Milestones

Welcome, Lena Logan Adams! (born October 31st, yet surprisingly not-scary looking for a newborn...)

Happy Birthday, Lev Bradford "Happiest! Baby! Ever!" Shuster!

God bless you and happy bishopification, Gene Robinson.

Music Nerds

Saw the Pat Metheny Trio last night. I know Metheny is pretty iconic to guitarists, but I’ve never listened to much except for his collaboration album with Ornette Coleman, where I was really listening to the Ornette Coleman part. But he was playing with just a drummer and bassist, the latter being Christian McBride, who’s pretty much the best living bassist I’ve ever heard play. So I thought, here’s my chance to hear him playing stuff I’m likely to like, and anyway I was asked there by an exceedingly cute and groovy undergraduate of my acquaintance, so who would say no to that?

The guys in the next row who were doing the “I’m not worthy” bow and screaming like they were at the Superbowl instead of a small college auditorium were my first clue, and when Pat came out with a three-necked guitaroid instrument clearly of his own design, I knew that what I was about to hear was all about guitar nerd-dom. Fair enough; the solo numbers he started with were not my cup o’tea, but it got good after the band joined him, and the encore number was an Ornette Coleman tune that I really liked. Certainly a good player but for style, I’d rather listen to Grant Green (if he weren’t dead, I mean.) Call me a traditionalist.

One thing’s for sure, though - I don’t know if I’ll ever have the nerve to do it, but I can definitely get behind the nerds with big hair thing.

Better Business Bureau

As the ACLU-card-carrying, tree-hugging, Birkenstock-wearing liberal that I am, I have a healthy distrust of big, evil, pork-loving corporate-welfare queen companies. What I'm saying is, I like to see small businesses succeed.

That being said, while normally I would never wish ill on a new entrepreneur with a sewing machine, a family loan, and a dream, I kind of think I would feel better about the world we live in if this company could go out of business as soon as possible, please.

To these guys, on the other hand, I wish all the best.

I Hate Science, Pt. I*

One hypothesis.

Three rats.

Three different results.

Not helpful.


*I don't know what Part II is yet, but I feel sure there will be one.

Happy birthday, Russ!

Up for the Season

This past weekend Laurie and I moved all the patio furniture off the balcony and into the garage. The morning glories are all black and scary looking and it’s cold enough now that the balcony holds little appeal besides the evil pleasure of watching the cats run outside at the first opportunity only to turn right around and start pawing at the glass to be let back in.

We took advantage of what little warmth there is left and went kayaking one last time on Sunday, the last day before the canoe club closes for the year. It was a quick outing, because when I say “what little warmth there is left,” I mean very little warmth. It was pretty cold and to make things worse, the paddles that come with the rental kayaks don’t have drip guards, so I got quite wet. I’d still say it was worth it, though. The Connecticut has meant a lot to me during my time here, and I needed one last look. It was quite overcast with big, gloomy cumulonimbus clouds hanging above making the water dark and slatey, but enough little beams of light broke through at oblique angles to light up the fall colors in the low trees along the banks, making for a striking and unusual effect. The wind was pretty strong, blowing mostly downstream, and whenever we stopped to float for a while – which one wants to do every so often, just to have a good look at the scenery – we’d start turning in circles. I’ve got a hell of a blister just from controlling the boat on the paddle back in. Laurie’s kayak (she has her own) is now parked in the garage until spring.

Saturday night, I went to a "cabin-closing" party hosted by a guy who lives in a hunting cabin deep in the woods during the summer and then moves into a winterized but much less charming house in White River Junction for the winter. Hearty stews (his discription, but I have to admit, they WERE pretty hearty) and mulled cider were the fare, and the smokers and antisocials (like me) huddled around a fire outside for as long as we could stand the cold. It was hard to leave the Vermont night sky for the warm indoors, because it, like the Connecticut River, is something I know I won't be getting much of once I move. Which reminds me, if you're going to stand out in the cold looking at the sky, go to a party with a lot of science nerds. The last one I went to was during the big Mars thing, and somebody actually brought out their own telescope, a serious one. Not only did I see Mars, but its moons as well.

