I can't remember who (Asimov?), but some esteemed sci fi author once wrote that a good book reviewer keeps focused on the book, rather than promoting himself, his perspective, or his own perceived wit. Fortunately, I never claimed to be a book reviewer, especially not a good one. Blogs are canvasses for artists great and small eager to bask without the light of substantive peer review. Blogs are Echoes for Narcissus, symphonies of solipsism, metaphors mellifluous to mediocre to meandering to marmotpoo.
I just finished Feed by MT Anderson. It did lag in the middle, but picked up and ended quite well. Anderson and many others in this cyberpunk genre wield what I dub "punctuated shallowness." You almost put the book down because the characters and plot have less depth than the pages they crowd. You are then taken aback by lines like, "You're the only one of them that uses metaphor." Violet was responding to the simile, "It's like a squid in love with the sky," which is also evocative only in context. The speaker grew up with and is totally dependent on an invasive BCI, and is describing dead vines seen from a hospital on the moon. Moreover, they're painting a flat world, James' "buzzing, booming confusion" where depth, dissent, novelty, and individuality are rare and punished exceptions amidst the languid bci fi future that some authors deem an inevitable result of consumerism and technology. Unfortunately, we scientists are inevitably portrayed as naively unconcerned with, or cacklingly delighted about, our contribution to this phlegmatic Orwellian dystopia. That is fiction. We BCI researchers discuss ethical issues all the time, and cyberpunk never mentions BCIs to help severely disabled people communicate. Mr. Hoban, I am not Mr. Clever.
Anderson's modern allegories are painfully prescient. Check out this website:
http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080522145455AAxvKjo
"Emily" asks if someone can summarize Feed. She says that she "knows Violet died at the end." It is ironic that "Emily" will never read the book and realize how ironic her post is.
The best answer, chosen by voters, is: "I think it ends badly, or so I've heard."
Gawd!!
Put down the fucking Playstation and READ!!! Emily obviously is trying to skate through her English class, and I hope she flunks. Then she'll m-chat her friends that School (TM) is sooooo meg weak. Cyberpunk does this well: cutting off word halves because they waste precious deciseconds. Also a lot of f-bombs, sometimes a hallmark of ineloquent writing, but also a great way to portray characters who can't think of anything else to say.
"You pompous, stuck-up, snot-nosed, English, giant, twerp, scumbag, fuck-face, dickhead, asshole!"
"How very interesting. You are a true vulgarian, aren't you?
"You're the vulgarian, you fuck!!!"
John Cleese and Kevin Kline, A Fish Called Wanda
Gender stereotyping is also quite rampant in Feed, a common vexor in cyberpunk, blamable largely on Gibson and perpetrated by Effinger and others. Men are generally the ones most ensnared by technology, the perpetrators and (at least financial) beneficiaries of the spiralling, consuming misery society becomes. Women are either sex workers or snuffed Athenas, crucified Cassandras, prophetic Pandoras whose message of not just hope but reason, objectivity, and depth cannot compete with the latest trends and products screaming through some lunk's thalamus. But this can also be blamed on the source. Cyberpunk authors tend to be male, and probably didn't tend to get out quite as much during their formative years. Write what you know.
On that note, we just submitted my new BCI paper. This is my first paper from my new lab here in Graz, and we are all quite proud of it. It was a team effort, only possible from the symphony of signal processing, psychology, engineering, cognitive neuroscience, and English scientific writing that TU Graz now possesses. It fate now rests with faceless journal editors and reviewers. This is the upside of peer review. Anyone can toot his own horn, and further abuse musical metaphors, but convincing often crabby, overburdened, and biased reviewers is tough. One of my professors at UCSD, Ed Hutchins, once told me "there's a lot of noise in the grading process," and this is also true of the reviewing process. It's true of reviewing papers, grants, and presumably science fiction.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Black Traveling
Spring has sprung on Graz like Tigger on a particularly blue Eeyore. All the trees and bushes suddenly got green in less than a week. This improves the view from both my office and apartment, and makes the walk home even more pleasant. Along with blue skies and enough sun for tanning, it's quite relaxing.
Streetcar riding is not relaxing at all, but that's the point.
I arrived on 13 Feb and bought a week ticket for the streetcar for 10 euros. You are supposed to stick tickets in the ticket-stamping-and-beeping machine, which I couldn't translate into German with a dictionary and infinity monkeys. This prevents bastards like me from continuing to use the ticket after a week. My goal was 2 months, and I succeeded.
