Somebody find me a mashup of Dark Knight scenes with video from the 1966 Batman.
Chop chop.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
On Wielding a Plastic Butter Knife
Rutgers cyclists, when riding the roads around Rutgers University, often wear Rutgers Cycling shorts and jerseys, which are adorned with Rutgers insignia such as Rutgers Athletics' Big Block R.
We are recognizable.
Knowing this, and knowing that it would only take one angry phone call from an overzealous driver to convince Rutgers to decimate the team, we follow very strict rules of road etiquette.
For example, we don't run red lights or stop signs ... or at least, we only do so with very rare and 100% safe exceptions.
Also, we stay as far to the right as possible... unless we're attacking or we just feel like riding 2-abreast.
Okay, forget those. We mostly try to be good "ambassadors" with regard to the rules of the road, but sometimes pragmatism trumps our desire to promote the image of "Rutgers Cycling: Law Abiding Citizens".
The one rule that I've never seen a Rutgers Cyclist break isn't even a law, at least not outside of our team's guidelines (and the FCC rulebook, I guess). That rule is: NO MIDDLE FINGERS.
[Confession: I broke that rule last night, rolling around on my bike as Jay pulled into the parking lot, 40 minutes late. I flipped Jay the bird].
Sometimes cars do insanely stupid things, which is something over which we lycra-lovers have no control. Unlike the drivers, our vehicles lack the horns to voice our disapproval (well, some have little bells and are silly). In lieu honking, some hotheaded cyclists will give the ol' one-finger salute.
The very same discrepancies that makes drivers so dangerous are what make middle-finger retaliations so unbearably stupid. They are inside GIANT METAL WEAPONS. We are wearing COLORFUL SPANDEX. A simple touch of their brakes could put us in the hospital without so much as denting the fender of their rusted 1992 Tercel.
There's a questionnaire floating around the blogosphere. One of its questions is:
You’re riding your bike in the wilderness and you see a bear. The bear sees you. What do you do?"
Here's one answer that comes to mind. DON'T POKE THE BEAR!!! Freakin ijjits.
Still, the adrenaline surge that follows an encounter with World's Worst Driver hopefuls is hard to suppress. A deep breath sometimes suffices. In really bad cases, I'll go so far as to let out a scream, a deep howl that starts somewhere in the diaphragm region and even surprises me.
Mostly, I like to go with the "Look of Incredulity". It can be as little as a look of hurt confusion on my face, but usually I try to throw in an upturned palm gesture.
It looks something like this:
This time-wasting illustration was
TOTALLY WORTH IT
We are recognizable.
Knowing this, and knowing that it would only take one angry phone call from an overzealous driver to convince Rutgers to decimate the team, we follow very strict rules of road etiquette.
For example, we don't run red lights or stop signs ... or at least, we only do so with very rare and 100% safe exceptions.
Also, we stay as far to the right as possible... unless we're attacking or we just feel like riding 2-abreast.
Okay, forget those. We mostly try to be good "ambassadors" with regard to the rules of the road, but sometimes pragmatism trumps our desire to promote the image of "Rutgers Cycling: Law Abiding Citizens".
The one rule that I've never seen a Rutgers Cyclist break isn't even a law, at least not outside of our team's guidelines (and the FCC rulebook, I guess). That rule is: NO MIDDLE FINGERS.
[Confession: I broke that rule last night, rolling around on my bike as Jay pulled into the parking lot, 40 minutes late. I flipped Jay the bird].
Sometimes cars do insanely stupid things, which is something over which we lycra-lovers have no control. Unlike the drivers, our vehicles lack the horns to voice our disapproval (well, some have little bells and are silly). In lieu honking, some hotheaded cyclists will give the ol' one-finger salute.
The very same discrepancies that makes drivers so dangerous are what make middle-finger retaliations so unbearably stupid. They are inside GIANT METAL WEAPONS. We are wearing COLORFUL SPANDEX. A simple touch of their brakes could put us in the hospital without so much as denting the fender of their rusted 1992 Tercel.
There's a questionnaire floating around the blogosphere. One of its questions is:
You’re riding your bike in the wilderness and you see a bear. The bear sees you. What do you do?"