It was snowing this morning when I went down to start the car. It usually snows a little before Halloween, but it just seems too early this year. I didn’t think I’d be here this long, so I optimistically packed most of my heavy clothes away (even though I’m only moving to New York. I know. Shut up.) and had to go digging through some boxes in the garage. I still don’t know where my gloves are. I’m feeling kind of bad that I’m going to be here for at least part of another winter; it’d been my goal to be gone before I had to deal with any more snow. I really wasn’t up for another winter here but now I’ll have to find a way to deal with it or ignore it long enough to finish my shit and get out.

I’ve enjoyed sometimes making fun of how much people here dwell on the weather. I know a lot of people here who watch the Weather Channel like it’s… regular teevee, and the weather reports on Vermont public radio are remarkable – on week mornings, they take up a good 25 minutes of every hour during the drivetime shows. To make things worse, on the radio they also have these long commentaries by local people who invariably wax poetic – uh, kind of like I did above – about the changing seasons. But you know, when the seasons beat you over the head like they do here, you just can’t help it. Being plunged into darkness for 6 months at a time (to be charitable) has an effect on your worldview, there’s no two ways about it, and you just have to talk it through. In a little while, I hope, my winter ruminations will be about steam gratings and chestnut stands instead of snow and darkness, and maybe if I’m lucky, in a little while longer, they’ll be about the Berkeley hills turning green again.

Welcome to the Hotel Gal-ifornia

Several people have posed the perfectly understandable question of what the hell I was thinking by committing myself to an apartment in New York when I wasn’t finished living in New Hampshire. The reasons are several, complicated, and somewhat personal, but part of the answer I jokingly give is that I’m afraid I’m getting eccentric bachelor syndrome and run the risk of becoming weird by living by myself too long. It’s one of those half-jokes that a number of my male friends who have spent some time living alone all seem to get. I mean, you might not really get weird just by being male and living alone, but there are certain, uh, lifestyle habits involving hygeine, housekeeping, eating off paper plates, and such that seem to be a common experience.

Now, I think I’ve found the female version.

I just moved in to my seventh residence in six years here, an apartment in Lebanon, NH which I’m sharing with a female grad student in my department who, like me, returned to school after a bit of a “break.” Actually, it’s more accurate to say that she’s sharing it with me; it’s her apartment full of her stuff and I’m staying here mostly out of her generosity. Now, let’s go back to that “full of her stuff” part for a sec. Full of her stuff means, full of the GIRLIEST bunch of stuff I’ve ever seen assembled under one roof. We’ve got your dried flowers, silk flowers, candles, cats (3), pictures of cats, pictures of cute, anonyous children, pictures of lighthouses and johnboats and seagulls by the shore, kaliedescopes, windchimes, small plush toys, millions – literally, I think – of family snapshots, figurines (oh, the figurines!), pots of potpourri, wall sconces, vinyl houseplants, lacy curtains, fragrant bath accoutrements (mysteriously, in rooms that are not the bathroom), empty bottles made of colored glass assembled tastefully to catch sunlight through the windows, stained glass dangly thingies hanging in the windows, woven baskets, refrigerator magnets, furniture with intricate floral patterns, blankets with intricate floral patterns, dishes with intricate floral patterns, and throw pillows with intricate floral patterns. My god, the throw pillows – you gotta throw half a dozen of them off the couch just to make a place to sit. Every single coffee mug on the mug-tree (of course there is a mug tree) features either flowers, hearts, baby animals, or some combination thereof. And did I mention candles? You could light up the National Cathedral with the candles in this place. Smell it up, too, because they’re all scented. That’s an advantage, actually, because between the scented candles and the potpourri and the flowers, the cat pans are noooooo problem. And glitter – lots of stuff with glitter in it or on it, like some faeries got drunk and trashed the place. Seriously, I expect to see Stevie Nicks come twirling through any time now. Even the food is girlie: as I write, there’s a tray of cupcakes sitting on the counter. Cupcakes.