There are three other components to Graz's anti-streetcar-deadbeat-leeching-program. The first component is classic Germanspeaker obedience. Just like the natives NEVER cross the street against a red light or without a crosswalk handy, they just don't think of traveling with no ticket. The second component, and by far the most fun, is the ticket police. They had these in Bremen too, and they were much, much better.
In Bremen, I had a valid ticket the whole time. Nonetheless, it was fun to try to spot the ticket police. They are undercover, of course, and I never saw a uniformed cop on a streetcar. They attacked in packs of 4-6, so that at least one could enter each streetcar door, preventing scofflaws from simply exiting at the next stop. This also made them quite easy to spot. People trying to get the optimal spacing look as innocuous as an elk hunter with wolf scent spray and a 30 foot rifle with an air horn. They always board at one stop, pounce, then leave at the next. They could instead board a streetcar, wait in ambush for a few stops, and nail people like 3 legged zebras. They were really, really stupid and transparent. And, being Germanspeakers, they had to follow the rules at all times, meaning they were on duty and could never be doing anything that might be inappropriate while working.
They are never:
young
old
disabled or unhealthy
not of native German stock
well dressed
badly dressed
unkempt
drunk
happy, angry, sad, or otherwise emotional
carrying anything. This includes holding a streetcar ticket or money (with which people invariably buy a ticket upon boarding, cause why else would you hold money at a streetcar stop?)
using a cell phone
listening to music
running to catch the streetcar
eating anything
reading a newspaper, magazine, or anything else.
engaged with anyone else, except for maybe officious discussion or devious eye contact. Anyone talking with any animation, making out, arguing, etc is not going to ask for your ticket.
As mentioned, I didn't care about them much in Bremen, because I had the ticket. As first, train(cop)spotting provided some entertainment on a boring commute, but it got so easy I stopped. The cops would board and yell "Fahrkarten, bitte!" and reach into their wallets to pull out their credentials with smug anticipation. They were twice disappointed to see that I had my wallet out before them. I was on a first name basis with four of them by the time I left. God, they were lousy.
I am still, technically, in his employ right now. This annoyed me enough that I decided to get no ticket, which elevated copdetection from a lark to a motivated endeavor. There's a 60 euro fine for riding with no ticket. Correction: for getting caught riding with no ticket.
I figured the week card would give me some hope of talking my way out of it. I would just say that I didn't realize I had to stamp it. I would do so in my best impersonation of an American with a bad accent, which requires as much acting effort as the ticket cops.
This was fun for a while. Every time I arrived at a new stop, I would look for the characteristic pattern of people entering at each door. If I saw it, I would scan for suspicious signs (people at each door exhibiting none of any of the above giveaways) and disembark immediately. Except I never did so. After a month, to my terrific disappointment, I started to think they have no ticket cops here, even though my labmates said otherwise. I let my guard down.
2 weeks ago, I was riding home after about 34 consecutive hours finishing a grant proposal that would send me to Korea if funded. I scanned a streetcar stop with a practiced eye that was open from sheer force of will. I didn't care much at the time, and figured I looked bad enough that I could talk my way out of anything. But, only one person boarded the streetcar, so I ignored her. The doors shut and the streetcar moved on. "Fahrkarten, bitte!" The fine City of Graz found a brilliant way to thwart my cop detection plan: only send one ticketcop, instead of sending them through every door. Brilliant. I had the troubling sense I was missing something, and started to sweat as the woman slowly worked her way to the back, checking tickets all the way.
I checked my week ticket. No fucking way it would pass for one week old. Its edges were frayed like my nerves. I started preparing a new speech in German, figuring out the correct declinations when possible and then botching them. But I came to accept that I was probably out 60 euros, and it wasn't such a loss; the month ticket I didn't buy cost 34 euros, so I almost broke even. She was about 20 feet away. I vaguely heard the automatic ding announcing the next stop. Wait a second. That's why the Bremeners don't board one cop at a time. I hit the button, the doors opened, and I left.
Adding further to the fun: it was my stop anyway.
I was tired and worried enough that I would have missed my stop, failed my pathetic backpedaling, paid the 60 euro fine, left the streetcar, realized my mistake, walked back (being too pissed off to buy a valid ticket at that point), then been angry and confused, then blogmocked the ticketcop, city of Graz, and the entire system, and then probably tried to claim the fine as a tax write-off.
So that was that. No harm, no foul, no fine, no proof except this blog entry, which is of course entirely hypothetical.
