In Response to Jenks

"Trust me, talking about being hurt is boring. As boring as talking about bicycles can get sometimes! (ouch, did I just say that?)"
-Molly Cameron

Noticias Grandes

Earlier posts here on TheSamuraiNinjaDon have made mention of the research-related success I've enjoyed over the past two months. It should logically follow that I am made of awesome.

To be fair, I'm only 85% made of awesome, with another 10% made of muscle and the remaining 20% made of sexy. But who's counting?

While I was lecturing my advisor's class, he was the keynote speaker at a conference in Spain. He took my hardware and a copy of my software with him, which I suppose was pretty cool. While it would inescapably stall my research, it would also provide a wonderful opportunity for the big names of Motor Control to tear me a new one.

As much as I can be more than a little prideful about the second-tier aspects of my life - karaoke, cycling, writing, facial-hair (oh, I miss my beard), among other things - there's an ambivalence to my attitude about my research. I want my professional work to be heartbreakingly brilliant, but at the same time, there's simply no way to get to that point without a few slices of humble pie along the way.

When my advisor returned from Spain, I braced myself. I was ready. It would be okay, if a little painful, to hear "they hated it" or "it's been done before" or "it's too intuitive" or "it's too counterintuitive" or "they rioted and your equipment was destroyed in the fire".

Instead, he asked, "Are you big on travel? How's your Spanish?"

It seems that the line to try my project during my advisor's demonstration started out at 50 people and grew over the course of the session. Heads of Surgical institutions and Chairs of Research departments raved about the possible applications in a variety of fields. The founder of the host institution wants to work with me to refine the project even further for use with his surgeons.

So, no humble pie for me in this story. Oh darn. What a shame. Surely I will have a big ol' frown on my face when I spend January in Spain.

Time to start relearning Spanish! Maybe I'll listen to Shakira?

I was curious

and I'm sure you were curious too. So, to answer the question on everyone's mind...


Yes, I most certainly can pull it off.




I miss my beard.

Waiting for the Paramedics

Sometime during the 10th hour of the 16.5 hr charity event my team organized for Lou Gehrig's disease (another story for another time), I got a phone call. It was pretty cold, so I thought "ooh, sweet, I will take the call indoors at the dining hall, where it is warm."

There were some weird people in the dining hall. This was on College Avenue, the campus where they teach History and English and Emotions and the like. The Engineering campus isn't exactly a Norman Rockwell painting, but the College Ave kids are just plain odd. I didn't spare any thought to the fat guy lying on a bench, to the goth girl fixing her all-black makeup, or to the ditzy girl chatting away on her phone.

Neither, apparently, did anyone else. When I got off the phone 10 minutes later, the goth and the bimbo had moved on, but the fat guy was still lying prostrate on the bench. He didn't look like he was taking a nap, either... he had a gym towl on his face, and he was stirring.

"Are you okay?" says I?
"Idunno, thinkIneedwater" slurs he.
"How do you feel?" I prompt.
"Dizzy nmyhands arenumb" he groans.

While I'd sat through a First Aid certification back in February, my freshest memories of care-giving have been the late-night vomit-fests with 21 year olds. So I treated him like a drunk.

"Watch him," I instructed the newspaper-reading girl on the next bench, who I'm pretty sure did not. I walked into the cafeteria and told the first staffer I saw to call whoever it is they're supposed to call when someone passes out in their building. He gave me a water bottle to give the dizzy guy. The newspaper-reading girl was gone, although her newspaper remained.

Trusting that Rutgers Emergency Services were en route, I did the only thing I could think of. Question after inane question, I kept him talking. He could only muster one-word answers, but still I persisted. It was like a very bad first date. Occasionally he would try to sit upright, and he'd inevitably collapse back to the bench. So I guess it was like a very bad first date with a baby deer.

Maybe 15 minutes later, the ambulance arrived. Once the EMTs addressed him, I took that as my cue to leave.

There's really no climax to the story, no resolution or moral. I'm not lamenting the fact that dozens of passers-by ignored a man who needed medical attention, nor am I trying to promote myself as the end-all of Good Samaritans. If anything, I'm just trying to demonstrate to my friends and family that despite my misanthropic rants and over-the-top claims of awesomeness, I may actually be a pretty decent guy.

