Phun Phriday
As a rule I don't post "Here's what I did today" entries, but Friday was too bizarre and entertaining not to write about.
First, I attended the graduation ceremony for the School of Public Health at my university. Technically, I am qualified to have participated in graduation this year, as I expect to have my thesis finished by the end of the summer; but I personally don't see much point. Though it was fun to have my family visit Oberlin for college graduation, I don't particularly care for all the pomp and circumstance. Also, completing an advanced degree is a major accomplishment, but I've already been working in the field for three years, so the transition between school and career is not nearly as abrupt for me as for most new graduates.
I attended mostly because, for some obscure reason unknown to science, I won this year's "Outstanding Student Award" for my department. These awards traditionally go to people who have "demonstrated leadership capabilities plus a commitment to community involvement in Public Health." I'm really not what my friend Weldon calls a "joiner." I prefer to do my work behind the scenes and maintain an air of reserved competence. I don't schmooze, and I don't suck up. Naturally, this attitude of unwillingness to play by the rules dooms me to academic obscurity, but that suits me just fine. However, I'm not knocking the award: it will find a prominent place of honor in my curriculum vitæ, and it came with a substantial cash prize (which will pay for about 1/3 of my car-repair bill from this week, sigh!).
I even rated a whole paragraph in the graduation program. I wanted to copy it here not because I want to brag, but because whoever wrote this put so much spin on my graduate-school career that the Earth's axis of rotation must have shifted by about 500 miles. The Republican Party (or the Democrats, for that matter) would be delighted to incorporate the author's talent:
6_bleen_7 is a master's student who came to [our department] having already earned a Ph.D. in molecular biology. He was the strongest student of his entering class and has excelled in his coursework-on both applied and ancillary projects that further explore and develop the methods he is using. Work on his thesis is also progressing well. Already a co-author on three papers, his advisor expects 6_bleen_7 to have at least five more and be first author on two or three of them. In addition to his academic merits, 6_bleen_7 is cited for his many other contributions. He is an active participant in departmental activities as well as the statistical genetics community, and he is helpful to other students. Faculty note that 6_bleen_7 is 'a major contributor to the collegiality of the Department.'
Conspicuously absent: any mention of my great prowess as a leader, my active involvement in the community, or my winning personality. I know for a fact that my boss didn't write this, though she must have supplied most of the factual information. She would have done a better job with the grammar and general flow of the prose. And check out that last sentence. Semantic content: zero. Yet that's the kind of bureaucratic praise that might actually land me a well-paying job.
My good friend Alicia also attended. Since our department was first in the program among the departments in the School of Public Health, we planned to sneak out early. We sat way in the back of the auditorium, both for ease of escape and because the place was already packed when I arrived.
I have a short last name with one obvious wrong pronunciation. And sure enough, when she called me up to receive my award, the dean very carefully read out my name, with great precision and deliberation, using the blantantly incorrect first syllable. Sitting in my high perch at the back of the hall, I cringed and winced in a very exaggerated, theatrical manner. D'oh! Several rows of people behind me noticed and chuckled. Alicia let out a huge guffaw. I slouched down to the front of the auditorium to receive the obligatory certificate and handshake from the department Chair. Alicia was still laughing when I retook my seat. She later told me that it was my facial expression that caused her to lose it. We both wished she'd been able to take a picture of me at that crucial moment of shock and mortification. It was all the more embarrassing because the dean then proceeded to rattle off a bunch of Asian and Swahili names, effortlessly and flawlessly. Sigh.
Congratulations to our department's regular graduates came immediately thereafter, and we subsequently made good our escape. In the atrium beneath the great hall, the caterers had just finished laying out all the food for the post graduation reception. A vast sheet of dark, moist brownies, sagging under the weight of their fudgelike frosting, immediately and seductively called out to us. We wandered over in that direction as nonchalantly as we could, hoping to be able to pinch a couple on the sly. Alas, they were onto us: as we neared the brownies and slowed down, a couple of them locked eyes with us and gave us a pert little "We know what you're up to!" smile. We slunk off, the tracking gazes from the food defenders heating up the backs of our heads.
