I went to the La Jolla Comedy Store a couple of weeks ago, because Eddie Brill was performing there and I wanted to see him. This story is about why I wanted to see him, and why I will want to see him in the future.
A long time ago, Comedy Central aired a show called "Contest Searchlight". Contest Searchlight was a parody of "Project Greenlight", which was a documentary about a contest to find good amateur screenplays, and the best would be made into a movie. Damon and Affleck were behind it. Anyway, this comedy central show was a mockumentary about a contest to find the best sitcom idea.
The show wasn't that great, so I'll skip ahead. They get to the point where they've chosen the sitcom idea and they're making the pilot, but the lead actor is missing; they can't find him anywhere. The audience is getting restless in their seats, so they call in a standup comic to warm up the crowd and basically stall. The stand up comic was kinda tubby, and when one audience member finally gets fed up with waiting he says "get on with the show, you fat fuck!" The immediate response from the comic is "I'm fat because every time I fuck your mom she makes me a sandwich!"
The guy playing the comic was Eddie Brill. Now you know why I wanted to see Eddie Brill do standup in person.
While I was at his live show, there was a woman in the crowd who was clearly drunk, and was talking back to everything he said. Not really heckling, but more like reacting to him, answering his hypothetical questions, basically just drunk. Eventually Eddie realizes that this is a person he actually knows, and talks directly to her for a couple of minutes. After he's done, he apologizes to the rest of the crowd and is like "I know that's kinda boring for you, but at least it's better than heckling." He then proceeds to tell the following story:
Once when Eddie was doing comedy in Britain he met an English comedian and started chatting with him. They were talking about the differences between English and American audiences. The English comedian asked Eddie what was the typical American joke for when someone in the audience drops a glass. Eddie told him that he usually said something like "Yeah, just put that anywhere!" Then Eddie asks the Englishman what he would say to an English crowd, to which he replies "Sack the juggler!"
Later that night, Eddie does a show in Ireland and during the show a waitress drops a whole tray of glasses. Without missing a beat, Eddie says "Sack the juggler!" and the audience goes wild, they just love it.
Back up to Eddie's conversation with the Englishman. Like Eddie, this guy was a little tubby, so he asks Eddie "what would you say to a heckler who calls you fat?" Eddie responds "I'd say something like 'Yeah I'm fat, but I could go on a diet... you're gonna be a douchebag for the rest of your life!'" Then of course Eddie asks the Englishman the same thing, and he says "I'm fat because every time I fuck your mom she makes me a sandwich!"
So Eddie tells us this story in the La Jolla Comedy Club, on the one night that I go to see him, and the main reason I went to see him int he first place is because I randomly heard him tell this same joke years ago on a terrible Comedy Central show that I watched like twice.
Go, randomness, go!
Monday, July 13, 2009
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Darwinism in action
I am single. Incredibly single. Painfully single. So single that I sometimes consider rubbing up against people on the bus just to have some amount of human contact. But recently I realized something that made me not worry about it so much. There is an underlying logic to my singleness. It's actually quite simple, and looking back it helps explain an awful lot of my past life. It all basically boils down to one thing: I am an intellectual slut.
Allow me to explain. A normal, or "physical", slut is someone who will give away some amount of their body (i.e. love you long time) for free. If you are lucky enough to encounter a physical slut, you can partake of her physicality without worrying about anchoring yourself down with any kind of commitment to said slut. An intellectual slut, on the other hand, is someone who shares their mind or personality with you for free. An intellectual slut will entertain you with their brain in the same way that a physical slut will entertain you with their body. Intellectual sluttiness is probably just as common as physical sluttiness, yet people are less conscious of it, which is why you don't get arrested for paying someone to have a vigorous half-hour chat with you.
I recently realized that I, too, am an intellectual slut. It all became clear to me at a party while I was watching a friend of mine chat up a girl. I immediately wrote off this girl as being way too hot to have any redeeming personality traits. But my friend was having pretty good luck chatting her up, because he was getting her to talk about what she did for a living, and what she thought about politics, and whatever the hell else SHE felt like talking about. He was totally giving her an intellectually stimulating conversation for no charge, and she spent the whole night metaphorically staring at his mental cleavage.
There is nothing new about this technique. Cavemen probably used it to lull cavewomen into a false sense of security before they clubbed them on the head and dragged them back to their one-bedroom studio caves. The point is, guys like me and my delusionally optimistic friend basically have no other tricks up our sleeves. We can be witty, we can be charming, we can try to make you feel like you've got something interesting to say. If that's not enough for you, we're boned.
