originally posted August 22, 2007
The day after I posted the Podcast in which I acknowledged that I am with Brain Scientist, I received an email from the head of my program that began with the ominous statement I know that you are pregnant. The message was designed to convey encouragement, but it included an overt reference to her death and a somewhat veiled reference to my own. Although I don't really think she obtained the pregnancy information from this qwanty space, I am a paranoid sort, and so must state the following: I say many things in jest. Please note that I claim to be living under the Devil's scrotum in order to maintain anonymity. Do not hold any of this against me. That said, I would also like to offer the following insight: If you are composing a note of encouragement, be sure to omit any references to the author's or recipient's death, as this tends to overshadow the encouraging aspect, leaving all involved with an ooky feeling.
***
The other day, I was fortunate enough to miss this exchange between Brain Scientists senior and junior:
Scene: The pool, dusk.
BS, Jr.: Who is that?
BS, Sr.: Where?
BS, Jr.: (pointing towards deep end of pool): There.
BS, Sr.: (in hopeful tone) Those are trees?
BS, Jr.: No, not trees. Them. The scary guys.
BS, Sr.: Where are they?
BS, Jr.: (pointing to the bottom of the deep end of the pool) There.
BS, Sr.: What do they look like?
BS, Jr.: Museum guys!
(Cue Twilight Zone theme.)
Do you know what guys are at the museum? Hohokam guys, in a display of Hohokam Indians that BS, Jr. refuses to approach because he is afraid of it. Do you whose ancient village archaeologists are unearthing a half block away from our house? Hohokam guys'. Do you know whose ancient ruins our house is built upon? Hohokam guys'. And now, to bring this full circle, do you know who the junior Brain Scientist thought he saw hanging around in the bottom of our pool? Hohokam guys. I'm hoping he was mistaken, and that it was an early eighties Adam Ant and a Village Person or something.
In any case, if that doesn't motivate one to finish one's dissertation and move elsewhere, I don't know what will.
***
Finally, on a lighter note. Did you know that if you throw a samosa from Dehli Palace down on a plate in a huff while arguing with a Brain Scientist, it will explode like a flaky water balloon filled with potatoes and peas, covering you and all that surrounds you with its savory shrapnel? Well, it will. Please exercise caution when trying to emphasize a point with a samosa.
Monday, September 15, 2008
podcast
originally posted August 8, 2007
Last whatever, Cognosco and Forget-Me-Now and BS and I went to see Zappa Plays Zappa, which was great fun. Dweezil was wearing funny pants, as you might have expected. And clever us, while we paid for admission for four, we managed to sneak in a fifth, hidden somewhere in the vicinity of Cog's lady pocket (that's the one they usually don't search). Later this week we are going to see Zappa Plays Zappa again, and I am hoping most wholeheartedly that Dweezil will again be wearing funny pants. And clever us, while we paid for admission for four, once again we shall be sneaking in a fifth.
***
My days are an unending cycle of crackers, pickles, grapefruit soda, and ginger beer. I am queasy. I am no fun. I am a pod. While I would ordinarily refrain from sharing this information at this point in the pod period, it has become visibly apparent to people I don't even know, so I might as well embrace the whole pseudo-scientist thing and act like I'm not superstitious and just cop to the fact that I am incubating the next incarnation of Brain Scientist (or Brain Scientists, as an opinionated few asserted today) and quit trying to omit any overt references to this fact. I asked the BS if he thought it was necessary for me to avoid mentioning any of this here so that I might have a better chance of safeguarding things, and he asked me if I would like to go visit a moon doctor and have a handful of crystals thrown at my bosom. I'm not exactly sure what that would accomplish. I think he might have said this to point out that I'm being silly. I guess if something goes awry and I am left without future BS, I'll have to explain to those I see daily why I'm not so misshapen anymore anyway. Plus, were this to happen, I'd probably grumble about it in this here blorum, and this way I'll be spared having to type a long-winded prologue in which I explain the whole pod period that I failed to mention for fear of uterine retribution. So there. I said it. Sort of. I hope this doesn't make me negligent in the eyes of the powers that control my uterus. Or, as these powers might say, 'pregligent'. The powers that control my uterus are big on puns.
