Daily Record of the Most Boringest Life on Earth

Life's Lesions

2009-07-26T15:39:00.000-07:00

Reprimand
During one game of "ball tag" in fourth grade, I threw a 2' diameter rubber ball at my friend Juan. It impacted him square in the chest. He fell 5 feet and landed on his ass. Juan fell from the playground structure that the "not-it" players used for cover. Obviously, the only times we could engage in this game was when the recess-lady wasn't looking. So, when Juan--humiliated and being the sore loser I did not yet know he was--ran up to me and kicked me in the shin, there was no adult around to break up our soon-to-follow altercation. In each other's face and hurling threats back and forth, the bell rang before we could make good on them.

Juan decided to continue the spectacle in class. The substitute that day sent us both to the principal's office where we were both suspended. Last I saw Juan, he had just gotten jumped into his gang, following his expulsion from junior high.

A Close Call
Growing up in a town seething with homophobia, I heard the word "fag" often from any early age onward. Apparently, slurs are not something covered in 7th grade sex ed., because by that time I had only a vague idea of what the term actually meant. Though based on the reactions the term elicited from those called it, I knew it was derogatory.

Waiting in the hall to be let into math class, I decided to experiment with the term myself. David, a classmate of mine who had always been kind to me, had been called "fag" often. I figured: "What was the harm if I did it too?"

So I did.

This angered our mutual friend Ari, who consequently ran up to my desk and tipped it over with me in it. Mr. Moore, without so much as blip in blood pressure, promptly escorted Ari and I to the principal's office. This time I was not suspended. However Mr. McDougal did an excellent job of making me realize what an asshole I had been.

Scott-free
Mr. Hanks was an important man at Woodland Senior High School. He was 6'5" of Nebraska corn-fed muscle that commanded Woodland's varsity football team. When he stood raising his fist at school pep-rallies, he resembled a Mortal Kombat character who just performed his signature Fatality™.

Unfortunately, Mr. Hanks' talent for coaching had not yet bled into his capacity for teaching. My senior year, he was charged the painful task of teaching AP US Government/Economics to us "Gifted and Talented" smart asses--the vast majority of whom did not appreciate football or foster school spirit.

Near the end of the year, Mr. Hanks split the class into halves: buyers and sellers. For a week, students, depending on their randomly-assigned role, would either buy or sell stocks (actually scraps of paper with monetary values written on them). I was a buyer...and I sucked at it. My apathetic ass always trailed the class with the least profits.

Bored, and having just read Germinal and The Grapes of Wrath, I decided to add some reality into Hanks' ivory-tower simulation by doing what all good Americans do: buy more than I could actually afford. Needless to say, for that last open market, I was hugely popular. To get my attention, my classmate Jamie positioned her "nannies" (see: glossary, A Clockwork Orange) right in my face.

It was glorious.

Mr. Hanks was not amused. I had thoroughly fucked his market trend and his entire simulated economy...single-handed. If you're reading Mr. Hanks, thank for not sending me to the principal's office as I deserved, and thank you for exposing my talent for fucking with shit (i.e. scientific investigation).

Familial Lore

2009-07-11T11:05:00.000-07:00

Goat Racism

A couple of months ago, my aunt was offered early retirement from her 25+ year tenure as assistant district attorney for Yolo County, CA. She accepted.

Dogs, horses, pigs, steers, turtles, sheep, cats, iguanas comprise the set of pet varieties my aunt has tended in her life. With the sudden abundance of time her retirement affords, not only did she sew five bridesmaid dresses for her daughter's wedding, she also delivered three kids, the product of her latest pet project, goats. She did not expect to do this. She was careful to pen Billies and nannies separately. But as Spielberg-instructed Jeff Goldblum hammily said: "nature always finds a way..."

As best as she can figure, rutting billy-goat of breed A maneuvered into the pen of breed B does, and the pasture shook. Three half-breed offspring were conceived and carried to term.

Sadly, shortly after their birth, mamma-goat, failing to recognize her kids, withheld her milk from them. One baby goat died.

My aunt now spends here mornings and evenings bottle-feeding the two unfortunate beings; victims of racial discrimination.

Seeds of Animosity

My father and my great uncle Pep (see: Epic) never got along. Whenever I asked why, dad only replied with vague, unsubstantiated descriptions of Pep's occasional idiosyncrasies --never any specifics. This past weekend he finally let one slip.

Drilling is the act of driving many tons of steel pipe hundreds of feet into the ground while simultaneously removing the displaced clay, sand and gravel "cuttings". Occasionally, if drilling is hurried, the hole can cave in around the drill pipe. When this happens, the rig cannot generate sufficient upward force to dislodge the stuck pipe (called "tools"). Drillers, reluctantly, must drop explosives down the hole to break free as much of the tens of thousands of dollars worth of tools as they can salvage.

If one is born male in my family, one necessarily spends time in "the Gulag" (i.e. working 12 hour shifts on drilling rigs) at some point in one's life. It's our rite of passage. While some Eaton males, myself included, have managed to escape, my dad, my grandfather and my great uncle Pep were not so fortunate--drilling is/was life for them.

Not only did the Z-boys of Dogtown prosper during the drought of '77, so did the family drilling company. That year, California farmers near and far demanded more water wells than the business could produce. To keep up with demand, drilling was hurried. And during one job, the frenzied pace likely caused a cave in of legendary proportions. Explosives were required.

Because both my grandpa and my dad lacked the guts to even get near nitroglycerin; purchasing and handling of explosive charges laid in the (assumed) capable hands of Pep. Now Pep was a smart man; he usually did things right. In 1977, terrorism must have been as foreign a concept as equal rights for homosexuals because Pep purchased a crate of TNT wholesale with not so much as a driver's license.

Pep dropped charges down the hole and managed to salvage some of the tools.

Fast forward to 1982. One morning, en route to preschool in a beat up pickup truck typical of the company's fleet, dad opened the glove compartment and discovered two, long-forgotten sticks of dynamite laying in wait for a sufficient jolt to awaken them.

When dad furiously relayed his discovery to Pep, Pep replied: "take it easy, they're pretty safe without the blasting caps..."

What a Tangled Conceptual Web My Mind Weaves

Speaking of preschool and goats. Next-door neighbors to my preschool would sacrifice the occasional goat in their backyard. Only a thin wire fence separated our play area from their ritual. According to my mom, after the first bloodletting any hint of goat plus ax would be grounds for immediate indoor story-time.

Wimpy Christians.

Science: A 100% Social Construct?

2009-06-13T12:32:00.000-07:00

What follows is a brief except from Explaining Science, Ronald N. Giere, University of Chicago Press, Chicago 1988, pg 4.

The Social Construction of Scientific Knowledge

Versions of this subheading now appear regularly on the covers of books in the sociology, or the sociological history, of science (Latour and Woolgar 1979; MacKenzie 1981). Science, like the law, is pictured as a thoroughly social construct. Experimental data, in this view, are just one resourse among many used in social negotiations over what the content of acceptable theory will be. So are the traditional scientific virtues like simplicity. In place of the philosopher's principles of rationality one finds only the clash of competing social and profesional interests.

The philosopher's charge that any such view leads to reletivism is welcomed with open arms. Our scientific beliefs about the world are held to be no different in principle from Azande beliefs about witches. There is said to be no basis other than ethnocentric prejudice for our claims that we are right and the Azande are wrong. Indeed, the science of the paranormal could, in different social circumstances, be normal science (Collins and Pinch 1982).

The sociological picture of science at least has the virtue of explaining the almost universal existence of disagreement at the research frontier. Disagreement in science is as natural as disagreement in the halls of Parliament; in this view, the nature of local disagreements, and background agreement, is fundamentally the same in both science and politics.

The section goes on to refute the above claim. The author argues that science is obviously more substantial than a mere social construction simply because it works--modern technology provides overwhelming evidence. He continues "no amount of social organizing...could produce insulin in the laboratory or send instrument-packed rockets to photograph Uranus."

I agree with both the "science is a social construct" claim and the author's refutation. Though, the more I mature as a scientist, the more I realize that success in science depends more on rank, reputation and flash than it does integrity, ingenuity and substance of one's findings as they contribute to new knowledge. It has become clear to me that pursuing a career as a scientific researcher will leave me bitter and unfulfilled.

Sad as I should be about this, I feel, oddly, free.

Epic

2009-04-25T12:52:00.000-07:00

My great, great aunt Nell (or maybe it was my great, great aunt Bess) purchased a turquoise 1969 Chevrolet Malibu (4-door) under the dutiful guidance of my grandfather and his brother, "Pep". All accounts paint Nell/Bess as a complete hazard of a driver--no roadside ditch went untreaded when she was behind the wheel. The nephews were more than a bit concerned that over-application of the car's power brakes (a novelty in pre-1970s autos according to my dad), would send Nell/Bess through the windshield as seatbelts were not commonly worn.

Nell/Bess hardly ever drove the car, but in the interest of keeping it nice, she put on aftermarket seat covers. The one for the back seat fit too loosely. To keep it taut, she weighed it down with four twenty-pound cobbles positioned under the rear window, directly behind the heads of backseat passengers. So, in addition to all of the dangers that lay ahead when she would slam the power brakes, riders should have also worried about the skull-crushing projectiles that would come from behind.

Years past and the cobbles were discovered and removed--much to our family's amusement. Pep inherited the '69 Malibu, who then promptly smashed the front of it on a motorcyclist. In accordance with Eaton doctrine, the car was repaired as cheaply and shittily as possible.

More years past, the car resided in an airport hanger in Salinas. Every half decade or so, when it would actually start, it transported drilling crews between job sites and motels. As my sixteenth birthday approached, my dad, tired of transporting my whiny ass around, thought the old Malibu would be a satisfactory first car for me.

On the car’s retrieval, we noticed necrotic weather stripping no longer sealing out the coastal moisture. The interior reeked of mildew, the ceiling interior hung low, and to our surprise, we discovered a cornstalk sprouting out of the backseat foam-rubber.

“Oh, this isn’t all that bad; you’ll just have to fix it up a little.”

One Year of Doom and Gloom

2009-03-12T09:15:00.000-07:00

What follows are quotes I've extracted from the March 23, 2008 New York Times article Depression, You Say? Check Those Safety Nets, by Charles Duhigg. These I have categorized under "Then". Quotes concerning the same issues "Now" I have selected from yesterday's New York Times opinion article This Is Not a Test. This Is Not a Test. by op-ed columnist Thomas L. Friedman.

Then:

Well, the economists are here to say that you can dig up the family silver and stop training the kids how to jump onto a moving train. While many who study the nation’s economic health agree that a recession has probably already begun, and that it may be long and severe, they also say the odds of a full-blown depression are almost nonexistent.

...the distinction between a recession (a significant decline in economic activity that lasts more than a few months) and a depression (a decline that is much longer and deeper)...

Now:

But I am deeply worried that our political system doesn’t grasp how much our financial crisis can still undermine everything we want to be as a country. Friends, this is not a test. Economically, this is the big one. This is August 1914. This is the morning after Pearl Harbor. This is 9/12.

Then:

Even if consumer confidence hit rock bottom, that most likely would not be enough, by itself, to cause a depression. For things to become really dire, the nation’s financial institutions would have to fail at the same time that unemployment began significantly rising. Only if banks suddenly closed, or it became impossible for companies to access short-term lines of credit, would things begin spiraling out of control.

Now:

Our country has congestive heart failure. Our heart, our banking system that pumps blood to our industrial muscles, is clogged and functioning far below capacity. Nothing else remotely compares in importance to the urgent need to heal our banks.

Then:

But in the wake of the Great Depression, American policy makers began actively managing the economy with a handful of tools, including adjusting interest rates and using massive government spending to spur growth.

Now:

This crisis is uniquely difficult in four respects:

First, to get out of a crisis like this you need to let markets clear. You need to let failed companies, or homeowners, go bankrupt, unlock their dead capital and reapply it to thriving entities. ...The problem with this crisis is that A.I.G., Citigroup and General Motors — and your neighbor’s subprime mortgage — are not [Dogfood-dot-com]. You let the market clear them away, and we could all be wiped out with them.

Second, we need to get a market going that would bring fair value and clarity to the “toxic mortgages” crippling the balance sheets of our major banks. This will likely require some degree of government subsidy to private equity groups and hedge funds...

Unfortunately, the president may have to look the American people in the eye and explain that “fairness is not on the menu anymore.” All that’s on the menu now is whether or not we avoid a system meltdown — and this will require rewarding some new investors.

Third, the president may have to make some trillion-dollar decisions — like nationalizing major banks or doubling the economic stimulus — with no real precedent and without knowing all the long-term ramifications.

Finally, to do all this, the president has to make us realize how dangerous a moment we’re in, without creating a panic that will prompt Americans to put every dime in their mattresses and undermine the economy even more.

I wish earned my pay and prestige wrongly predicting outcomes of a complicated multi-variate system that nobody fully understands. My windbaggery is on par with these two.

I really need to get out more

2009-03-01T13:07:00.000-08:00

Wracking my brain for something semi-interesting to post this week—anything really—I decided to model the baseball metaphor of sexual intimacy using a Markovian random walk algorithm. Since all I do is work these days [whine], work-related subject matter is all I’ve got to write about (Markov models being work-related, not sexual intimacy).

According to Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baseball_metaphors_for_sex) what follows are broadly accepted descriptions of each metaphorical base:

First base:.............................................................mouth-to-mouth kissing
Second base:.........................................................groping underneath shirt
Third base:............................................................mutual masturbation
Home (after rounding the bases):.........................sexual intercourse

The Model. Dude has a 50/50 chance of making it to the next base on any given “play”. If he succeeds, he either continues to next base in the sequence—where he must then make another play—or he “scores” if his successful play is from 3rd. If a play toward any of the bases fails, he’s out, meaning: he must “bat” again with some new chick and attempt to round the bases starting from scratch. The matrix below captures this scenario in its entirety. It operates on dude’s current state-vector (representing the base he “occupies”) to determine his probability of making the next base in the sequence.

Transition probability matrix (“LayMatrix” in routine below):

Results. Based on this model, the half-successful dude should expect to make exactly TWENTY-NINE total plays to score. In the course of these 29 plays, he fails or “outs” with an average of 15 girls on the way to scoring with one.

Discussion. You’re probably saying to yourself: “Thug, was high school prom the last time you “scored”? Chance probability of success for each play is not realistic.” For those of us single in our third-decade-of-life-and-then-some, a more realistic progression matrix might be:

For this model (LayMatrix2), dude need only commit an expected 19-20 plays to attain score-status; though he should expect to fail with a chance-comparable 14 girls in the process. In this scenario, most failures occur trying to reach first base.

Comparing outcomes predicted by the two models, dude should score with fewer plays than chance under the “more realistic” model but will strike out with almost the same number of chicks. These models assume chicks’ acceptances of dudes’ advances obey Markovian point-process statistics (i.e. chick will accept or reject a dude’s play independent of his record of previous plays). My limited experience agrees. How else could so many ass-douches strut around with such fine wool.