I'll let my friend off the hook for a moment and speak for myself. I'm not good-looking, I'm not athletic, and I'm not rich. I realize that the only thing a woman could possibly respond to is my personality, so I lay it on pretty thick. I basically tell as many jokes as I can and try to show her what a clever and witty guy I am. But here's the horrible truth that I only recently figured out: women don't give a crap if the guy they date is clever and witty. It's like 50th on their dating priority list, right after "has original teeth" and "doesn't steal from my purse". A woman can get her intellectual fix from a guy like my chatty friend, and then go home with a guy who can benchpress 300 pounds and will almost definitely cheat on her (why cheat? because he can, that's why). This works for her because of the aforementioned intellectual sluttiness. We're giving it away for free, and it's hard know when to quit. What am I gonna do, turn off my personality? How can I tell if she's interested or if she's just amused? You expect me to stop when the pretty girl is smiling at me? The whole setup is perfect from her end, and kind of horrible from mine. She gets the best of both worlds: she can have her cake and not have to eat it too.
So, here's my new plan for meeting women: don't be interesting or amusing in ANY WAY until they have proven conclusively that they are interested in dating me. There's no way this plan can fail...
Allow me to explain. A normal, or "physical", slut is someone who will give away some amount of their body (i.e. love you long time) for free. If you are lucky enough to encounter a physical slut, you can partake of her physicality without worrying about anchoring yourself down with any kind of commitment to said slut. An intellectual slut, on the other hand, is someone who shares their mind or personality with you for free. An intellectual slut will entertain you with their brain in the same way that a physical slut will entertain you with their body. Intellectual sluttiness is probably just as common as physical sluttiness, yet people are less conscious of it, which is why you don't get arrested for paying someone to have a vigorous half-hour chat with you.
I recently realized that I, too, am an intellectual slut. It all became clear to me at a party while I was watching a friend of mine chat up a girl. I immediately wrote off this girl as being way too hot to have any redeeming personality traits. But my friend was having pretty good luck chatting her up, because he was getting her to talk about what she did for a living, and what she thought about politics, and whatever the hell else SHE felt like talking about. He was totally giving her an intellectually stimulating conversation for no charge, and she spent the whole night metaphorically staring at his mental cleavage.
There is nothing new about this technique. Cavemen probably used it to lull cavewomen into a false sense of security before they clubbed them on the head and dragged them back to their one-bedroom studio caves. The point is, guys like me and my delusionally optimistic friend basically have no other tricks up our sleeves. We can be witty, we can be charming, we can try to make you feel like you've got something interesting to say. If that's not enough for you, we're boned.
I'll let my friend off the hook for a moment and speak for myself. I'm not good-looking, I'm not athletic, and I'm not rich. I realize that the only thing a woman could possibly respond to is my personality, so I lay it on pretty thick. I basically tell as many jokes as I can and try to show her what a clever and witty guy I am. But here's the horrible truth that I only recently figured out: women don't give a crap if the guy they date is clever and witty. It's like 50th on their dating priority list, right after "has original teeth" and "doesn't steal from my purse". A woman can get her intellectual fix from a guy like my chatty friend, and then go home with a guy who can benchpress 300 pounds and will almost definitely cheat on her (why cheat? because he can, that's why). This works for her because of the aforementioned intellectual sluttiness. We're giving it away for free, and it's hard know when to quit. What am I gonna do, turn off my personality? How can I tell if she's interested or if she's just amused? You expect me to stop when the pretty girl is smiling at me? The whole setup is perfect from her end, and kind of horrible from mine. She gets the best of both worlds: she can have her cake and not have to eat it too.
So, here's my new plan for meeting women: don't be interesting or amusing in ANY WAY until they have proven conclusively that they are interested in dating me. There's no way this plan can fail...
Sunday, November 9, 2008
I have nothing to say to any of you
I am reminded of a conversation I had with a classmate on Halloween afternoon. I was in my friend Meg's office, playing with her dog, whom she had dressed up like a monster. I forget the dog's name... Scruffy or something. Anyway, another guy in the office, Marty, was talking aloud to himself about some program he was working on and he said "GRR! I don't get it, this doesn't make any sense!" Just to be silly, I say "It's a dog wearing a costume, Marty... it's not that complicated." This got a few laughs from Meg and others in the room, but the best reaction was from Marty himself, who said "Whoa, that was pretty good Mike... I've never heard you say anything funny before."
Not to be immodest, but I was completely floored by that remark. I tell jokes constantly, and sure they're not all gems, but at least I'm trying. Then I realized what was going on. Marty's not in the group that I mentally label as "my kind of person." There are two kinds of people in this world (oh boy, you just know something profound is coming up next!): my kind of person, and everyone else. I can identify my kind of person almost immediately. They're usually huge nerds, but not always. They like most of the same TV shows that I do, especially the cartoons. But the real distinguishing -- nay, defining -- characteristic of "my kind of person" is whether or not they will be receptive to my kind of jokes.