Here's one answer that comes to mind. DON'T POKE THE BEAR!!! Freakin ijjits.
Still, the adrenaline surge that follows an encounter with World's Worst Driver hopefuls is hard to suppress. A deep breath sometimes suffices. In really bad cases, I'll go so far as to let out a scream, a deep howl that starts somewhere in the diaphragm region and even surprises me.
Mostly, I like to go with the "Look of Incredulity". It can be as little as a look of hurt confusion on my face, but usually I try to throw in an upturned palm gesture.
It looks something like this:
This time-wasting illustration wasTOTALLY WORTH IT
I like to think that our self-censoring replacement of the Enraged Middle Finger with the Look of Incredulity actually makes our complaints more effective. Drivers, especially stereotypical NJ drivers (with their greasy hair and mob connections and inability to properly pronounce words like "coffee") are probably desensitized to the middle finger. I like to think that a look of hurt confusion and an upturned palm gesture cut through the apathy.
This presumes that the drivers look in their rearview mirrors after passing. And that I'm close enough when they glance to have a visible facial expression. And that there is even the slightest shred of humanity behind those anonymous tinted windows.
So yes, this gesture is as good as bringing a plastic butter knife to a gun fight. On the other hand, though, in a melee full of guns, you know who's gonna get shot last, if at all? The one with the plastic butter knife who's cowering under a table.
UPDATE: Oh holy crap, I've actually found a picture of the Look of Incredulity. Kinda.
This presumes that the drivers look in their rearview mirrors after passing. And that I'm close enough when they glance to have a visible facial expression. And that there is even the slightest shred of humanity behind those anonymous tinted windows.
So yes, this gesture is as good as bringing a plastic butter knife to a gun fight. On the other hand, though, in a melee full of guns, you know who's gonna get shot last, if at all? The one with the plastic butter knife who's cowering under a table.
UPDATE: Oh holy crap, I've actually found a picture of the Look of Incredulity. Kinda.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Very Important Business Meeting
I have a casual meeting today tomorrow with a professor. I'm going to show him what my research looks like, with a brief rundown of the deliverables and the results so far. Relatively simple stuff, but I'm taking it pretty seriously.
This is the sort of meeting you want to knock out of the park. The underlying motive here is "get the professor to sit on my committee", which means I need to convince him that I'm not worthless.
Will is therefore not invited to this meeting.
If the professor is unimpressed, it's not the end of the world. There are plenty of fish in the sea, if by fish we mean tenured professors with reputable contacts throughout academia. It wouldn't be the end of the world to be denied... but in a way, it would be the beginning if I wasn't.
Big things are heading this way, here in the world of the ninja that is Don. It's and exciting and scary and nauseatingly important summer for me... so, enough writing about it. Time now to go over the slides again.
This is the sort of meeting you want to knock out of the park. The underlying motive here is "get the professor to sit on my committee", which means I need to convince him that I'm not worthless.
Will is therefore not invited to this meeting.
If the professor is unimpressed, it's not the end of the world. There are plenty of fish in the sea, if by fish we mean tenured professors with reputable contacts throughout academia. It wouldn't be the end of the world to be denied... but in a way, it would be the beginning if I wasn't.
Big things are heading this way, here in the world of the ninja that is Don. It's and exciting and scary and nauseatingly important summer for me... so, enough writing about it. Time now to go over the slides again.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Why would someone want to miss?
Maybe this story starts on Saturday evening, when I wandered around the college-town neighborhoods in New Brunswick looking for a street I'd never heard of.
Maybe this story starts on Friday, when Jay convinced me to venture out to the bars with his Johnson and Johnson friends. I still have yet to enjoy an evening with Johnson and Johnson. Ever. After an hour with them, we went to Harvest Moon and made some friends, one of whom had a party in a house on the street I'd never heard of.
There's a hole, there's a hole, there's a hole in the bottom of the sea.
Whatever. My brother and I walked into a house full of stangers. Four hours later, we stumbled back towards Highland Park (by way of some late-night pizzeria or other).