I'd originally intended to go right back to work; but the vast emptiness in my abdomen had been awoken by the sight of those brownies, and presently made its existence known through great pain and raucous rumblings. (This stage of hunger is known in our parlance as "snapping at cats.") Perhaps, I thought, if I found something to do for a few minutes, I could come back and get in on the brownies just when the ceremony got over. I checked my e-mail in the student computer lab, and cutiepi314 found me there. We returned to the auditorium to discover that they'd just started in on the last, and by far the largest, department in the School of Public Health. Glancing at the pages and pages of graduates, in the several sub-departments and sub-programs pertaining to this department, I and my stomach began to despair; it looked like they'd be going for twenty or thirty minutes more, at least. But then we noticed a thin trickle of audience members, primarily parents of bored little kids, diffusing away from the ceremony and down toward the food. In the ensuing chaos we scored some major brownies. Wow! They were definitely worth hanging around for-the kind of food that, when its molecules hit your bloodstream, slows your thinking speed by about 85% and forces you into a postprandial coma. (I'd guessed right about the fudge-based frosting.) We also made off with a few other rich capitalist tidbits: fancy tea-party crackers, delicate helices of salami, and the like.
Having partaken of this repast, I was now in no hurry to go off and play tennis, so I worked a couple hours before meeting Alicia at the university courts. As usual, Alicia ran me into the ground. Since I hadn't played in quite a while, I had to call it quits after about an hour and a half, when my quads began to shorten and lock up, and all the muscles in my forearm began to scream for mercy in the name of humanity. My thighs magically gained about four inches of circumference. I had to stretch them out about every five minutes, so they wouldn't lock my knee joint fast in the extended (straight) position. Bison were appearing from every direction, lining up to lick the thick crust of dried sweat that had accumulated all around my face, even though the temperature was quite cool. Come to think of it, this happens just about every time we play tennis. I feel so good afterward, knowing I'd stuffed at least a week's worth of exercise into one evening.
We set out for our usual post-tennis dinner, but neither of us was particularly hungry. Alicia had returned to work after graduation, also snapping at cats, and in a fit of hunger had consumed most of a gallon tub of ice cream that a coworker had unwisely left in the freezer. We hit upon the ideal solution: the Zao Noodle House in the University Village. There we could get "real" food that wasn't too heavy, and I knew I could score some major liquid refreshment.
I really enjoy restaurants that offer free refills on Coke, and even say so right on the menu. Zao's labeled their Coke "perpetual." Isn't that great? Perpetual soft drinks. It was rather expensive-$2.50-but with my boundless thirst I prorated that Coke to about twelve cents a liter.
My first round might be accurately described as a "Virga Coke." Virga refers to a weather phenomenon, particular to hot, dry climates, in which rain falls from clouds and evaporates in mid-air, never actually reaching the ground. That's how the first tankard of Coke went down. The liquid didn't even get close to my stomach; it just soaked right into the parched walls of my throat and esophagus, slowing to a trickle about halfway down, and petering out completely a couple inches later. The second one actually made it as far as my stomach, but was also earmarked entirely for rehydration. My kidneys saw nothing until about the end of my third Coke.
Almost incidentally, I had a wonderful pan-seared-noodles-and-vegetables concoction, swimming in a spicy, creamy yellow curry. It perfectly supplied the necessary vitamins and roughage without making me feel all bloated and sleepy.
I arrived home around 11:30 PM, my joints creaking loudly and painfully, and my muscles threatening to lock up with every step. I tottered over to listen to a phone message: it was Kathy saying, "We're going to go bowling right after work-want to come join us?" Actually, all I really wanted to do was to lie down and forget I had appendages for a few hours. Moreover, I've tended to shy away from bowling ever since the horror of The Worst Bowling Alley on Earth. But by the time Kathy got home, I'd loosened up a tiny bit, and when I found out that the party would be held at Sunset Lanes in Ballard (where we'd bowled in a league a few years back), I agreed to come along. Even at 12:30 AM, Sunset was packed: most of the lanes were going strong, and a huge crowd was gathered around the Dance Dance Revolution machine.