Except-I mentioned a third component to the Graz deterrence plan. They have signs inside the streetcars to make people like me feel guilty. They are fantastic. The refer to us as "schwartzfahrer," or "black traveler." Oooooooooh. Shows how guilty they think I should feel for violating the system. My soul is blacker than both my soles. It seems vaguely racist, too. Black people are not allowed to ride the streetcar? Now come on!!! Although, it does preempt Rosa Parks. If you make people sit in the back, then they could rebel and walk the whole way. Pretty soon, everyone wants to be treated equally. It could trigger a whole civil rights movement. They learned something from this embarrassing black mark in American history, and just cut right to outlawing black travelers altogether. And I see very few black people in Graz. Maybe they were driven away by the signs attacking Nigger Traveling. How undiplomatic. Our president is not welcome on your streetcar? But he's not all black! What if he hangs half his body out the window? If you caught him, would it be a 30 euro fine?
But the signs do not mention a penalty. American signs certainly would; moreover, the mass transit in the US does not even allow the possibility of fare evasion. We know better than to trust us. On buses, you have to confirm your ticket with the driver. On subways, you have to pay to walk through turnstiles that have metro transit police stationed between them. Austrians just have signs to make you feel guilty.
One says: Schwartzfahren loest starkes aus Schwitzen. Black traveling releases strong sweat. The sign that finally got me was: Schwartzfahren fuehrt zu verspannungen. Black traveling leads to something. What? Shame? An eloquent blogmocking? Horsewhipping? The Pillory? Sent to the Eastern Front? Scrotum opened, salted, spritzed with lime, and dipped in a bowl of underfed piranha? I enjoyed the mystery of ignorance. I knew spannung was exciting, so it seemed redundant. Of course it's exciting! That's why I do it!
I made the mistake of getting it properly translated by two former Graz residents, and "verspannungen" means "tension." Again, they play on that mentality. No need for effective ticketcops. Just remind people they are disappointing the Fatherland. That took the fun out of it. There's no valid reason why the other Graz streetcar users should pay for me. I deserve to feel guilty for taking advantage of such a quaint and innocent people, portrayed so accurately in The Sound of Music. I bought a month ticket last week.
And I will even stamp it. Eventually.
Streetcar riding is not relaxing at all, but that's the point.
I arrived on 13 Feb and bought a week ticket for the streetcar for 10 euros. You are supposed to stick tickets in the ticket-stamping-and-beeping machine, which I couldn't translate into German with a dictionary and infinity monkeys. This prevents bastards like me from continuing to use the ticket after a week. My goal was 2 months, and I succeeded.
There are three other components to Graz's anti-streetcar-deadbeat-leeching-program. The first component is classic Germanspeaker obedience. Just like the natives NEVER cross the street against a red light or without a crosswalk handy, they just don't think of traveling with no ticket. The second component, and by far the most fun, is the ticket police. They had these in Bremen too, and they were much, much better.
In Bremen, I had a valid ticket the whole time. Nonetheless, it was fun to try to spot the ticket police. They are undercover, of course, and I never saw a uniformed cop on a streetcar. They attacked in packs of 4-6, so that at least one could enter each streetcar door, preventing scofflaws from simply exiting at the next stop. This also made them quite easy to spot. People trying to get the optimal spacing look as innocuous as an elk hunter with wolf scent spray and a 30 foot rifle with an air horn. They always board at one stop, pounce, then leave at the next. They could instead board a streetcar, wait in ambush for a few stops, and nail people like 3 legged zebras. They were really, really stupid and transparent. And, being Germanspeakers, they had to follow the rules at all times, meaning they were on duty and could never be doing anything that might be inappropriate while working.
They are never:
young
old
disabled or unhealthy
not of native German stock
well dressed
badly dressed
unkempt
drunk
happy, angry, sad, or otherwise emotional
carrying anything. This includes holding a streetcar ticket or money (with which people invariably buy a ticket upon boarding, cause why else would you hold money at a streetcar stop?)
using a cell phone
listening to music
running to catch the streetcar
eating anything
reading a newspaper, magazine, or anything else.
engaged with anyone else, except for maybe officious discussion or devious eye contact. Anyone talking with any animation, making out, arguing, etc is not going to ask for your ticket.