Covering my ass. For those in doubt:

z0 = [1, 0, 0, 0, 0]'; % Initial state vector: at bat at home plate

LayMatrix = [0.5, 0.5, 0, 0, 0; 0.5, 0, 0.5, 0, 0; 0.5, 0, 0, 0.5, 0; 0.5, 0, 0, 0, 0.5; 0, 0, 0, 0, 1];
LayMatrix2 = [0.8, 0.2, 0, 0, 0; 0.5, 0, 0.5, 0, 0; 0.3, 0, 0, 0.7, 0; 0.05, 0, 0, 0, 0.95; 0, 0, 0, 0, 1];

ScoreProgressionStructAge18 = CalcExpectedNumTrialsToLay(LayMatrix,z0,500)
ScoreProgressionStructAge31 = CalcExpectedNumTrialsToLay(LayMatrix2,z0,500)

function OutputStruct = CalcExpectedNumTrialsToLay(LayTransProbMatrix,s0,nCeiling)

CumProbVecOfScoring = NaN*ones([1,nCeiling]);
CumProbVecOfFailing = NaN*ones([1,nCeiling]);
nVec = 1:(nCeiling-1);

T = LayTransProbMatrix';

[eigVecs eigVals] = eig(T);

for i = 1:nCeiling

sNext = real(eigVecs*(eigVals.^i)*inv(eigVecs))*s0;
CumProbVecOfScoring(i) = sNext(end);
CumProbVecOfFailing(i) = 1-sNext(1);

end

ExpectedNumTrialsToScore = sum(nVec.*diff(CumProbVecOfScoring));
ExpectedNumTrialsToFail = sum(nVec.*diff(CumProbVecOfFailing));

OutputStruct.CumProbVecOfScoring = CumProbVecOfScoring;
OutputStruct.CumProbVecOfFailing = CumProbVecOfFailing;
OutputStruct.ExpectedNumTrialsToScore = ExpectedNumTrialsToScore;
OutputStruct.ExpectedNumTrialsToFail = ExpectedNumTrialsToFail;

end

ERRATUM: Expected number of girls with whom dude should expect to fail on way to scoring should be reduced by 1 for both models (i.e. from 15 to 14 in the "chance" model and from 14 to 13 in the "realistic"). True to 'tard-dom, yours truly included dude's success-girl in each of the above failure counts.

Saga

2009-01-08T13:31:00.000-08:00

Back in Portland, when my friend bought his car, his dealer said "come on man, give us some credit... this isn't 82nd Ave." Not only did I buy my car on 82nd, I took the bus to the prospective car lot and deboarded right in front of the salesmen. Negotiating prowess must skip a generation because my dad's tactical shrewdness I did not inherit.*

The fact that the car I bought was stripped of it's rear speakers, the stereo was inoperable (i.e. "locked out") during the test drive, and the salesman claimed he did not have the code to "unlock" it, would have raised some flags for your average used car buyer. Not for me and my turnip truck-fallin' bumpkin ass. Two weeks and $100 later, a (legitimate) Honda dealership unlocked my stereo and I was eager to finally listen to CDs in my car!

Disappointed was I. The system only generated sound in the band of like 163 to 164 Hz. It would only accept CDs when it damned well felt like it, and would only play them if I tapped "the correct" sequence of taps on the display face. In a spectacular example of 1995 technology, CDs would skip for 5 minutes following each and every road disturbance, no matter how minor. [I embellish here, but not much.]

Fast-forward to 2005. The morning before the first midterm of the first class in the first quarter of my first year, it snowed. I emerged from my domicile to find my driver's side window bashed out and my fantabulous stereo swiped. The driver's seat lay partially covered in a peaceful white blanket adorned with a sprinkling of tiny blue cubes. My first thought: "Of all the respectable car stereos in Wallingford, why'd they go to the trouble of stealing a stock stereo out of a '95 Civic? That's like snagging the one cat turd in a sea of Almond Roca... FUCK!" Rushing inside, I searched for plastic to cover the cavity. Zip-lock sandwich bags and packaging tape were all I could find. Hurriedly, I MacGuyvered up a quilt, covered the hole and high-tailed it to my class.

Two weeks ago. After three years of car-stereolessness, my friend took pity and gifted me a battery powered CD player (and batteries) for Christmas. A very thoughtful gift that I very much appreciated on my drive up from Woodland.

Thank you Carolyn.

*Though I should give myself some credit:
Salesman: "How about this Dodge Neon."
Me: "No thanks, I've heard they have problems."
Salesman: "Oh, you just need to replace the head-gasket at 80,000 miles--they're notorious for that."
Me: "Isn't that synonymous with 'shitty car'? How about that Honda hiding back in the corner over there."

Misc. Debris

2008-11-14T18:50:00.000-08:00

Old Skool Neuroscience

Because my lab has got more personnel than equipment, I had to go all "Hodgkin & Huxley" and shit and build this analog device from scratch. It rectifies then integrates multi-unit muscle potentials. Had I the necessary data-acquisition card and LabVIEW software, could I have programmed an equivalent device in an hour flat? Shit yes! Alas, such resources are not made available to me, Mr. Low-Man-on-the-Totem-Pole, in my lab (see: reinventing the wheel). I'm glad the mind-numbing 'tronix class I took 8 years ago finally paid off.

Articulated Bus Scare

Nearly every morning, the bus I take makes the above-depicted maneuver to keep its ass-end out of Lake City traffic while passengers board. And nearly every morning I flip during the 10 feet or so it has me in its sights.

Bad Vibe Transmission (or Just Desserts)

A couple nights ago at the club, not one, but two dudes hit on me. I wasn't exactly flattered. One of whom I shoved proper the fourth time he got too close for comfort. Lucky for me no bouncer was watching, otherwise I would have found myself shoved right out of the club. Later, I apologized to the guy...then he asked me to dance. That prompted my escape. Walking to my car I slipped on a metal grating and now suffer a massive waffle bruise on my thigh.

In-between Pants
Next week I'm going to present this...

at the Society for Neuroscience annual meeting in Washington DC. I've got two suits: one has pants that fit my circa 2002 28" waist, the pants of the other are 36" around. At the moment my waist circumference is 32". I could risk pinching off my digestive tract for a day or pack plenty of safety pins.

Self-epiphany

2008-10-02T20:15:00.000-07:00

My work-ethic is like a gas. The way gas expands to the volume of its surrounding container is the way I distribute my effort in working to meet a project deadline. That is, I am always working up to the last second before a project is due, regardless of how much time I have had to work on it. This practice is beyond stupid and I don't know why can't I work just as hard ahead of time, finish the damn thing early, and avoid all the stress that working right up to a deadline entails.

I'm sure mine is some variety of matching behavior akin to pigeons pecking for food pellets. Rather than pecking to maximize their absolute reward, they will actually adjust their pecking-frequency in proportion to the frequency at which rewards are given, even though (in the operant-conditioning scenario) they actually get fewer rewards over time than if they had pecked faster.

Starting my fourth year of grad school, my sole motivation for working is to alleviate the burden of responsibilities hanging over my head (unlike other jobs, my status and pay will remain fixed regardless of my output--I'm not whining here, I knew it would be this way when I chose grad school). These burdens manifest themselves as stress, a negative reinforcer, that I generally work to avoid. Rather than increasing my efforts early on in a project, which would minimize my accumulated stress at the time of deadline, I match my efforts in proportion to my project-associated stress-level at a given time. My stress-level tends to increase as the time until a project is due grows shorter. I'm certain this matching strategy leads to greater accumulated stress (less reward) as compared to working harder early.

Nice to know that my behavior is on par with that of pigeons.

Chronicles of Leon: Part III

2008-09-09T10:30:00.000-07:00

It's Tuesday and I have band practice tonight. Rather than taking the bus, I pack my car with my sticks, pedal and cymbals and drive to work so that I don't have to make an extra trip to Lake City later on. The U-district has no free parking, so I park my car in Wallingford (and pray nobody breaks into it) on the same street where I dwelled when I first moved to Seattle. As I maneuver into a space, I spot Leon sitting on his porch. He turned and looked in my direction but made no expression.

Getting out of my car I thinks: "Whew, he's forgotten who I am."
Leon shouts: "You headin' to school this fine morning?"
An' I thinks: "Why oh why did I not park on the next street over?"
An' I says: "Yeah. 'School', 'work', whatever you want to call it. First I'm gonna grab some coffee from across the street."
Leon says: "It's bad for you, you know."
An' I says: "What is? Coffee..?"
An' Leon says: "Yup."
An' I thinks to myself: "Whatever you do, don't ask how!"
I says: "All I know is I'm kinda worthless without it."
Leon says: "Back in the Navy there was this buddy of mine on the boat who always drank coffee. One day I says to him: 'Coffee's bad for you, you know'."
An' I thinks: "Here we go…"
An' Leon says: "An' my buddy says: 'How so?'"
An' I thinks: "I'm sure your "buddy" grew as wary of your stories as I have."
An' Leon says: "I tell him: 'It fouls up your sex life'."
An' I thinks: "Whoa, this may actually make for good blog material."
Leon says: "…an' he says: 'I haven't noticed anything wrong'."
An' Leon continues: "I says to him: 'You're not getting any are you? Well there ya' go.' Ha ha!"
An' I thinks: "Well, that was disappointing."
An' I says: "Huh. And all this time I thought it was my personality…"

Three fantastic years of Blogging.

2008-09-04T19:57:00.000-07:00

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2008-09-03T17:07:00.000-07:00

The Boardwalk, Orangevale, CA
One Friday night back in ought one, my friend and I found ourselves in the arse of the Sacramento area, en route to a punk show. My friend wore shorts, sandals and a printed white t-shirt and I had my pony tail and work boots. Total physics nerds we were and we certainly had made no effort to portray ourselves as punks. As we approached the place from the street we noticed an unusual amount of activity surrounding the place: cars parked with their headlights on and packs of unruly punks strutting around, amped from horseplay. We parked, got out and a trail beer cans and cigarette butts led us to the entrance. A sign on the door proclaimed a two-dollar cover but the doorman was nowhere to be found so, after waiting a couple minutes, we timidly crept on in. The place was tiny and packed with moshing jack-assess dawning spiked jackets with homemade Dead Kennedys patches (truly punk rock). A steel pillar resided directly in front of the center of the stage. Every so often some careless mosher would forget and face plant into it. My friend and I didn't bother with drinks. We knew we wouldn't be staying there long enough to down them. A couple songs into the set, one punk and his gang confronted this other punk and hauled him outside. My friend and I turned and looked at each other and, without saying a word, quickly escaped back to the car. The next day I found an online review of the place that declared "bar fights are good for the soul." I guess. Never been back there.

Chin Yen, Portland, OR
There we were, 2pm on a sunny Saturday afternoon, sitting in the back, among a cache of MegaTouch, Golden Tee and Big Game Hunter video entertainment machines, waiting for our friend Arc to join us. He insisted we meet him there because the place (allegedly) poured the stiffest drinks in town. If anti-charm exists, this place embodied it fully. Our eyes watered from all of the smoke that had collected during the hour or so the place had been open that day. Sitting at the counter, a long line of dregs (belonging to a long line of cigarettes) moaned about their lot in life. Finally, we see Arc approaching from outside. The bar keep quickly shut off the jukebox and scrambled over to the CD player. She cut off AC/DC (or whatever was playing that was stereotypically dive bar) and put on the Doobie Brothers' cheerful What a Fool Believes. The dregs shook their heads as Michael McDonald bellowed. We were all heavy into Yacht Rock at the time so this particular selection could only have meant Arc had charmed the bar tender into carrying out this entrance ritual for him. He sauntered in, found his drink(s) waiting, and quickly asked us what we thought of the place. I said that I've been to worse (see above).

Earl's on the Ave., Seattle, WA
Despite repeated invites from my friends and classmates, I've never gone to this bar. At some point, I made a pact with myself that I would never frequent a drinking establishment with goat wire over the windows. Anyway, one Friday night a few weeks ago I found myself walking up the Av at around 11pm or so. I had just gotten out of the lab all frazzled and out of sorts. I come up to a uniformed paramedic standing idle on the sidewalk. Not thinking much of it, I glimpse at his and his partner's ambulance parked along the street. Dude nodded and said "what's up" as I walked past. A few steps later it hits me. The paramedics had positioned themselves directly across the street from Earl's. They hadn't been called there. They were waiting for whatever bar induced injury and/or poisoning that would undoubtedly occur later that night. Now I've certainly been to my fair share of drinking establishments; I've never been to one with resident paramedics. That's fucked.

Lake City Bar & Grill, Seattle (Lake City), WA
Late one dark and stormy Wednesday night I drove past my apartment in search of a quick drink. Still charged from band practice, I knew I couldn't sleep for at least an hour or so. I had not yet frequented any bars in the area so I had only my intuition to guide me. Also, walking distance was on my mind, if me and the prospective place were to actually hit it off. Driving up about ten blocks I spot the above-mentioned. In comparison to other joints along Lake City Way, at least this place maintained its tall neon sign, so I reasoned it should be alright. I sat at the counter, ordered my drink and stared into space. "Not from around here are ya?" the bartender quipped. I said "well no, I just moved here from the U-district." She outstretched her arms, waved them about and said "welcome." She asked why I moved and I told her for many reasons, one being my old bedroom wall served as the urinal for U-district vagrants. She told me that the attic of her place was home to all of the neighborhood crows and pigeons. As we talked, the two other woman at the bar swapped stories about the domestic abuse they had each endured. It was good times for about twenty minutes or so. Then, in staggers Big Red and his solicited date for the night. The bartender suddenly cringed and yelled "You guys are shit-faced, I can't serve you. Get the fuck out of here!" Turning back to me she said calmly "I'm sorry, he's been thrown out by all the other bartenders. He only comes in tonight because he knows I'm a softy." Big Red stumbled onto a stool and yelled "I want a Bud. Tell the owner that Big Red is here." Then he pulled out of his pants pockets some wadded up lingerie and hollered "Look what I bought for ya' honey." My stomach churned. I asked for my check. As I made my escape, the bartender cried out to me "Hey wait! Come back! I work Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays." I smiled, nodded and exited. Walking to my car I felt like I had just watched an episode of Cops.

Way to go Mr. Suave: Part II

2008-08-23T17:04:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning, while walking the never-ending halls of the UW health sciences building, I fixated on an approaching figure dressed in scrubs. A few steps closer I made out long hair and curves. Trying to appear indifferent while I squinted to make out her face, she suddenly turned and said "uh, hey Ryan..!". Nothing like getting caught checking out a girl you already know. "Oh, uh, hi Brittney" I replied, embarrassed. Things will be awkward with her from now on. Quickly rounding the corner I spotted another, possibly female, figure sporting a wind-breaker, jeans and "tenni-runners". Again I squinted but couldn't quite make out the face. "Wow, they actually let you out of the lab!" she says to me as we pass. If it wasn't for her Australian accent, I think I would still be wondering who that was.

Do unto others... (or Apartment living)

2008-07-28T17:12:00.000-07:00

My upstairs neighbor and her boyfriend engage in loud, long, uninhibited intimacy several nights a week usually between the hours of 1 and 3 am. Below them, trying to sleep in solitude, is me, feeling positively fantastic on hearing their band-pass filtered thumps, shouts and moans. This morning I thought I'd remind them that sound travels both ways. At 7 am they got to enjoy the rhythmic clanking and thudding of my dumbbells over the unrelenting drone of My Bloody Valentine...for a good hour and a half.

You know you’ve been working too hard when...

2008-07-07T09:21:00.000-07:00

...you return home on the bus, forgetting you drove to work that day.

...you return to your car with it's lights on.

...you leave your car without closing the trunk.

...you forget on which city block you parked your car.

...you repeatedly forget your cell phone.

...it takes you three minutes to figure a total with tip.

...you leave a restaurant forgetting your debit card in the check case.

...you have a hard time following hand signals at the car wash.

...you mistake stop lights for stop signs.

...you forget to eat.

...you're perpetually short with friends and co-workers.

...you repeatedly call your friends by the wrong name.

...the highpoint of your day is breakfast.

50% Rayon, 30% Polyester, 20% Cotton... Way to Go Mr. Suave

2008-06-12T12:42:00.000-07:00

For the first time in two years, I actually went clothes-shopping yesterday. One of my finds, a vintage red-shirt, I sported out dancing last night. A couple songs into my usual routine I noticed the shirt wasn't quite hanging right. I looked in the mirror and noticed a deep dark wet spot growing between my shoulder blades. Two more songs and my entire back was sopping wet—we're talkin' sweat on the order of having-just-run-five-miles kind of sweat. At this point, the shirt had effectively cemented onto my back and set up an osmotic gradient from which no moisture could escape. Embarrassed I was.

