Sunset Boulevard

I knew that in LA, I’d meet people trying to break into the business. Stupidly, I thought such sightings would be occasional, that meeting F-list celebs would be novelty.

But small talk with any waitress will reveal her desire to be on screen and unless the 20-something at the party is working towards his PhD in something hopelessly un-cool, you’ll find that he’s paying rent by writing, editing, or if he’s really good, directing the next poor substitute for the spin-off of the spin-off of Debbie Does Dallas.

That academic 20-something plans to spend his days humbly toiling in a laboratory. He knows his role has nothing to do with Hollywood.

But the sidewalks are paved in red carpet, stretch H-2’s line the streets and even the road signs reek with fame.

Those who reside in the ivory tower may be notoriously out of touch, but this can make them particularly susceptible to the fantasy of stardom. By the time they are a 40 to 50-something they’re living with a full-blown delusion that their celebrity in the field of sono-luminescence is much more far reaching.

My statistical mechanics professor refuses to distribute e-mail address for fear that “every high school student in the country” would be contacting him for science fair advice were the information readily available.

He spent a good deal of today’s lecture venting about being hounded for interviews by the paparazzi of physics – the New York Times science editors and the producers at NOVA. In researching ways to maintain his svelte figure, our good professor had been disappointed to find that even talking on the phone burned more calories than sex. But, after spending a grueling day exhausting himself speaking about his discovery (pain endured ‘for the fans’), this world-expert on energy decided that effort spent on the phone just might approach the passion he puts into copulation.

At least we didn’t have to read his thermodynamic equivalent of Magical Me. He’s probably just waiting for someone to buy the screen play.

Netflix It

Most people join Netflix for the convenience and price. I’ve found that it’s also forced me to remove the bull from the list, Let’s see that in a sentence now: “The Seventh Seal? Yeah, I really need to watch that. It’s totally at the top of my list”.

The Netflix list is an online catalog of movies you’d like to see. When you send back seven and eight, DVDs nine and ten are sent to you.

And so the list evolves. It is born a collection of classics, arty films and foreign flicks. Then, you find yourself returning – without watching all those depressingly honest subtitled must-sees chronicling the lives of the disadvantaged, malnourished and lame.

Soon, your list no longer resembles a syllabus from the “Intro to Film” course you never quite found the time to take, and looks more like the HBO lineup you missed when your roommates refused to chip in for cable.

If only I could subject to the same polygraph that fanciful collection of things I say I’d like to do sometime. Instead of DVD’s in the mail, it would be a man at my door. He’d be built like a tumbler from Cirque De Sole. On the days when there’s nothing I have to do he’d burst into my apartment at 7am and yell, “Sky diving lessons!”. How quickly that list would become void of adventures and full of dates with my couch, some tea, my pajamas and Netflix.

Absurdity Like an Onion

Department drama update:
Below is an e-mail sent by The Victim (tenured faculty member, crazy) to the head of our department.

I need to correct a serious misunderstanding that you have of the
English language.

It is important to correct the record.

In your email below you state that one of the boy graduate students has been described as a "tosser" and you then state that the term "tosser" is the U.K. equivalent of "wanker".

Thus, you are implying that the word "tosser" is an american word.

You are incorrect.

This is a gross and serious error on your part.

Actually both "tosser" and "wanker" are U.K. expressions.

I do not know what the american equivalent is of "tosser" nor "wanker".

sincerely The Victim

And the original, from our dept. head:

Dear Dr. Administrator:

I received a copy of the outrageous e-mail below sent by your
faculty member, “The Husband” I want to know immediately how you are going to handle this attack as I will be speaking to the student and senior administrators tomorrow (Monday).

In writing to a 2nd year grad student, The Husband calls
him a tosser [U.K. equivalent of "wanker"]

Power Failure

On the hottest summer days, air conditioners draw more than their allotment of power and lights dim warning of an immanent blown fuse.

Recently, I’ve immersed myself in equations. Developing my mathematical intuition has put a deal of stress on my capacity to speak. As I spend more of my days mentally manipulating geometric objects, mathematical constructs that model physical phenomena, I become more proficient in translating thought into Greek symbols and integral signs.