Knowing very few of Kathy's coworkers, I feared that I'd be the Bakesesh Dude, but in fact I was acquainted with two people there, including Kathy; and one of the other spouses tagging along had me well outclassed for not knowing anyone else. (The Bakesesh Dude is that individual at a party who knows exactly one other person there. Any sufficiently large gathering nearly always has one, and only one, Bakesesh Dude.) Everyone seemed nice, however, and I felt uncharacteristically relaxed interacting with that large a group. (The fact that everyone else was plastered clearly helped.)
We found the group having already started, so we had to hurry up, get our shoes on, and take our turn on the lanes. My muscles had stiffened up considerably in the car, so my first approach must have looked like a robot bowling: making a series of agonizing jerky motions, I lurched up to the foul line and gave my ball a mighty heave. To my astonishment, it sailed down the lane perfectly straight, with a minuscule hook at the very end, right into the 1-3 pocket. WHAM! Ten in the pit! (Read: a beautiful strike.) The second frame felt about 6% less painful, and had the same result. Now, to my infinite embarrassment, everyone started paying attention to me. As sore and as out of practice as I was, I was merely hoping to keep it on the lane; I didn't feel any ardent desire for a huge audience. Still, the lanes were as nicely oiled as anything we'd had in our league, so all I had to do was put it in the general area of my aiming point (my "mark") and I had a good chance for a strike. I missed one 6-pin but threw several more strikes in the first game for an unbelievable 203. Woo-effing-hoo! I'd have been delighted to break 150. My teammates (there were about 15 of us spread across three adjacent lanes) extolled my virtues to the other bowlers. "Look who we've got bowling for us!" The automatic scorer even gave me a little "High Score!" animation. Oh, great-now I'm red from being sore and from blushing.
Unfortunately, I now had a reputation to defend. I lost my aim a little in the second game, but managed to pick up all my spares, and scored 195. Holy shit, I need to join a league again! If I can average 199 after going months without bowling, what can I achieve when I'm in practice? I never bowled that well even in my glory days. Kathy went back to work yesterday, and apparently the whole place is abuzz about what a good bowler I am. Oh SIGH. But, still, it was fun, and we all had a jolly good laugh. Bowling with drunk people is always a blast, if you're not in any particular hurry to accomplish anything.
First, I attended the graduation ceremony for the School of Public Health at my university. Technically, I am qualified to have participated in graduation this year, as I expect to have my thesis finished by the end of the summer; but I personally don't see much point. Though it was fun to have my family visit Oberlin for college graduation, I don't particularly care for all the pomp and circumstance. Also, completing an advanced degree is a major accomplishment, but I've already been working in the field for three years, so the transition between school and career is not nearly as abrupt for me as for most new graduates.
I attended mostly because, for some obscure reason unknown to science, I won this year's "Outstanding Student Award" for my department. These awards traditionally go to people who have "demonstrated leadership capabilities plus a commitment to community involvement in Public Health." I'm really not what my friend Weldon calls a "joiner." I prefer to do my work behind the scenes and maintain an air of reserved competence. I don't schmooze, and I don't suck up. Naturally, this attitude of unwillingness to play by the rules dooms me to academic obscurity, but that suits me just fine. However, I'm not knocking the award: it will find a prominent place of honor in my curriculum vitæ, and it came with a substantial cash prize (which will pay for about 1/3 of my car-repair bill from this week, sigh!).
I even rated a whole paragraph in the graduation program. I wanted to copy it here not because I want to brag, but because whoever wrote this put so much spin on my graduate-school career that the Earth's axis of rotation must have shifted by about 500 miles. The Republican Party (or the Democrats, for that matter) would be delighted to incorporate the author's talent:
6_bleen_7 is a master's student who came to [our department] having already earned a Ph.D. in molecular biology. He was the strongest student of his entering class and has excelled in his coursework-on both applied and ancillary projects that further explore and develop the methods he is using. Work on his thesis is also progressing well. Already a co-author on three papers, his advisor expects 6_bleen_7 to have at least five more and be first author on two or three of them. In addition to his academic merits, 6_bleen_7 is cited for his many other contributions. He is an active participant in departmental activities as well as the statistical genetics community, and he is helpful to other students. Faculty note that 6_bleen_7 is 'a major contributor to the collegiality of the Department.'