Now, I'm a profuse sweater, this I've accepted about myself; I usually have the good sense to wear something that masks it. In this case though, the dark wet spots contrasted against the shirt's dry-brightness advertising my repulsiveness to all. Snickering surrounded me, so I retreated to a new spot on the floor where my back would be to the wall. At this point I went over my options. I could: 1) let my self-consciousness defeat me and leave 2) trust in evaporation and rest in some dark (soon to be dank) corner 3) keep dancing as I had been and: a. experience how sweat-drenched my shirt could become and b. observe how people react to my wretched condition. Anyone familiar with my inquisitive nature could tell you which option I chose; I danced on. Surprisingly, nobody confronted me about it. A few brave souls even got within a five-foot radius of me. That's more than I would have done had our places been switched. Perhaps my doctrine of tolerance for things unusual in goth/industrial clubs was being reciprocated.

Driving home, dehydrated, I stopped at QFC for some Gatorade. "Whoa man, what have you been up to? Your shirt is soaked!" exclaimed the 2am checker. I said I hadn't noticed.

Diagnostic & Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) Case Classifications (U-district specific)

2008-05-02T12:51:00.000-07:00

Rabid-dog Crazy:
Subject 1: (10:15pm, NE 47th & University Way, 4/30/2008). White male, mid-30's buzzed hair-cut, seen wearing a black jacket, shorts and tennis shoes. Subject observed skipping down University Way (all 6'5" of him), babbling happily, but incoherently, until a car passed by him on the street. The subject screamed and gyrated violently in response to the car and then darted out into the street - at full sprint – pursuing the car traveling ~25 mph. The subject continued to follow car until he reached NE 50th and University Way at which point the subject broke his pursuit and continued skipping westbound down NE 50th street.

Subject 2: (10:25pm, NE 42nd & University Way, 4/30/2008). White male, early-20's, seen wearing a black baseball cap and baggy pants. Subject observed walking southbound down University Way. Adjacent Flower's restaurant, subject intercepted a pay phone, threw down his fists, and then forcefully butted the pay phone with his head. Moments later, while crossing NE 42nd, his gait became unstable resulting in his subsequent fall. The subject shook his head, righted himself, and continued walking southbound.

Bat-shit Crazy:
Subject 3: (10:20pm NE 42nd and University Way, 4/30/2008). White male, late-20's, wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a navy-blue hooded sweatshirt. Subject heard conversing loudly with himself. The following statements were recorded by a nearby witness:

"you realize it's the end of the world right..?"
"you can't relate if you're not psychic…"
"you're trying to laugh it off and all, but I'm psychic…you know it. A man asks me 'what am I thinking?' and I say 'mountains', man asks 'now what?' and I say 'cats' and the man asks 'now what?' and I say 'aliens' and the man says 'wow you got 2 out of 3!'"
"when you pass into your next life, you've got a big surprise waiting for you…"
"if I'm not an alien, [then] how do I have the abilities I have..?"
"if you're a Christian then you're a liar, and liars don't get into heaven…"
"the two of you are laughin' but you won't be when you're fuckin' re-incarnated as goats…"

The witness also recorded the remark of another nearby pedestrian that stated (while shaking his head in disbelief): "damn buddy, you need to lay off the speed or whatever-the-fuck it is!"

Disclaimer:
The above-described subjects are psychiatrically unstable and probably dangerous. Should you encounter any (or all) of them on University Way, pretend like they don't exist and hope that they don't notice you--this is the semi-successful tactic employed by students of the University of Washington.

Observation & Speculation

2008-04-28T18:35:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting directly underneath I-5 bridge on the north shore of lake Union. It's sunny and peaceful. I'm watching kayakers row past, dogs catching Frisbees, and hear the roar of early evening traffic directly overhead.

Today turned out to be an exceptionally good day in the lab (i.e. my monkeys worked without breaking things, I learned what household metallic objects become deadly projectiles in the vicinity of MRI magnets, etc). Good enough for me to jet from the lab at 4pm without any reservations or guilt. I walked to Ivar's Whale-Maker Lounge and promptly consumed three pints of Manny's pale ale, a green salad and a plate of herb-dusted calamari. My fried food craving has been sated for the week. While seated, I attempted to grasp the effect of "diluted connections" on memory capacity of Hopfield neural network models.

I failed miserably.

Feeling less than happy with myself, I raised my head and noticed an attractive couple just seated at a table directly in front of mine. Both were nicely dressed (i.e. dating attire) and both drank fancy-pants garnished cocktails probably poured with top-shelf liquors. They seemed chill enough (despite my gawking)—that is, they seemed to be enjoying themselves but didn't let out any gut-busting guffaws or anything. None of this is unusual for happy hour at Ivar's. What caught my attention was the woman (or more precisely, the girl) had to have been less than half of the age of the man. My first thought: "Damn, that guy's got it goin' on! I should stay and take notes in case I'm ever his age and single." He definitely had the whole Cadillac-commercial-"welcome-to-the-club-of-distinguished-gentlemen"-gentlemen vibe going for him.

I was fascinated. Then I looked closer. Their faces seemed to bear a slight familial resemblance…

Now I ask you, what man of 55-60 takes his college age daughter drinking at a cocktail lounge? Maybe I'm grasping for possibilities that refute the guy's modjo (or whatever you want to call it) but if they were actually father and daughter enjoying cocktails at 5pm on a Monday afternoon, that's a smidge taboo isn't it? Sorry to get puritanical about social conventions, but their little get-together made me feel dirty. At that point I would have actually preferred that the guy had some magical allure rather than contemplate the alternative. Hopefully, that man is simply a professor taking an extracurricular interest in one of his doting students--or something innocent like that.

My MySpace got Hacked...

2008-03-12T17:34:00.000-07:00

...This kind of business would never happen on blogger!
Come check it out yo: right here

Sadz.

2007-01-12T17:27:00.000-08:00

I've been a bit sad this past week. My bandmates dismissed me. It was nothing personal, and I've been contemplating quitting for the same reasons. The short of it is, our shows have been going better than we anticipated for how briefly weve been in the scene. We received a great review recently and weve been getting offers to play more shows. Of course my shitty-day-jobbed bandmates all want to step up our collective effort to take advantage of this good fortune. They know that I cannot afford to put in any more time into the band than I have been. So, I got axed. Im as relieved as much as I am disappointed, I guess. My dissappointment will eventually pass and when it does, I'll find some new folks and start the cycle over again.

Renormalization Group Flow

2006-11-27T15:51:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I do the 'tardedest things.

This quarter I needed to take an elective class to fulfill my 10 unit quota. Rather than finding something low stress and easy, I opted to take graduate level equilibrium statistical physics. How did such a class even enter my radar you ask? Well, 1) it came "recommended" by my department as a suggested elective for my emphasis: computational neuroscience, and 2) a fraction of the course content exactly tackles the statistical mechanical basis of An Introduction to the Theory of Neural Computation by Hertz, Krugh and Palmer--basically the bible of neural networks.

For the first couple of weeks I reveled in the success of my class choice. I learned mean field theory and the Ising model of ferromagnetism that closely parallels the Hopfield network model of Hertz and Krugh. Even though the class is intended for second year physics grad students I understood the lectures and did quite well on the homeworks. All seemed to be going as I had hoped... and then came week three.

All of the sudden we delved into the realm of quantum operators and scaling theory and renormalization group flow--all of which are theoretical methods well beyond the scope of my book or my interest for that matter. But I made a commitment to myself that I would stay in this class no matter what happens, so these days, in addition to TAing a human physiology class and spending 4 hours a day in my lab, I spend all of my "free" moments trying to wrap my brain around advanced concepts of theoretical physics.

Once again, here's to my superior judgement with regards to my academic choices!

ASS Country Song: 'fore She Was Mama

2006-11-27T15:18:00.000-08:00

Check out the ramblings of this incestuous turd!

‘Bout ten years old, hide and seek
I found me in the closet
Ready or not I stumbled on
And opened up that box of
Yearbooks, letters, black and whites
A hundred, maybe more
Next thing I know my brothers and me
Got ‘em scattered on the floor (Yeah)

There was one of her, flippin’ the bird
Sittin’ on a Harley
And a few with some hairy hippie dude
Turns out his name was Charlie
Her hair, her clothes, her drinkin’ smokin’
Had us boys confused
I’ll never forget the day us nosey kids got introduced

To Mama, ‘fore she was Mama
In a string bikini, in Tijuana
Won’t admit she smoked marijuana
But I saw Mama, ‘fore she was Mama

We put that box right where it was
And never said a word
But growin’ up got hard just tryin’
Not to picture her
In anything but aprons, dresses
Mini-vans and church
Oh and Daddy would have whooped our butts
For diggin’ up that dirt

On Mama, ‘fore she was Mama
In a string bikini, in Tijuana
She won’t admit she smoked marijuana
But I saw Mama, ‘fore she was Mama

We laugh and hang it over her head
Right above her halo
Her face turns red when we bring up
That tie-dyed Winnebago
She runs and hides and still denies
That hip high rose tattoo
She burned that box of forget-me-nots
When she found out we knew

About Mama, ‘fore she was Mama
In a string bikini, in Tijuana
Won’t admit she smoked marijuana
But that was Mama, ‘fore she was Mama

And there’s that one down in the Bahamas
But that was Mama, ‘fore she was Mama

- Clay Walker

...what a shit bird. Believe it or not, hearing the song is a far worse experience than merely reading the lyrics.

Discipline Thug, discipline!

2006-08-25T11:15:00.000-07:00

It's Friday and my mindset will not permit me to focus on work. I watched a truly boring, stupid and complete-waste-of-my-viewing-attention movie last night: Basic Instinct 2. Now I did anticipate that it would suck based on the carefully orchestrated media blitz of Sharon Stone that preceded its release combined with the complete lack of any mention of her and the movie when it finally hit theaters. Her acting was hammy and bad. And the dialog, while intending to be clever and intense, was much too deliberate and flat. I would have fallen asleep at the "climax" had my laptop (on which I was watching the masterpiece) not slipped of my chest and thudded on the floor.

Good times.

Bowie Resurgence.

2006-08-20T16:30:00.000-07:00

Man, it seems that every coffee shop that I frequent these days spins Ziggy Stardust at some point during the duration of my stay. I love myself some David Bowie, so no complaints here. But other that The Life Acquatic, has there been any recent events that have spawned this renewed reverence for the man and his music?

Arg...

2006-08-18T14:06:00.000-07:00

I'm not even going to pretend that this blog is a priority of mine anymore. I very much regret all the things on which I've flaked since devoting my time to higher learning.

[sigh]

Depression has reared it's ugly head many times this past year but I've managed to avoid the downward spiral and maintain an optimistic outlook. But these days, I've been feeling that I've been due some happiness for quite some time but it has yet to arrive.

The older I get, and the more that I do, the less satisfaction I gain from my accomplishments. Happiness seems to be more elusive than it ever has been for me. But when I remind myself of all the truly fantastic people in my life, and all the people that I will meet in the future, I feel better.

To my once frequent readers: I miss you and wish you the best.

Real Life Pimp and Ho

2006-06-13T11:53:00.000-07:00

(...Not All that Funny, Actually)

Early one morning last week, I went to the University District's International House of Pancakes, the only place where one can actually get breakfast before 8 am. Lo and behold, a gruff talking, shiny pink cap wearing, less than hygienated man and a pasty, bi-minutely mirror-preening woman wearing a dress emphasizing her unhealthily slim physique sat at a table that, unfortunately, occupied the majority of my visual field.

Highlights of their conversation included:
"Bitch, are you listening to me...?"
"Yeah whatever, that skank's on crack anyway..."
"Hey waiterman, bring us our fuckin' check. Been waiting a fuckin' half hour already."

I couldn't help looking; they were worse than a car wreck. I guess I enjoyed a somewhat vice-sheltered upbringing. Needless to say, I don't see myself going back to IHOP anytime soon.

If You Were a Monkey...

2006-06-09T16:44:00.000-07:00

... what would think about this image? Can you see anything in it?

What about this one?

Both of the above masks are composed of equal parts information from these two images:

Do either of the top two images bear a stronger resemblance to either of these bottom two images from which they were constructed?

MaXXimum Awkwardness

2006-06-09T15:05:00.000-07:00

As my third and final rotation is coming to a close, my present advisor (who I'll call B) asks me:

"I hear that you're planning on joining E's lab. I've been meaning to ask you was there anything aversive about your experience here that shaped your decision?"

I replied "...not at all..." and said nothing more. I assumed that, by virtue of the fact B's lab encompasses much of the same space and personnel as E's lab, that B knew of my inclinations to join E's lab from the start.

I assumed wrong.

Even though I was all but certain that I had already secured a place in a different lab, I put my total effort into this quarter's project. I figure that if the department has enough confidence in my potential as researcher to support my ass, I had better not disappoint them by sluffing off at the first opportunity. In hindsight, perhaps my hard work signalled to B that I had designs on her lab. After all, I'm quite pleased with how this quarter's project has turned out and I've learned a ton (i.e. primate handling, design of psychophysical experiments and a good many of the statistics needed for analyzing them).

In my program, the whole process through which students choose their labs is wraught with political sensitivities. I've heard that many other research oriented graduate programs employ a more formal means of matching students to labs. While I would ordinarily claim that I have little need for formality at all, I will admit that it is often an effective reducer of social awkwardness. I think that a more formal lab selection process would have made my transition into my permenant lab considerably easier for all involved parties.

Recent Happenings of My Favorite Fellow Blogspot Poster

2006-05-25T11:07:00.000-07:00

SHAY!!!

Chronicles of Leon: Part II

2006-05-24T09:17:00.000-07:00

Leon says: "Now R***, let me tell you why I threw out all my metric tools..."

an' [while breaking lugs put on a spare tire on my Honda Civic], I thinks: "Dumbass."

an' I says: "[sigh], oh really Leon, what made you up and do such a thing?"

an' Leon says: "It's the principle of the thing... ya' see."

an' I says: "Uh, I didn't know one has to have principles to own tools."

an' Leon says: "Shit yeah!"

an' Leon says: "Ya see, our great country didn't get to where it is by followin..."

an' I thinks: "Naw we became "great" by pillaging: both resources and people."

an' I says [skeptically]: "Really!?!"

an' Leon says: "...Our nation became great by leadin'; let all them other countries convert to metric, we ain't gonna, 'cuz we're number 1 and we don't got to do a damn thing they say, see... "

an' I answer: "I've used both metric and standard..."

an' Leon corrects: "...American..."

an' I says: "...Whatever. Truth be told, metric's easier and make's a shitload more sense."

an' Leon says: "My dick's 4 inches, not 580 millimeters or centimeters or whatever!!!"

an' I thinks: "Thanks for sharing. Would you leave me alone now."

an' I says [itching my scalp with my grimy hand]: "Oh, you make a good point."

an' I thinks: "With that amazing power of argument it's no wonder you've gotten as far as you have."

an' Leon says: "Well I'll get off my soapbox now. You wanna come inside and get a piece of cake?"

New Proj

2006-05-11T11:23:00.000-07:00

Last night I auditioned for a band. It went well. They asked me to join because:

they said "[I] rock"
unlike their last drummer:

I didn't address them as "faggets"
I don't expect to have sex with each of the "chicks" in the band
I don't expect them to pay me for my drumming prowess.

It's not a perfect fit though. There sound is good, but not quite experimental enough for the likes of me, and, I will be the old man by 4 years. I think that I can be made to look their age if I cool up my wardrobe a tiny.