Marty doesn't fall into that category. I fundamentally don't understand how the humor center of his brain works. There's some overlap between mine and his, but it's incredibly hit-and-miss, as with all of the non-my-kind-of-persons. Hence the cause of his remark and the reason why I rarely talk to Marty: I cannot, with any degree of reliability, make Marty laugh.
Not to sound cold, but I have almost no use for such people. Maybe I'm desperate for attention, maybe I have an underdeveloped sense of showmanship, but if I can't make a person laugh then I don't really want to talk to them at all. I honestly get bored with any conversation that's not littered with jokes. If you were to ask everyone I've ever met to describe me, most of the responses would fall into one of two categories: 1) "Oh, you mean that red haired guy? I've talked to him like once, I don't really know him." and 2) "Oh Mike? Yeah I know him, he's hilarious! He does this awesome impression of Dr. Zoidberg..." (people in Category 2 tend to gush... it's embarassing, really).
Sadly, most of the world is in Category 1. If I have decided you fall into Category 1, I will make almost no effort to talk to you, and may even actively avoid you. Most of my relatives are in Category 1. My housemate is in Category 1. My grad school advisor is in Category 1. You see how I'm surrounded by these people. I honestly feel kind of uncomfortable talking to them. If you put me in a room with them, I'll barely talk at all, and if I do it'll be completely serious. I become a totally different person because I know that all my attempts at humor will fall on deaf ears. I'm serious, polite, and probably incredibly bland and uninteresting. I'd honestly rather be alone. Much of the reason why I hated working at Google so much was because I was surrounded by non-my-kind-of-people. I just sat at my desk, purposely ate lunch by myself (which was hard because Googlers are notoriously sociable), and counted the days.
One large chunk of Category 1 is women. Very very few women have a sense of humor that is Mike-compatible. A more objective way to say that is "I don't have any idea what women find funny." The few exceptions are my female friends, and they're my friends for exactly that reason. I would happily marry most of them. I get very attached to the people who fit squarely into Category 2, and on any given night I would rather be sitting in a room full of them than anywhere else. We don't even have to be doing anything in particular... just put us in a room and fun will ensue.
The incident with Marty represented one of the occasional freak cross-overs, when Category 1 and Category 2 briefly coincide. I had shaken Marty's mental image of me as serious, bland, uninteresting guy, because up until then that was who I had been around him at all times. Granted, I don't think I shook it very much. I don't expect to be invited to his wedding (and not just because of the fact that he and Chris can't get married now that Prop 8 passed). But who knows, I might get a couple more chuckles out of him before I graduate. It will probably be as big of a surprise to him as to me.
Not to be immodest, but I was completely floored by that remark. I tell jokes constantly, and sure they're not all gems, but at least I'm trying. Then I realized what was going on. Marty's not in the group that I mentally label as "my kind of person." There are two kinds of people in this world (oh boy, you just know something profound is coming up next!): my kind of person, and everyone else. I can identify my kind of person almost immediately. They're usually huge nerds, but not always. They like most of the same TV shows that I do, especially the cartoons. But the real distinguishing -- nay, defining -- characteristic of "my kind of person" is whether or not they will be receptive to my kind of jokes.
Marty doesn't fall into that category. I fundamentally don't understand how the humor center of his brain works. There's some overlap between mine and his, but it's incredibly hit-and-miss, as with all of the non-my-kind-of-persons. Hence the cause of his remark and the reason why I rarely talk to Marty: I cannot, with any degree of reliability, make Marty laugh.
Not to sound cold, but I have almost no use for such people. Maybe I'm desperate for attention, maybe I have an underdeveloped sense of showmanship, but if I can't make a person laugh then I don't really want to talk to them at all. I honestly get bored with any conversation that's not littered with jokes. If you were to ask everyone I've ever met to describe me, most of the responses would fall into one of two categories: 1) "Oh, you mean that red haired guy? I've talked to him like once, I don't really know him." and 2) "Oh Mike? Yeah I know him, he's hilarious! He does this awesome impression of Dr. Zoidberg..." (people in Category 2 tend to gush... it's embarassing, really).
Sadly, most of the world is in Category 1. If I have decided you fall into Category 1, I will make almost no effort to talk to you, and may even actively avoid you. Most of my relatives are in Category 1. My housemate is in Category 1. My grad school advisor is in Category 1. You see how I'm surrounded by these people. I honestly feel kind of uncomfortable talking to them. If you put me in a room with them, I'll barely talk at all, and if I do it'll be completely serious. I become a totally different person because I know that all my attempts at humor will fall on deaf ears. I'm serious, polite, and probably incredibly bland and uninteresting. I'd honestly rather be alone. Much of the reason why I hated working at Google so much was because I was surrounded by non-my-kind-of-people. I just sat at my desk, purposely ate lunch by myself (which was hard because Googlers are notoriously sociable), and counted the days.
