Prior to my adventure in Valencia, I spent a weekend in Madrid. We had a fantastic feast at Casa de Toni with a cool dude named Cam and his parents. The right half of the table was discussing light fare. Bah. I engaged his dad, a history professor from Smith, and his mom in some of my usual topics – the future of humanity, the evolving role of the scientist through history, implications of European vs. American anti-intellectualism, and Henry Janssen’s glorious but quite gloomy article, The Credibility Crisis, and its implications for scientific inquiry and trust. He turned me on to ‘Anti-intellectualism in American history,’ a book I must seek out, as it is my destiny to fight this trend. Politics inevitably came up, but the old adage about not discussing religion or politics at the dinner table can be safely ignored among American intellectuals. No smart person will defend Bush or the fundies that put him in power. I missed half the salad spouting about the financial and ethical ramifications of reverse brain drain. The waiter and owner (who I presume is Toni) served up bottle after bottle of an exceptional Rioja, which did not quiet any of us.
One of the dinner party was a cool but decidedly intimidating Cuban thug named Miguel. Later we hung out at a bar that I thought was random, but turned out to be his. Also good fun. He had a squat bulldog wearing a black shirt that said Security. I told him this was pretty funny. No, Miguel said, that dog is security.
Later that evening, an argument erupted outside. It got quite loud. Miguel, who looked like he neither feared nor failed at physical combat, ignored it. Sure enough, out goes the security pooch, barking enough that he actually got the protocombatants to stop yelling and look at the dog. Great security! Way to defuse a fight! But too late. Out of nowhere, both the arguers were wet. Turns out that one of the residents of an apartment above the bar launched quite a lot of water at them. Also very effective. Now the arguers were no longer mad at each other; they were mad at the apartment owner, who was of course locked away and inaccessible. It might have been nastier in the days of chamberpots.
Fast forward to Las Fallas on 19 March. The main effigy was scheduled to burn at midnight. Bill, Jules, and I were hanging out at a prime location by 9 PM. Some random British dude took a liking to us. Eh, OK. Whatever. Around 10, things were getting really crowded and we could not help but notice a large metal vehicle with a flat top that was about 4 meters above the ground. I kept eyeing it. Someone is gonna go there sometime, I thought. Just a matter of time. The increasingly drunk Brit stumbled up there. Then a kid. Then another. Critical mass is imminent, I thought, it's now or never, and climbed up. Sure enough, 5 minutes later, it was packed and I was in the very front, with literally the best view possible. Behind me was a nice Spaniard from Navarro, and to my right was the drunk Brit. Around 10:30, the Brit says he ‘as to ‘ave a piss. Go for it, I said, there’s a bar over there. He tried to get off the metal structure, then realized this was impossible because of the crowd density. He fretted, then decided another beer was the best solution. Then another. I commented to the Spaniard behind me: I do not know this guy, I just met him. 11.30, the Brit casts about again for a way off the metal structure. Same routine – did not find a way off, got stressed, more beer. Hey dude, maybe you wanna pause that beer drinking? Never say this to a Brit. He took it as a challenge. He noted that he only had to wait another 30 minutes. This is Spain, I replied. He countered by pounding a beer. I turned to the Spaniard for a pre-emptive distancing. I don’t know this man, I said. I just met him. My friends are there – I pointed toward Bill and Jules – but neither were visible at the time. Joy. Midnite comes. The crowd cheers, but nothing happens. 12.30. 12.45. More steady beer drinking from Limeyquack. He complained about the delay. People around us started complaining about the drunk British men. No, I said to them in Spanish, I am not with him. And I am not British. And I am totally sober. (After saying this, I realized it was true.) But it is not easy mollifying drunk locals as an American, speaking their language with a Mexican accent. And it was fucking loud. Fireworks are going off 3 a second, but the effigy remains unlit because some elderly fireman was bitching about something. Indeed, I wouldn’t want his job. You are trying to burn a 10 meter tall structure in the center of a plaza. There is an angry, drunk, surging crowd within 3 meters, there is no way for any emergency service to get through traffic, and it’s your ass if anything goes wrong. The fire chief barked an order and they started assiduously spraying the surrounding buildings with fire hoses so they would not ignite or get charred. Thoughtful. Proactive. But the fire chief got no sympathy. The crowd was chanting and getting pretty angry about the delay. Around 1 AM the Brit starts complaining very loudly – in English, of course – earning a lot of glares. So I tried to get really absorbed with my new friend from Navarro, but the Brit kept grabbing me. 1.10. 