A Message...

2006-05-04T19:13:00.000-07:00

... to all the folks in Tully's coffee shop, 2104 45th St NE, Seattle WA, 7:15 pm, 5/4/2006:

"Shut the fuck up. I mean SHUT UP. If I hear one more stupid ass opinion from any of y'all, I'm gonna fart, hard, long and smellily."

A Drunk Guy on Amtrak...

2006-05-02T17:11:00.000-07:00

... made my 4 hour train ride, from Portland to Seattle on Sunday evening, completely miserable. The 35 year old, 250 pound, child proceeded to yell at oncoming trains as they passed, fall on other passengers as he walked down the aisle, and vomit on his (up 'till then) friends. I did feel joy when his ~18-year old, 120 lb, female supervisor, who had to come in from the adjacent car and met him right in front of my seat, told him to start acting his age and fired his ass without a second thought.

I smiled. I hope he saw me.

His termination, however, gave him the incentive to drink even more and become even more belligerent. Mysteriously, after we passed the stop in Tacoma, he never returned to his seat. I suspect he became well acquainted with Tacoma's drunk tank. What a pity.

Ah the Good Old Days... A Pre-DROTMBLOE Blog Entry (Revisited)

2006-04-27T21:31:00.000-07:00

FRIDAY JUNE 18 2004 3:50 PM

'Sup...

Yeah, I like '86d my Crapcast internet connection at home so I'm not able to make enteries that often anymore...

All is well though. I just got back from SLC. I went to all the free Mormon movies I could at the temple visitors center... I learned that the Mormon generousity - on which they pride themselves - does actually have a limit, especially if they catch on to the fact you're not interested in their 'other' testament of christ.

Heard this fuckin' band that ROX on Austin City Limits, (Friday nights on pbs... yeah that's right I watch pbs on friday nights, I'm still cool) anyway they're called Spoon. I swoon when I hear spoon and I'm not even a girl!!!

Man... well that's all for now.

One Good Thing About Living Alone

2006-04-27T21:05:00.000-07:00

If one day you come home and decide that it is more important that a drumkit occupy your kitchen than a table, no one is there to argue with you.

What I Really Think

2006-04-20T08:10:00.000-07:00

"Your page is complete, unadulterated, crapolla. It would brighten each and every one of my days if, when I log off of my hotmail account on a daily basis, my thoughts were no longer contaminated by the frivolous drivel that you apparently think well enough to publish. Thank you for this opportunity to express my opinion."

Validation... sort of

2006-04-17T09:13:00.000-07:00

My fall quarter rotation advisor came up to me after my winter rotation talk (for my winter rotation I had a different advisor) and asked me if I was interested in joining his lab. I told him that I would be quite pleased to do so and that I could start in the summer. He said that he has a great project planned for me that would entail stimulation of a "reward nucleus" in the primate brain that would be triggered by selected activity in the motor cortex - a sort of positive feedback loop a la brain machine interface.

The project he descibed is very much the sort of research I hope to pursue and I felt a great sense of relief to have found a lab. I thought to myself "finally my hard work has paid off".

And then he says "... we'll see."

Talk about head games. Thanks for getting me all hyped up on a maybe.

Serious Case of: "The Blahs"

2006-04-12T19:04:00.000-07:00

Things are going very ok... I really can't complain. I survived a rather harrowing last quarter. I gave a rotation talk went better than expected and I think I earned some respect from those whom I respect - which is always a good feeling. The systems neuroscience class that I'm taking this quarter is lightyears more coherent to me than the barrage of molecular biology that I was forced to confront in the fall. The list goes on. The short of it is, I should be happy with the progress I've made, and equally so, I should be happy with my scholastic situation as it presently stands...

So why do I feel SO EMPTY these days? I don't really feel much of anything. I don't enjoy music the way I used to and I seemed to have lost my comical view of things. It's as though I've desensitized my capacity to feel to such an extent, as a means to get through hard times, that I can no longer detect the joy I should experience during good times.

I need to pay more attention to my own wants. Grad school be damned.

Oh well...

2006-03-26T10:28:00.000-08:00

...It's only been more than two months since I last posted.

Let me assure all of you readers (what's left of you that is) that I'm alive. I had an UBERbusy quarter - not that that is in anyway an excuse for my lack of posting activity - the demands of which exceeded my capacity keep up with it I regret to say. At least I now know my way around the mammalian brain... not to the degree a neurologist does of course, but (hopefully) well enough to pass a graduate anatomy class on the subject.

For my rotation project this past quarter I learned the "bread and butter" technique of neuronal biophysics, patch-clamping; a technique which lead to the discovery of voltage and ligand gated ion channels in neurons (a discovery worthy of the Nobel Prize back in the day). I will not reveal how many rat pups were sacrificed so my klutzy ass could learn how to whole cell patch clamp. Let's just say that if God has a preference to rats during my time of judgment, I face damnation.

After patch-clamping onto 3, layer 2-3, cortical neurons, I chose the best one and measured several of it's dynamical properties so I could "fit" a simplified mathematical model to replicate it's spiking behavior to steady input. Trust me, the process of "fitting" the model tested the limits of my sanity. But, in these few final days before I have to present my findings, I prevailed in solving for a set of satisfactory parameters so that I can now test the model's response to dynamic input; the primary aim of my project. As I sit here typing this, I'm running analyses on my model simulations driven by white noise stimuli. The analyses will probably take longer than an hour and keep in mind this is on my new PowerBook G4. [This thing has already paid itself off and I've never been so in love with a machine before.] Secretly, I hope that the model is not sufficient to replicate the dynamic response. A negative outcome would make my talk buttloads easier. Below is a graphic of which I am quite proud. It depicts both the threshold response of my recorded neuron and that of the fitted simplified model.

This coming spring quarter, my final rotation will entail cognitive representation of complex visual stimuli in the IT cortex. My research interests are in movement, not cognition, and I know jackshit about this area of neuroscience so I have a lot of catching up to do. Who knows, I may even enjoy research on cognition, but the little exposure I've already had to this subject leads me to believe otherwise. My reasons for selecting this particular lab are more practical than anything else. I want to have exposure working with primates before I make the decision to land in a lab where such investigatory methods are used for studying movement (the lab of my fall quarter rotation does this, but the nature of my project did not involve working with primates).

Enough already. I hope that all of you are well. I miss you.

My Weekend...

2006-01-22T11:38:00.000-08:00

I was gifted a digital camera for my birthday. Coupled with software that I discovered on my laptop, I generated the following so that you can share my birthday experience out there in "cyberspace".

[Double click on that blank black space below that was the Quicktime logo]
MOVIE

Chronicles of Leon: Part I

2006-01-17T15:10:00.000-08:00

Leon says: "Hey R***! How's school treatin' ya?"
And I says: "Like a red-headed step child!"
Then he says: "He He. That reminds me of my boys: Rusty and Dusty."
And I thinks: "That's the worst offspring naming strategy since Brandi and Candi."
And I says: "Oh really? How Come..?"
An' Leon says: "Back when they was young they thought I didn't treat 'em so good."
Then he says: "Turns out I was just teachin' em what they don't teach in school; how to work hard."
And I says: "I suppose that's true."
And he says: "What is?"
And I thinks: "Yep, that was too indirect a reference."
And I says: "...that they don't encourage hard work early enough in school these days."
And Leon says: "Goddamn right!"
And then I says: "Well... how'd they turn out?"
And Leon says: "Who?"
And then I says: "YOUR BOYS!"
Leon says: "Fine, Fine. My boy Dusty was named football MVP for Klickitat Community College."
Then I thinks: "I bet having a name that rhymes with his older brother's necessitated his toughness."
Then Leon says: "His coach came up to me one day and he says: 'Hey Leon, how can your boys run so fast, considerin' neither of 'em are taller'n 5 and half feet!?!'"
Then I says: "What'd ya tell him?"
And then he says: "I says: 'I feed 'em horsemeat.'"

How I Spent My 2005-2006 Winter Break...

2006-01-16T16:37:00.000-08:00

I had give a ten minute talk on neural networks simulating Short Term Memory; my fall rotation project. I decided that the best way for the audience to get the slightest inkling of what I wanted to convey was to incorporate an animation of how a neural network model of STM functions to store information over time. After devoting a mere 50 or so lonely man hours to its generation, time from my life that I shall never regain, I display below the fruit of my labors:

MOVIE

...pretty anti-climactic huh. I have no life. :(

New Racket!!! Added

2005-12-21T14:13:00.000-08:00

I'm writing this from my now Mac G4 powerbook laptop, included therein is GarageBand, the program with which I composed the current "Racket!!!" selection.

It's GEEKY!!!

As of Four Days Ago, I Am Now an Uncle!

2005-11-23T10:44:00.000-08:00

... my beloved sis just delivered a ~7 pound baby girl. I get to meet and see her for the first time this Thanksgiving. Believe me, I'm really looking forward to getting home for a spell (brief, unfortunatly, as it will be)

Have a happy Thanksgiving all.

[Thanks agrengal for reminding me that there are still aspects of my life, about which I should post, that are not grad school related.]

"Macro"tubule growth

2005-11-15T11:21:00.000-08:00

Recently, my classmates and I have been learning about the fascinating phenomenon of intracellular transport of molecular cargo by means of molecular motors that walk along microtubules and actin filaments in neurons. Apparently, these microscopic tubules "grow" on one end (by polymers that assemble to the end of the tubule that is positively polarized) and break apart on the opposite negative end at the same time - effectively "treadmilling" (to use the characteristically biological descriptive term that the professor used in class) from one location in the cell to another.

Today, on a whim - while walking through campus to get my brief exposure to sunlight before I lock myself into the storage closet where I will work on my rotation project until dusk - I went to a coffee shop at the top of the architecture building with the strategy of keeping my day interesting. As testified by one of my classmates, the coffee shop served great coffee in a unique atmosphere. After I ordered, I stepped aside to make way for the person behind me. Not 5 seconds later I look behind me again and noticed that there are now two more new people waiting in line behind me. I step aside (again) and say "oh I'm not in line you can go ahead." Another 5 second pass, I look behind me once again. This time there are now four more people waiting in line behind me. "Are you in line!?!" the girl directly behind me asks. "No, I'm just waiting for my drink and apparently, in the wrong spot" I reply. Finally, I wise up and "cut" back up to the counter to await my drink. The line is now an easy eight or nine people that just happened to coalesce within a period of 10 seconds. Their sudden organized congregation was most likely "signaled" by the end of a nearby lecture - apparently I was their positively polarized target.

Sometimes being positively polarized can be a real nuisance.

The Only Thing More Stressful than the Academic Quarter System is...

2005-11-02T11:40:00.000-08:00

... the academic "eighth" system.

That's right, I just completed a week long take home final that has drained about every sparkle of energy, and every ounce of pride, from me. Apparently, in graduate school, professors delight in testing on concepts that they didn't cover in lecture, and making it count for more than 50% of our grade... I mean, it is a logical strategy if their aims are not to teach, but weed. I need to stop whining, I'm learning a butt load and seem to be doing quite well considering that I've never taken an undergraduate biology or biochemistry course. All of these descriptive/qualitative explanations (to explain other, "more solid", qualitative explanations) makes me want to bang my head against the table. Please for the sake of humanity, love of God, (or scorn of atheists) capture some of these findings with an equation. I'm a limited physicist without the verbal intelligence to retain one hundred item long grocery lists to explain the mechanism involved in a single signal transduction pathway.

The classes that interest me are offered during the second year. Believe me, the subject matter that I am learning now had better apply, because right now I can think of a hundred better uses of my time. The tables will be turned when classes turn toward the more mathematical end of the analytical spectrum. Oh no wait, those classes aren't required so I guess I'll never get a chance to shine in front of my bio-savvy peers. Being in the spot-light doesn't jive with my personal philosophy, but it would do wonders for my self-confindence right now, when every lecture that I attend slams me with unfamiliar subject matter for which I must decode the alien terminology in which it was presented. These required classes contain the material that, I am repeatedly told, "everybody should know." Not only does that statement repeatedly piss me off, but it makes me repeatedly feel like the department's biggest dumbass.

I think to myself (and believe me I think to myself a lot since I've started school since I now live in isolation 90% of the time) "If all this should already be known why did you admit my ignorant ass?" I certainly made it explicitly clear in my application and during my interview that my bio background is poor at best. [Regarding that last clause that I wrote "is poor at best", refer to my above self-evaluation of my verbal intelligence.] Could you guys have at least told me about the class pre-requisites in advance so that I could at least have known what I was getting myself into?

Anyway, now that I've granted myself this 20 minutes, (no shit... 45 minutes) of reprieve, I need to get started studying for another exam that will take place Monday morning. If my present course load turns out to be the norm for the next 2 years, you guys best start making arrangements for my future appointment in the psychiatric ward... as a patient that is.

-Cheers!!!

Levar Burton says

2005-10-26T13:58:00.000-07:00

"If you want to read something different (and easy) then read: The Curious Incident of The Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon. One quote from this book "Jumping Jack Christ!" may be the first time that particular combination of words has ever been put into print. This book is 240 pages and published by Doubleday. This and other great books may be found at your local public library. "

[Disclaimer: Levar Burton did not actually recomend this book... but if there existed a Reading Rainbow for adults, he would have. ]

Why Today, of All Days, Particularly Stands Out...

2005-10-26T13:29:00.000-07:00

... is beyond me. I woke up this morning missing Portland, and all of my friends in it, very much. I hope that all of you are well. I miss you.

Ugh

2005-10-20T07:44:00.000-07:00

In my experience, the most enlightened person seems to be the person who does not take himself or herself too seriously; an individual who is not afraid to look foolish in front of others or admit to others that she/he may have done something ridiculous.

Everybody does foolish things from time to time. Everybody. The true fool is the person who does not recognize this in himself or herself.

I don't understand people who don't/can't laugh at themselves. I sincerely have no concept of how a person could function, let alone be happy, without the capacity for self-deprecating humor (that does not deprecate a person's self-esteem at the same time, that is). Every once in a while I come across somebody who appears to be, at least by the persona that they present to others, without this ability. Even if those individuals truly are above folly, and have no flaws by their own appraisal, such individuals seldom smile and do not seem to be enjoying life - which, in and of itself (to me) is a huge flaw.

It's obvious to me that the majority of the people in my new department are both kind and intelligent people who are trying to impress one another. I don' t see anything wrong with that by itself. I'm noticing though, that this desire to be impressive is strong enough to keep people on guard, all of the time. Surprisingly, this desire is not unique among us newbie grad students, I see the same tendencies in young professors to old ones. I think the atmosphere (euphemism for competition) can get so intense that people resort to searching for flaws in their peers as a means to feel better about themselves. I do not respect this. The intra-department gossip here, I'm finding, is fierce... and ugly. It makes me uncomfortable, induces the anxious feeling that I feel in my gut.

In case any of my classmates are reading, let me spare you the suspense: I have flaws. I say and do stupid things a good portion of the time. I do care about the impression I make, but ideally, I would prefer not to care. Think me an idiot, think me a fool, it's the substance of a person that matters, not others' impressions of that person. I think that I'm pretty substantial (ha ha).

[A fortune cookie told me that I think and live philosophically... So I'm going with it!]

You Know that You've Been Studying TOO Hard when...

2005-10-12T08:15:00.000-07:00

... you attempt to make teryaki chicken for dinner and forget to add soy sauce to the marinade.

Ho-Hum...

2005-10-07T16:13:00.000-07:00

Goin' back to P-town tonight. Can't wait. (Seems ridiculous considering that 90% of my time this weekend will be spent reading.) But, I get to see my lovely girlfriend. And, Sunday night Crapartist is gonna let me rock shit up with him in, what is now, his practice space. It'll be the first time that I've pounded a kit in nearly a month.