As mentioned, I didn't care about them much in Bremen, because I had the ticket. As first, train(cop)spotting provided some entertainment on a boring commute, but it got so easy I stopped. The cops would board and yell "Fahrkarten, bitte!" and reach into their wallets to pull out their credentials with smug anticipation. They were twice disappointed to see that I had my wallet out before them. I was on a first name basis with four of them by the time I left. God, they were lousy.
I am still, technically, in his employ right now. This annoyed me enough that I decided to get no ticket, which elevated copdetection from a lark to a motivated endeavor. There's a 60 euro fine for riding with no ticket. Correction: for getting caught riding with no ticket.
I figured the week card would give me some hope of talking my way out of it. I would just say that I didn't realize I had to stamp it. I would do so in my best impersonation of an American with a bad accent, which requires as much acting effort as the ticket cops.
This was fun for a while. Every time I arrived at a new stop, I would look for the characteristic pattern of people entering at each door. If I saw it, I would scan for suspicious signs (people at each door exhibiting none of any of the above giveaways) and disembark immediately. Except I never did so. After a month, to my terrific disappointment, I started to think they have no ticket cops here, even though my labmates said otherwise. I let my guard down.
2 weeks ago, I was riding home after about 34 consecutive hours finishing a grant proposal that would send me to Korea if funded. I scanned a streetcar stop with a practiced eye that was open from sheer force of will. I didn't care much at the time, and figured I looked bad enough that I could talk my way out of anything. But, only one person boarded the streetcar, so I ignored her. The doors shut and the streetcar moved on. "Fahrkarten, bitte!" The fine City of Graz found a brilliant way to thwart my cop detection plan: only send one ticketcop, instead of sending them through every door. Brilliant. I had the troubling sense I was missing something, and started to sweat as the woman slowly worked her way to the back, checking tickets all the way.
I checked my week ticket. No fucking way it would pass for one week old. Its edges were frayed like my nerves. I started preparing a new speech in German, figuring out the correct declinations when possible and then botching them. But I came to accept that I was probably out 60 euros, and it wasn't such a loss; the month ticket I didn't buy cost 34 euros, so I almost broke even. She was about 20 feet away. I vaguely heard the automatic ding announcing the next stop. Wait a second. That's why the Bremeners don't board one cop at a time. I hit the button, the doors opened, and I left.
Adding further to the fun: it was my stop anyway.
I was tired and worried enough that I would have missed my stop, failed my pathetic backpedaling, paid the 60 euro fine, left the streetcar, realized my mistake, walked back (being too pissed off to buy a valid ticket at that point), then been angry and confused, then blogmocked the ticketcop, city of Graz, and the entire system, and then probably tried to claim the fine as a tax write-off.
So that was that. No harm, no foul, no fine, no proof except this blog entry, which is of course entirely hypothetical.
Except-I mentioned a third component to the Graz deterrence plan. They have signs inside the streetcars to make people like me feel guilty. They are fantastic. The refer to us as "schwartzfahrer," or "black traveler." Oooooooooh. Shows how guilty they think I should feel for violating the system. My soul is blacker than both my soles. It seems vaguely racist, too. Black people are not allowed to ride the streetcar? Now come on!!! Although, it does preempt Rosa Parks. If you make people sit in the back, then they could rebel and walk the whole way. Pretty soon, everyone wants to be treated equally. It could trigger a whole civil rights movement. They learned something from this embarrassing black mark in American history, and just cut right to outlawing black travelers altogether. And I see very few black people in Graz. Maybe they were driven away by the signs attacking Nigger Traveling. How undiplomatic. Our president is not welcome on your streetcar? But he's not all black! What if he hangs half his body out the window? If you caught him, would it be a 30 euro fine?
But the signs do not mention a penalty. American signs certainly would; moreover, the mass transit in the US does not even allow the possibility of fare evasion. We know better than to trust us. On buses, you have to confirm your ticket with the driver. On subways, you have to pay to walk through turnstiles that have metro transit police stationed between them. Austrians just have signs to make you feel guilty.
One says: Schwartzfahren loest starkes aus Schwitzen. Black traveling releases strong sweat. The sign that finally got me was: Schwartzfahren fuehrt zu verspannungen. Black traveling leads to something. What? Shame? An eloquent blogmocking? Horsewhipping? The Pillory? Sent to the Eastern Front? Scrotum opened, salted, spritzed with lime, and dipped in a bowl of underfed piranha? I enjoyed the mystery of ignorance. I knew spannung was exciting, so it seemed redundant. Of course it's exciting! That's why I do it!