Last whatever, Cognosco and Forget-Me-Now and BS and I went to see Zappa Plays Zappa, which was great fun. Dweezil was wearing funny pants, as you might have expected. And clever us, while we paid for admission for four, we managed to sneak in a fifth, hidden somewhere in the vicinity of Cog's lady pocket (that's the one they usually don't search). Later this week we are going to see Zappa Plays Zappa again, and I am hoping most wholeheartedly that Dweezil will again be wearing funny pants. And clever us, while we paid for admission for four, once again we shall be sneaking in a fifth.
***
My days are an unending cycle of crackers, pickles, grapefruit soda, and ginger beer. I am queasy. I am no fun. I am a pod. While I would ordinarily refrain from sharing this information at this point in the pod period, it has become visibly apparent to people I don't even know, so I might as well embrace the whole pseudo-scientist thing and act like I'm not superstitious and just cop to the fact that I am incubating the next incarnation of Brain Scientist (or Brain Scientists, as an opinionated few asserted today) and quit trying to omit any overt references to this fact. I asked the BS if he thought it was necessary for me to avoid mentioning any of this here so that I might have a better chance of safeguarding things, and he asked me if I would like to go visit a moon doctor and have a handful of crystals thrown at my bosom. I'm not exactly sure what that would accomplish. I think he might have said this to point out that I'm being silly. I guess if something goes awry and I am left without future BS, I'll have to explain to those I see daily why I'm not so misshapen anymore anyway. Plus, were this to happen, I'd probably grumble about it in this here blorum, and this way I'll be spared having to type a long-winded prologue in which I explain the whole pod period that I failed to mention for fear of uterine retribution. So there. I said it. Sort of. I hope this doesn't make me negligent in the eyes of the powers that control my uterus. Or, as these powers might say, 'pregligent'. The powers that control my uterus are big on puns.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
salty balls, held for only the slightest of pleasure
originally posted August 8, 2007
I went to a Statistician's Ball. Well, not really a ball. It was more of a workshop. A workshop led by a man named Hadley. Hadley was from New Zealand, and had a pierced eyebrow with one of those bar things through it. I wasn't expecting this sort of thing from a statistician. I mean, I don't even know what to call the thing that was in his eyebrow, and I like to think of myself as one of your cooler statistical sorts. Note, though, that I do not refer to myself as a statistician. People who do what I do and call themselves statisticians are big posers (or poseurs if you prefer, you big wanker) and should not be trusted with your data. That said, I'm not sure what to call the bar in his eyebrow. If you know, keep it to yourself, you hipster assface.
The workshop was co-led by a woman called Di, who may have also been from New Zealand, and seemed to also be a statistician, although it was clear she was the type that is not particularly proficient with numbers, because when lunch time rolled around she ordered two pizzas to feed eleven people (or 11.1, give or take), most of whom were men and one of whom was German. Maybe it's just that she's not good with things that approximate parties, especially the type that are profoundly lame. In any case, I was hungry.
The Statistician's Ball kicked off on Saturday morning with a rendezvous at the Little America Hotel in Salt Lake City, Utah. For those of you not in the know, this is the hotel that the cast of High School Musical stayed at when filming High School Musical. I won't even bother explaining what this is, but it elicited a starstuck Ooooooh from my ten-year-old daughter when I mentioned it, and she requested a picture of it, because THAT IS WHERE THE CAST OF HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL SLEPT, and we for some reason care about this.
Upon arriving at the hotel, we were met by the others, a colorful assortment of people eager to maul their statistical wangs, most (or all) of whom were not even aware that they were SITTING IN THE LOBBY OF THE HOTEL WHERE THE CAST OF HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL SLEPT. Before long we were herded into a large black vehicle that was to provide our 'VIP Transportation' to the Workshop locale. This was fun, because it was a big, snazzy, black SUV that made it seem like we were an entourage or a posse or someone's peeps or something, instead of a group of people off to explore the quimtastic world of dynamic regression plots.