One large chunk of Category 1 is women. Very very few women have a sense of humor that is Mike-compatible. A more objective way to say that is "I don't have any idea what women find funny." The few exceptions are my female friends, and they're my friends for exactly that reason. I would happily marry most of them. I get very attached to the people who fit squarely into Category 2, and on any given night I would rather be sitting in a room full of them than anywhere else. We don't even have to be doing anything in particular... just put us in a room and fun will ensue.
The incident with Marty represented one of the occasional freak cross-overs, when Category 1 and Category 2 briefly coincide. I had shaken Marty's mental image of me as serious, bland, uninteresting guy, because up until then that was who I had been around him at all times. Granted, I don't think I shook it very much. I don't expect to be invited to his wedding (and not just because of the fact that he and Chris can't get married now that Prop 8 passed). But who knows, I might get a couple more chuckles out of him before I graduate. It will probably be as big of a surprise to him as to me.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Mike's Awkward Adventures #1
I started to drive to school today, and headed for the interstate because it's quicker than going the other way. Normally there's not very much traffic on the 805 at that time of day. This is partly because there's never a whole lot of traffic heading north, and partly because I leave for school at around noon. Anyway, today I am heading into the 805 onramp and the right-hand lane is pretty full... like so full that there wasn't a whole lot of room to merge. So I basically had to drive kind of aggressively and squeeze in front of someone. He was kind of a jerk about it too, not wanting to let me in and flashing his lights at me and everything. Once I finally get in the right lane, I notice the guy in front of me is flashing his lights too. That seemed kind of weird, but not so weird as the high concentration of motorcycle cops in front of us and behind us. This whole lane was acting strangely... everyone flashing their lights and none of them going the full speed limit, even though all the other lanes were zooming by us.
That's when I saw the hearse. Just behind the cavalcade of motorcycle cops was a lovely all-white hearse, followed by a lovely all-white limo, followed by several other cars, all flashing their lights. Then me. With a groan I looked into my rearview mirror, only to see several more cars flashing their lights, followed by another cavalcade of motorcycle cops.
I had aggressively merged my way into a funeral procession, and had split them right down the middle. As soon as I realized this, I looked for a way to jump out of that lane, but the traffic to my left had become too heavy. I thought about just getting off at the next random exit, but mine was only a little ways away. So we continued in this way: a police escort, the deceased, some mourners, me, additional mourners, additional police.... we continued in this way for about 3 miles. I briefly wondered if maybe I should start flashing my lights just to try to fit in with the crowd, but I decided against it for two reasons. First, if they knew I wasn't part of their group then they'd be even more pissed at me for being a poser. Second, if they DIDN'T know I wasn't part of their group, they'd get worried when I eventually took the wrong exit and got the hell out of there.
So finally I found a space in the lane to my left and got out of line, but my trouble was not over yet. I was still about even with the middle of the funeral procession, but now the speed of the traffic in front of me was not any faster than the speed of the procession. The procession was like 15 cars long, so I had to jump about 7 cars' lengths forward to get around them. This would have been fine had we not been only about half a mile away from my exit by then. So basically I had a moving screen on my right, I was pinned in by the traffic in front of me, and I had to exit in about 30 seconds. I calculated that if I gunned the engine then I might be able to zip left, go around the car in front of me, zip back right, race forward to pass the procession, zip right and just make the exit... assuming I was driving a Ferrari and not my old busted Corolla with the check engine light on.
So, I just bit my lip and did the only thing that I could think of. I turned on my signal and AGGRESSIVELY MERGED BACK INTO THE FUNERAL PROCESSION, then out onto the offramp. I take comfort in the knowledge that the spirit of the deceased was probably watching me go through all of this, and understood what was going on from my point of view. That way he'll only think I'm an idiot and not a jerk, and probably won't haunt me.
That's when I saw the hearse. Just behind the cavalcade of motorcycle cops was a lovely all-white hearse, followed by a lovely all-white limo, followed by several other cars, all flashing their lights. Then me. With a groan I looked into my rearview mirror, only to see several more cars flashing their lights, followed by another cavalcade of motorcycle cops.
I had aggressively merged my way into a funeral procession, and had split them right down the middle. As soon as I realized this, I looked for a way to jump out of that lane, but the traffic to my left had become too heavy. I thought about just getting off at the next random exit, but mine was only a little ways away. So we continued in this way: a police escort, the deceased, some mourners, me, additional mourners, additional police.... we continued in this way for about 3 miles. I briefly wondered if maybe I should start flashing my lights just to try to fit in with the crowd, but I decided against it for two reasons. First, if they knew I wasn't part of their group then they'd be even more pissed at me for being a poser. Second, if they DIDN'T know I wasn't part of their group, they'd get worried when I eventually took the wrong exit and got the hell out of there.