What happened in between was just dandy. Dandy is how I would best describe it. Splendid?
That was stupid, so I'll try again. The point is, I could say that the party itself was pretty average - some music, some beer, some pong... but that wouldn't be fair.
The music was from a series of live bands in the attic. (Also there was a weird metalhead with a mandolin). The beer flowed freely, and for free, from a keg... and it wasn't terrible! The pong was great, mostly because we were unstoppable.
Ben and I have now played beer pong together on two separate occasions. Our lifetime record is something like 10-2. The only defeat at this weekend came in double-overtime.
As FatMarc pointed out, beer pong is like softball, but with slightly less running around. A win in beer pong is nothing to get excited about, it is not exactly the pinnacle of sport. (Older Phi Psis will recall the summer epics between Brendan, Ed, and Rob the Deke, which ended around sunrise and often involved difficulty standing and uncanny, near-miraculous accuracy).
It feels good to win, certainly. It feels better to be those guys. You know those guys. The guys at the party that nobody knows, but who seem to know everybody. Listen, neither my brother nor I are particularly charismatic, maybe (maybe) slightly above average. Put us together, though, and we somehow transform into those guys.
It's one thing to have an opponent rib you - in good spirits, of course - for missing a shot. It's another to be flooded by trash-talk - in good spirits, of course - so densely packed that you can't get a word in edgewise.
At one point, we spent about a minute riffing on the theme of "why would someone want to miss?" Goddamn, we are those guys.
Coincidentally, you know what's great? Being the only two people at a party who speak Hebrew. It's like being Windtalkers or something.
Moral of the story: I should crash more parties. But probably with my brother.
Maybe this story starts on Friday, when Jay convinced me to venture out to the bars with his Johnson and Johnson friends. I still have yet to enjoy an evening with Johnson and Johnson. Ever. After an hour with them, we went to Harvest Moon and made some friends, one of whom had a party in a house on the street I'd never heard of.
There's a hole, there's a hole, there's a hole in the bottom of the sea.
Whatever. My brother and I walked into a house full of stangers. Four hours later, we stumbled back towards Highland Park (by way of some late-night pizzeria or other).
What happened in between was just dandy. Dandy is how I would best describe it. Splendid?
That was stupid, so I'll try again. The point is, I could say that the party itself was pretty average - some music, some beer, some pong... but that wouldn't be fair.
The music was from a series of live bands in the attic. (Also there was a weird metalhead with a mandolin). The beer flowed freely, and for free, from a keg... and it wasn't terrible! The pong was great, mostly because we were unstoppable.
Ben and I have now played beer pong together on two separate occasions. Our lifetime record is something like 10-2. The only defeat at this weekend came in double-overtime.
As FatMarc pointed out, beer pong is like softball, but with slightly less running around. A win in beer pong is nothing to get excited about, it is not exactly the pinnacle of sport. (Older Phi Psis will recall the summer epics between Brendan, Ed, and Rob the Deke, which ended around sunrise and often involved difficulty standing and uncanny, near-miraculous accuracy).
It feels good to win, certainly. It feels better to be those guys. You know those guys. The guys at the party that nobody knows, but who seem to know everybody. Listen, neither my brother nor I are particularly charismatic, maybe (maybe) slightly above average. Put us together, though, and we somehow transform into those guys.
It's one thing to have an opponent rib you - in good spirits, of course - for missing a shot. It's another to be flooded by trash-talk - in good spirits, of course - so densely packed that you can't get a word in edgewise.
At one point, we spent about a minute riffing on the theme of "why would someone want to miss?" Goddamn, we are those guys.
Coincidentally, you know what's great? Being the only two people at a party who speak Hebrew. It's like being Windtalkers or something.
Moral of the story: I should crash more parties. But probably with my brother.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Uncomfortable - DELETED
I wrote a whole long post, but then I realized it was terrible. I went on a long bike ride on Saturday. Things happened. A blog post about these things would inevitably be lame.
Consider yourselves spared.
Consider yourselves spared.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Post from an Alternate Timeline
Man oh man, it was hot yesterday. Standing in the outfield, baking in the sun, with gnats swarming around me. If I didn't love this sport so much, it might've even been unpleasant.
