Only a handful of laboratories in the world are masochistic enough to do research in motor neurophysiology. The majority of the scientists that comprise the field reside in foreign countries (as Americentric as that sounds). When these foreigners visit (or join) our lab, I often have to explain the nuances of American “culture” (without cynicism I should add).
The other day, I found myself sending this…
Anything to help out a fellow labmate in distress.
Undergrad no. 1: “Wonder what happens if you press that button?”
Undergrad no. 2: “Maybe the bus undergoes spontaneous combustion…”
Undergrad no. 3: “Maybe it instantly folds up into a suitcase…”
Undergrad no. 2: “Maybe it starts thermonuclear war.”
Undergrad no. 1: “He he. Hey what’s the difference between thermonuclear war and plain old nuclear war?”
Undergrad no. 3: “Well, “thermo” means like temperature doesn’t it?”
Undergrad no. 2: “…all I remember is that they talked about global thermonuclear war in that old movie War Games.”
Undergrad no. 1: “Isn’t that the one where they teach chimps to fly planes…?”
Undergrad no. 2: “No, that’s Project X. War Games is the one where Matthew Broderick fries the military super-computer by having it play tic-tac-toe against itself.”
Undergrad no. 1: “Yeah, but you still haven’t explained what thermonuclear war is…”
Me: “Regular-ass nuclear war is when weak-ass fission bombs are involved, you know, like the ones we dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki at the end of World War II. Thermonuclear war involves Hydrogen (or fusion) bombs. These are several orders of magnitude more powerful than your garden-variety fission bomb. In fact, H-bombs require fission bombs to detonate.”
Undergrads nos. 1, 2 and 3 look back at me with contemptuous faces. They remain silent for the next five blocks before my stop.
Me: “If you don’t want your ignorance rectified, next time maybe keep your conversation to yourselves.”
I had a reasonably decent post to put up this past week.
I wrote it on my Steno Pad, along with my work notes, and everything else that permeates my head when I’m not expecting it. But, Wednesday night last week, I got drunk.
And in my drunken state, I left left unzipped the particular pocket of my man-purse where I had stowed my precious tablet.
Far too drunk to operate anything octane-powered, I walked home my usual U-district to Lake City stretch. The tablet that I had stowed must have dropped somewhere during my anything-but-dignified stumble home.
So, here I am. Drunk less than a week later. More than obligated to write. And all I have is the truth.
And there it is.
Douche…
Douché!
1) Assisted recording of spinally-evoked muscle activation in a sedated baboon. (3 hours)
The other night I found myself:
a. riding home from band practice in the car of a good friend of mine.
b. I sat in the front seat, on the passenger side, of his Toyota Corolla.
c. Crossing in front of us on 12th and NE 45th street, was a scantily clad female and her similarly dressed, though not as striking, friends.
d. She stood out because her bare, white legs made up, like, 75% of her stature.
e. Though his maneuver would require a detour from our usual route home, the passing spectacle obliged my buddy to turn and follow.
f. As I rolled down the window and prepared to yell out…
g. … the Jeep Grand Cherokee directly ahead of us outclassed us by doing exactly that.
h. I guess we should have been thankful that they degraded themselves before we could.
i. We weren’t.
Doctor: “Ryan, truthfully, have you been having any more suicidal thoughts these past few weeks.”
Myself: “Yes, but they’re far less frequent than a month ago. I’m getting better. I know it.”
Doctor: “I insist we up your Fluoxetine dose.”
Myself: “What good will that do? Drugs won’t change present circumstances.”
Doctor: “No, but it will help you deal with them better.”
Myself: “I guess.”
To obtain a driver’s license I showed my birth certificate and social security card.
To be admitted to my university I sent notarized transcripts, my social security number and was immunized — which required my medical records and birth certificate.
To open my bank account showed my driver’s license and social security card…I think. I don’t remember the process being all that much of a pain in the ass. Not compared to the above two tasks.
Apparently according the Transportation Security Agency of Seatac airport, if one shows a temporary paper license in conjunction with their old license that just expired, one needs to show an alternative form of ID. Makes sense.
So I pulled out my school ID. It’s current, it has my name, ID number, my picture, my bus pass and is proof that I go to school in Seattle.
“School IDs aren’t an official form of ID. Do you have your social security card?”
“No. I don’t carry my social security card on me. Getting my wallet lifted would be a pain. Getting my identity stolen would be a tragedy.”
“What about a bank card?”
“Sure. Let me get this straight though: a rinky-dink ATM card with only my name on it is legit, but my school ID isn’t?”
“Well, we recognize bank cards. School IDs could be forged and we’d have no way of knowing.”
“Psssht. Money talks, everything else walks right..?”
“Huh? Alright, you can pass. You probably want to lose the ‘tude though, ‘kay.”
Tonight at around 6pm, a prideful pedant–a special education teacher–sat adjacent a parent of special needs offspring.
The first proclaimed superiority by virtue of his breadth of experience teaching and/or “dealing with” children that comprise the broad realm of beings placed in special education.
The other believed his was the upper hand. He revealed, strategically over the course of the conversation, that he was the parent of two sons both of whom had special needs. The man had obviously stood toe-to-toe with special ed. teachers for decades.
The latter accused the former as having “a chip on his shoulder” and warned that anybody with such an attitude cannot make it very far under a real boss and/or “real world” accountability.
The former judged the latter as your typical “holier-than-thou” parent; the likes of which he faced every three months at parent-teacher conferences (or whatever the special ed. equivalent may be).
Being the inebriated, disinterested bystander that I was, their mutual hatred soon became evident.
Each one thought he understood the other better than they did themselves.
Opinions were flailed and then insults were thrown.
Eventually, they agreed (somewhat mutually I guess) to stop talking to each other. The only alternative that remained was to take it outside.
Neither had the balls for that.
Ten more minutes of “Lemme just say…”s followed. But gradually their conversation/altercation tapered to silence.
Both the bartender and I were as amused as we were [whatever word best captures “not-wanting-to-get-involved”].
Finally, the parent threw up his hands, paid his tab and exited with a sneer while making some veiled threat that I couldn’t quite decipher.
The teacher remained for a few minutes more. We spoke in the aftermath. He positioned himself for sympathy. I didn’t offer any.
I asked, as is the case for many of my friends who are teachers of “normal” elementary school kids, if parents are the hardest part of his job. He answered nebulously in the same manner he did with his adversary.
I nodded, pretending to understand and care about his alleged torment.
Then he left.
The bartender and I then laughed in their absence. I remarked “only in Seattle could two men (who hate each other as much as those two) agree to disagree and not come to blows.”