Astros at Wrigley Field and since my collection is set in Chicago, it's imperative that I watch any Cubbies' game I can see (and on the West Coast, we don't get many opportunities).
Unfortunately, something has always bothered me about the ESPN broadcasts regardless of who's playing. I enjoy looking at players' stats and seeing situational stats — i.e. Raul Ibañez is 2 for 8 this year for grand slams in bases loaded situations. That's an important stat to know when Ibañez comes to the plate with the sacks are drunk because it tells us the probability is that Raul hits a grand salami — which will instantly change the game.
So what is it that ESPN does that bothers me? Somehow someone has dictated that the national baseball broadcasts show every single hitter's situational stats for every single count. That's not just obsessively weird, it's absolutely frightening. Who the hell is forced to calculate all those figures late into the night? Because you've got every single hitter on every single team (since every team plays at least one game on ESPN) and those stats change with every single at-bat. So if ESPN has Albert Pujols' batting stats in May, when the Cardinals play on ESPN again in July, some lowly unpaid intern has to recalculate all those statistics.
An example:
Cubs player Jim Edmonds is up to bat.
If the count is 1 ball and 0 strikes (1-0), Jim Edmonds is hitting .226 with 7 HR and 23 RBI
With a 1-1 count: Edmonds hits .240, 7 HR, 20 RBI
2-1: .231, 4 HR, 13 RBI
3-1: .087, 1 HR, 4 RBI
3-2: .132, 1 HR, 5 RBI
And then the 3-2 average goes up because Edmonds hits a double.
But, except for the Cubs' manager and the Cubs' catcher, no one in the entire world needs to know those stats. Not even Jim Edmonds because all he can do is take pitches and hope they're outside the strike zone so he doesn't rack up strikes which would lower his average for the different counts (and, obviously, eventually make him strike out). Edmonds doesn't want to try to hit every single pitch because the probability will always be against him regardless of the stats he posts (remember: in baseball, you're considered great if you can hit a ball three times out of ten).
So out of the entire 6 billion people on earth and the millions of people watching this broadcast, two people and the ESPN intern who adds up the stats, have a need to know this information.
I feel bad for that intern because what a freaking PITA (my new acronym for Pain In The Ass).
Sunday, August 3
Rest In Peace, Skip!
Some sad news I just heard on the ESPN Sunday Night Baseball broadcast from broadcaster Jon Miller: Skip Caray, longtime announcer for the Atlanta Braves, passed away earlier today.
Skip, whose real name is Harry Christopher Caray, Jr., is indeed the son of Hall of Fame Chicago Cubs broadcaster Harry Caray. Skip's son is known as "Chip" but he's Harry Christopher Caray III.
I always enjoyed watching Braves' broadcasts on TBS with my dad especially when Skip and Chip were calling the game because Skip had a wonderfully dry wit and made fun of many aspects of the broadcast (opposing mascots, Mets' fans, the B-movies shown on TBS, etc.). A particularly great instance, cited on Wiki: "In order to get back at Atlanta Journal-Constitution columnist Ron Hudspeth for a critical column, Caray paid to have an airplane tow a banner above Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium during a Braves game which read, 'For a good time, call Rona Hudspeth,' and included Ron's actual phone number."
Skip was a "homer," openly cheering for the Braves but wasn't afraid to criticize them either. According to a fan message board, during the 1980s when the Braves totally sucked, Skip once announced the team running out of the dugout as, "And, like lambs to the slaughter, the Braves take the field." Skip, along with announcers Joe Simpson, Pete Van Wieren and Don Sutton, were banned from the Braves' charter plane after criticizing Braves catcher Javy Lopez for continuing to set up outside the catcher's box after he was caught by the umpire.
But my dad's and my favorite Skip memory was when Skip and Chip were calling a game in 2003 or 2004 and discussing popular then-Braves center fielder Andruw Jones's birthday. Chip said Andruw was, I think, 26 years old and then joked, "You've got ties that are older than Andruw, Dad." There was a pause and then Skip deadpanned, "Slowly talking your way out of the inheritance." We still laugh about that one.
Hopefully Chip can carry on the Caray generation but there will never be another broadcaster like Skip.
Skip, whose real name is Harry Christopher Caray, Jr., is indeed the son of Hall of Fame Chicago Cubs broadcaster Harry Caray. Skip's son is known as "Chip" but he's Harry Christopher Caray III.
I always enjoyed watching Braves' broadcasts on TBS with my dad especially when Skip and Chip were calling the game because Skip had a wonderfully dry wit and made fun of many aspects of the broadcast (opposing mascots, Mets' fans, the B-movies shown on TBS, etc.). A particularly great instance, cited on Wiki: "In order to get back at Atlanta Journal-Constitution columnist Ron Hudspeth for a critical column, Caray paid to have an airplane tow a banner above Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium during a Braves game which read, 'For a good time, call Rona Hudspeth,' and included Ron's actual phone number."