Softball is the best sport in the world, truly the game of champions. It's like baseball, but without the fans. It's a cute pastime that the kids do for fun, but when you reach a certain age, it takes on an importance that is derived not from winning or losing, but from the competition itself.
What can I say, softball has gotten under my skin. I read all the softball websites, I let softball analogies work their way into my daily conversations, I even occasionally dream about softball. My boss doesn't get it, and I don't think any of my non-softball friends really get it, but I love it.
We're doing okay this season. I'm pretty damn mediocre, no matter how much time I spend in the batting cages. It sucks. I want to win!
All the weight I've put on over the past few years doesn't help, but it sure doesn't hurt. Maybe I can't run the bases as fast as I used to, but damned if it's not easier to put some distance in my hits. Having a little meat on my bones is probably healthier, anyway. A bit of belly is a small enough price to pay for all the beer I've consumed over the years.
Oooh, and it's Thursday today. That means it's Bar Trivia night at the Golden Rail! Cheap beer, easy girls, and Trivia competition, here I come!
So, you know what's awesome? My goatee. I think that without it, I'd look like some sort of Mirror-Mirror version of myself. Kinda weak.
Goatees... all the cool kids have 'em
Life is good, my dear audience. I've found a sport I love, and I have my dream career. Being a Widget Engineer for Spacely's Sprocket Co. is the best job a man could ask for. As long as I install enough widgets every day, nobody bothers me or asks questions, and that's just great.
It's weird, though... occasionally I have these ideas out of nowhere, and they consume me. The other day, for example, I was wondering if maybe there's some way to quantify the mechanics of how I swing a bat, to compare me to better batters. And last week, it occurred to me that a fielder predicts the trajectory of a ball in flight too fast for the brain to be the primary processor. I feel like maybe there's a body of research on this sort of stuff, like maybe I'd be really interested in it, in research itself...
Thoughts like that aren't easily shaken. So I drink a lot of beer, and that shuts 'em up but good.
Softball is the best sport in the world, truly the game of champions. It's like baseball, but without the fans. It's a cute pastime that the kids do for fun, but when you reach a certain age, it takes on an importance that is derived not from winning or losing, but from the competition itself.
What can I say, softball has gotten under my skin. I read all the softball websites, I let softball analogies work their way into my daily conversations, I even occasionally dream about softball. My boss doesn't get it, and I don't think any of my non-softball friends really get it, but I love it.
We're doing okay this season. I'm pretty damn mediocre, no matter how much time I spend in the batting cages. It sucks. I want to win!
All the weight I've put on over the past few years doesn't help, but it sure doesn't hurt. Maybe I can't run the bases as fast as I used to, but damned if it's not easier to put some distance in my hits. Having a little meat on my bones is probably healthier, anyway. A bit of belly is a small enough price to pay for all the beer I've consumed over the years.
Oooh, and it's Thursday today. That means it's Bar Trivia night at the Golden Rail! Cheap beer, easy girls, and Trivia competition, here I come!
So, you know what's awesome? My goatee. I think that without it, I'd look like some sort of Mirror-Mirror version of myself. Kinda weak.
Goatees... all the cool kids have 'emIt's weird, though... occasionally I have these ideas out of nowhere, and they consume me. The other day, for example, I was wondering if maybe there's some way to quantify the mechanics of how I swing a bat, to compare me to better batters. And last week, it occurred to me that a fielder predicts the trajectory of a ball in flight too fast for the brain to be the primary processor. I feel like maybe there's a body of research on this sort of stuff, like maybe I'd be really interested in it, in research itself...
Thoughts like that aren't easily shaken. So I drink a lot of beer, and that shuts 'em up but good.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Before Al Gore, there was a more elegant solution
No more pollution
No more car exhaust
Or ocean dumpage
From now on, we will travel in tubes!
Get the scientists working on the tube technology immediately.
No more car exhaust
Or ocean dumpage
From now on, we will travel in tubes!
Get the scientists working on the tube technology immediately.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Bicycles and Heartbreak
Ricardo Ricco got caught doping. The cycling world is angry at Ricco, and for good reason. His wins in the Tour have been impressive, even heroic. And now it turns out that they were fake.