Once we were dropped off at the building in which the workshop was to be held and the driver had departed, it became clear that we were not in the right place. We were looking for a facility with computers and such, but all that could be found were offices that were gutted and empty, and one office that housed a title company. Hadley and Di were baffled, and expressed so in charming accents. The rest of us were baffled, too, and expressed so in less charming accents. The address matched the address Hadley had. What the devil was going on? Hadley and some of the more motivated others rode the elevators up and down the three floors of the building, looking for something that might be the facility they'd reserved for us. When nothing resembling this was found, the geekiest among us whipped out ePhones and iThings and locating devices and such, and stood about trying to figure out where the fuck we were (Salt Lake City, U-Should-Have-Double-Checked-The-Fucking-Location-Tah), and where the fuck we ought to be (Salt Lake City, U-Have-No-Fucking-Clue-Tah). I took part in none of this, opting instead to subtly fashion a Hadley effigy out of an aspirin bottle and some trail mix, so that I might have a means of inflicting a wee bit of pain on him for not bothering to check out the facility the day before. I abandoned this effort in favor of a Di effigy made out of a tampon and some lint after she merrily made the suggestion that we troop down the street to a Starbucks she saw and conduct our eight hour workshop there. Great idea.
As it turned out, three of the attendees had shown up on their own and thus had cars with them, and one of the attendees had a place of employment on the other side of town. We piled into the cars, formed a pitiful, directionally challenged caravan, and made our way to a pharmaceutical company in the middle of nowhere. Great geekery ensued. I almost threw a handful of raisins at the time-wasting, question-asking, more-than-his-share-of-pizza-eating blowhard across the table from me. Some of us were hungry. At least one of us was queasy. We all learned a little something.
Oh, how I love balls.
I mean workshops.
I went to a Statistician's Ball. Well, not really a ball. It was more of a workshop. A workshop led by a man named Hadley. Hadley was from New Zealand, and had a pierced eyebrow with one of those bar things through it. I wasn't expecting this sort of thing from a statistician. I mean, I don't even know what to call the thing that was in his eyebrow, and I like to think of myself as one of your cooler statistical sorts. Note, though, that I do not refer to myself as a statistician. People who do what I do and call themselves statisticians are big posers (or poseurs if you prefer, you big wanker) and should not be trusted with your data. That said, I'm not sure what to call the bar in his eyebrow. If you know, keep it to yourself, you hipster assface.
The workshop was co-led by a woman called Di, who may have also been from New Zealand, and seemed to also be a statistician, although it was clear she was the type that is not particularly proficient with numbers, because when lunch time rolled around she ordered two pizzas to feed eleven people (or 11.1, give or take), most of whom were men and one of whom was German. Maybe it's just that she's not good with things that approximate parties, especially the type that are profoundly lame. In any case, I was hungry.
The Statistician's Ball kicked off on Saturday morning with a rendezvous at the Little America Hotel in Salt Lake City, Utah. For those of you not in the know, this is the hotel that the cast of High School Musical stayed at when filming High School Musical. I won't even bother explaining what this is, but it elicited a starstuck Ooooooh from my ten-year-old daughter when I mentioned it, and she requested a picture of it, because THAT IS WHERE THE CAST OF HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL SLEPT, and we for some reason care about this.
Upon arriving at the hotel, we were met by the others, a colorful assortment of people eager to maul their statistical wangs, most (or all) of whom were not even aware that they were SITTING IN THE LOBBY OF THE HOTEL WHERE THE CAST OF HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL SLEPT. Before long we were herded into a large black vehicle that was to provide our 'VIP Transportation' to the Workshop locale. This was fun, because it was a big, snazzy, black SUV that made it seem like we were an entourage or a posse or someone's peeps or something, instead of a group of people off to explore the quimtastic world of dynamic regression plots.
Once we were dropped off at the building in which the workshop was to be held and the driver had departed, it became clear that we were not in the right place. We were looking for a facility with computers and such, but all that could be found were offices that were gutted and empty, and one office that housed a title company. Hadley and Di were baffled, and expressed so in charming accents. The rest of us were baffled, too, and expressed so in less charming accents. The address matched the address Hadley had. What the devil was going on? Hadley and some of the more motivated others rode the elevators up and down the three floors of the building, looking for something that might be the facility they'd reserved for us. When nothing resembling this was found, the geekiest among us whipped out ePhones and iThings and locating devices and such, and stood about trying to figure out where the fuck we were (Salt Lake City, U-Should-Have-Double-Checked-The-Fucking-Location-Tah), and where the fuck we ought to be (Salt Lake City, U-Have-No-Fucking-Clue-Tah). I took part in none of this, opting instead to subtly fashion a Hadley effigy out of an aspirin bottle and some trail mix, so that I might have a means of inflicting a wee bit of pain on him for not bothering to check out the facility the day before. I abandoned this effort in favor of a Di effigy made out of a tampon and some lint after she merrily made the suggestion that we troop down the street to a Starbucks she saw and conduct our eight hour workshop there. Great idea.