Skip was a "homer," openly cheering for the Braves but wasn't afraid to criticize them either. According to a fan message board, during the 1980s when the Braves totally sucked, Skip once announced the team running out of the dugout as, "And, like lambs to the slaughter, the Braves take the field." Skip, along with announcers Joe Simpson, Pete Van Wieren and Don Sutton, were banned from the Braves' charter plane after criticizing Braves catcher Javy Lopez for continuing to set up outside the catcher's box after he was caught by the umpire.
But my dad's and my favorite Skip memory was when Skip and Chip were calling a game in 2003 or 2004 and discussing popular then-Braves center fielder Andruw Jones's birthday. Chip said Andruw was, I think, 26 years old and then joked, "You've got ties that are older than Andruw, Dad." There was a pause and then Skip deadpanned, "Slowly talking your way out of the inheritance." We still laugh about that one.
Hopefully Chip can carry on the Caray generation but there will never be another broadcaster like Skip.
Wednesday, July 16
WTF WSU?!
Activism runs in my family. My parents have joined unions, bargained contracts, captained strikes, overturned institutional regulations, spoken at national conventions and picketed about the state capitol (a fun time which included the limerick-ed poster: "Dear Governor Booth / We know you're not telling the truth / When you just run away / From the state's rainy day / You're not funding the future: our youth!")
My activist claim to fame is being one of three Marysville citizens who filed a petition to recall two atrociously-underqualified money-grubbing members of the Marysville School Board — and the judge ruled in our favor.
SIDEBAR: The story ends there because we chose not to require the district to finance the recall election. The two board members were the minority at that point and had less than a year left in their terms. They, smartly, didn't run again. Regardless, they were both completely asinine.
Anywho. The point of this ramble about activism is leading up to the — speaking of asinine — decision of my alma mater Washington State University to cut down numerous trees around campus. Apparently, they already chopped down a beautiful bunch outside the stadium before anyone stopped them, but now they're going after the grove outside of Avery Hall, where the English department — my department — is located. You can see a diagram here and a picture of the trees here.
But wait! There's more!
The pièce de résistance of this whole pile of bullshit is that WSU, in their infinite wisdom, is billing this as part of a "beautification project."
No, really. Did the Capital Planning and Development Department really think people in an area with a higher-than-average level of Ph.D.'s per capita would be stupid enough to roll with that euphemism? "No, no, no, you don't understand! Cutting down stately, mature, non-diseased trees is beautifying the campus. It's funny 'cause it's ironic!"
Want to combat this irony? Or stand up to a ludicrous "educational" institution? Or be a mild tree-hugging environmentalist? Or just do me a favor and save some helpless majestic shade trees that I absolutely love? Go here: http://www.savewsutrees.com and sign the electronic petition. It will take you less than two minutes and I will forever be thankful.
Of course, activism like this inspires me to write a limerick, just as my mom did. So here we go:
WSU now decrees
In their usual deaf tyranny
That beauty abounds
When the trees are cut down —
How brilliant is that irony?
As a final note: perhaps the title of the this post could be more professional and mature... hmmm... no, actually, I think that sums it up quite nicely. Because, really: WTF?
My activist claim to fame is being one of three Marysville citizens who filed a petition to recall two atrociously-underqualified money-grubbing members of the Marysville School Board — and the judge ruled in our favor.
SIDEBAR: The story ends there because we chose not to require the district to finance the recall election. The two board members were the minority at that point and had less than a year left in their terms. They, smartly, didn't run again. Regardless, they were both completely asinine.
Anywho. The point of this ramble about activism is leading up to the — speaking of asinine — decision of my alma mater Washington State University to cut down numerous trees around campus. Apparently, they already chopped down a beautiful bunch outside the stadium before anyone stopped them, but now they're going after the grove outside of Avery Hall, where the English department — my department — is located. You can see a diagram here and a picture of the trees here.
But wait! There's more!
The pièce de résistance of this whole pile of bullshit is that WSU, in their infinite wisdom, is billing this as part of a "beautification project."
No, really. Did the Capital Planning and Development Department really think people in an area with a higher-than-average level of Ph.D.'s per capita would be stupid enough to roll with that euphemism? "No, no, no, you don't understand! Cutting down stately, mature, non-diseased trees is beautifying the campus. It's funny 'cause it's ironic!"
Want to combat this irony? Or stand up to a ludicrous "educational" institution? Or be a mild tree-hugging environmentalist? Or just do me a favor and save some helpless majestic shade trees that I absolutely love? Go here: http://www.savewsutrees.com and sign the electronic petition. It will take you less than two minutes and I will forever be thankful.
Of course, activism like this inspires me to write a limerick, just as my mom did. So here we go:
WSU now decrees
In their usual deaf tyranny
That beauty abounds
When the trees are cut down —
How brilliant is that irony?
As a final note: perhaps the title of the this post could be more professional and mature... hmmm... no, actually, I think that sums it up quite nicely. Because, really: WTF?
Labels: college, crappy, FAIL, jerks, news, red tape, sad
© 2004-2007, S.N.B.