The simple things that makes one happy when one is a graduate student.

Things Are Starting To Get Real

2005-09-30T08:00:00.000-07:00

I went to a graduate student happy hour last night. Man, as I suppose is the case with any department, the politics here are intense. I say to myself "you don't need to get caught up in all of that. Just do as you're supposed to do and no one will have a problem with you and you will not have any problems with anyone else..."

...right.

Just When I thought...

2005-09-26T19:30:00.000-07:00

...that my longtime friend, viqx, could not possibly surpass his last act of cleverocity, he synthesizes a blog comment that - at my discovery of it in a quiet internet cafe - made my stomach cramp from laughter. Context is everything here, so be sure to read "If Only I Could Tell Good Poetry From Bad..." Then read the section of my last post "On Corporate 'Systems'" entitled "Culprit No. 1 Qwest Communications, Inc." If you then scroll down to viqx's comment you'll see what I mean.

On Corporate "Systems"

2005-09-20T10:47:00.000-07:00

Warning: What follows is an X-TREME RANT

Over the past week or so I've been readying myself for school by attempting to complete the obigitory errands: unpacking all of my apartment belongings, setting up internet connectivity for my computer, getting a Washington state drivers license, searching for the best deals on textbooks, keeping in communication with my department... the list goes on.

I'd be making headway in all of these tasks if two particular corporate agencies would ACTUALY PROVIDE ME THE FUCKING SERVICES I'M [OVER]PAYING THEM TO PROVIDE ME!!!

Culprit no. 1. Qwest Communications Inc.

I called these monopolizing extortiofucks on Wednesday of last week activate my apartment phone line. "Um yeah well, it takes four businesness days, or so, for OUR SYSTEM to actually turn your line back on. You can expect to have your phone working on Monday afternoon. Your first bill will come to $55.43, the cost of one month of basic service, plus state and federal taxes, plus our $25.00 setup charge."

I respond "OK, that'll be fine." I think "25.00 for YOUR SYSTEM to flip on a cotton pickin' antiquated telephone line switch. THAT'S ASS. I wish that I didn't have to earn my money like you dillholes."

* * *

Monday evening rolls around, still no dialtone. I REALLY need to access the net to reconcile my dwindling finances (which is all the more complicated; see Culprit no. 2) so I know how much I have to spend on my abovementioned obligatory errands, and to urgently check my email account for info on a department retreat that is to take place this week -- even today for all I knew then. I call customer service once more: "Yeah, I set up an account last week for basic service for my apartment line. They told me that it should have been turned on by now." They transfer me to maintenence: "Your orders in THE SYSTEM but it says here that it's not been completed." "Well, do you know when YOUR SYSTEM will turn it on." "No, it should be soon, though. You can call back; our department's open 24 hours."

* * *

Tuesday morning -- No dialtone. Noon on Tuesday -- No dialtone.

Spirit of Service™ my ass. Go Ride the Light® or what ever gets you off on somebody else's dime you listless dicklicks. I hope all your disgruntled employees strike your ass. Can I charge YOUR SYSTEM a late fee just like you fuckholes were so apt to charge me for the ONE late payment I made years ago. Of course not, that's unamerican.

Culprit no. 2 Washington Mutual Bank, Inc.

Well I was certainly not going to rely on Qwest to actually do as they promised, so I found a campus computer lab and went about my business. I navigate to the Washington Mutual Bank online bank page, to see how much damage my interstate move has dealt to my checking account. I enter in my login info, and I get a page informing me that I cannot access my personal checking account due to either inactivity or too many bad login attempts. Well, that's good I guess, I'm not sure which of these misdemenors I actually committed but it's good for security, even if it is a bit inconvenient. So I call the number on the page to unfreeze my account. After divulging every identifier (twice, to both machine and human) that will probably serve to idenitify me for eons to come, I finally connect to a real live "customer service representitive". I, not-so-eloquently explained to this person that I had been blocked from accessing my online account. "Do you use online bill pay? Cuz' if you do, you can gain access through there." I respond "No. I don't do online bill pay. Would you please issue me a temporary password so I can access my profile... (obviously, I'm a veteran)." She hesitates "Well sir, the thing is, is our OUR SYSTEM is being updated right now and we're not sure how long it will take to get up an running again, so I cannot issue any temporary passwords at the moment." Making a conscious effort to calm myself, I respond "Oh, will it be up tomorrow." "Uh... not sure, but I suggest you call back then."

* * *

This morning, I call back. The same necessary interogation ensues and I finally reach a service rep. To her credit, this one was actually both friendly and helpful. "...OUR SYSTEM is still down sir, but here's what I'll do: I'll delete your online banking profile completely so that you can access your account information through a new login. OUR SYSTEM update shouldn't have any problem with that. I'm sorry but you'll have to set it up from scratch." Happily, I respond "that's OK. At least I can finally get access."

* * *

I reach the computer lab. Begin entering in all the identifiers that I've provided to them, now for the fifteen hundredth time. Oh I'm getting close, just finished step 7 of 8. Now all that is left is to hit accept... [holding my breath]...

"ERROR, try again later"

MOTHERFUCKER!!!

Four Excellent Things About Seattle...

2005-09-15T14:47:00.000-07:00

1) The Blue Scholars
Friends of mine discovered this Seattle based DJ/MC duo at the Sasquatch Festival this past summer. My friends were so impressed by both their music and verse that they urged me to check out a show of theirs at the Doug Fir in Portland. The Blue Scholars' act that evening surpassed the already high expectations that I form of any musical act that comes recommended by that strain of friends (i.e. Engel and company).

The Blue Scholars' background beats and samples perfectly compliment their prose. I'm not a hip-hop enthusiast by any stretch... and it is probably their unapologetically intellectual style that I find so appealing and refreshing. So be it. Many of their jams address class disparities in our culture; an issue with which I have become increasingly obsessed in my adulthood [for good reason]. Also, their complete disdain for our great leader, commander in chief G.W. Bush, resonates strongly with me. There should be more protest music about the present state of our nation, both internally and abroad. I'm not sure why there isn't, especially when I know that there are a great deal of people out there who feel as I do. These two guys have the sack to express the outrage that we, the fiscally and politically privated young, truly feel, but are too afraid, too apathetic, or too preoccupied to express for ourselves.

2) Mikeala's Fiend
I hadn't moshed in 10 years. I hadn't had the urge. I, and a bunch of other aging rockers, could not restrain ourselves upon hearing the sonic chaos of this Seattle bred Drum-Guitar/Effects duo on one smoldering evening in July, in the basement of the rowdiest house party (that quickly grew into a block party) that think I've ever attended. Truth be told, the unharnessed energy of the 17 year-old hipster-kid drummer catalyzed the basement mayhem. The quality of his beats I cannot suitably capture with words, but I will say that they were as original as they were hypnotic... and that is to say, a great deal. As a drummer myself, I strongly suspect that this kid had had very little, if any, formal training, which is all the better for him/them. Their almost complete absence of conventional -- and exhaustive incorporation of original -- drumming techniques driving their music greatly contributed to their unique sound. Of course, I'm a drummer, so the rhythm is where I focus my attention in the appraisal of any band. Mikaela's Fiend made me FEEL MUSIC the way one does when hearing a new genre for the first time.

3) Pleaseeasaur
This Seattle "band" Jane and I discovered opening for Pinback at the Aladdin a little while back. It's simply one guy, spouting off the most lyrically random songs I've ever heard above a pre-recorded accompaniment, while wearing the most outlandish makeshift costumes I've ever seen. Mysterious out-of-view overhead projector operators put up transparencies illustrating events in the songs behind crowd facing backdrops. By random I mean: one song describes, in meticulous detail, the brown hue of his '85 Chevette, another song, all 20 seconds of it, illustrates the difficulties of dog shit, and my personal favorite plays off of a popular gringo phrase: "If you got a problem and you need a limo... call no prob limo". True musical genius! Even if you don't have much patience for joke music acts, Pleaseeasaur will at least cultivate a few chuckles from you.

4) KEXP
An independent, "member-supported" radio station, in Seattle that somewhat reminds me of a smaller radio station, KDVS, that I listened to as an undergrad in Davis CA, but without the dead air, track misnomers and random transmitter blowouts. The DJ's on KEXP actually know what they are doing and seem to be quite professional. During the course of just one afternoon's listening, Jane and I discovered two local bands that we were compelled to further investigate.

If Only I Could Tell Good Poetry From Bad...

2005-09-11T23:38:00.000-07:00

...then I would at least have a chance at songwriting. Alas, my brain is just not wired to comprehend the aesthetics of word placement, usage, rhythm and everything else poetic that my rationally oriented nature prevents me from appreciating. :(

90% of my Sh!t is now housed in Seattle...

2005-09-06T14:58:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the five day lag in my posts. I've been moving and had not been able to find free access, despite repeated attempts, to an internet connection until now.

As I type this I'm sitting in the Allen Library smack dab in the middle of the UW campus. Seattle, with the exception of the price tag on virtually everything, so far, for me, has turned out to be great. Never have I rented from more attentive and kind landlords in recent memory. They left me cleaning supplies, toilet paper, spackle, phonebooks, a phone cord, soap and even a bus schedule inside my place to help me with my move. How kind is that!?! They live above me and have a big black labrador named "Smudge". Jane and Smudge have already fallen for each other.

Portland bound will be Jane and I this evening. ...back to battle our former rent managers (aka slumlord motherfuckers) into giving back our security deposit, to set up Jane's present digs and to battle her present landlord for a straight answer on her washer and dryer hook up prospects and internet connectivity.

Mark my words though: everything is hunky dory now, but when Jane finally leaves Seattle not to return in a month's time, and the cruel demands of my grad program materialize, Seattle will lose it's lustre.

P-TOWN 4-ever Bee-yatch!

Not Your Ordinary Garden Variety Synth...

2005-09-01T23:02:00.000-07:00

... but if present day were 1985 rather than 2005 this, fine specimen would be the foxxiest rig that your green could provide.

It's the Yamaha DX-21 FM Synthesizer. That's right kiddies you guessed right, "FM" stands for Frequency Modulating tone synthesis... not like those MOOG inventions that sum together the output of multiple oscillators set to constant frequencies to enable voice synthesis intuitive enough for a performing musician to program on the fly... no siree, boy. Those are for sissies. The DX-21 is a "programmer's synth". Those who dare to navigate it's sleek, multi-function, 32 - button, user interface and single color, non-backlit, display with not quite the resolution of Nintendo's first version of Gameboy need to have a robust understanding of advanced Fourier analysis and signal processing to get it to output the most basic peep... and that's after the mandatory three hours of tedious calculation of Bessel's coefficients for each modulator:oscillator frequency ratio side-band of the desired voice. "What is that you say...?" "You don't know what a Bessel coefficient is and you call yourself a synth programmer!?!" Stay away from the DX-21; it'll kick your ass!

As the nonplussed clerk at Trade Up music half-assed explained, the above was a favorite of many in late 80's to early 90's the Detroit techno scene. Let me extend a shout out to my man Juan Atkins. Your music may be long forgotten but it's influence remains strong.

Plus, the price tag proclaimed that the DX-21 is "Totally West Coast & Dr. Dre approved!!!". I'm glad to know I'm in such good company! Maybe I'll email the Dr. for some DX-21 programming tips. WEST SIDE you know it's the BEST SIDE!

After reading this weeks Portland Mercury's cost comparison between "traditional" multi-person rock band expenses and those of your solo laptop geek. I think my present music projects will more closely resemble the latter strategy. Well, that, and the fact that I've no place to bang on my drums in Seattle; superSUX it does.

Fallout

2005-09-01T08:45:00.000-07:00

Note to self::: If you become too busy to upkeep and post on your blog (i.e. like over the past month), your readers will quickly lose interest and become too busy themselves, to remember to check it.

Note to readers::: To all of you who have checked this site over the past month and have become frustrated with the lack of activity: MY APOLOGIES. I'm alive and well. The number of stressors in my life has been substantially reduced since my job ended and my activities have tapered off. Accordingly, I simply seem to have much less to whine/rant about. Hopefully, this trend will continue and I can finally include in this blog some happy entries for a change.

Peace and goodwill toward men. Ah SNAP! Golden Girls is on. Later.

The High Life...

2005-08-31T11:36:00.000-07:00

I resolved to make the most out of Jolly ole Portland before my time here expires. Accordingly, I've been venturing out to Forest Park a few mornings a week over the past month. Forest Park is the Portland attraction I read about in National Geographic, but have never actually visited in my three and a half years of living in PDX proper.

I park my grossly out of place, ten year old Honda in need of body work alongside the late model SUV's and Subaru Foresters. Never have I seen a greater concentration of Mini Coopers parked in any one neighborhood (including the Pearl).

On several mornings, I've run past a place on Aspen street where there's a man, dressed in the most immaculate coveralls I've ever seen, working on some antique sports car in his, residential, hillside-stilt supported, private garage. I wouldn't think much of it except a neon sign, that reads "Route 66 Garage" adorns it overhead. Every time I pass he looks up at me with either a bemused, or suspicious gaze. (I'm always across the street so I can't really tell. What I can tell is that it's not friendly or welcoming) "Having fun with your toys, you pretentious fuck? Was that sign a Christmas present from wifey? Can I bring MY car into Route 66 Garage for a tune up? What, you never seen a jogger before dillhole? Oh did I cause you to make a spotty-pooh on your coveralls " are my collection of thought comebacks.

Other than the trust-funded health nuts that are out "humpin' the trails" every morning, there seems to be a fair number of West Hills housewives sweating to keep their six figure husbands interested. Incidentally, many of these housewives pass me on the trails as if I were standing still -- just to keep my pride in check. (If you've ever seen the movie Spanglish, each occasion re-enacts, at least at some level, militant Tia Leone's "...on your left!".)

I now know why FINDING the trailheads to largest urban park in the nation seems to have been deliberately made difficult (i.e. NW Thurman is the ONLY straight shot from the Alphabet district to the closest trailhead) : to keep out MY KIND OF PEOPLE. Too bad. I say this to the prevailing enjoyers of Forest Park, "keep a tight grip on your REI graphite/composite walking sticks and nifty camelback watering bags 'cuz there's a Thug in the park mothrafuchers."

DUMB MOVE

2005-08-30T11:56:00.000-07:00

A couple posts ago I put up the Craigslist ad that my other band Flapjaks posted in our search for a female vocalist. True to Craigslist form, responses to our post were rapid and numerous; I took the post down after only two days, because by then we already had more interested folks than we could possibly audition. I pointed interested responders to this site to listen to samples of our music. I warned them that our samples are rough and that this site was my personal blog and explicitly stated that it would probably be in their best interests to ignore my rants. ... seems reasonable right!?!

Well I noticed a marked reduction in correspondence frequency regarding our search AFTER I sent the emails pointing our candidates to this site. Could it really be our music? Perhaps. But after our second audition last night, a second, more plausible explanation came to my mind. The candidate hinted that, after taking a peek at this site to hear the samples, she really didn't know what she should expect. Perhaps the portrait, in my profile, of that mulleted creature and his offspring that I pass of as my own may have elicited the slightest hint of doubt in our promise as a band.

TO ALL OF YOU WHO HAVE NOT YET MET ME FACE-TO-FACE:
While the portrait contained in the "Profile" section does accurately convey my electronic persona, it is not an accurate rendering of my physical appearance.

Anyway, we hope that our vocalist search is over. The female who auditioned last night is better than what we had hoped.

"Moving Hell"...

2005-08-30T11:32:00.000-07:00

... the reason that I mislead myself into believing as to why I have not been posting at my desired frequency. For this particular move -- I think for the first time in my moving history (which is, as is probably the case for many folks my age, extensive) -- I've actually given myself enough time to get a good helping of my sh!t packed before loading day.

