The histogram indicates I usually post every 3 to 6 days. Regrettably, I let 12 days lapse between my previous post and this one (depicted as broken red line). Clearly this instance was unusual (but not anomalous) as it lies in the tail region.
I’ve got excuses upon excuses on why I did not get around to writing this week, but I will spare you those. Let me say that it won’t happen again.
Year after year, I serve on our department’s graduate student admissions committee; the most labor intensive, monotonous, pain-in-the-ass duty our department grants us (current students) the “privilege” to do. I’d rather stay home in my dank apartment, chew on tin-foil and shove thumbtacks under my fingernails than sit hour-after-hour ranking people. No student ever serves on the admissions committee more than once, except me. Why? Because I hate hosting/babysitting/ego-stroking visiting scholars even more–even if it only lasts a day or two. That’s our alternative.
There is another reason I volunteer: reviewing fantastic applications makes me feel small, unimportant and undeserving. I torture myself this way to expose my own insecurities and bludgeon them. One day, all that will remain will be one confident, thick-skinned, unmerciful badass. Dispute that thug-logic.
Four more to go through tonight. Gods grant me the strength.
On a lighter note: some guy “got busy” (with some girl (or at least I think she was)) in the A Pizza Mart bathroom the other night. If witnessing Digital Underground lyrics realized isn’t inspiring–even if the medium was some obnoxiously pubescent hipster dude–I don’t know what is.
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.”