The thing is, I’m not really making fun. I can honestly say that it’s the homiest and most tastefully appointed grad-student apartment I’ve been in. But its particular charm happens to be a hyperfeminine one. We all know what happens when men get to define their own space without a moderating female presence, and it usually inolves unpleasant smells and frightful accretions in the bathroom. Now, I think I can see what happens when the tables are turned, and while it’s a lot more pleasant, I couldn’t really say it’s less exteme in its own way.

Since I’m a temporary resident, there’s only so much I can do to add a little toilet-seat-up yang to the fluffy-pink-floral yin here, but I’ll do what I can. I started by burning a frozen pizza in the oven this weekend, and I’m careful to always load the dishwasher wrong.

Everytime you say goodbye, I cry a little

I knew I wanted to be a professor before I knew what I wanted to be a professor of. The rewards seemed so obvious: most of the independence of being self-employed without any of the risk, being surrounded by educated people with active minds, a comfortable if not posh standard of living, and great scenery to boot – well groomed college campuses and fresh-faced 20 year olds everywhere you look. I have since become aquainted with the downsides as well, though fortunately they are few: having to put up with the smug anti-intellectualism of some conservative types, the strenuously competitive job market which in turn limits one's choices of where to live. I think the very worst of the downsides, though, is the transitory nature of academic life. With so many people coming and going, you're pretty much guaranteed a few weepy goodbyes a year. To make it worse, you tend to spend so much time with so few people, it's not like you can just decide not to get attached.

I skipped graduation this year because I just can't stand it. It’s the same scene every year, with the bell tower and blue sky as backdrop to the stage and the Green dressed up like an LL Bean catalog: little brothers stumbling around in yellow oxfords and clip-on ties, black labradors with Dartmouth-green bandanas around their collars, and grandpas standing across the street to keep pipes and cigars at a safe distance. I love seeing the off-color clumps, here and there, of those visiting from farther away; entire extended families hauled in from India, Africa, or Asia to witness the moment. They move into the dormitory commencement-housing en masse and immediately take over the kitchens to feed the children the food they're accustomed to. On the first trip out of their home country, dads and brothers-in-law recording every moment on video. And why shouldn’t they? This is it, the leaping-off point, the moment every parent waits for and dreads, when all the preparation you can possibly put into a human life begins to play out. It’s when they say the most profound kind of goodbye, too: goodbye to their role as parents (at least, to the graduating child). With that kind of scene as the backdrop to all the personal goodbyes that come around graduation time in the life of an academic, can you blame me if that Joni Mitchell song about the carousel of life starts swelling in my ears, and I get a little quiver in my lip? I don't know what I'll do when I actually HAVE to go because of my position. I can imagine a ritual of dread and cleansing repeated every year, starting with pulling the robes and cowl out of the closet and ending with a dunking in the whiskey bottle, and the tender and pasty-mouthed next morning signalling a new emotional season as surely as labor day begins preparation for the winter to come.

I survived my most recent round of goodbyes last week, to Russ and Fay who have gone off to their first teaching jobs in Texas, to Chris, a New Hampshire country boy off to a whole different world in Miami, and a repeat performance for Landis and Leanne, who had already made their exits but came back to torment... uh, for a visit. I have no doubt that I’ll see all these people again, which is comforting. But proximity is a big part of friendship, and these folks are now (probably) forever out of my daily life, and daily is exactly how we all pass our lives. And there's just more and more of this to come.

Update
Raymona went squeal, not splat. Thank heavens.

Ketchup and Coffee

I have quite a bit of catching up to do here but as usual no time for it. So: I have until I finish my cup of coffee to write what I can.