So finally I found a space in the lane to my left and got out of line, but my trouble was not over yet. I was still about even with the middle of the funeral procession, but now the speed of the traffic in front of me was not any faster than the speed of the procession. The procession was like 15 cars long, so I had to jump about 7 cars' lengths forward to get around them. This would have been fine had we not been only about half a mile away from my exit by then. So basically I had a moving screen on my right, I was pinned in by the traffic in front of me, and I had to exit in about 30 seconds. I calculated that if I gunned the engine then I might be able to zip left, go around the car in front of me, zip back right, race forward to pass the procession, zip right and just make the exit... assuming I was driving a Ferrari and not my old busted Corolla with the check engine light on.
So, I just bit my lip and did the only thing that I could think of. I turned on my signal and AGGRESSIVELY MERGED BACK INTO THE FUNERAL PROCESSION, then out onto the offramp. I take comfort in the knowledge that the spirit of the deceased was probably watching me go through all of this, and understood what was going on from my point of view. That way he'll only think I'm an idiot and not a jerk, and probably won't haunt me.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Six more weeks of winter
Well, it happened. I suppose it was only a matter of time. Given the past history I should've expected it, but I have this annoying habit of trying not to think ill of people. I just generally tend to believe that the people I know are basically good, and that they are trying their best and any mistakes they make are the result of bad circumstances. But sometimes you meet someone who is just sort of incorrigible and never quite fixes their own problems and never quite changes in the ways they need to. And then you have to see their balls.
I got back from my trip to Pasadena this morning, and dropped my crap off at home and went in to work. After a long day I came home at 11ish and saw my housemate and exchanged some smalltalk about my trip. She went to bed almost immediately because she has a fairly normal schedule now. I'm not sure if Boyfriend was already in her bedroom at that point, or if he somehow arrived later after she had gone to bed. Anyway, at about midnight I go downstairs and have a snack and watch an episode of the Simpsons (they'll have to respect me after I get that Harvard diploma!) I turn the lights off and head back upstairs and her bedroom door opens right as I reach the top. This leaves me face-to-face with a completely naked Brazilian man, who is too surprised to react for about 3 seconds.
To be fair, I was too surprised to react either. I was pretty sure that this was not a situation that you can get through by pretending everything's cool and making smalltalk. This would have been especially awkward since he's a chronic hand-shaker... every conversation we've had started with a handshake. I'm no homophobe, but that still doesn't stop me from having a strict "don't touch any naked dudes" rule. Besides, there were no lights on and I'm not gonna risk reaching towards him in the dark...
So, smalltalk is clearly out... maybe I could break the ice with a joke? "How's it hanging?" No, too obvious... and the double meaning might not work for a non-native English speaker. "Cold out tonight, eh?" Nah, he'd probably kick my ass, and I really don't wanna be beaten up by a naked dude. "Oh JP it's you! I didn't recognize your penis without Barbara's mouth on it." Ok ok, too far. Maybe a joke is not the right way to go either.
Luckily I was spared from having to think of an appropriate response because the spell of shock and em-bare-ass-ment broke and he quickly shut the door. In times like this, I call upon my superhuman ability to be good-natured about things. This skill was passed down to me from my parents and from their parents before them. It must be some sort of mid-western thing, but my folks have the ability to put a positive spin on anything if they are sufficiently motivated. This generally occurs when a family member does something shameful and they have to explain the situation to someone else. If, for example, my uncle was arrested for trying to kill himself by auto-erotic asphyxiation, they'd just chuckle and say something like "Well, boys will be boys. We all have our flaws, and I'm sure he learned a valuable lesson." It's like one part denial, one part relentless optimism. Anyway, I too have this power. After Naked Boyfriend covered his shame, I tried my best to think of the whole thing as a funny goof-up and chuckled about it just loud enough that they could probably hear me through the door (but not so loud that he would think I was mocking his junk... that would be a terrible breach of Dude Etiquette).
So, tomorrow will be delightfully awkward, and then I'm sure things will be back to normal. I pray to holy jesus that tonight does not represent the new "normal".