HPCX setup

I spent 5 hours in Jamesburg today, setting up the HPCX race course. Mostly I did bourgeois "work" like taping the course and supervising the new kids ('there's supposed to be a hole there, it's how you get out of the pit'). I also got a chance to preride the course.

This is our 2nd year at HPCX, which means that I have to wait 16 more years before I can marry it. I LOVE this course. I want to make little half-Ninja, half-course babies with it. I want to retire to Florida or Arizona with this course, so we can play bridge with the neighbors.

Well done, Mark.

Biiiig smile on my face!

Writer's Guild Strike

It's time for me to weigh in on this Writers Guild of America (WGA) strike.

The WGA produced a video explaining their side of the story:


I've thought about this a lot, because I have a 3 hour class on Tuesdays wherein I don't learn anything useful.

Cutting right to the heart of the matter, it's easy to see that the WGA is on the moral high ground. The advent of streaming TV on the internet has resulted in increased revenue for the studios, of which the writers don't see a dime. While the writers haven't done any additional work to increase the revenue, neither have the producers! They clearly deserve a cut of the profits. Let's not be silly.

On the other hand, there is another non-negligible layer to this problem. We simply can't ignore the pragmatics of the situation, the cold hard economics. Now, my grasp of economics doesn't extend far beyond the concept of "supply and demand", but in this case, I don't think we need to look any further to see why the WGA is screwed.

There is a huge supply of writers. According to the WGA's video, something like 48% of WGA members are unemployed at any point in time. A glut on the supply-side requires a proportionally glutty demand.

So, are audiences falling all over themselves to watch the very best that the TV has to offer? (Please note that being an elitist connoisseur of TV who's also not too snooty to disdain it completely, I get to define what "best" means). Of course not!!! How many reality shows are there on TV right now? How many game shows?

Audiences don't want well subtle dialogue and clever plot twists. They don't want character development and story arcs. They want bright, shiny pictures and repetitious soundtracks. They want artificial drama, obnoxious personalities, and big breasts.

Take, for example, I Love New York 2. This is a show about a bunch of guys competing for the love of a woman nicknamed New York. She's famous for having fallen in love with Flavor Flave on his own competitive-romance show (Flavor of Love). That show's conception was the result of his documented romance with Brigitte Nielsen (Strange Love), which had blossomed on another reality show (The Surreal Life). This is Season 2 of I Love New York, because Season 1's winner promptly dumped Miss New York.

Thanks, VH1. Thanks for giving us indisputable evidence that people simply don't need the writers' skill sets to be entertained. Thanks for showing us New York's unnaturally ample cleavage.

Additionally, the writers want a cut of DVD sales, which, as I said, is only fair. However, we're all so focused on the distribution of monies that we miss what's really going on. People are buying DVDs because the shows are so damn involved. Can't figure out who the bad guys actually are on Lost? Not sure how Jack Bauer disarmed the bomb using saliva and chapstick? Distracted by the hot evil chick on Battlestar Galactica? Buy the DVD! It's the only hope you have of understanding the next season.

These primetime soap operas have turned the writers into drug dealers. People gets hooked by the intricate plot lines, and when the audience can't afford to miss a single episode, advertisers will pay big bucks. It's brilliant, really.

At least, it's brilliant until the dealers go on strike. Do they really think that people are going to pound on the networks' doors until the producers cave? These are the same people that sit like zombies 3 hours a night, every night.

The people will find something else to do that involves less work than voicing their opinions. They'll read books. They'll go to the gym. Okay, they'll probably just play video games. In any event, when the strike finally ends, no one will remember why they cared about Greg House, M.D., let alone Charlie Crews or Ned the Piemaker.

When the users go to rehab, the dealers are screwed.

So here's the thing, writers of WGA: You're expendable. Your product just isn't addictive enough. You deserve more money, but this strike is going to screw you, along with everyone else in your industry. I hope you're happy. Lord knows the people at Nintendo must be.

Blog by Proxy

One of my best friends has a mediocre blog. Sometimes he waxes eloquent, and sometimes he posts under the assumption that people want to read his gym schedule.

Mark's my friend, and I read every word of it.

I also spoke with him every day via the interwebs, or by phone if necessary. More often than not, the conversations were less about substance and more about pun-based oneupmanship. Still, it was a very comfortable routine.