1.15. Ah, he says, fock this, keep an eye out for me, eh? What?! He already had an empty beer can ready and his dick out. Dude, I said, there are 40 people watching you. Stop! Right now! Oh its brah brah broo something, I’ll just go down here. He knelt on the corner of the metal structure. Doesn’t work for ostriches, and did not work for him. I tried to move away, but as I mentioned the crowd permitted no movement. People below start yelling. Maybe 20 percent of his urine stream hit the can – of that, less than half actually made it inside. The remainder was a flat plane of piss, the sort of thing that could only stem from a wacky drunkard pinch. The guy hit some people directly with that, others indirectly with the ricochet off the can, and yet more from metal-platform drip. The can soon started overflowing, producing yet another source of post-penile drip, and of course he did not notice. I would have had trouble engineering a wider distribution if I tried. The Brit looks at me with all the uninhibited joy of the famous Steve Martin scene in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. A few guys started trying to climb up the metal structure, and not with friendly expressions. Stop your friend, the Navarran says. I told you, he is not my friend! Nobody heard, and their only cues were the Brit talking to me and conveying through body language that I am his soulmate. I’m gonna die, I thought. Right then – the timing could not have been more serendipitous – they ignited the fireworks in the main effigy. The crowd went wild. So did the Brit, rising to cheer in midpiss and thus unleashing a wild 3D arc that easily hit 10 more people. Then the arc bobbed up and down, since both his hands were now raised to cheer (each holding a full beer can, only one full of beer) and he no longer was playing accidental shower nozzle with himself. Of course this hit yet more people, including himself. None of them noticed, and probably thought it was just water dripping from the fire hoses. Yay! Ole! It’s Las Fallas! And we’re getting sprayed cause we’re so close to the fire hoses! We’re right in the middle of the action! Ignorance is bliss.
The fire engineering was perfect – no damage at all to the people or houses. The effigy burned cleanly. All collapsing parts fell straight down. It was really impressive. They have done this before. About 10 minutes later, as the fire started dying, I became among the first to exit the metal structure. I found Bill and Julien and said, we gotta go NOW. I started to explain. Julien said, yeah, we heard the crowd yelling about something just before the effigy went up. We thought they were complaining about the delay, but it seemed that just this little region of people was much angrier than the rest. Yes, that is because they were pissed off about getting pissed on by a pissed Brit. Wars have been started for less. Keep moving.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Shock and aaaaahhhh
When I was 12, I went to Baja with my dad and brought back some fireworks. I was told that home at the time - Palm Desert, CA - had an average age of 58. I do not know if this is true, but I can buy it. There wasn´t much to do unless you liked golf, shuffleboard, and spending $200 on lunch. The main streets in the region were (and still are) named Bob Hope, Fred Waring, Frank Sinatra, Dinah Shore, etc. So I quickly learned three things:
1) fireworks are really fun.
2) kids will pay well for fireworks in the desert, which were totally illegal.
3) the methods and mindset that I (now) recognize as good engineering and science paid off when applied to pyrotechnics. If you cut open a firework, and pour the gunpowder on the ground and light it, there is a lot of light and nothing. Lighting an explosive on the TOP of an anthill does very little. Only when the gunpowder is contained will it get loud and produce concussion. Proper redirection of the blast can very dramatically affect the outcome. If, for example, you are annoyed at the crabby old fogeys at Sandpiper, a local retirement community, because they will not let you cut through their backyards to get to the mall, you can detonate an M1000 on the dirt and nothing happens. But the same firework, only 20 meters away, right against a crevice in a mountain, will send a very loud concussion wave over Sandpiper. The effectiveness of this could be easily verified by cop cars coming 20 minutes later, trying ineffectively to find William Hoopes and me, who knew those mountains well. We even got in to taunting them by popping off a few more when they were looking for us. Same principle as ventriloquism.
Around the same time, our friends Chuck and Pat Milton in Colorado would have an annual fourth of July fireworks show out there. We went to Colorado each summer for other reasons, but the Milton fourth of July party was high on the list. They spent many thousands of dollars each year. Because Chuck was a cool guy, he would let the kids see the catalog and light some fireworks. Year after year. I thought I had seen it all.