Conspicuously absent: any mention of my great prowess as a leader, my active involvement in the community, or my winning personality. I know for a fact that my boss didn't write this, though she must have supplied most of the factual information. She would have done a better job with the grammar and general flow of the prose. And check out that last sentence. Semantic content: zero. Yet that's the kind of bureaucratic praise that might actually land me a well-paying job.
My good friend Alicia also attended. Since our department was first in the program among the departments in the School of Public Health, we planned to sneak out early. We sat way in the back of the auditorium, both for ease of escape and because the place was already packed when I arrived.
I have a short last name with one obvious wrong pronunciation. And sure enough, when she called me up to receive my award, the dean very carefully read out my name, with great precision and deliberation, using the blantantly incorrect first syllable. Sitting in my high perch at the back of the hall, I cringed and winced in a very exaggerated, theatrical manner. D'oh! Several rows of people behind me noticed and chuckled. Alicia let out a huge guffaw. I slouched down to the front of the auditorium to receive the obligatory certificate and handshake from the department Chair. Alicia was still laughing when I retook my seat. She later told me that it was my facial expression that caused her to lose it. We both wished she'd been able to take a picture of me at that crucial moment of shock and mortification. It was all the more embarrassing because the dean then proceeded to rattle off a bunch of Asian and Swahili names, effortlessly and flawlessly. Sigh.
Congratulations to our department's regular graduates came immediately thereafter, and we subsequently made good our escape. In the atrium beneath the great hall, the caterers had just finished laying out all the food for the post graduation reception. A vast sheet of dark, moist brownies, sagging under the weight of their fudgelike frosting, immediately and seductively called out to us. We wandered over in that direction as nonchalantly as we could, hoping to be able to pinch a couple on the sly. Alas, they were onto us: as we neared the brownies and slowed down, a couple of them locked eyes with us and gave us a pert little "We know what you're up to!" smile. We slunk off, the tracking gazes from the food defenders heating up the backs of our heads.
I'd originally intended to go right back to work; but the vast emptiness in my abdomen had been awoken by the sight of those brownies, and presently made its existence known through great pain and raucous rumblings. (This stage of hunger is known in our parlance as "snapping at cats.") Perhaps, I thought, if I found something to do for a few minutes, I could come back and get in on the brownies just when the ceremony got over. I checked my e-mail in the student computer lab, and cutiepi314 found me there. We returned to the auditorium to discover that they'd just started in on the last, and by far the largest, department in the School of Public Health. Glancing at the pages and pages of graduates, in the several sub-departments and sub-programs pertaining to this department, I and my stomach began to despair; it looked like they'd be going for twenty or thirty minutes more, at least. But then we noticed a thin trickle of audience members, primarily parents of bored little kids, diffusing away from the ceremony and down toward the food. In the ensuing chaos we scored some major brownies. Wow! They were definitely worth hanging around for-the kind of food that, when its molecules hit your bloodstream, slows your thinking speed by about 85% and forces you into a postprandial coma. (I'd guessed right about the fudge-based frosting.) We also made off with a few other rich capitalist tidbits: fancy tea-party crackers, delicate helices of salami, and the like.
Having partaken of this repast, I was now in no hurry to go off and play tennis, so I worked a couple hours before meeting Alicia at the university courts. As usual, Alicia ran me into the ground. Since I hadn't played in quite a while, I had to call it quits after about an hour and a half, when my quads began to shorten and lock up, and all the muscles in my forearm began to scream for mercy in the name of humanity. My thighs magically gained about four inches of circumference. I had to stretch them out about every five minutes, so they wouldn't lock my knee joint fast in the extended (straight) position. Bison were appearing from every direction, lining up to lick the thick crust of dried sweat that had accumulated all around my face, even though the temperature was quite cool. Come to think of it, this happens just about every time we play tennis. I feel so good afterward, knowing I'd stuffed at least a week's worth of exercise into one evening.
We set out for our usual post-tennis dinner, but neither of us was particularly hungry. Alicia had returned to work after graduation, also snapping at cats, and in a fit of hunger had consumed most of a gallon tub of ice cream that a coworker had unwisely left in the freezer. We hit upon the ideal solution: the Zao Noodle House in the University Village. There we could get "real" food that wasn't too heavy, and I knew I could score some major liquid refreshment.