I made the mistake of getting it properly translated by two former Graz residents, and "verspannungen" means "tension." Again, they play on that mentality. No need for effective ticketcops. Just remind people they are disappointing the Fatherland. That took the fun out of it. There's no valid reason why the other Graz streetcar users should pay for me. I deserve to feel guilty for taking advantage of such a quaint and innocent people, portrayed so accurately in The Sound of Music. I bought a month ticket last week.
And I will even stamp it. Eventually.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Eurodining VII
I organized and cooked a Mexican feast for the lab today. I made chicken enchiladas and refried beans. My homey Teo made quesadillas, salsa, and guac. We also had peas, lettuce, tomato, and radish. About 15 people showed up, and the feast was quite successful. Everything was ready on time and turned out well. I managed to deflower two labbies with Pop Rocks. Teo (who is from Mexico city) considered my designation of my food as "Mexican" to be quite a stretch. And he is right; as I told him, it is more Cali-Mex, and the last time I was even near Mexico City, I was four. But it was still good. My only other minor mistake is that, instead of buying sour cream, I got some other kind of thick cream, but it actually went quite well with the food.
I forgot to mention a slightly bigger faux pas with my Canary Island feast last month. I was buying butter, and saw some interesting looking brown butter. I could not read it, but it was in the butter section, and I thought it might go well with the bread rolls. Well, sort of. It was already in the bread rolls, and would not have gone well on top of them. It was yeast.
In a butter (or worse) gaffe, I tried to order a turkey sandwich with cheese from the local supermarket, Billa, last week. I asked for turkey and cheese. I successfully conveyed everything, except that turkey sounds quite a lot like butter in German. So I got a butter and cheese sandwich. Not bad, and it entertained my labbies. I am sure many turkeys supported the change as well. But, fuck 'em, they do not have lawyers and so I will eat more of them out of vengeance. I now ask for turkey breast, since butter does not have tits.
I also mastered getting tap water at restaurants without paying for it. There is a secret: learning the proper word. It is normally served without ice, and if you ask for ice, you get one ice cube. I also learned how to ask for many ice cubes, but this confuses them more than asking for a Big Mac without the center bun, so I just accept tepid water. Still free.
And untaxed. This remains a huge advantage of the EU dining system. All tax is included. When you ask for the check, the waiter asks: together or separate? The normative response is the latter (or, if you are dining alone, fuck you, I am not that fat!!!). The waiter then easily figures out how much everyone has to pay. You typically round up to the nearest Euro to get the tip.
Despite the simplicity, I still think the American tipping system is better. TIP means To Insure Promptness and does so. It also gets you drink refills, which do not exist in the EU outside of fast food joints, and bigger portions and smiles. One of my labbies, Gernot, complained about going to New York and leaving a 10% tip, after which the waiter whined loudly. Is that America, he asked? No, that's Manhattan. He also said that the service was poor. I explained that, in such situations, the trick is to leave a one penny tip. That really makes the point. And I am sure the waiters are very grateful for this, and recommit themselves to improved waiting.
There are a few Mongolian BBQs in town. They do not call themselves that; they claim to be Japanese. But the same idea. You fill a plate with veggies, noodles, and raw meats, and give it to an Asian man who cooks it and then gives it to an Asian woman who brings it to your table. Pretty good. The best one is called Graz Tokyo by Hauptplatz. They use so much MSG that you have to pause in the middle of eating so your heart can slow down. Mmmmmmm.
Europeans put fried eggs on a wider variety of foods. The Spaniards put it on many sandwiches. One of the ubiquitous Irish Pubs here, Molly Malone's, serves a burger with 2 fried eggs that is quite good. There is a Gasthaus nearby that serves fried egg over ham. "Gasthaus" is a common term for a friendly little restaurant, and I am flattered to be invited, except you are not supposed to make guests pay for food.
Bio products are even more prevalent here than in the US. Whenever a store sells fruit or meat, they have a bio version that costs 50% more and looks about the same, but is supposedly free of whatever nastiness is in non-bio food.
Many labs here have Nespresso, Nestle's espresso drink hawked by George Clooney. Of course, since he is so handsome and has a perfect soul, it must not be a pancreas-eating addictive stimulant. It is now my daily caffeine shot of choice, since it's quite hard to find fresh iced tea out here. Another interesting drink is blueberry juice, which is tasty even though the main fruit juice manufacturer is named "Smoke" in German.