How deeply humbled I have been over the last few days in Valencia for Las Fallas. Each year, these mad Spaniards spend months making huge, gorgeous paper mache effigies. There are over 300 neighborhoods, and each one gets together, forms a committee, and takes great pride in their effigies. They deserve it. Some of them have to be more than 10 meters tall. Even the feeblest mini-Fallases are maybe 6 feet tall, and flawlessly beautiful. For 4 days, people party around the effigies, and then on the last night (about 8 hours ago) they burn them.
Also, they blow up more fireworks than I thought possible.
These Valencians are mad. They definitely go through more kilotons per day than any fireworks show I have seen. Not so much large scale fireworks, set off by professionals, but small to medium ones by locals. They specifically target civilians. They light half sticks of dynamite and throw it at your head. They light bottle rockets where there are literally 15 different cables, ropes, clotheslines, etc. Why are there not more three-fingered and one-eyed Valencians? No idea.
On concussion. If you light an explosive in an alley with 2 5-story buildings on either side, where will the shockwave go? Back and forth. This is why professional pyrotechnicians arrange for detonations to occur way out in the open air. You can still feel the shockwave. Imagine the same caliber - at least - 10 feet from your head. The blast makes your hair stand on end. I still cannot hear properly. We watched some poor Chinese tourist take a direct hit, stumble, almost fall over, and then turn around to yell at the kid responsible - who was, of course, launching another one at him at the time. My friend Julien Reedhead took a piece of shrapnel in the leg. Not cardboard - metal, from a wire frame. Dude, I said, you should wear long pants to provide some flak protection. Dude, I was wearing jeans at the time, the metal went right through it.
By 2 AM I finally learned the routine that Bill Tortora followed. If you see a firework, turn your head away and open your mouth. Now I will need some time to unlearn that. This morning, I walked around the corner for a tasty breakfast of churros y chocolate. Someone in front of me accidentally dropped a piece of paper. Incoming! I turned away and opened my mouth. Pause. Pause. Nothing. Dammit, get it over with!! Pause. Pause. Guy taps me on the shoulder and says in Valencian, it´s OK, Las Fallas is over.
1) fireworks are really fun.
2) kids will pay well for fireworks in the desert, which were totally illegal.
3) the methods and mindset that I (now) recognize as good engineering and science paid off when applied to pyrotechnics. If you cut open a firework, and pour the gunpowder on the ground and light it, there is a lot of light and nothing. Lighting an explosive on the TOP of an anthill does very little. Only when the gunpowder is contained will it get loud and produce concussion. Proper redirection of the blast can very dramatically affect the outcome. If, for example, you are annoyed at the crabby old fogeys at Sandpiper, a local retirement community, because they will not let you cut through their backyards to get to the mall, you can detonate an M1000 on the dirt and nothing happens. But the same firework, only 20 meters away, right against a crevice in a mountain, will send a very loud concussion wave over Sandpiper. The effectiveness of this could be easily verified by cop cars coming 20 minutes later, trying ineffectively to find William Hoopes and me, who knew those mountains well. We even got in to taunting them by popping off a few more when they were looking for us. Same principle as ventriloquism.
Around the same time, our friends Chuck and Pat Milton in Colorado would have an annual fourth of July fireworks show out there. We went to Colorado each summer for other reasons, but the Milton fourth of July party was high on the list. They spent many thousands of dollars each year. Because Chuck was a cool guy, he would let the kids see the catalog and light some fireworks. Year after year. I thought I had seen it all.
How deeply humbled I have been over the last few days in Valencia for Las Fallas. Each year, these mad Spaniards spend months making huge, gorgeous paper mache effigies. There are over 300 neighborhoods, and each one gets together, forms a committee, and takes great pride in their effigies. They deserve it. Some of them have to be more than 10 meters tall. Even the feeblest mini-Fallases are maybe 6 feet tall, and flawlessly beautiful. For 4 days, people party around the effigies, and then on the last night (about 8 hours ago) they burn them.
Also, they blow up more fireworks than I thought possible.
These Valencians are mad. They definitely go through more kilotons per day than any fireworks show I have seen. Not so much large scale fireworks, set off by professionals, but small to medium ones by locals. They specifically target civilians. They light half sticks of dynamite and throw it at your head. They light bottle rockets where there are literally 15 different cables, ropes, clotheslines, etc. Why are there not more three-fingered and one-eyed Valencians? No idea.