Now Mark is in boot camp, en route to a commission in the United States Armed Forces. Instead of debating politics with me, he's crawling under barbed wire. Instead of commiserating about the womens, he's rappelling down 5-story walls. It is with the utmost selfishness that I say, I want my friend back!

Fortunately, the Army frowns upon blogging in one's free time. Mark's clever workaround is to pen letters to me, which I then post to his blog. Not only does this keep me appraised of my friend's progress, but it also lets him continue his very-therapeutic blog authorship. In fact, I'll go so far as to say that the quality of his blog has increased substantially now that he's going on daily adventures.

You should read it...
www.unlikelysoldier.blogspot.com

In Response to Last Thursday

Like all college students, I've seen some crazy things in my day. I watched a group of freshmen tolerate being hazed by a fraternity, because they didn't realize that they could say "I don't want to run until I vomit". I heard the periodic thuds and subsequent laughter of hard hat-wearing men sprinting head-first into a door, because everyone else was doing it. I was one of a dozen students who spent 16 hours deriving the equations for fluid flow through a rectangular tube, because we didn't realize that the highest possible score on the assignment was a "check-plus".

We're idiots. Fortunately, we're supposed to be idiots; school molds us into a state of cultivation and enlightenment, but even the most refined sculpture starts off as a hormonal, Wikipedia-citing lump of clay.

Being a group setting can lead to a backslide, and we revert to the adolescent indulgence of bad ideas that we thought we'd left behind. Some call it groupthink. Some call it mob mentality. I call it college.

In the right context, the group effect can be a fantastic asset. Struggling for that sense of inclusion with academically gifted classmates can force a student to raise their game significantly. Moreover, the lunacy of late nights in Brooklyn, elaborate pranks on housemates, and unplanned interstate roadtrips will inject some much-needed adventure into a comfortably bland lifestyle.

However, there is one product of collegiate groupthink that stands out as uniquely stupid. It is so unpleasant, so undesirable, that it simply defies understanding. Nevertheless, it is widespread, it is accepted, and in most cases it is gleefully facilitated. I am referring, of course, to the 21st Birthday Binge.

By no means am I a prohibitionist. I think that alcohol is a terrific social lubricant, and it's a well-established fact that beer is delicious. In fact, I'd describe myself as the opposite of a prohibitionist. I guess I'm a conhibitionist.

For one thing, I am a big fan of individual freedom. People should have the choice of how much to drink, and how often. And they do! Well done, constitution. This works out exactly as you'd expect: those that limit their drinking tend to excel, and those that go on benders generally handicap themselves - it's hard enough to study Biochemistry, let alone with a hangover. It's a sort of self-imposed Social Darwinism.

If I was some sort of politician, which I thank my lucky stars is not the case, I would be a proponent of lowering the drinking age. If someone tells you that the law prevents anyone from underage drinking, slap them in their lying mouth. All the law succeeds in doing is the promotion of binging - you never know when you'll be caught, so you have to get while the gettin's good. It doesn't teach responsible drinking, it teaches intoxication optimization.

This lesson is well-learned by the time Joe Undergrad reaches his 21st birthday. The result is not surprising: 21st birthday parties are inevitably shit-shows. They start off innocently enough, with a round of shots here, a round of drinks there. It's fun to drink with a group of friends.

It is when the Birthday Boy's friends enable the overindulgence in potent potables that the evening goes South. It's fun to drink together, but is it more fun when one member of the group is pushed too far? "It's okay, it's his 21st, everyone gets blitzed on their 21st". True, but why?

There is a subtle turning point in the party, after which the Birthday Boy is no longer really in control. He's having a great time, and there's just not enough processing power left in his booze-addled brain to predict the consequences of drinking more. Still, the friends keep buying shots. It's a party! It's his birthday! Celebrate! This, my friends, is decision-making time. Do you keep buying drinks, or do you cut him off? The latter decision is rare indeed.

The onset of nausea is sudden and severe. We've all been there, so I won't bother describing it. What is interesting is the behavior of all of the partygoers, who now treat the poor Birthday Boy like he's radioactive. It might be the greenish pallor of his cheeks that makes him look like he's bathed in uranium, or it might be his unsteady stance that sends a visual warning to keep away.