I really enjoy restaurants that offer free refills on Coke, and even say so right on the menu. Zao's labeled their Coke "perpetual." Isn't that great? Perpetual soft drinks. It was rather expensive-$2.50-but with my boundless thirst I prorated that Coke to about twelve cents a liter.
My first round might be accurately described as a "Virga Coke." Virga refers to a weather phenomenon, particular to hot, dry climates, in which rain falls from clouds and evaporates in mid-air, never actually reaching the ground. That's how the first tankard of Coke went down. The liquid didn't even get close to my stomach; it just soaked right into the parched walls of my throat and esophagus, slowing to a trickle about halfway down, and petering out completely a couple inches later. The second one actually made it as far as my stomach, but was also earmarked entirely for rehydration. My kidneys saw nothing until about the end of my third Coke.
Almost incidentally, I had a wonderful pan-seared-noodles-and-vegetables concoction, swimming in a spicy, creamy yellow curry. It perfectly supplied the necessary vitamins and roughage without making me feel all bloated and sleepy.
I arrived home around 11:30 PM, my joints creaking loudly and painfully, and my muscles threatening to lock up with every step. I tottered over to listen to a phone message: it was Kathy saying, "We're going to go bowling right after work-want to come join us?" Actually, all I really wanted to do was to lie down and forget I had appendages for a few hours. Moreover, I've tended to shy away from bowling ever since the horror of The Worst Bowling Alley on Earth. But by the time Kathy got home, I'd loosened up a tiny bit, and when I found out that the party would be held at Sunset Lanes in Ballard (where we'd bowled in a league a few years back), I agreed to come along. Even at 12:30 AM, Sunset was packed: most of the lanes were going strong, and a huge crowd was gathered around the Dance Dance Revolution machine.
Knowing very few of Kathy's coworkers, I feared that I'd be the Bakesesh Dude, but in fact I was acquainted with two people there, including Kathy; and one of the other spouses tagging along had me well outclassed for not knowing anyone else. (The Bakesesh Dude is that individual at a party who knows exactly one other person there. Any sufficiently large gathering nearly always has one, and only one, Bakesesh Dude.) Everyone seemed nice, however, and I felt uncharacteristically relaxed interacting with that large a group. (The fact that everyone else was plastered clearly helped.)
We found the group having already started, so we had to hurry up, get our shoes on, and take our turn on the lanes. My muscles had stiffened up considerably in the car, so my first approach must have looked like a robot bowling: making a series of agonizing jerky motions, I lurched up to the foul line and gave my ball a mighty heave. To my astonishment, it sailed down the lane perfectly straight, with a minuscule hook at the very end, right into the 1-3 pocket. WHAM! Ten in the pit! (Read: a beautiful strike.) The second frame felt about 6% less painful, and had the same result. Now, to my infinite embarrassment, everyone started paying attention to me. As sore and as out of practice as I was, I was merely hoping to keep it on the lane; I didn't feel any ardent desire for a huge audience. Still, the lanes were as nicely oiled as anything we'd had in our league, so all I had to do was put it in the general area of my aiming point (my "mark") and I had a good chance for a strike. I missed one 6-pin but threw several more strikes in the first game for an unbelievable 203. Woo-effing-hoo! I'd have been delighted to break 150. My teammates (there were about 15 of us spread across three adjacent lanes) extolled my virtues to the other bowlers. "Look who we've got bowling for us!" The automatic scorer even gave me a little "High Score!" animation. Oh, great-now I'm red from being sore and from blushing.
Unfortunately, I now had a reputation to defend. I lost my aim a little in the second game, but managed to pick up all my spares, and scored 195. Holy shit, I need to join a league again! If I can average 199 after going months without bowling, what can I achieve when I'm in practice? I never bowled that well even in my glory days. Kathy went back to work yesterday, and apparently the whole place is abuzz about what a good bowler I am. Oh SIGH. But, still, it was fun, and we all had a jolly good laugh. Bowling with drunk people is always a blast, if you're not in any particular hurry to accomplish anything.