On concussion. If you light an explosive in an alley with 2 5-story buildings on either side, where will the shockwave go? Back and forth. This is why professional pyrotechnicians arrange for detonations to occur way out in the open air. You can still feel the shockwave. Imagine the same caliber - at least - 10 feet from your head. The blast makes your hair stand on end. I still cannot hear properly. We watched some poor Chinese tourist take a direct hit, stumble, almost fall over, and then turn around to yell at the kid responsible - who was, of course, launching another one at him at the time. My friend Julien Reedhead took a piece of shrapnel in the leg. Not cardboard - metal, from a wire frame. Dude, I said, you should wear long pants to provide some flak protection. Dude, I was wearing jeans at the time, the metal went right through it.
By 2 AM I finally learned the routine that Bill Tortora followed. If you see a firework, turn your head away and open your mouth. Now I will need some time to unlearn that. This morning, I walked around the corner for a tasty breakfast of churros y chocolate. Someone in front of me accidentally dropped a piece of paper. Incoming! I turned away and opened my mouth. Pause. Pause. Nothing. Dammit, get it over with!! Pause. Pause. Guy taps me on the shoulder and says in Valencian, it´s OK, Las Fallas is over.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
the weather
I think the sun is nice. It is nice when it is about 23 degrees celsius. However, I do not like it when it is cold and/or rainy. Sleet is right out.
(Insiders will understand why this blog entry differs from others.)
(Insiders will understand why this blog entry differs from others.)
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Saturday, February 23, 2008
W must go!!!
OK, I realize this may be one of my much more controversial blog posts. And I have carefully considered the possible damage to my career, grant funding, colleagues, friends, family, and some of you. This may be seen as un-American. This is why I keep this a nonpolitical blog. But I have to speak up. It is so frustrating being an American here in Europe, continually apologizing for W. It really is a deserved and abiding national disgrace. And change is not impossible, I describe how. And I will not be a hypocrite on this point, and will do my best to lead a sincere effort to make things better.
But first, we have to agree on 3 things:
1) That W is the worst of all of them. If you disagree, that's OK, keep reading, I will get to that soon. But I am very confident I have a novel argument for getting rid of W for good, and you will be flummoxed.
2) And let me next propose that some Europeans have a better system, and we should adopt theirs. Yeah, I know, fucking expat, why don't you just stay over there? And I told you, I am done with W for good, and you will be too. But at least hear me out.
3) It really does matter. In an era when much of the world is moving forward and embracing new technologies and the internets, we are critically limited by the ongoing, maddening, daily inanity of W.
point 1) W is THE WORST of all. It is. All other letters require only one syllable, and W requires three. Most other letters can be easily pronounced with only three letters: bee, kay, yoo, zee. W is one of the widest of all letters, which played havoc with writing neat papers in the old days. Why? Change is in the American spirit. Why don't we change?
point 2) Here are two superior European methods. In Germany, that letter is pronounced "vee." In England, it is "dub." One syllable, not three. In America, the best we can come up with seems to be the intermediate "dubya." Two syllables. Now, again, this is a strictly nonpolitical blog, but speaking only linguistically, dubya ranks between the absolute stupidest of them all, and simply dub.
My low-effort research around the lab has concluded that other European languages have either one or three syllabes for W, but never 2. French, Spanish, and Romanian have 3 syllables. Cyrillic has no W, but has a similar looking symbol pronounced 'sh.' So we could kinda be a trendsetter here. The Euros would be so pissed. The French Language Institute would commit suicide. And it would sound beautiful.
point 3) It matters more and more in an era when the triple use of W is waxing as it is. It could well swing the war on terror. Imagine the following scenarios:
English captain: Bloody hell! A bomber!
English leader: Attack it!
English captain: Dash! The bloody computer doesn't work!
English leader: Quick, go to dub dub dub freetrackingsoftware.org!!
Try changing the last line to:
German Fueher: Schnell, gehen Sie zu vee vee vee freetrackingsoftware.org
American leader: Quick, go to doubleyew doubleyew doubleyew (boom)
So, to compete with the rest of the world, increase commercial efficacy, and provide for the common defense, I propose we the people adopt the British pronunciation of dub instead. Now I don't mean we get rid of W graphically, just phoenetically. Obviously, I do not propose:
Dubho's Afraid of Virginia Duboolf?
Dubhy, God, Dubhy!?!!!!?!!
Dube fedub, Dube happy fedub, dubhe band of brothers.
So that is my way of explaining why I may henceforth use "dub," and consider you rather backward and simple if you still like dubya after all this.