Because my Seattle digs are substantially smaller than my current P-town ones, I've made Goodwill runs aplenty. And, to prevent the usual lower back strain induced from packing solid, a single 10 cubic foot box full of books, Jane and I raided the Veteran's Hospital in the wee hours to amass a collection of boxes of suitable volume, strength and rigidity to contain all of our belongings. I've even reserved, well enough in advance to prevent the usual hassle, the U-haul.

All of this preparation has not made the actual task of physically translating my belongings from one point in space to another, any more enjoyable than it usually is... well maybe it has. Usually, a few days before the event of loading up the truck, my stomach is in knots. No so, right now. Enough reflection though, many an article remains to be spatially oriented into corrugated cubes for translation.

Female Vocalist Wanted

2005-08-16T15:33:00.000-07:00

Reply to: thugwithyoyo@hotmail.com
Date: 2005-08-16, 3:26PM PDT

Only those who posses a bluesy singing style and a punk rock attitude need apply (knitters welcome). Also, prospective candidates who can truthfully boast of their past, or ongoing, formal voice training will be preferred.

We call ourselves Flapjaks* and a sultry female voice would greatly enhance guitar-drum duo sound. While we already have several song ideas that we plan to record in the near future, we would most certainly welcome, and hope to benefit from, a vocalist’s creative insight.

Our music is pretty rocky… bridging that great divide between metal and folk with sprinkles of country thrown in, on occasion, for yuks. We’re LAID BACK and we practice on a weekly to bi-weekly basis. At present, we’re hobbyists, however, we would certainly be willing to play out if the opportunity arises.

*Band name negotiable

this is in or around PDX proper

no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

91495904

"Gee Thug... What have you been up to!?!"

2005-08-15T11:19:00.000-07:00

What follows is an email I drafted for a friend of mine who wanted to better understand entropy. For whatever reason, exactly what I'm not sure, she said she hoped the 2nd law of thermo would support her anti-creationist position in a debate with her sci-fi authoring pop.

******,

Whoa. You and your dad have deep convos. My dad and I restrict our topics of discussion to cars, trucks and sometimes planes. Please excuse the tone of the lecture that follows. It is as much for me (as practice for explaining physiology to nursing students) as it is for you:

Entropy is the tendency of all physical systems, over time, to assume configurations that maximize the number of different possible states that they may assume at a given energy level. For a particular energy, the number of available configuration states is greatest when that system is most “disordered” as popular science authors rightly call it. (Yeah that definition is definitely opaque - let me try to explain. By the way, “Energy”, basically, is the potential to perform “work” (the amount of force exerted over a given amount of time) or generate heat; both heat and work are forms of energy). Examples of ordered vs. disordered states are respectively: an intact teacup (ordered state) before it shatters (disordered state of equivalent energy), a cold glass of water in a hot room that when left by itself in the heat, warms up to room temperature, even a living person before that person dies is an example of an ordered configuration state and the corresponding disordered state that is inevitable with time. In our world, as time passes, entropy drives structures to erode, forces objects of initially different temperatures, to reach an equivalent temperature after they are brought into thermal contact, what causes certain elements to spontaneously decay, and what ensures that different gases, kept in the same container, will always mix.

Entropy increases as the number of available states increase. Interestingly though, as the number of available states, hence entropy, increases, the likelihood that the system will return to a configuration of fewer available states diminishes exponentially. This is why entropy always increases rather than decreases; why we never observe sand spontaneously organizing itself into a ceramic teacup, why one never finds water, after having been left in a room by itself for any length of time, to have heated up to a higher temperature than the room and why dead bodies never form themselves back into living people (at least we don’t think so, maybe they will for Armageddon). Some physicists believe, I’m not sure if what follows is an accepted theory to the origins of entropy, that entropy stems from the fact that our universe is presently expanding; that is, ALL galaxies are ALL moving away from each other.

Boltzmann, using Einstein’s principle of quantum states, devised the concept of entropy to characterize how microscopic states of gases determine their macroscopic properties, such as pressure, temperature, volume etc. The observed tendency for the entropy of physical systems to always increase is the second law of thermodynamics. Entropy drives many other processes in physical systems, above are just some common examples that I borrowed.

The second law of thermo is based from a science called Statistical Mechanics (the bane of physics students everywhere) which simply finds that it is extremely statistically unlikely that a given system (i.e. a contained gas) will spontaneously assume a higher energy state (different particles will confine themselves to separate spatial locations in the container and not mix) at the macroscopic level. Statistical mechanics, like quantum mechanics, describes applicable phenomena (i.e. behavior of gasses, contraction/expansion of solids with temperature, states of fluids etc.) in terms of quantum states. Quantum states refer to the discrete, as opposed to continuous, configurations that constituents of the system are allowed to occupy; for example, electrons can occupy a given orbital in an atom or it can’t, an electron cannot partially occupy an orbital and partially occupy another. An example of a quantum state in statistical mechanics would be the ways in which poly-atomic gas particles are able to vibrate, there are only a finite amount of ways depending upon the number of constituent sub-particles and the geometry of how they bond together. This concept of “quantum states” to describe microscopic phenomena has only been around for about a century and a half.

Quantum Mechanics, like Statistical Mechanics, explains the behavior of phenomena statistically. Quantum phenomena, like everything else physical in our universe, must obey the second law of thermodynamics. However, Quantum mechanics, because of its statistical framework can account for some strange behaviors that can seem to contradict the 2nd law of thermo based on our expectations of everyday phenomena, but actually do not. One of those is the phenomenon of “particle tunneling” where particles can traverse barriers that we would intuitively expect to completely contain them. According to quantum mechanics, it’s a statistical possibility that if a person throws a baseball at a steel plate it can “tunnel” through it because the baseball’s absolute location and absolute momentum cannot both be known at the same time. We don’t observe this because tunneling is extremely improbable for large particles, it’s less improbable, though, for small particles and we would not have semi-conductors, hence, any modern electronics if tunneling didn’t actually happen.

Here’s a tasty tidbit to talk about with your pop that relates both the 2nd law of thermo and quantum mechanics: tell him that protons, the building blocks of all stable matter in our world, are themselves, believed to be unstable. That is, that they are likely to spontaneously break down into smaller subatomic particles after a long enough amount of time passes. Now, granted this length of time is much greater than the longevity of our universe if it is to end in the “cosmic crunch” so we would really not have anything to worry about if we humans can manage to live that long. We’d happily be fused together like all the rest of our matter family before we’d fall to pieces due to failing proton integrity.

Happy father-daughter bonding!!!

In Woodland [CA] this Weekend...

2005-07-31T15:44:00.000-07:00

... and having much fun. I've been neglecting my family for too long. One thing though, for those of you who have settled away from the nest, have you ever noticed how you tend to forget certain idiosyncratic tendencies and behaviors of your kin after you've spent time away from them, only to notice such abnormalities magnified 100 times during brief visits. Yikes, people -- even family, even older family members for that matter -- change over time. Um... from now on I need to pay more attention to my family. Or, the next time I come home I will not recognize them at all.

[Stop saying "duh" this is a new concept for me!]

A House Party a Couple Weeks Back...

2005-07-25T13:42:00.000-07:00

This party seriously rocked... no thanks to me, though. My stupid ass had no carpet to keep my kit from creeping away from me while I banged :(. Oh well. You live, you learn.

ATTENTION: All Scum Sucking Fuckwipes of Portland!!!

2005-07-20T21:01:00.000-07:00

STOP FUCKING WITH MY SHIT!!!

Two weeks ago, I came home to find that a pack of you shiftless cockgobblers destroyed my bike with your cowardly vandal shit while I was out of town. SHAME ON ME for leaving it unattended in my own yard for a night.

Ten minutes ago, I walk out of my practice space and find my car, unlocked, windows down, e-brake unlatched, partially blocking an intersection right smack in the middle of downtown Portland. Some mutherfuckin', post-fraternity backwards capwearin', fuckassed fucklick, drivin' a late-model, raised w/oversized tires, chevy pickup, probably on his way to some Abercrombie and Fitch Gala in the Benson Hotel, decided on pulling/bending down my driverside window by wedging his fingers into the 1/2 inch crack that I left for my car to breath. He must have then reached in with his arm, unlocked my door, unlatched the brake, and pushed my car forward in the path of sign in the curb -- that, luckily, prevented my car from going all the way out into the intersecting street-- to make room for his gas guzzing, "manhood" increasing, never taken off paved roads and never to haul any payload of any kind, behemoth boy toy in it's place.

Right now I want to return to that space, EITHER to take down his license plate to report him OR to bash in his faggotyassed, aftermarket headlights. I won't. Either course of action would invariably make my life more complicated. ItI'm sick of being shat on, especially by THE WORST PHYLUM OF FUCKTARD... some spoiled ass, ass-primpin', pud-poundin', golf shirt wearin', prepster ass shit bird who believes that he is so much better your common man that he can desecrate Joe Public's shit at random and without consequence.

A New Project of Mine: Kung Fu

2005-07-06T13:00:00.000-07:00

I've been regularly attending classes 3 times a week for the past 2 months. The main instructor, who we call "Sifu" (Chinese for teacher) is both knowledgeable and patient. So are the advanced students who also guide and condition us, often disoriented, beginners.

I trained in Kenpo Karate for several years during Junior High and High School, so my acclimation this particular style of Kung Fu and how it is taught has not been as difficult as I've noticed it being for beginners for whom this training is their first exposure to martial arts. Make no mistake though, in spite of it being a beginners class, I found the training involved to be quite strenuous at times. Last night, we had to go all out, performing all that we've learned so far, as fast and as hard as we could for 18 minutes. There wasn't a stitch of clothing on me that wasn't drenched with sweat.

I've been pleased with my progress. However, my complete ineptitude for retaining names of the forms and techniques that I've been taught is starting to get embarrassing.

My friends call me "IronGut"

2005-07-05T13:53:00.000-07:00

... a large bowl of seafood chowder, an entire appetizer of breaded and fried calamari, a couple cocktails and countless beers -- that is what I consumed last night, in efforts to prove to a certain west riverbank establishment (that we discovered, all but exploited folks' desire for seated fireworks viewing) that I, and my party were profitable enough customers to justify the space that we occupied. Around 2:30 am or so, my abdominal entrails churned, heaved and ached quite severely, but they held out admirably, and processed their unruly contents without expelling them.

Thanks IronGut! You never let me down.

Sick Day

2005-06-30T09:17:00.000-07:00

I'm sick with the 70 degree flu, that is. Although after practice last night, I did drink the remainder of an Xtreme Orange Flavored Mountain Dew that Jane must have placed in the fridge, the caffeine from which kept me up half the night.

It's now 9:23 am and I'm sitting in the Broadway computer lab at PSU typing away on an iMac, waiting for Jane to finish her doctor's appointment. Fun , it is.

Anyway, I've barely used any sick time in my job and only five weeks remain before my departure. I've still got work that needs to get done, however its not imperative that any of it gets done today. The boss is out of town so what's the harm... I'm sure I'll find out tomorrow.

Anyway^2, check out the newly updated "RACKET!!!" section of this blog [wink], [wink],...[hint]....[hint].

Cue Pomp and Circumstance...

2005-06-29T16:08:00.000-07:00

...and roll out the red carpet MothraFuchers, The Daily Record of the Most Boringest Life on Earth has been GOOGLIZED! Entering "getyourthugon" or "daily record of the most boringest life on earth" into the search bar will bring up this page on the search list.

I knew that this day would come. Thank you dear readers for all of your support. :)

A Question, For Those of You in the Know

2005-06-29T09:18:00.000-07:00

The chosen past time of my friends and I the past few weeks has been to watch Twin Peaks while under the influence of heavy intoxicants. These get-togethers of ours introduce the "soap opera" to me for the first time. Now, I finally understand why the show received the fanfare that it did when it was first broadcast in my elementary and junior high school years.

Anyway, as I watch, I continually find myself wondering: is the, for lack of a better word, hokeyness of the noir cinematography, the ridiculously emotive/repetitive background music and the forced acting deliberate (after all, the eccentric characters and the intricate while seemingly spontaneous storyline were obviously quite carefully crafted) in which case I would rate these qualities on par with modern HBO dramas --a truly remarkable feat, considering the series was filmed for evening network TV in the early 90's-- OR are the above identified qualities in question the unintended byproducts of David Lynch and company's style, that, coincidentally and quite perfectly, typify daytime soap operas?

I feel dumb asking this question because I think the answer is obvious to any hardcore TP fan. Unfortunately, the state of my consciousness during all of the episodes that I've seen so far, has hindered my ability to judge for myself.

The Title of this Blog says "Daily Record"!...WTF!?!

2005-06-24T10:24:00.000-07:00

Yeah, yeah I know alright. I've been busy as a mother this week. So like... sorry for not posting at the frequency I established for myself.

Next week things should cool down a bit -- as if I don't say that every week. Tonight I'm goin' to Kuhn Pic's Bahn Thai to meet friends for dinner. The restaurant is a converted house on Belmont. Overgrown shrubs obscure the vantange of onlookers from the street entrance. I stomped the grounds in front of it, for like, two years, cursing their uncontrolled vegetation, without knowing the true identity of that place. Jane finally enlightened me on an outing there for dinner a while back. Scrumptious, it was!

Tomorrow morning I'm goin' to my usual Kung Fu lesson. Shortly thereafter, the band for which I drum, Clap Amp, will make it's first attempt at multitrack recording. We hope that we can record three or four songs to put on a demo CD. On Mon, Aug. 1st we're scheduled to open with Post Office Gals @ Chinatown's Food Hole.

Our Neighborhood: Ghett, Not Charming

2005-06-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

Jane and I had a demoralizing thing happen to us this weekend. We drove to Bend on Saturday and spent the night there. Driving into our driveway on Sunday afternoon, we discovered that my bike, which Jane has been using to get around town for the past month or so, was toppled over in our front yard. I looked closer and realized that it had been run over with a car or truck. Not even the frame or handlebars are salvageable. The weird thing is that the perpetrators had to have thrown it back into our yard after they had run it over because there was no way they could have fit a vehicle where we found it. These actions suggest to us that the vandals targeted us personally.

We don't know who did it, although we strongly suspect it was our duplex sharers. They have always been cold toward us and we routinely come home to find garbage of theirs littered on our side of the front yard. Jane went over, knocked on their door and asked them if they had noticed anything suspicious over the weekend... (i.e. our bike that had been thrashed, not 3 feet from their drive/ entry ways) they said that they hadn't and pretty much slammed the door in her face. I guess "we had it coming" because we didn't keep the bike inside, for the ONE night that we were out of town. Suddenly, neither of us are as enthusiastic about our neighborhood as we used to be.

A Sample from Thug's Work Email Inbox

2005-06-17T12:28:00.000-07:00

I hope the following email warms the cockles of your heart as much as it did mine. The inner struggle that the author emotes in the following spam, truly, elicited tear generation in my ocular cavities:

From: Cascade Surplus Electronics sales@cascadesurplus.com
To:
BC: R*** E****
Subject: Saying goodbye to an old friend

Back in the 1980s, a long-haired kid was searching all over town for a tube
for a guitar amp he was trying to sell. Cascade Surplus Electronics seemed
to be the only place in town that still had vacuum tubes. That kid was in
his first year of college for Electronic Engineering and instantly became a
regular customer. Over the years entire paychecks were spent during the
legendary half-price sales. Little did he know that he'd be the one to
close down the old store at 8221 N Denver Ave.

I'd like to offer a big thank you to those who showed up to help with the
move. And also to those of you who have remained loyal customers over the
years. Great customers are the backbone of any business. I guess that's
why it takes years for a business to really get off the ground.