What happens next is unpleasant, to say the least. The 21st Birthday Binge gives way to a scramble for the nearest toilet, garbage, or bush. Soon, the poor kid doesn't care where he's puking, just so long as the fire in his stomach subsides. The sounds he makes would fit well in a horror movie. Dinner goes everywhere.

If he's lucky, he'll have a friend to carry him to a couch. The party will continue, because nobody wants to leave the comfort of the group. He's 21, and this is what happens when you turn 21. He'll be fine.

Why does this have to happen? Why do we push our friends past their limits? I think it's a sense of friendship, of magnanimity... and it's just easier to ignore the consequences.

In fact, there aren't actually any consequences. The party always continues uninterrupted, assuming the regurgitation took place elsewhere. The new 21 year old is too drunk to recall any of his misery, having blacked out while still the life of the party, and will remember the evening fondly after the hangover subsides. The only real loser of the evening is the stupid doormat who helped the Birthday Boy out.

Confessions of a Party Pooper

I don't like Halloween.

There, I said it.

Cobbling together costume that involves growing a beard and using clothes I already own is the limit of my "holiday" spirit.

Two years ago, I dressed as one of the more popular professors in the department. I wore torn shorts, a dress shirt, and a beard.

Last year, I was running a costume contest at a party, so the bar was set a little higher. I went as one of my labmates, wearing a red hoodie, shorts, mismatched socks, and a wig to complete the illusion.
The contest involved a prize: an Ipod.
This year, I went as Ryan from The Office, which means I wore a jacket and a beard. To do anything more, on a day that celebrates girls dressed like prostitutes and guys dressed like girls, seems silly. It's a holiday of hiding... and I'm far too awesome to hide.

Bah, humbug.

Guest Lecture

Before leaving for a conference, my adviser asked me to guest-lecture for his undergraduate course on Prosthetic Devices. I was excited. As much as I enjoy lecturing, there's no doubt that I have room for improvement, and opportunities to practice are few and far between.


I've given 15-minute presentations at conferences, and I've spoken for 90 minutes to high schoolers. This would be my first lecture to a highly trained, albeit inexpert, audience. Worse, these were undergrads, a species notorious for apathy, inattention, and an aversion to personal hygeine. As I said, I was excited, much in the way that one gets excited before a safari or a bungee jump.

Oh, and my adviser had told the students that nothing I said would be on the test. So I had that going for me.

It's been six and a half years since I graduated from high school. I'm in my thirteenth semester of heartbreakingly boring lectures given by mind-numblingly monotonous speakers. I may not be the best thing to happen to lecterns since Winston Churchill, but I've seen what it takes to be the worst, and I recognize how to avoid the pitfalls.

We've all had that professor whose idea of oration involves Powerpoint slides with too much text, all of which he drones, word for word. This professor often assumes that his audience is well-enough versed in the basics that can dive right into the big words. He always has one more slide than can fit in the allotted time, so he never stops to breathe, let alone allow questions.

I hate that professor. Don't be that professor.

The best speakers, in my not-even-a-little-bit-humble opinion, are the ones who are excited about material, or at least know how to fake it. They vary their pitch in a way that conveys emotion (gasp!), they pause after important points (wow!), and they even crack the occasional joke (heaven forbid!!!).

A good lecture isn't a public reading of a research paper; it's a play. It's a a one-man show, a long, passionate monologue. The audience may not be moved, but they should at least be budged.

Before my lecture, a well-wisher said "break a leg". How odd, to say such a thing to a lecturer! It fits my philosophy, though, doesn't it?

I put on a show, too. For example, it started as follows: "This lecture is titled Upper Extremity Prostheses, but only because it seemed wildly inappropriate to call it The Sound of One Hand Clapping". That wasn't the last of my jokes, nor was it the most offensive. They ate it up.

There were about a dozen powerpoint slides that I'd prepared, with demonstrative graphs and a video for good measure. The file was on a flash drive, which was in my pocket. On a whim, I did the entire lecture from an outline, using a whiteboard and markers.

That's how good I am.

Next time I'm giving a lecture, you'd better be there at the end with a standing ovation and maybe a bouquet. I promise you, I will break a leg, in the sense that I'll be taking a deep, grandiose, Victorian-era bow. It'll be awesome.