Dont be embarrased at your flummoxitaciousness. It's OK to be wrong about W. Join the smart crowd. It is the easiest revolution in history. You do not have to grab a sword, chant in the rain, send in money, or even get off your ass. You just have to say less.
But first, we have to agree on 3 things:
1) That W is the worst of all of them. If you disagree, that's OK, keep reading, I will get to that soon. But I am very confident I have a novel argument for getting rid of W for good, and you will be flummoxed.
2) And let me next propose that some Europeans have a better system, and we should adopt theirs. Yeah, I know, fucking expat, why don't you just stay over there? And I told you, I am done with W for good, and you will be too. But at least hear me out.
3) It really does matter. In an era when much of the world is moving forward and embracing new technologies and the internets, we are critically limited by the ongoing, maddening, daily inanity of W.
point 1) W is THE WORST of all. It is. All other letters require only one syllable, and W requires three. Most other letters can be easily pronounced with only three letters: bee, kay, yoo, zee. W is one of the widest of all letters, which played havoc with writing neat papers in the old days. Why? Change is in the American spirit. Why don't we change?
point 2) Here are two superior European methods. In Germany, that letter is pronounced "vee." In England, it is "dub." One syllable, not three. In America, the best we can come up with seems to be the intermediate "dubya." Two syllables. Now, again, this is a strictly nonpolitical blog, but speaking only linguistically, dubya ranks between the absolute stupidest of them all, and simply dub.
My low-effort research around the lab has concluded that other European languages have either one or three syllabes for W, but never 2. French, Spanish, and Romanian have 3 syllables. Cyrillic has no W, but has a similar looking symbol pronounced 'sh.' So we could kinda be a trendsetter here. The Euros would be so pissed. The French Language Institute would commit suicide. And it would sound beautiful.
point 3) It matters more and more in an era when the triple use of W is waxing as it is. It could well swing the war on terror. Imagine the following scenarios:
English captain: Bloody hell! A bomber!
English leader: Attack it!
English captain: Dash! The bloody computer doesn't work!
English leader: Quick, go to dub dub dub freetrackingsoftware.org!!
Try changing the last line to:
German Fueher: Schnell, gehen Sie zu vee vee vee freetrackingsoftware.org
American leader: Quick, go to doubleyew doubleyew doubleyew (boom)
So, to compete with the rest of the world, increase commercial efficacy, and provide for the common defense, I propose we the people adopt the British pronunciation of dub instead. Now I don't mean we get rid of W graphically, just phoenetically. Obviously, I do not propose:
Dubho's Afraid of Virginia Duboolf?
Dubhy, God, Dubhy!?!!!!?!!
Dube fedub, Dube happy fedub, dubhe band of brothers.
So that is my way of explaining why I may henceforth use "dub," and consider you rather backward and simple if you still like dubya after all this.
Dont be embarrased at your flummoxitaciousness. It's OK to be wrong about W. Join the smart crowd. It is the easiest revolution in history. You do not have to grab a sword, chant in the rain, send in money, or even get off your ass. You just have to say less.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Kohlfahrt
It is a cold but sunny Saturday morning in Bremen. I now depart for Kohlfahrt, an intriguing German tradition. Work colleagues pay 30 Euros each. This is used to buy a wagon full of flavored Schnapps and other gut twisting nasty concoctions. It also provides for a feast at the end. We all meet - fairly soon, actually - at a streetcar stop wearing a cup and a string tying it around the neck. I have just made the latter from a dangling piece of laundry hanging wire. The boss may show up, but only at the beginning. You are supposed to get really drunk. By German standards, this means dead, and so I will not struggle to keep up.
Last weekend I went to Groningen with my cousin John. This was a pleasant town. We rode bikes around a big lake on a sunny day. This was my first time riding a bicycle in heavy traffic. Them Dutch get all into it, with bicycle turn and passing lanes, hand signals, glaring, and of course bells. No horns, all bells. Gotta clear them confused Americans somehow.