CSE will live on. The new space is a bit cramped, stacked to
the ceiling in some places. Once I get the place a little more organized,
customers will be welcome to browse the shelves just like in the old days.
Ebay and web sales will be the main target, though.
The old store will be open Friday and Saturday this week to
sell off the last of the shelves, tables, and desks that won't fit into the
new space. I'll be in and out all weekend moving the last of the items left
with my pickup truck. We're scheduled to hand the keys over Monday and
that'll be it.

Again, thanks for your -support and I hope to see everybody again soon.
Tony Gould
Cascade
Surplus Electronics
17954 SE Division St
Portland, OR 97236
503-285-0832
503-762-4365
http://www.cascadesurplus.com/

I sincerely doubt that, at least throughout all of electronics dorkdom, a more poignant farewell has ever been written. Here's to you Tony! Best wishes on your future EBay endeavors/exploits.

BAD Country Song No. 4

2005-06-16T18:24:00.000-07:00

I challenge all grammarians to decipher the chorus of this gem...

She said I seen you in here before
I said I been here a time or two
She said Hello my name is Bobby Jo
Meet my twin sister Betty Lou
And we're both feelin' kinda wild tonight
You're the only cowboy in this place
And if you're up for a rodeo
I'll put a big Texas smile on your face
I said girls...

I ain't as good as I once was
I got a few years on me now
But there was a time, back in my prime
When I could really lay it down
If you need some love tonight
Then I might have just enough
I ain't as good as I once was, but I'm as good once
As I ever was

I still hang out with my best friend Dave
I've known him since we were kids at school
Last night he had a few shots, got in a tight spot
Hustlin' a game of pool
With a couple of redneck boys
One great big fat biker man
I heard David yell across the room
Hey buddy, how 'bout a helpin' hand
I said Dave....

I ain't as good as I once was
My how the years have flown
But there was a time, back in my prime
When I could really hold my own
If you want to fight tonight
Guess them boys don't look all that tough
I ain't as good as I once was, but I'm as good once
As I ever was

I used to be hell on wheels
Back when I was a younger man
Now my body says you can't do this boy
But my pride says oh yes you can...
I ain't as good as I once was
That's just the cold hard truth
I still throw a few back, talk a little smack
When I'm feelin' bullet proof
So don't double-dog dare me now
'Cause I might have to call your bluff

I ain't as good as I once was, but I'm as good once
As I ever was

I ain't as good as I once was, but I'm as good once
As I ever was

As Good As I Once Was -- Toby Keith

Random Thoughts:
1. Whose ass would end up grass in a fight between Glenn Danzig and the Keithster?

vs.

[whoa, from the looks of things at least they share an affinity for canines...har!]

2. Is it me or are ALL Texans jackasses?

3. Toby Keith endorses Ford trucks which, incidentally, have been reported to spontaneously catch on fire on occasion, often buring up the houses in which they are garaged, and/or the rednecks dumb enough to drive them. What does Glenn Danzig endorse?... Satan I'll bet.

...On Child Rearing

2005-06-13T14:42:00.000-07:00

When I have kids and when they act up (which, judging by the behaviors of children in my gene pool, will be often) I'll 'reason' with them once and only once. The second time I'll tell them to quit. On strike three they're gonna get pounded... and I won't give a shit who's watchin'! That was how my parents did it, and you know what? I've never had any trouble remembering manners or that there are other people on the planet besides myself. Perhaps my parents' methods did traumatize me to some degree. That's good. Life's tough; the sooner a person learns it, the easier that person can suitably acclimate to it.

These days, I guess I've witnessed one Portland brat too many, running wild, destroying things, hitting playmate's and/or random strangers, sassin' his/her parental units while they, the parents, obliviously and complaisantly, stand back and expect all other's to either ignore or find amusement in their little monster's mayhem. I can't decide if "progressive" parents believe that discipline, in all forms, is wrong or if they are just simply lazy.

A constructive dialog between a progressive parent and child:
"....no, please Soliloquy. You're to young to be out in the street; nice girls stay on the sidewalk. Cars may not see you or hurt you ...please Soliloquy, that hedgetrimmer is not for little girls to use. ...Soliloquy, good girls don't run up an tug on stray dogs' ears, the doggie may not be a nice doggie... Soliloquy, I don't think Pai likes you pulling his pants down... oh that!?! that's what makes boys, boys."

FUCK THAT!!!

Thug's translation:
"...out of the street now and I may only make your ass sting for two minutes instead of five. ...[after trimming a thick switch with the hedgetrimmer] now imagine if that were your finger; do you really want to play with this now!?! ...that dog just might be hungry enough to bite a nice big chunk out of your butt... ...Your friend Pai is very sick. He's suffering from a bad disease that causes strange growths between his legs. If you want to keep from catching what Pai has then stay away from him."

That's good parenting!

The Mother of All Cockfights!

2005-06-13T09:19:00.000-07:00

Many thanks to my friend Pat for bringing the following article to my attention:

144 arrested at Tennessee cockfight
'Reputedly, this was the largest cockfight in the United States'
Monday, June 13, 2005 Posted: 9:59 AM EDT (1359 GMT)

Law enforcement agents stand with suspects after a raid Saturday, near
Newport, Tennessee.

NEWPORT, Tennessee (AP) -- Law enforcement agents raided an illegal
cockfight and arrested 144 people attending what one official said may
have been one of the nation's largest such gatherings.

Several SWAT teams, helicopters and dozens of state troopers
participated in the raid Saturday on the sprawling Del Rio Cockfight
Pit. They seized about $40,000 in cash and killed more than 300
roosters.

"Reputedly, this was the largest cockfight in the United States," said
District Attorney Al Schmutzer Jr. "It was becoming open and
notorious, and you just can't stand back and let something operate
like that in the community."

The 144 were each charged with being a spectator to cockfighting, a
misdemeanor in Tennessee. If convicted, they face up to 11 months and
29 days in jail and a $2,500 fine.

John Goodwin, of the Humane Society of the United States, who took
part in the raid, said it served notice on those conducting such
illegal operations. "I wouldn't want to be a cockfighter in East
Tennessee right now," he said.

David Webb, a gamecock owner from Rhea County, said he lost more than
20 chickens valued at $150 each during the raid. "I've been around
this stuff all my life. Everything I've ever known is a chicken
fight," he said.

Newport, adjacent to the Great Smoky Mountains, is 42 miles east of Knoxville.

"Today...I made life better!"

2005-06-08T16:13:00.000-07:00

This link will orient the reader for my rant that follows.

Thugwithyoyo's hierarchy of workers/professionals that "[make] life better" (in order of contribution to our society's collective quality of life).

1) Farmers
2) Ranchers/Dairymen
3) Miners
4) Food processors
5) Food distributors
.
.
9) Tool fabricators/Parts manufacturers
10) Textile producers/workers
11) Freight transporters (maritime, railroad, trucking)
12) Crude oil refinement/organic chemical production technicians
13) Power generation/Energy technicians
14) Sanitation workers
15) Hazardous materials cleanup technicians
16) Air-traffic controllers
.
19) Construction workers/Craft workers
20) Law enforcement officers
21) Military personnel
22) Data entry/retrieval technicians
23) Transcriptionists
24) Nurses
.
.
.
28) Scientific Researchers
29) Engineers
.
.
34) Journalists
35) Jurists
.
.
45) Legislators
46) Lawyers
47) Doctors
.
.
.
63) Architects/Designers
64) Artists/Musicians
.
.
.
.
101) Advertising executives
102) Prostitutes/Pimps
103) Television producers
104) Criminals
105) Corporate executives

Two things to note:
1) Notice how the earnings of the less contributing professions are typically greater than the earnings of the most needed occupations up top.

2) Notice that many of the much needed occupations, at the top of the list, on which American society most depends to thrive, are presently 'outsourced' to foreign countries.

The title of this post is a slogan that I've seen affixed to the sides of buses over the past month, most likely, with the aim to promote public opinion of the Legacy Healthcare System in Portland. I've seen several different versions of this ad with the same slogan; they typically picture a doctor, decked out in full scrub garb, (complete with stethoscope), standing in front of backlit X-ray or MRI or Ultrasound films or whatever the fuck else is supposed to be technically alien to a layperson. I speculate that the ad execs who decided to employ this strategy, did so to illustrate the grandeur and mystique of modern medicine; probably, with the intention of conjuring synonymous thoughts of medicine and godliness. If you haven't already guessed, these ads annoy the piss out of me!

OK. I understand that Legacy's slogan makes use of "life" both collectively and in the more metaphysical, consciousness/well-being of the individual, sense. Traditional western doctors excel at alleviating suffering from, and sometimes even curing, ailments after individuals have been stricken with them. For this, doctors should be respected.

Our (by 'our' I mean people of the developed, westernized world) improved quality of life, our reduced pestilence in comparison to that of civilizations of centuries past, and our much longer than what is biologically intended lifespans, we owe to the efforts of the workers in the industries at the top of my hierarchy. Improved quality of life and the necessities that certain occupations provide (i.e. goods, sanitation, shelter, security) have greatly improved our lives and health by preventing the occurrence of disease, malnourishment, and injury - problems that would have otherwise been much more prevalent in an American society deprived of such necessities. Improved health of the collective, by definition, implies that the health of the individuals that comprise it, has improved as well. It may be argued that even down at the level of individual persons, my topmost selected industries play bigger roles in health and quality of life, indirectly as they may be, than doctors do.

Please also bear in mind that in American society, doctors efforts primarily affect the affluent and those poor enough to qualify for government assistance. Neither economic demographic comprises the bulk of our country's population distribution. Individuals that are neither affluent nor destitute, who require medical treatment, may seek it only at great expense to themselves (whether medical "benefits" are involved or not, it is the worker who is, either directly or indirectly, paying the bill). It is for the above reasons that doctors don't make it very high on my list. Remember that the next time your attention is drawn to a glossy billboard deifying doctors.

Here's a list of feel good medical ad campaigns:

Legacy Health System. (Portland, OR) was awarded a Gold [Aster] award, for:
"Total Ad Campaign "Today I Made Life Better""

Legacy Health System. (Portland, OR) was awarded a Silver [Aster] award, for:
"Total Ad Campaign "Because Kids Need Us""

Southern Illinois Healthcare / St. Joseph Memorial Hospital
(Carbondale, IL) was awarded a Silver [Aster] award, for:
"Today's Medicine Timeless Care"

Saint Luke's Health System (Kansas City, MO) was awarded a Gold [Aster] award, for:
"The Difference Makes The Difference"

Oregon Health & Science University (Portland, OR):
"Where Healing, Teaching and Discovery come together"

All Saints Mental Health & Addiction Services, (Racine, WI)
"The knowledge to help ... the heart to heal."

University of California, Davis Medical Center. (Sacramento, CA)
"The courage to help... the passion to heal" ... real original guys!

and, finally, my personal all time favorite also by UCDMC:
"...In the hands of doctors!"

Valiant Effort!

2005-06-06T14:15:00.000-07:00

This attempt at English is shitloads better than mine at Cantonese!

Overlooked Posting

2005-06-03T08:50:00.000-07:00

Maybe it was just bad timing, maybe one must work on "the hill" to truly appreciate the hilarity, or maybe it truly was lack of interest, but a posting of Crapartist's a little while back, I found to be the apex of sarcasm. Please take a gander: R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

An Explanation...

2005-06-02T14:31:00.000-07:00

My apologies for the formality of my writings as of late. I just finished Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, the English translation for which, over the entire course of the book, tends to be quite precise while at the same time, quite disjointed on account of its being written in, recursive comma fragments, like these, that kind of makes reading the narration, after a long hard day's work, a bit tedious and, depending upon my attentive capacity of that particular day, exacting. Consciously or not, I now find myself, after reading the great work, writing, haphazardly, in the same, ridiculous, fashion. Cheers!

Hey there!!!

2005-06-02T13:34:00.000-07:00

"...my name is Tawnya and I'm nearly peeing myself in excitment at the distinct pleasure of taking your call! And just how may I satisfy your fax, printer, and/or copier accessory needs today? What's that? You're not used so much enthusiasm from an office supply specialist. Well mine is not your usual office supply company. You see, all of us here at CE are required to take part in an extensive personal optimization program (POP) so that us real employees can become at least as attractive, and chipper as the folks who are depicted on our extensive line of superior office products.

Please call us first with all of your office supply needs... we promise you nothing short of WOW! service. As you can tell from my picture, I never tire of my callers' clever quips and crazy office hijinks."

[This post is for a limited time only; that is, until CE catches wind of it.]

Shame.

2005-05-31T08:48:00.000-07:00

The height of lameness was I this weekend. On Friday night, Jane and I fully readied ourselves to go to the Sasquatch Music Festival the following morning. I've been stoked about it for months. Several bands responsible for, if you'll excuse the corn, today's hottest and hippest music were playing all in one venue.

Saturday morning I woke up hating the shit out of life. My weekly fatigue hits on Fridays; Saturdays I usually sleep in to catch up. I guess I hadn't realized, until this past Saturday, how much I NEED sleep on Saturday mornings. We woke up at 5 am, showered, dressed and finished packing. We were driving to meet our friends when I caught myself snoozing for an instant at a stoplight. This event, a mere two minutes a self-induced shouting fit, for which Jane heroically endured the brunt of my frenzy, was spurred by my not being able to find my belt and hat.

It was obvious that my mood would not improve without sleep (and the likelihood of my getting sleep during the drive, sometime during the day, or while camping out that night would be slim to none). I was certain that I would not have a good time and I worried that my mood would detract from everyone else's good time; so the van left without me. Much to my disappointment.

BlogFiller

2005-05-27T10:54:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine, who I haven't seen in probably a year :(, sends me mass emails with funnies attatched every Friday. These amused me:

Quick BlogViewer Feedback Request

2005-05-27T09:53:00.000-07:00

I was wondering if anyone listens to the looped samples that I've been posting weekly under "RACKET!!!"?

Also, have any of you tried to play the samples when viewing this blog with a Mac? Do they play?

My feelings will be hurt if I receive any comments along the lines of: "I would listen if you put up samples of better songs!"

Thanks,
The Thugster

Tiny Annoyances...

2005-05-26T09:21:00.000-07:00

[Warning: What follows is a rant!]

I get on an average of four different buses a day. There is no parking for lowly staff at my job so I've gotten quite tri-met savvy as a result.

This morning I boarded an 8 bus in downtown. As the bus pulled away from the stop, I found myself trudging up the aisle to my standing place, using the full strength of my legs. Then, the driver suddenly let off the gas and I shot forward, catching myself only by grabbing the bars beside me. Every friggin' stop, and stops are frequent on the way up to the hill, everyone on the bus was thrown forward when he braked, and shoved into their seats (or had to hold on for dear life if they were standing, like I was) when he slammed the accelerator.

Giving him the benefit of the doubt I thought, "it's a bus full of people, it's not going to handle like a car." But then I reasoned "no, I'm on buses ALL THE TIME and I don't commonly experience rides as rough as this one." I really would have preferred to walk. Also, back in my drilling days I drove a Freightliner on dirt roads, loaded with 1200 gallons of water and scores of sticks of drillpipe, and I, a truck driving novice, managed to handle that rig better than he handled his bus (no more than one quarter of the weight) this morning. That fucker needs to learn some finesse, plain and simple.

Whenever I setup a new study that involves tests that are uncomfortable or trying for my subjects, I sit myself in the hot-seat beforehand (as long as it doesn't do me harm) so I have an idea of what they will be feeling when I ask them to endure such torments. Bus drivers should be riders on occasion. They should have to wait 15 minutes later than their bus's posted time and then have to pack themselves in like sardines when it finally arrives. They should be forced to occupy no more than 2 square feet of space while the bus they're riding winds down Terwilliger at 50 mph. After all, that's a typical 8 line ride, both on and off the hill, for me. Perhaps that would cue them to be a bit more conscientious.