As it turned out, three of the attendees had shown up on their own and thus had cars with them, and one of the attendees had a place of employment on the other side of town. We piled into the cars, formed a pitiful, directionally challenged caravan, and made our way to a pharmaceutical company in the middle of nowhere. Great geekery ensued. I almost threw a handful of raisins at the time-wasting, question-asking, more-than-his-share-of-pizza-eating blowhard across the table from me. Some of us were hungry. At least one of us was queasy. We all learned a little something.
Oh, how I love balls.
I mean workshops.
tiny terror
originally posted July 20, 2007
Last night at dinner, BS, Jr. pointed to the floor and said very, very solemnly, I saw mama die on the floor. Mama died in the street.
Great. That's comforting to hear from a ghost-seeing, two-year-old brainiac.
Now I must return to the safety of my closet.
Last night at dinner, BS, Jr. pointed to the floor and said very, very solemnly, I saw mama die on the floor. Mama died in the street.
Great. That's comforting to hear from a ghost-seeing, two-year-old brainiac.
Now I must return to the safety of my closet.
heaven knows he's miserable now
originally posted July 7, 2007
The TCB is back to barking and fevering, as I should have expected. The fever has only been kept at bay by various elixirs and such, and the barking seems to subside during the day, only to return at night when his little head is as close to your ear as it can possibly get, because he is bogarting your pillow. To help with this problem, I sat with him in the bathroom at four in the morning, hot shower running, savoring the steam. When we returned to bed he was very much awake, and launched into many, many loud rounds of a popular child's song, as re-styled by Morrissey and performed by Harvey Fierstein:
If you're happy and you know it, go away.
(Repeat 100 times).
Awww. He wears black on the outside, 'cause black is how he feels on the inside. Poor Mini Moz.
The TCB is back to barking and fevering, as I should have expected. The fever has only been kept at bay by various elixirs and such, and the barking seems to subside during the day, only to return at night when his little head is as close to your ear as it can possibly get, because he is bogarting your pillow. To help with this problem, I sat with him in the bathroom at four in the morning, hot shower running, savoring the steam. When we returned to bed he was very much awake, and launched into many, many loud rounds of a popular child's song, as re-styled by Morrissey and performed by Harvey Fierstein:
If you're happy and you know it, go away.
(Repeat 100 times).
Awww. He wears black on the outside, 'cause black is how he feels on the inside. Poor Mini Moz.
a cautionary tale of absolute tr-oof
originally posted July 6, 2007
There are really nothing but downsides associated with feeding your child a food that is a novel color not normally associated with that food. I can't really think of all of these downsides now, but I also can't think of any upsides. My point is this – if you give your child gatorade that is electric blue in color, you are eventually going to encounter that gatorade again in one form or another, and you will most likely be surprised. Because you know what'll give you a startle? Bright blue oof.* And it will take you a moment to process why the oof is at all blue, because you will have forgotten about giving the child the gatorade, and your experience will instead be one of absolute horror: OH MY GOD, WHAT IN HOLY…Until you remember. Oh yeah. Blue gatorade…
I had the most horrifying moment of inappropriately colored food related confusion yesterday. The little BS woke up in the morning with a smidge of a fever and the slightest congestion, and by the afternoon the fever was down to practically nothing. However, when he woke up from his nap, he was 103 degrees, struggling to breathe, and barking like a seal. By the time I was on the phone with the nurse he was 104, and by the time we arrived at the emergency room around the corner he was 105. It was pretty quick, this fever. I should mention that this last temperature was taken rectally, a process that the BS, Jr. seemed to regard as absolute bull oof. Anyway, there the little guy was, flopped over my lap, barking and screaming and crying and having a thermometer poked in his hiney, when suddenly he threw up all over me – vast, vast quantities of bright red glop. Everyone in the room was quite alarmed over this development, particularly me: OH MY GOD, WHAT IN HOLY... Until I remembered. Oh yeah. Red velvet cake… And then we all had a tiny chuckle, the medical professionals and our party, once we figured out it wasn't blood that was spewing forth from his wee, wailing mouth, but rather festively tinted Fourth of July cake.