On the way back, two passport police checked our passports. They were polite and proceeded throughout the train without incident. Excluding one guy, who happened to be sitting really near us. He claimed to be a Nigerian citizen with a Nigerian passport living in Spain. He said he was going from Amsterdam to Germany to visit a friend. The passport cop was clearly suspicious. On questioning, he gave inconsistent answers about the duration and goals of his travels. The passport cop explained that the picture on the passport did not look like him, and said they would head down to the station for an identity check, and if there was no problem, he would be released. The guy tried to stand up, and was blocked. Then the funny part. He asked, quite politely and reasonably, if he could just go back to Amsterdam. He then continued to argue for this, as if it were a perfectly reasonable option. Why not? Just get off at the next station, turn around, no problem. I'll even take back the mushrooms I was smuggling. The passport cop was quite polite, spoke good english, kept his large frame right in the aisle to prevent movement, and kept saying no. The second passport cop, who had gone off to do some other stuff, noteworthily came back to help his buddy right when the train was about to pull in. More cops were at the station, obviously waiting. They went off without incident, except the guy continued to plead for a return and forget option.
Last weekend I went to Groningen with my cousin John. This was a pleasant town. We rode bikes around a big lake on a sunny day. This was my first time riding a bicycle in heavy traffic. Them Dutch get all into it, with bicycle turn and passing lanes, hand signals, glaring, and of course bells. No horns, all bells. Gotta clear them confused Americans somehow.
On the way back, two passport police checked our passports. They were polite and proceeded throughout the train without incident. Excluding one guy, who happened to be sitting really near us. He claimed to be a Nigerian citizen with a Nigerian passport living in Spain. He said he was going from Amsterdam to Germany to visit a friend. The passport cop was clearly suspicious. On questioning, he gave inconsistent answers about the duration and goals of his travels. The passport cop explained that the picture on the passport did not look like him, and said they would head down to the station for an identity check, and if there was no problem, he would be released. The guy tried to stand up, and was blocked. Then the funny part. He asked, quite politely and reasonably, if he could just go back to Amsterdam. He then continued to argue for this, as if it were a perfectly reasonable option. Why not? Just get off at the next station, turn around, no problem. I'll even take back the mushrooms I was smuggling. The passport cop was quite polite, spoke good english, kept his large frame right in the aisle to prevent movement, and kept saying no. The second passport cop, who had gone off to do some other stuff, noteworthily came back to help his buddy right when the train was about to pull in. More cops were at the station, obviously waiting. They went off without incident, except the guy continued to plead for a return and forget option.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Brussels Spouts
Next week, I travel to Bruxelles to meet with our contact from EU headquarters regarding our grant application. Herr Dr. Prof. Graeser, Bernhard, and I will travel there, along with several other partners from all about our group. This is a formal introduction to the EU contact and a pre-negotiation pending our larger, more formal second negotiation in March. I spent the last couple days working on my talk, and will spend the next week preparing. I asked several people who went to these things what to expect. Here it is:
I give my talk.
EU contact: Thank you! So, how about you do all the work in this grant proposal, plus more, with less money?
Us: No.
EU contact: Well, how about just the less money part?
Us: No.
EU contact: Hm. I can't help but notice one of the partners isn't here ... perhaps we could cut him out?
Us: No.
EU contact: I notice that partner X, sitting here, doesn't speak English so well. Maybe we could marginally pare his fee?
Partner X: Que?
EU contact: I said, would you like some coffee?
Partner X: No.
Us: No.
EU contact: Let's work together to find some little part that is not so important.
Us: It is all important.
EU contact: How about not testing your software?
Us: No.
EU contact: Do you really need electrode caps?
Us: Yes.
EU contact: How about communicating with each other less?
Us: No.
(4 hours later)
Us: You see? It is all important.
EU contact: Herr Doktor Professor Graeser, members of the consortium, thank you very much for joining us here in Bruxelles. This concludes the first phase of our negotiations. We look forward to hosting you again in March!
That was fun, but here is other buzz.
In addition to funding us, the EU wisely decided to fund the huge proposal headed by all the powerhouses in Europe, plus one other BCI proposal. This is particularly well timed since it can feed on the decline of the American scientific infrastructure. The Dutch, Germans, and others are also funding BCI work more aggressively. This will create BCI research boom in Europe. There will probably be some overarching affiliation among the three funded projects, headed by the biggest, which is fine with me.
So the trip to Bruxelles should be fun and educational. It is one major European capital I have never seen. I leave the morning of the 25th, and then meet my cousin John to goof off for a couple days.