I got back from my trip to Pasadena this morning, and dropped my crap off at home and went in to work. After a long day I came home at 11ish and saw my housemate and exchanged some smalltalk about my trip. She went to bed almost immediately because she has a fairly normal schedule now. I'm not sure if Boyfriend was already in her bedroom at that point, or if he somehow arrived later after she had gone to bed. Anyway, at about midnight I go downstairs and have a snack and watch an episode of the Simpsons (they'll have to respect me after I get that Harvard diploma!) I turn the lights off and head back upstairs and her bedroom door opens right as I reach the top. This leaves me face-to-face with a completely naked Brazilian man, who is too surprised to react for about 3 seconds.
To be fair, I was too surprised to react either. I was pretty sure that this was not a situation that you can get through by pretending everything's cool and making smalltalk. This would have been especially awkward since he's a chronic hand-shaker... every conversation we've had started with a handshake. I'm no homophobe, but that still doesn't stop me from having a strict "don't touch any naked dudes" rule. Besides, there were no lights on and I'm not gonna risk reaching towards him in the dark...
So, smalltalk is clearly out... maybe I could break the ice with a joke? "How's it hanging?" No, too obvious... and the double meaning might not work for a non-native English speaker. "Cold out tonight, eh?" Nah, he'd probably kick my ass, and I really don't wanna be beaten up by a naked dude. "Oh JP it's you! I didn't recognize your penis without Barbara's mouth on it." Ok ok, too far. Maybe a joke is not the right way to go either.
Luckily I was spared from having to think of an appropriate response because the spell of shock and em-bare-ass-ment broke and he quickly shut the door. In times like this, I call upon my superhuman ability to be good-natured about things. This skill was passed down to me from my parents and from their parents before them. It must be some sort of mid-western thing, but my folks have the ability to put a positive spin on anything if they are sufficiently motivated. This generally occurs when a family member does something shameful and they have to explain the situation to someone else. If, for example, my uncle was arrested for trying to kill himself by auto-erotic asphyxiation, they'd just chuckle and say something like "Well, boys will be boys. We all have our flaws, and I'm sure he learned a valuable lesson." It's like one part denial, one part relentless optimism. Anyway, I too have this power. After Naked Boyfriend covered his shame, I tried my best to think of the whole thing as a funny goof-up and chuckled about it just loud enough that they could probably hear me through the door (but not so loud that he would think I was mocking his junk... that would be a terrible breach of Dude Etiquette).
So, tomorrow will be delightfully awkward, and then I'm sure things will be back to normal. I pray to holy jesus that tonight does not represent the new "normal".
Monday, September 22, 2008
And she's off...
Lately I am reminded of something I heard Jerry Seinfeld say when I went to see him perform live in Tucson. After his standup, he allowed some questions from the audience. One guy asked him what his favorite thing was about having children. His reply was "just chasing them."
My niece is nearly 2 years old now, and she can walk. This means that watching the baby is no longer the responsibility of her parents, but the responsibility of everyone in the building. A kid that young you can't just leave alone, unless she's sleeping. And any time she's not sleeping she's zooming around, often in circles through the whole house. That means the job of watching her continually passes to the nearest person who has line-of-sight, often as many as 10 times per minute. If you're not actively playing with her, you are usually witness to seeing her run around and around some part of the house, possibly the chair you are sitting in. If you are actively playing with her, you'd better have a short attention span because you might be doing the same jump-out-from-behind-the-couch-and-scare-her routine for a good long while. Settle in, grab a drink.
On my latest visit to my parents' house, my brother and his wife and baby were there as well. Everyone was staying in the same house and there's not enough bedrooms, so I was set up on an air mattress in the dining room. One of baby's favorite games is to fall down face-first onto the air mattress. Then I jump onto the part next to her and it bounces her way up in the air and she laughs and screams. Again, if I'm not careful, this could go on for days. Well as it turns out, baby loves this game way too much to actually wait for me to get up in the morning before she starts playing. This would not be a problem except that she figured out how to open the folding doors that lead into the dining room. Sunday morning for me began when something small and giggly landed on my feet. It went from sleepytime to playtime pretty quickly after that.
My mom has gone completely baby-crazy. Well, she went baby-crazy about 2 years ago, but it's been escalating ever since. This is the first baby girl in the family since... her, I guess. My mom is doing everything she can to encourage my brother/sister/niece to visit, as often as possible. Her latest scheme is to allow them to leave some of the baby's stuff at her house even when the baby is not there. So there is a full-size crib, changing table, and assload of toys that live at my mom's house now. I'm sure my brother and sister appreciate this, but I think maybe they're also using it as a clever way to dump off unwanted baby crap. I'll give you an example. My mom bought the baby this little toy dog that you can pull by the leash and it has wheels and rolls along, and the rolling activates the voice chip inside and it makes doggie noises at you. Baby dragged it around for about 30 seconds before it capsized, at which point she immediately and finally got bored with it and didn't touch it again. There were many attempts to get her to play with it some more, but they were all for naught. After a few minutes of this, mommy exercised her newly-gained toy-dumping powers and said "Oh boy, doggie is fun isn't he? We'll have so much fun playing with him next time we visit Grandma, won't we?" Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom, one less piece of baby crap! A surreptitious parental high-five followed.
