1 – I get on the highway and see I’m a little low on gas, just above the warning zone.
2 – I soon have to get off the freeway to close the hood when my latch becomes disengaged.
3 – I realize I’m now mid warning zone, and it might be a good time to fill up. And – I forgot my wallet.
4 – When getting back on the freeway, I fail to realize that at some point the 101 intersects with itself at ninty degrees. One portion runs N-S, another runs E-W. However, the E-W portion is still labeled N-S, and a direct route to the valley involves traveling on the 101N, and then the 101S. It was 101N when I got on at first, but taking the 101N after my brief turn off actually took me back towards Los Angeles, where taking the 101S at this point, signed “to Los Angeles” would actually continue taking me away from the city. How stupid of me.
5 – After another five miles on the freeway, my hood’s once again flapping in the breeze.
6 – Off the highway again, I evaluate the cost of my navigational mishap: a half gallon of gas. My gas-o-meter is now hitting the bottom of the orange hazard zone.
7 – *pop* exunt the freeway – again
8 – Sans wallet, was able to scrape together 23 pennies, 17 dimes, six nickels, and 20 eurocents. In LA, that’ll buy you .92 gallons, or about 45 minutes sitting in traffic. The cashier at Shell clearly thinks I’m an idiot.
9 – Arrive, borrow money from friend in the valley, fill up the tank, feel fabulous, like I can go anywhere, do anything “as long as my hood doesn’t. . . crap”.
10 – I pull off, again and test the hood this time:
shut it, pull up on it – *pop*,
shut it, pull up on it – *pop*,
shut it, pull up on it – *pop*,
*SLAM* the damn thing shut.
Ow! The grill falls off the car, onto my foot.
Fuck
I examine the grate and decide it’s entirely ornamental.
The fact that I live in the land of highway bumper cars and among even the shittiest of shitty automobiles, none I’ve seen lacked grills, almost persuades me to try to put the thing back on.
But I try the hood again, and this time it doesn’t budge. So, I throw the grate in the passenger seat and pray that frontal nudity on a car isn’t something that gets the attention of the LAPD, known for its recent crackdown on jaywalking and double parking.
And me without my license.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Saturday, January 15, 2005
Research and Leather
Fear the nerd with an ego.
The self-perceived importance of a tenured professor manifests itself most vividly in the teacher-graduate student relationship.
Behold Professor Ackart, a former lecturer of mine. He is in his early 40’s, less than average height. A dark cranberry shirt is neatly tucked into black pants held around a small waist by a stylish belt.
Steve is tall, dark, and if your aesthetic standards have been shaped by years of studying science, maybe even handsome. Angular features and wire-rimmed glasses make him a Clark Kent.
Steve is at attention with a stack of slides in his hands. Our professor is standing just out of reach of the projector.
“Steve – can you put up the NMR slide?”
“Right, now just move it – no, down Steve. Move the slide down. – Too far.”
*whip cracks*
“Now Steve, I’m going to need you to show them the – right, the one on aromatic compounds, and then quickly Steve, switch to the one just below. Perfect.”
Steve obliges submissively.
Really, the mantra of all graduate students is, “Thank you sir, may I have another.”
We seek out advisors will squeeze blood from a stone and who won’t say something is good enough when it doesn’t even meet our self-inflicted standards.
Listen to a grad student complain about the time they spend in lab and it’ll quickly become clear that there’s nowhere they’d rather spend their Saturday night. But the domineering advisor is the only socially acceptable excuse.
The self-perceived importance of a tenured professor manifests itself most vividly in the teacher-graduate student relationship.
Behold Professor Ackart, a former lecturer of mine. He is in his early 40’s, less than average height. A dark cranberry shirt is neatly tucked into black pants held around a small waist by a stylish belt.
Steve is tall, dark, and if your aesthetic standards have been shaped by years of studying science, maybe even handsome. Angular features and wire-rimmed glasses make him a Clark Kent.
Steve is at attention with a stack of slides in his hands. Our professor is standing just out of reach of the projector.
“Steve – can you put up the NMR slide?”
“Right, now just move it – no, down Steve. Move the slide down. – Too far.”
*whip cracks*
“Now Steve, I’m going to need you to show them the – right, the one on aromatic compounds, and then quickly Steve, switch to the one just below. Perfect.”
Steve obliges submissively.
Really, the mantra of all graduate students is, “Thank you sir, may I have another.”
We seek out advisors will squeeze blood from a stone and who won’t say something is good enough when it doesn’t even meet our self-inflicted standards.
Listen to a grad student complain about the time they spend in lab and it’ll quickly become clear that there’s nowhere they’d rather spend their Saturday night. But the domineering advisor is the only socially acceptable excuse.
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