Two weeks ago, Mr. Landlord decided to move a bunch of junk out of the laundry room and paint and tile it. This was a good long term move. Telling me a priori would have been nice, as a side effect was that the room was off limits for 2 weeks while inept construction workers trudged intermittently. But, yesterday, the laundry room and thus machine were available! After 2 loads of laundry, then hanging it up on those fucking outdated clotheslines, I started eyeing the broken dryer on the other side of the room. It had been on its side, covered in wood, and buckets of paint, and drywall, and junk, with a big broken sign on it. Mr. Landlord had explained that it was broken, in case I didn't understand the sign in English and German, and now that I thought about it that was a bit suspicious. And he had lied to me before. And was obsessed with saving energy, and bitched at me about how much dryers cost. Hm. Hm. Hmmmm. Now it was only on its side, covered with a broken sign and admonition from Mr. Dishonest Landlord. Soon, it was right side up, plugged in, with a gym towel and two old socks volunteering their unscorched souls as test subjects. In the absolute worst case, I figured, my landlord had understated the danger, and I would die. But in a reasonable worst case, I would not damage it more or start a fire with me standing there. 2 minutes later. No smoke. No sign of the upstairs roomie nor Mr. Landlord - who, for added fun, lives upstairs of upstairs roomie. 2 more minutes. Clothes seem warm, pretty wet. 30 minutes later. Clothes perfect. 31 minutes later: half of clohtes off of clotheslines and tumblin away. I just have to remember to only dry clothes in the middle of the night, and otherwise leave the dryer unplugged and on its side. This is much more fun than a regular dryer, or landlord.
I give my talk.
EU contact: Thank you! So, how about you do all the work in this grant proposal, plus more, with less money?
Us: No.
EU contact: Well, how about just the less money part?
Us: No.
EU contact: Hm. I can't help but notice one of the partners isn't here ... perhaps we could cut him out?
Us: No.
EU contact: I notice that partner X, sitting here, doesn't speak English so well. Maybe we could marginally pare his fee?
Partner X: Que?
EU contact: I said, would you like some coffee?
Partner X: No.
Us: No.
EU contact: Let's work together to find some little part that is not so important.
Us: It is all important.
EU contact: How about not testing your software?
Us: No.
EU contact: Do you really need electrode caps?
Us: Yes.
EU contact: How about communicating with each other less?
Us: No.
(4 hours later)
Us: You see? It is all important.
EU contact: Herr Doktor Professor Graeser, members of the consortium, thank you very much for joining us here in Bruxelles. This concludes the first phase of our negotiations. We look forward to hosting you again in March!
That was fun, but here is other buzz.
In addition to funding us, the EU wisely decided to fund the huge proposal headed by all the powerhouses in Europe, plus one other BCI proposal. This is particularly well timed since it can feed on the decline of the American scientific infrastructure. The Dutch, Germans, and others are also funding BCI work more aggressively. This will create BCI research boom in Europe. There will probably be some overarching affiliation among the three funded projects, headed by the biggest, which is fine with me.
So the trip to Bruxelles should be fun and educational. It is one major European capital I have never seen. I leave the morning of the 25th, and then meet my cousin John to goof off for a couple days.
Two weeks ago, Mr. Landlord decided to move a bunch of junk out of the laundry room and paint and tile it. This was a good long term move. Telling me a priori would have been nice, as a side effect was that the room was off limits for 2 weeks while inept construction workers trudged intermittently. But, yesterday, the laundry room and thus machine were available! After 2 loads of laundry, then hanging it up on those fucking outdated clotheslines, I started eyeing the broken dryer on the other side of the room. It had been on its side, covered in wood, and buckets of paint, and drywall, and junk, with a big broken sign on it. Mr. Landlord had explained that it was broken, in case I didn't understand the sign in English and German, and now that I thought about it that was a bit suspicious. And he had lied to me before. And was obsessed with saving energy, and bitched at me about how much dryers cost. Hm. Hm. Hmmmm. Now it was only on its side, covered with a broken sign and admonition from Mr. Dishonest Landlord. Soon, it was right side up, plugged in, with a gym towel and two old socks volunteering their unscorched souls as test subjects. In the absolute worst case, I figured, my landlord had understated the danger, and I would die. But in a reasonable worst case, I would not damage it more or start a fire with me standing there. 2 minutes later. No smoke. No sign of the upstairs roomie nor Mr. Landlord - who, for added fun, lives upstairs of upstairs roomie. 2 more minutes. Clothes seem warm, pretty wet. 30 minutes later. Clothes perfect. 31 minutes later: half of clohtes off of clotheslines and tumblin away. I just have to remember to only dry clothes in the middle of the night, and otherwise leave the dryer unplugged and on its side. This is much more fun than a regular dryer, or landlord.
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