I'm not gonna gush about how cute the baby is, but I will say one thing. They got her some shoes that have little squeakers in them. I challenge anyone not to smile when a baby toddles up to you for a hug, huge smile on her face, making squeaky noises with every awkward step.
My niece is nearly 2 years old now, and she can walk. This means that watching the baby is no longer the responsibility of her parents, but the responsibility of everyone in the building. A kid that young you can't just leave alone, unless she's sleeping. And any time she's not sleeping she's zooming around, often in circles through the whole house. That means the job of watching her continually passes to the nearest person who has line-of-sight, often as many as 10 times per minute. If you're not actively playing with her, you are usually witness to seeing her run around and around some part of the house, possibly the chair you are sitting in. If you are actively playing with her, you'd better have a short attention span because you might be doing the same jump-out-from-behind-the-couch-and-scare-her routine for a good long while. Settle in, grab a drink.
On my latest visit to my parents' house, my brother and his wife and baby were there as well. Everyone was staying in the same house and there's not enough bedrooms, so I was set up on an air mattress in the dining room. One of baby's favorite games is to fall down face-first onto the air mattress. Then I jump onto the part next to her and it bounces her way up in the air and she laughs and screams. Again, if I'm not careful, this could go on for days. Well as it turns out, baby loves this game way too much to actually wait for me to get up in the morning before she starts playing. This would not be a problem except that she figured out how to open the folding doors that lead into the dining room. Sunday morning for me began when something small and giggly landed on my feet. It went from sleepytime to playtime pretty quickly after that.
My mom has gone completely baby-crazy. Well, she went baby-crazy about 2 years ago, but it's been escalating ever since. This is the first baby girl in the family since... her, I guess. My mom is doing everything she can to encourage my brother/sister/niece to visit, as often as possible. Her latest scheme is to allow them to leave some of the baby's stuff at her house even when the baby is not there. So there is a full-size crib, changing table, and assload of toys that live at my mom's house now. I'm sure my brother and sister appreciate this, but I think maybe they're also using it as a clever way to dump off unwanted baby crap. I'll give you an example. My mom bought the baby this little toy dog that you can pull by the leash and it has wheels and rolls along, and the rolling activates the voice chip inside and it makes doggie noises at you. Baby dragged it around for about 30 seconds before it capsized, at which point she immediately and finally got bored with it and didn't touch it again. There were many attempts to get her to play with it some more, but they were all for naught. After a few minutes of this, mommy exercised her newly-gained toy-dumping powers and said "Oh boy, doggie is fun isn't he? We'll have so much fun playing with him next time we visit Grandma, won't we?" Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom, one less piece of baby crap! A surreptitious parental high-five followed.
I'm not gonna gush about how cute the baby is, but I will say one thing. They got her some shoes that have little squeakers in them. I challenge anyone not to smile when a baby toddles up to you for a hug, huge smile on her face, making squeaky noises with every awkward step.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Shmesearch
I'm almost there. After only 3 grueling years, I'm just one week away from not earning a Master's Degree. It's so close that I can practically not taste it.
You see, on the path to get a PhD, you have to pass a couple of milestones. One of them is called the "Research Exam". It's a giant paper survey in which you read a million billion gazillion pavillion cotillion research papers and then write them up succinctly in 9000 words or less. I've spent most of the summer doing mine. Last summer I worked at Google and made ridiculous money. Just thought I'd mention.
Anyway, the Research Exam is somewhat special. Though it's tons of work, after you finish it you have the option of getting a Master's Degree on the way to your PhD*.
(* Offer not valid for losers who decided to get a Master's Degree first before going to get their PhD because they couldn't get in anywhere good and didn't wanna go get a real job instead)
So even though I don't get a Master's Degree, I still have to do the freaking Research Exam. A pessimist would say I get no reward for all my hard work. An optimist would say that I got my reward 3 years ago, and have been able to enjoy it this whole time (I asked an optimist and he assured me this is what he would say). I prefer to think of it in another way: after I complete my Research Exam, the university will travel backward in time and award it to me 3 years ago. This way I still get something for my effort, and it only violates causality a little bit.
Most students you talk to about the Research Exam are very casual about it. "Oh yeah, it's just a giant book report. It's a lot of work, but it's easy." But of course, Professors like to "motivate you to do your best," which is secret code for "spur you into action through fear and intimidation." So my advisor is making my exam sound much more important than anyone else seems to think it is. From hearing him talk, the exam will foreshadow my entire future research career, and that of all my descendants. Its impact will echo throughout time and space, and a couple other dimensions we haven't discovered yet. It will cause the creation or destruction of countless alien worlds, and single-handedly determine who wins the final battle between good and evil. So my slides need to be really REALLY good.