New Digs: I do not dig my new digs. I'm all moved into Shabazz, the African-American affinity house (theme dorm, in other words) for my last two months of rent-free living. Why the Residential Education office chose to put me here, I have no idea. It is quite close to the psychology building, which is nice, but its amenities pretty much end there. I'm packed into a tiny room on the third floor of an un-air-conditioned building which is very full of students. Students who do not share my sleep schedule. I do, however, share a single-user bathroom with all the men on the floor (I have no idea how many that is) and a kitchen with all the residents of the building, none of whom, apparently, were taught to clean up after themselves. There is no parking anywhere in the vicinity of the building. And I don't mean legal parking. I mean, no place where a car would fit on the ground. As much as I'm tempted to wink-nudge the racial thing for humor, being the only white guy there actually doesn't seem like an issue for me or them. On the other hand, I have to assume my AGE is a bit perplexing to these students (all sophomores), and I can't really blame them. I'm sure that if I were 20 and enjoying what is supposed to be a laid-back, fun summertime semester at college, and some old guy that nobody knew periodically appeared on the floor, I would be a bit suspicious. These little interludes of undignified misery can certainly lead one to question his choices in life. In stronger moments, they're good incentive to do what needs to be done. Speaking of which…

Let the data rain down!: The data drought is over! I have recorded several cells now for my dissertation project. Not only do I have an effect, but it is, more or less, the effect I predicted. I love being right. The only hitch is that my effect is quite a bit more pronounced than I expected, so much so that I now have to reconsider how best to analyse it to reveal what's going on. There could certainly be worse problems.

A Hard Row to Ho': I'm rowing with the Dresden group again this year and enjoying the hell out of it. I'm in a competetive program, rowing 4 days a week in the afternoons. The light on the river at 6:00 in the evening is glorious and makes the pain of exertion and stress of work melt away. Sadly, this will be my last rowing for a long time -- I won't have the opportunity in New York -- so I'm really savoring it, even though I could really use a less time-consuming recreation right about now. On the other hand, the blisters on my hands are pretty unbelievable, I've got holes in my calves from hitting the seat tracks, and the practice schedule has left me sore and creaky all over. So I won't be completely sorry to see the season end in August.

Go Ho-Ho!: Saw Howard Dean speak at the opening of the Lebanon campaign office last week. It was pretty fun, the crowd was about quadruple what was expected, and Hoho didn't disappoint. I wore my "Jeezum Jim" (referring to Jim Jeffords) t-shirt just for the occasion, and Dean referred to him in his speech. I have to admit, Dean looked a little tired, and I think he spaced out a couple of times during his speech. Didn't matter much to the crowd, though, nor to me.

The Last Brewfest: Last Saturday, I was up in Burlington for one last Vermont Brewers' Festival. Despite ominous looking clouds, it was a beautiful day, and an infectiously happy crowd. It's hard to believe that you could fill a state park with drunk people and keep everything so pleasant. But pleasant it was; this year there was a new spontaneous behaviour I haven't seen previously. Periodically, some drunken foo -- uh, happy beer appreciator -- would raise his glass to the sky and make a long, hooting, viking noise, which in turn would prompt everyone else to follow in kind. Everyone across the entire park would just stop what they were doing, hold up their glass, and bray. It was pretty funny, and added a lot to the congenial atmosphere. After the festival, the Dartmouth crowd I was with (most of the original Snergers) went to Nectars for a last round of the best gravy fries in the world (mmmmmm), and then back to the hotel, where seven of us (plus a dog) piled into one room, regressed back to our high school field trip selves, and stayed up giggling until a security guard came to the door to tell us to shut up. It's been a good while since I aroused the interest of a security guard… A hungover but delicious breakfast at Penny Cluse the next morning, and we were on the road. All in all, a grand time, and I think a needed break from too much seriousness in the lives of this particular crowd, all of us so heavy into stressful transitions. More on that subject to come, I fear (sigh).

Geraynimonaaaaaaa!: I do believe that my friend Raymona (aka Leanne) went and flung herself from an airplane this morning. As of this writing, I don't know if this desperate act ended with a splat or a squeal of exhilaration, but I will of course post an update when I hear the outcome.

Bloggered: Of course I deserve it for going so long (again) without a post, but I come back today to post this, and wtf, but Blogger is different. Can't find a damn thing. All the cool big-kid bloggers, I notice, go to Moveable Type (a move always accompanied by e-cries of pain); I am not looking forward to jumping on that bandwagon, but I am rather excited about plans for my site once I actually have some time to put into it.

Man, that was some good coffee.