I should be heartbroken. On Sunday, Jay and I were sitting at the bar, re-watching Stage 9. We watched Ricco charge away from the field on his way to a dominant stage win, and we dismissed the rumors of doping. "It doesn't make sense to chase him, he's too far down in the standings, the finish is downhill, they're saving up for tomorrow".
What wasn't being said was how Ricco had just turned himself into an idol. I could see myself jumping away from the 4/5 field in my next race, charging to a glorious solo victory. It could happen! Ricco had shown the way!
I think I should be heartbroken.
After watching today's stage, I drove to the Cognitive Rehabilitation Hospital where I do my research. The therapists and I went over a list of subjects with whom I'll be working next week. It's a long list. Say hello, statistical significance.
"Hello, statistical significance!"
Oh, statistical significance, you're so funny and awesome.
Of course, these people wouldn't be my subjects if they didn't need rehabilitation. All of them have been in horrific accidents, and as a result, large sections of their brains are dead.
One subject, with whom I spent only a few minutes, absolutely knocked me over with her story. She'd been riding a bicycle, just cruising around, and in a moment of panic she forgot how to use her brakes. Now she needs frequent hospital visits, without which she can't use her hands normally.
Okay, it's official. Now I'm heartbroken.
Yesterday, I spent a few hours chasing Charlie around Chimney Rock, trusting that my tires would find some traction on the wild, rocky descents.
But it's okay, I had styrofoam on my head.
I don't know how doctors do this. Or nurses. Or even special ed teachers. To constantly face the reality of life's horrible risks, every day. To know how easily it could be you. I just don't know how they do it.
I should be heartbroken. On Sunday, Jay and I were sitting at the bar, re-watching Stage 9. We watched Ricco charge away from the field on his way to a dominant stage win, and we dismissed the rumors of doping. "It doesn't make sense to chase him, he's too far down in the standings, the finish is downhill, they're saving up for tomorrow".
What wasn't being said was how Ricco had just turned himself into an idol. I could see myself jumping away from the 4/5 field in my next race, charging to a glorious solo victory. It could happen! Ricco had shown the way!
I think I should be heartbroken.
After watching today's stage, I drove to the Cognitive Rehabilitation Hospital where I do my research. The therapists and I went over a list of subjects with whom I'll be working next week. It's a long list. Say hello, statistical significance.
"Hello, statistical significance!"
Oh, statistical significance, you're so funny and awesome.
Of course, these people wouldn't be my subjects if they didn't need rehabilitation. All of them have been in horrific accidents, and as a result, large sections of their brains are dead.
One subject, with whom I spent only a few minutes, absolutely knocked me over with her story. She'd been riding a bicycle, just cruising around, and in a moment of panic she forgot how to use her brakes. Now she needs frequent hospital visits, without which she can't use her hands normally.
Okay, it's official. Now I'm heartbroken.
Yesterday, I spent a few hours chasing Charlie around Chimney Rock, trusting that my tires would find some traction on the wild, rocky descents.
But it's okay, I had styrofoam on my head.
I don't know how doctors do this. Or nurses. Or even special ed teachers. To constantly face the reality of life's horrible risks, every day. To know how easily it could be you. I just don't know how they do it.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Escape of the Monster
I've decided that I do not like turtles.
People don't seem to grasp the freakiness of the monster in the basement. My previous post includes one poorly focused photo and some unnecessarily bombastic prose. Neither of which do Grendel any justice.
So let's give some perspective.
Here is Grendel next to deck of playing cards. He's not huge (yet)... but he's big.
I managed to get a video of Grendel escaping from his tank. As soon as he sees me, he freezes (as happens at :08 in the following video), so I haven't been able to record a successful jailbreak. Generally, he flips over the lip of the tank, lands on his back, and immediately reorients himself with a violent jerk.
Once Grendel's out, he wanders around in search of a hiding place. It'd be cute, if it wasn't so annoying - simple tasks like doing laundry or fetching a bike come with an adrenaline rush when accompanied by the surprising discovery of a monster on the loose.