The biggest beef I have with it is just that I've done nothing else this whole summer. I wake up in the morning and spend all day working on my exam, then I go home and sleep and wake up the next day and work on my exam. I constantly worry that the result I turn in is garbage, and that my advisor will tell me that I'm not cut out to be a researcher. More and more I have daydreams where I'm in my Research Exam presentation and at the end they tell me that everything I've done is worthless and just start laughing at my complete ineptitude, and then I start cussing everyone out and run out of the room and leave the state and start my life over as a potato farmer. I've never seen a potato in the wild before, but I bet I could take it.
Your reward for reading through this far is that I will now pelt you with a plethora of potato puns:
I'm going to try to grow the world's smallest potatoes, one millionth the normal size...
I'll call them mu-taters.
Or I could arrange them all in a grid and only sell them line by line...
Then they'd be row-taters.
Or maybe I could just put little pairs of glasses on them...
Then they'd be spec-taters.
Then I could start them on the path to becoming doctors...
And I'd have a bunch of pre-med-itaters.
At their interviews they'd need nice clothes, so I'd buy them expensive jeans...
So they'd be levi-taters.
Some I would treat as royalty, but the rest would just be common-taters.
If I got lonely some nights then the unlucky ones would become dick-taters (They'll get it right in the eyes!)
But don't worry, I'd treat those ones especially well. I'd take them all on a cruise...
On my dick-tater-ship.
You see, on the path to get a PhD, you have to pass a couple of milestones. One of them is called the "Research Exam". It's a giant paper survey in which you read a million billion gazillion pavillion cotillion research papers and then write them up succinctly in 9000 words or less. I've spent most of the summer doing mine. Last summer I worked at Google and made ridiculous money. Just thought I'd mention.
Anyway, the Research Exam is somewhat special. Though it's tons of work, after you finish it you have the option of getting a Master's Degree on the way to your PhD*.
(* Offer not valid for losers who decided to get a Master's Degree first before going to get their PhD because they couldn't get in anywhere good and didn't wanna go get a real job instead)
So even though I don't get a Master's Degree, I still have to do the freaking Research Exam. A pessimist would say I get no reward for all my hard work. An optimist would say that I got my reward 3 years ago, and have been able to enjoy it this whole time (I asked an optimist and he assured me this is what he would say). I prefer to think of it in another way: after I complete my Research Exam, the university will travel backward in time and award it to me 3 years ago. This way I still get something for my effort, and it only violates causality a little bit.
Most students you talk to about the Research Exam are very casual about it. "Oh yeah, it's just a giant book report. It's a lot of work, but it's easy." But of course, Professors like to "motivate you to do your best," which is secret code for "spur you into action through fear and intimidation." So my advisor is making my exam sound much more important than anyone else seems to think it is. From hearing him talk, the exam will foreshadow my entire future research career, and that of all my descendants. Its impact will echo throughout time and space, and a couple other dimensions we haven't discovered yet. It will cause the creation or destruction of countless alien worlds, and single-handedly determine who wins the final battle between good and evil. So my slides need to be really REALLY good.
The biggest beef I have with it is just that I've done nothing else this whole summer. I wake up in the morning and spend all day working on my exam, then I go home and sleep and wake up the next day and work on my exam. I constantly worry that the result I turn in is garbage, and that my advisor will tell me that I'm not cut out to be a researcher. More and more I have daydreams where I'm in my Research Exam presentation and at the end they tell me that everything I've done is worthless and just start laughing at my complete ineptitude, and then I start cussing everyone out and run out of the room and leave the state and start my life over as a potato farmer. I've never seen a potato in the wild before, but I bet I could take it.
Your reward for reading through this far is that I will now pelt you with a plethora of potato puns:
I'm going to try to grow the world's smallest potatoes, one millionth the normal size...
I'll call them mu-taters.
Or I could arrange them all in a grid and only sell them line by line...
Then they'd be row-taters.
Or maybe I could just put little pairs of glasses on them...
Then they'd be spec-taters.
Then I could start them on the path to becoming doctors...
And I'd have a bunch of pre-med-itaters.
At their interviews they'd need nice clothes, so I'd buy them expensive jeans...
So they'd be levi-taters.
Some I would treat as royalty, but the rest would just be common-taters.
If I got lonely some nights then the unlucky ones would become dick-taters (They'll get it right in the eyes!)
But don't worry, I'd treat those ones especially well. I'd take them all on a cruise...
On my dick-tater-ship.
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