But, I’m finding that this skill and that of expressing ideas in English multiply to a constant. My linguistic skills are approaching zero asymptotically.

While working, lapses in concentration shift my consciousness from my left brain to the right. The other day when I was studying, it was providing background music: the Garden state soundtrack. Tapping its foot, lip-syncing, playing the highlights. Fine.

I became lost in left brain. A few hours later, something started to irritate me.

As my focus shifted, I realized it was the music.

Baby Beluga

But there are only two stanzas -- barely, so the song was on repeat “Song That Never Ends” style.

“Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea,
Swim so wild and you swim so free
The waves roll in and the waves roll out see the water comin’ out of your spout. . . doot doot doot. . .

BAAAAYBEE-BA-LOOOGA
BAAAAYBEE-BA-LOOOGA

Is the water warm?
Is the da da dum. . . with you so happy. . .

Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea. . .”

For the next three hours, my right brain became an idiot kid I was babysitting, demanding my attention and being as irritating as possible. Regressing.

Until all that was left was:

BABY BELUGA!! BABY BELUGA!! BABY BELUGA!! BABY BELUGA. . .

“Oh, hey, Sarah?”

Another student startles me out of the trance.
Sharp breath. Microwave beeps.
Stretch and a fridge fan begins to whir.
And, ignorant of the elapsed time, my VCR is flashing 12:00.

Reset, I continue my work.

A Brick to the Head

Twenty-five e-mails, no body, same subject -- to one of the nicest professors I've met.

Frank Hall You Are A Sexist Pig

And one for the department head too.

Jake Brown You Are A Very Fat Sexist Pig

Sent to all faculty and students in my department, the Dean of the school, and a few reporters from the LA Times, by Sally -- "The Victim" -- one of our tenured professors.

First Mate Susanne, recently denied tenure by the department of Economics because of her "horrible personality" (and who is filing dismissal charges against all tenured faculty in Econ because of the denial) is an accomplice. The two flood our e-mail server and argue with the cool logic of Ann Coulter, and Bill O’Reilly.

Sally claims to have won a medal, and the claim is dubious at best. The foundation that gives the award confirmed that she never received it. She retorts that the Dean conveniently tracked down an alternative institution awarding a prize with the same name as the one she did get. But, she is offering no alternative organization to contact. right

The Dean tells her that she needs to issue a retraction to her claim. She won't back down, and Susanne demands that the Dean apologize for doubting the success of a brilliant woman. An excerpt, from "How To Apologize" by Susanne:

I am a mother of two children, and I spend a lot of time teaching my children how to say sorry when they've hurt someone, you know, like, when they've hit another child over the head with a brick. I have noticed that lots of people teach their children how to say sorry, but then when their children grow up to become academic deans, they (I mean the deans, not the parents) engage in all sorts of indecent acts, and then it turns out they've forgotten how to say sorry. Since I am not merely a mother, but also an educator, I am happy to explain to you how you should say sorry to The Victim.

There are three components to saying you're sorry. First, you need to say that you're sorry to the person you've hurt, and you need to do it graciously. You're not allowed to wait until the person has left the room and only then say "sorry," or mumble the apology into a tissue as you blow your nose, or say "solly" instead of "sorry," or say "sorry" in a nasty sneering tone of voice, or say "sor" now and "ry" six hours later. (Believe me, I've seen it all.)

Second, you need to specify what it is that you are sorry for, and you need to refer specifically to the hurt you have caused. It doesn't count if you say out loud "I'm sorry ...," and in your mind you add, "... that the grass is brown." Another total no-no is for you to say, "I'm sorry I made you feel bad," or (worse) "I'm sorry you feel bad." This non-apology makes it sound like the problem lies with the other child's feelings rather than with what you did to the other child to cause the feelings. It is also important for you not to wiggle around and apologize for some minor by-product of your action, as in, "I'm sorry I spoiled your hair-do," and meanwhile the blood is spilling out of the other child's head and messing up his or her hair.

Third, you need to make good, that is, take corrective action. An exemplary apology would be for you to say, "I am sorry I hit you over the head with a brick. Please can you tell me what I can do to make your head feel better. Here is my t-shirt, and you can use it to tie around your head so the blood stops flowing. How about I ask my mother to drive you to the hospital."

The Valley

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.

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.