Cute, see?
Of course, he can't stay out of the water too long, because he'll dry out and die. So we have to put him back in his tank. Being suicidal, he climbs out about 4 or 5 times a day and resists our attempts to return him.
Here's how he reacts to contact. All I'm doing is putting a little pressure on his back. He does not enjoy it.
You may be asking "holy hell, did that turtle just jump?" Yes he did. Didn't know turtles could do that, did you?
So we (and by we, I mean Aaron or I, because Karen's not quite comfortable with the monster) pick him up before he can jump. He'll hiss a bit, but that's more bark than bite. His next line of defense consists of the claws on his legs. They aren't razor sharp, but they're sharp enough.
If you don't pick him up properly, if you leave any room between your pinkies and the shell, he'll dig his hind legs' claws into your palms. Observe:
(warning - I curse a little bit)
But doing this four or five times a day, one eventually becomes quite proficient - both at returning Grendel to his tank and at unleashing a string of expletives at the thought of losing a finger.
(don't worry, no expletives in this video)
Notice in this last video how there's a gap in the fence. It's fixed now, so at least he can't wander around the basement.
We think we know why he wants to escape - it's something to do with the lack of hiding places in his habitat - and we're going to fix it. To be perfectly honest, though, I'll be disappointed if his jailbreaks stop completely. Sure it'd be nice to not have to handle a monster every couple of hours, but at least that gives me some sort of interaction with him.
Grendel's not exactly a cuddly pet, you know? Can't quite play fetch with him, either.
Oh, and get this... Grendel might actually be a she-turtle. There's just no way of knowing until it hits puberty, which has not happened yet. So I might have to stop calling it a "son of a bitch", and just stick with "bitch". For accuracy's sake.
People don't seem to grasp the freakiness of the monster in the basement. My previous post includes one poorly focused photo and some unnecessarily bombastic prose. Neither of which do Grendel any justice.
So let's give some perspective.
Here is Grendel next to deck of playing cards. He's not huge (yet)... but he's big.
I managed to get a video of Grendel escaping from his tank. As soon as he sees me, he freezes (as happens at :08 in the following video), so I haven't been able to record a successful jailbreak. Generally, he flips over the lip of the tank, lands on his back, and immediately reorients himself with a violent jerk.
Once Grendel's out, he wanders around in search of a hiding place. It'd be cute, if it wasn't so annoying - simple tasks like doing laundry or fetching a bike come with an adrenaline rush when accompanied by the surprising discovery of a monster on the loose.
Of course, he can't stay out of the water too long, because he'll dry out and die. So we have to put him back in his tank. Being suicidal, he climbs out about 4 or 5 times a day and resists our attempts to return him.
Here's how he reacts to contact. All I'm doing is putting a little pressure on his back. He does not enjoy it.
So we (and by we, I mean Aaron or I, because Karen's not quite comfortable with the monster) pick him up before he can jump. He'll hiss a bit, but that's more bark than bite. His next line of defense consists of the claws on his legs. They aren't razor sharp, but they're sharp enough.
If you don't pick him up properly, if you leave any room between your pinkies and the shell, he'll dig his hind legs' claws into your palms. Observe:
(warning - I curse a little bit)
But doing this four or five times a day, one eventually becomes quite proficient - both at returning Grendel to his tank and at unleashing a string of expletives at the thought of losing a finger.
(don't worry, no expletives in this video)
Notice in this last video how there's a gap in the fence. It's fixed now, so at least he can't wander around the basement.
We think we know why he wants to escape - it's something to do with the lack of hiding places in his habitat - and we're going to fix it. To be perfectly honest, though, I'll be disappointed if his jailbreaks stop completely. Sure it'd be nice to not have to handle a monster every couple of hours, but at least that gives me some sort of interaction with him.
Grendel's not exactly a cuddly pet, you know? Can't quite play fetch with him, either.
Oh, and get this... Grendel might actually be a she-turtle. There's just no way of knowing until it hits puberty, which has not happened yet. So I might have to stop calling it a "son of a bitch", and just stick with "bitch". For accuracy's sake.
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