The diagnosis? Croup. Some mist through a nebulizer, a shot of steroids, and today the Tiny Curly Banshee is running around, free of fever and barks, talking like Harvey Fierstein.
Phew.
***
* Oof: (üf), noun, verb. The word once used by my young daughter to refer to all things scatalogical, e.g. Mama, hava oof, or Look mama! Oof! or I oof! Still sometimes used by mama to convey disbelief, e.g., Dude, you are full of oof.
There are really nothing but downsides associated with feeding your child a food that is a novel color not normally associated with that food. I can't really think of all of these downsides now, but I also can't think of any upsides. My point is this – if you give your child gatorade that is electric blue in color, you are eventually going to encounter that gatorade again in one form or another, and you will most likely be surprised. Because you know what'll give you a startle? Bright blue oof.* And it will take you a moment to process why the oof is at all blue, because you will have forgotten about giving the child the gatorade, and your experience will instead be one of absolute horror: OH MY GOD, WHAT IN HOLY…Until you remember. Oh yeah. Blue gatorade…
I had the most horrifying moment of inappropriately colored food related confusion yesterday. The little BS woke up in the morning with a smidge of a fever and the slightest congestion, and by the afternoon the fever was down to practically nothing. However, when he woke up from his nap, he was 103 degrees, struggling to breathe, and barking like a seal. By the time I was on the phone with the nurse he was 104, and by the time we arrived at the emergency room around the corner he was 105. It was pretty quick, this fever. I should mention that this last temperature was taken rectally, a process that the BS, Jr. seemed to regard as absolute bull oof. Anyway, there the little guy was, flopped over my lap, barking and screaming and crying and having a thermometer poked in his hiney, when suddenly he threw up all over me – vast, vast quantities of bright red glop. Everyone in the room was quite alarmed over this development, particularly me: OH MY GOD, WHAT IN HOLY... Until I remembered. Oh yeah. Red velvet cake… And then we all had a tiny chuckle, the medical professionals and our party, once we figured out it wasn't blood that was spewing forth from his wee, wailing mouth, but rather festively tinted Fourth of July cake.
The diagnosis? Croup. Some mist through a nebulizer, a shot of steroids, and today the Tiny Curly Banshee is running around, free of fever and barks, talking like Harvey Fierstein.
Phew.
***
* Oof: (üf), noun, verb. The word once used by my young daughter to refer to all things scatalogical, e.g. Mama, hava oof, or Look mama! Oof! or I oof! Still sometimes used by mama to convey disbelief, e.g., Dude, you are full of oof.
cog tease
originally posted July 2, 2007
And now, a little sumpin' for Cognosco:
Setting: In the car, listening to the radio.
BS: Who the hell is this? Is this Kiss?
Q: Hmm. If it is Kiss, Kiss wasn't very good.
BS: No. Kiss wasn't very good. But they weren't this bad.
Q: Yeah. This is really bad.
BS: Yeah. This must be Poison.
(Horrible music continues.)
Radio Guy: And that was Poison!
Q: Good call!
BS: Yeah! Hey! We should call Cognosco right now and tell her she sucks!*
(Hooting laughter ensues. Attempts made to high five.)
***
* Note to Cognosco: You do not actually suck. We shouldn't even talk. In fact, we can't even talk, as I am too busy humming Eddie Money, and the BS is still singing Spam Pygmalion.
And now, a little sumpin' for Cognosco:
Setting: In the car, listening to the radio.
BS: Who the hell is this? Is this Kiss?
Q: Hmm. If it is Kiss, Kiss wasn't very good.
BS: No. Kiss wasn't very good. But they weren't this bad.
Q: Yeah. This is really bad.
BS: Yeah. This must be Poison.
(Horrible music continues.)
Radio Guy: And that was Poison!
Q: Good call!
BS: Yeah! Hey! We should call Cognosco right now and tell her she sucks!*
(Hooting laughter ensues. Attempts made to high five.)
***
* Note to Cognosco: You do not actually suck. We shouldn't even talk. In fact, we can't even talk, as I am too busy humming Eddie Money, and the BS is still singing Spam Pygmalion.
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