As further proof of the exceptional patience and kindness of your typical Portland citizen, nobody hollered at his inept ass. With my typical all-talk-and-no-action way, I stopped myself from climing up to and driver's seat to say "move over and let me drive; obviously you can't."

My Karaoke Baptism

2005-05-25T11:27:00.000-07:00

Last night at the Boiler Room:

1) George Strait's Ocean Front Property
2) Dwight Yoakam's Guitars, Cadillacs

Fun, it was. Everyone was too ploughed to heckle or criticize.

Writers

2005-05-24T09:03:00.000-07:00

I fell asleep last night 20 minutes into The Matrix. That's not to comment on the entertainment value of the movie; I do enjoy it, even the twentieth time around. Anyway, when I awoke at 3:30am, there was this autobiographical documentary on B______ K_________ [a popular political writer] on the tube. I watched in my sloggyness, not knowing where was to be found, and not wanting to look for, the remote.

I've read nothing of hers and, prior to the documentary, knew of her only by name. I learned, in my boredom, that B_______ trained in biology cuz she thought it was practical. She wrote poetry in the margins of her textbooks throughout school as a sort of guilty pleasure that she kept hidden. After many years, she mustered up the courage to send a poem of hers to a publisher and the rest is... [Yeah yeah, like I give a rat's ass!]

When I nearly could not stand any more, she voiced an opinion of hers that interested me, with which I, reluctantly, happen to agree. She said "there is a sacred tenet in our society that holds: 'as long one works hard enough, and is smart, then one will get what one deserves'; that I, incidentally, happen to believe is bologne."

I, myself, have voiced this same view as well; just not as eloquently, and usually, with a great deal of profanity. I was struck by the rare humility she must have as a writer. She must recognize that she, herself, is lucky to have a gift with words that enables her to evoke emotion in her readers. That it is not necessarily the political attitudes in her works, many of them fictional, that inspires her following.

So... I was like "ok". Maybe I can identify with her. Of course, I totally took for granted that she actually applies that same philosophy to her own accomplishments. Because all of the sudden she starts copping this holier than thou attitude and spouting off social and environmental policy dogma. "Hold the ef'in' phone" I thought, "where was that exemplary attitude of a few minutes ago. Just cuz you researched some shit and poetically slung a few words together about it doesn't make you an expert! And, just cuz you metamorphose your thoughts into print doesn't make them Truth."

Fortunately, there was only about ten minutes of the documentary left. The one that followed, "Beating the Odds; an Introduction to Statistics in Society" motivated me to get the fuck up and get on the bus to downtown -- to pound on something, my drums to be specific.

Possible Blog Title Change...

2005-05-19T18:36:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking of changing the title of this blog so it reads: Daily Record of the Most Whineyest Man on Earth. Any thoughts...? All comments are welcome. Especially ones from my favourite blogspot user, Shay.

Shay... I need advice that only you, through your extensive life experience and thorough philosophical enquiry, can provide.

I swear to doG...

2005-05-18T16:54:00.000-07:00

... why is it that Wednesdays I'm pummeled with demoralizing spreadsheet work? My mood goes from chipper to frothing at the mouth with rage in 2.5 hours! The worst part of it is, all of this torturous tedium will most likely be in vain. My boss has not the time, fortitude or inclination to even attempt to search for findings in the plethora of data, that I, and my peers have labored several hundreds of hours to generate and organize. These efforts were made for a particular study that he, years ago, went to great lengths to design.

Up until about six months ago, I never regretted my decision to take this job. But now, knowing that none of my effort on this study, will probably ever come to fruition, coupled with my boss' refusal to defend my conduct before our institution's internal review board (that I should be dismissed for making an error in a study advertisement), I very much do.

Well, why did I take this job in the first place? To gain experience conducting research and to publish the findings we uncover. It's the second part of that statement that is the cause of my frustration. This job has been very heavy in setting up, and collecting data for studies... and very light in analysis and publication. I did not train in college the way I did so that I could waste time fixing equipment and babysitting (babysitting is harsh, meeting and working with subjects is one of the few things that remain in this job that I actually enjoy doing). It is not as if there are any other perks to this job. The pay is insulting and the demands are difficult and frequent. I remember saying explicitly to my boss that I would take this job only if the above conditions would be met; both of them! He assured me "publication in scientific literature is very likely."

HORSESHIT!

Okay, what is keeping me here anyway? My pay. And, my word that I would leave things in order for my replacement. Perhaps I could live with myself if I broke that promise, considering that my boss has not upheld, or even tried to uphold, the significant promise that he originally made to me.

It looks like I have not maintained my resolution of being-happy-no-matter-what that I made to myself earlier this week. Here's to better times!

Riddle Me This!

2005-05-16T15:49:00.000-07:00

How come the following scheisty sites containing the term "most boringest" are googlized while my site remains shunned. WTF and Waaaah!?!

Big, Left, Outside
... 15: She calls his previous cybersession with readers "the most boringest online
... Marianne Pearl: For the record, I don't care who you write about ... ...
www.bigleftoutside.com/comments/3/p41.50 - 38k - Cached - Similar pages

The Pourhadi Perspective
... to use accelerometers to determine the coasters’ heights or record the G forces
... and staying true to its reputation as The Most Boringest Time Ever, ...
www.pourhadi.com/ - 101k - May 14, 2005 - Cached - Similar pages

The Pourhadi Perspective
... Be Doing Something, and staying true to its reputation as The Most Boringest
Time Ever, I am incredibly bored. ... Yes, daily. Because I have no life. ...
www.pourhadi.com/index.php/C1/ - 97k - Cached - Similar pages

The Works of David Brin
... sharing constant danger while daily enduring their puckish, brilliant, idiotic,
... For the record, I reminded him that, contrary to explicit rules and ...
www.gayspermbank.com/brin/theold.html - 24k - Cached - Similar pages

So Now Then
... I mean, they're like the most boringest days of the week, are they not? ...
because I would have been the absolute life of same! Most of the discussion ...
www.sonowthen.net/0804.html - 115k - Cached - Similar pages

bad samaritan : the archives
... Ugh. This is probably one of the most boringest posts ever to be ... posted
... This has touched everyone’s life, even in the most tangential of ways. ...
www.badsamaritan.com/original/archives/2001_09.php - 175k - Cached - Similar pages

mountaineer musings
... move right along, please; perhaps my daily I Miss Frank post is more your bag,
... anyway, that was the most boringest 1.5 hours of my entire life. ...
mountaineermusings.com/index.php?m=200410 - 377k - Cached - Similar pages

Big Orange Michael
... "This will be the most boringest part of the day," he tells us both since no
one is home. ... The crowd was a record-setting one for a Titans' game. ...
bigorangemichael.blogspot.com/ 2004_09_01_bigorangemichael_archive.html - 243k - Cached - Similar pages

Lessons in Love
... "I had PE and it was the most boringest hour of my entire life; I knew ...
a record for you so that didn't really help matters either." Rory admitted ...
chilton.smithereen.net/f_lessons.html - 125k - Cached - Similar pages

The Entroporium: Keeping up with the indie kids Archives
... they've raced up my personal hot list to pretty darn near daily play. ...
GBV makes its most commercial record ever, "Do The Collapse," in an obvious ...
www.entroporium.com/blog/archives/ music/keeping_up_with_the_indie_kids/ - 77k - Cached - Similar pages

..........I'm ecstatic to learn that more internet jockeys prefer www.gayspermbank.com than my page.

Country Song No. 3

2005-05-16T12:55:00.000-07:00

This song's X-treme CORN but I can't really call it bad. It attempts to be clever (i.e. some beach sounds like sum'bitch) and the chorus is quite catchy. I'm ashamed to say that I kind of enjoy it. Another property of the following, that assures its classification as country in spite of the accompanying music behind it that is actually soft rock, is that 2 of the 3 verses involve situations with cars. The second even makes an explicit reference about a particular type of car. I wonder if DaimlerChrysler Corp., manufacturers of Mercedes Benz autos, gets royalties for the reference? Anyway, for your sake Blake, I hope you used the name with permission. If not, you better get your ass covered! Them corpos would love to take a juicy bite out of your song revenue in addtition to gaining the free publicity for their product that you generously provided for them.

Here it is:

Driving down the interstate
Running thirty minutes late
Singing Margaritaville and minding my own
Some foreign car driver dude with the road rage attitude
Pulled up beside me talking on his cell phone
He started yelling at me like I did something wrong
He flipped me the bird an' then he was gone

Some beach
Somewhere
There's a big umbrella casting shade over a empty chair
Palm trees are growing and a warm breezes a blowing
I picture myself right there
On Some beach, somewhere

I circled the parking lot trying to find a spot
Just big enough I could park my old truck
A man with a big cigar was getting into his car
I stopped and I waited for him to back up
From out of no where a Mercedes Benz
Came cruising up and whipped right in

Some beach
Somewhere
There's no where to go when you got all day to get there
There's cold margaritas and hot Senioritas smiling with long dark hair
On some beach
Somewhere

I sat in that waiting room
It seemed like all afternoon
The nurse finally said doc's ready for you
you're not gonna feel a thing we'll give you some novocain
That tooth will be fine in a minute or two
But he stuck that needle down deep in my gum
And he started drilling before I was numb

Some beach
Somewhere
There's a beautiful sunset burning up that atsmosphere
There's music and dancing and lovers romancing
In the salty evening air
On some beach
Somewhere
On some beach, somewhere

[Blake Shelton - Some Beach]

[Ain't] Nobody gonna break my stride...

2005-05-16T12:48:00.000-07:00

[Ain't] Nobody gonna slow me down
Whoa no!
I got to keep on movin'

[The mariachi version I much prefer. Unfortunately, my Espanol is insufficient to properly translate it].

This week will prolly be a bit rough... prolly. I'm not going to let it phase me though. Happy will be my mood state; it is my decision.

Rokken Practice...

2005-05-12T13:25:00.000-07:00

Yesterday night I had much frustration to vent:

1) Alleged back taxes the state of Oregon department of Revenue believes that I owe it for the 3 months I worked in California before moving to Portland in 2002.
2) Portland fire department charging me for a fire inspection that they performed in, what is now, my practice space more than a year before my occupancy.
3) Measuring and sorting 3 gigs of data that I collected over the past three years so that my boss can analyze it after my departure.
4) Several pieces of equipment in the lab that have failed for various reasons (mostly spontaneous in nature) within the past month.
5) Steady influx of medical bills for tests that I had a few months ago. Most of the bills don't even include an explanation/justification of the charges. And, after all those tests, I'm not one iota better off than I had been before them.

It's a good thing I have loud things to pound on on a regular basis. Sometimes I think, that without them, I'd resort to pounding on people.

My pent up frustration fueled a series furious syncopated beats the likes of which few other bands, especially one band in particular that practices on the other side of the wall, can even come close to emulating. My band, Clap Amp, generates 100% raw, and primarily improvisational, noise for which we make no apologies. We're crass, we're base and we pride ourselves on mocking musical convention (...what an original claim that is). Several times last night, the entire studio floor, the walls on which, ordinarily contoring under the strain of heavy vibration generated by three or four separate bands in simultaneous practice, fell silent to Clap Amp's grooves. Don't get me wrong. I make no claim that Clap Amp is the best band on the block in the traditional sense. However, whatever we may lack in ability, we more than make up for in enthusiasm.

Update!!! Check our TRMW's recent post about Clap Amp.

8 hours; nothing but numbers...

2005-05-11T16:01:00.000-07:00

Friggin' spreadsheets have sucked out all of my eye-juice. I can't write a good post right now... too distracted, and too brain-numbed. The only way to work is to singly devote my brain to attention and nothing more. Creativity causes disturbs my systematicity.

"Regurgitate" does not equal "Recuperate"

2005-05-10T11:38:00.000-07:00

When I'm nervous I attempt to use big words. I say "attempt" because I often use big words with different actual meanings than what I intend to convey.

My prospective replacement is interviewing this morning and I made the above bad word choice. I don't think she noticed, but all the same I feel like such the dipshit. Giving interviews, for me, is much harder than being interviewed.

Plus, as further proof that God really does hate my ass, the first computer I switched on this morning, to show our interviewee the programs that I've developed in support of my much touted-by-boss technical prowess, hard-drive crashed like a motherfuckin' bastard. What are the odds that on this particular morning, out of the hundreds of times I've walked in and turned the muv on in the same manner, coupled with the fact that the sum'bitch was running fine two days ago, that the FUCKER crash. I'm not superstitious but GOLLY!

Three-Quarter Agony...

2005-05-05T10:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I needed to prove to myself that I'm not as out of shape as I think I am and alternatively, that two years back I was not the ubermench my nostalgia tricks me into thinking I was. To do that I decided I would attempt my old "Agony Run" in reverse (SE 20th to 60th and back via Salmon, Belmont, and Stark). Even though I experienced about 120% agony during my run yesterday, I figure that, in comparison to my true "Agony Run" that starts at 60th, yesterday's was not of equal difficulty since, by starting at 20th, the first half of the run was uphill, as opposed to the actual version where the uphill portion happens during the second half.

One good thing, for which I must credit my job, is that, provided I'm caught up with work and I have enough vacation time in reserve, I can take off days to replenish my morale. In grad school I will not be so fortunate.

No Flash Needed...

2005-05-03T15:26:00.000-07:00

These images 'move' without animation. Happy nauseum!!!

Relaxing weekend

2005-05-02T13:09:00.000-07:00

I went back to Woodland CA this weekend to visit my family, and the last of my friends that have stuck it out there amidst prohibitively high rent, rampant conservatism and an almost complete lack of interesting things to do. Friday night turned out to be a warm, clear night (I'm used to Portland weather now so I'm easy to impress) so I decided to setup my telescope in my Dad's backyard and took a looksee at what, I thought was Venus, and a few consellations. After that I went relaxed in the hot tub. Believe me, I did not enjoy such lavish living growing up... For the first time in his professional life, my Dad's company has actually been able to generate surplus revenue for more than two consecutive years. What does my Dad do with this spare money? Buy toys.

My girlfriend Jane went with me this trip. My family loves her. I think they enjoy seeing her more than they do me.

I have a fairly nice bike that, prior to this visit, never made its way to Portland. So, while I was there, I broke it down, put it in a box so it could be flown back to P-town with me. My Dad took to riding my bike after I moved, and while riding it one day, the rear tire blew out on him which ended up bending the back rim a good inch out of center. If I want a bike with rear brakes I'm going to have to get the rim straightend. Otherwise my bike is rideable. I plan to ride, instead of drive around Portland this summer, during my time off.

The only real drama that took place during the entire weekend happened on Sac International airport on our way home. A Southwest baggage taker, after verifying with me that the contents of the 5'x3'x8" double ply cardboard box that I had with me was, in fact, a bike, charged me $50 for it to be transported as baggage; we only had one other piece that we were checking in so I expected to be charged a maximum of $25 if the box turned out to be "oversized" by thier classification. Anyway, after his corpo-metrosexual ass repremanded me for having not put it in a hard case, he informed me that Southwest would not be liable for loss or damage.

"What the fuck are you going to do with it that requires a hard case and a transport fee of $50!?!... blast it into space? Shove your policy up your cornhole, fuckwipe!" I bit my tongue to keep from saying, to prevent my becoming the next outraged antagonist on TVs reality show "Airport". The Southwest website stated a $25 fee for oversized baggage. I scowered the fuck out of thier site and didn't find a G-darn thing about bikes being fiddy. Man, I wish I could be responsible for NOTHING and get paid for it. FuckASSes! (It made the trip ok though, so I'll cease my rant in this otherwise happy post).