In an observation totally unrelated to dining, the toilet in the lab, like many out here, has a very stupid design. There is no real toilet bowl. There is instead a flat porcelain plate, parallel to the ground, over which you sit. The conventional toilet, in which you bomb water even with no aiming effort, is much smarter. The lab toilet is a three stage process: finish your meal, flush, get the toilet brush. Instead of dropping your kids off at the pool, you are just dumping them on the diving board.
I forgot to mention a slightly bigger faux pas with my Canary Island feast last month. I was buying butter, and saw some interesting looking brown butter. I could not read it, but it was in the butter section, and I thought it might go well with the bread rolls. Well, sort of. It was already in the bread rolls, and would not have gone well on top of them. It was yeast.
In a butter (or worse) gaffe, I tried to order a turkey sandwich with cheese from the local supermarket, Billa, last week. I asked for turkey and cheese. I successfully conveyed everything, except that turkey sounds quite a lot like butter in German. So I got a butter and cheese sandwich. Not bad, and it entertained my labbies. I am sure many turkeys supported the change as well. But, fuck 'em, they do not have lawyers and so I will eat more of them out of vengeance. I now ask for turkey breast, since butter does not have tits.
I also mastered getting tap water at restaurants without paying for it. There is a secret: learning the proper word. It is normally served without ice, and if you ask for ice, you get one ice cube. I also learned how to ask for many ice cubes, but this confuses them more than asking for a Big Mac without the center bun, so I just accept tepid water. Still free.
And untaxed. This remains a huge advantage of the EU dining system. All tax is included. When you ask for the check, the waiter asks: together or separate? The normative response is the latter (or, if you are dining alone, fuck you, I am not that fat!!!). The waiter then easily figures out how much everyone has to pay. You typically round up to the nearest Euro to get the tip.
Despite the simplicity, I still think the American tipping system is better. TIP means To Insure Promptness and does so. It also gets you drink refills, which do not exist in the EU outside of fast food joints, and bigger portions and smiles. One of my labbies, Gernot, complained about going to New York and leaving a 10% tip, after which the waiter whined loudly. Is that America, he asked? No, that's Manhattan. He also said that the service was poor. I explained that, in such situations, the trick is to leave a one penny tip. That really makes the point. And I am sure the waiters are very grateful for this, and recommit themselves to improved waiting.
There are a few Mongolian BBQs in town. They do not call themselves that; they claim to be Japanese. But the same idea. You fill a plate with veggies, noodles, and raw meats, and give it to an Asian man who cooks it and then gives it to an Asian woman who brings it to your table. Pretty good. The best one is called Graz Tokyo by Hauptplatz. They use so much MSG that you have to pause in the middle of eating so your heart can slow down. Mmmmmmm.
Europeans put fried eggs on a wider variety of foods. The Spaniards put it on many sandwiches. One of the ubiquitous Irish Pubs here, Molly Malone's, serves a burger with 2 fried eggs that is quite good. There is a Gasthaus nearby that serves fried egg over ham. "Gasthaus" is a common term for a friendly little restaurant, and I am flattered to be invited, except you are not supposed to make guests pay for food.
Bio products are even more prevalent here than in the US. Whenever a store sells fruit or meat, they have a bio version that costs 50% more and looks about the same, but is supposedly free of whatever nastiness is in non-bio food.
Many labs here have Nespresso, Nestle's espresso drink hawked by George Clooney. Of course, since he is so handsome and has a perfect soul, it must not be a pancreas-eating addictive stimulant. It is now my daily caffeine shot of choice, since it's quite hard to find fresh iced tea out here. Another interesting drink is blueberry juice, which is tasty even though the main fruit juice manufacturer is named "Smoke" in German.
In an observation totally unrelated to dining, the toilet in the lab, like many out here, has a very stupid design. There is no real toilet bowl. There is instead a flat porcelain plate, parallel to the ground, over which you sit. The conventional toilet, in which you bomb water even with no aiming effort, is much smarter. The lab toilet is a three stage process: finish your meal, flush, get the toilet brush. Instead of dropping your kids off at the pool, you are just dumping them on the diving board.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Eurodining VI
After a while, I felt I said enough about Eurodining. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, not to mention the palate. And the move to Austria has led to some new comments.
Quite a lot of food in Graz features pumpkinseed oil, or Kuerbisoel. I was suspicious of this after my encounter with the Samen Koenig, and remain wary, but am getting over it. This is the best salad dressing by far. (I mean, pumpkinseed oil.) I wondered why Americans don't make it, since we have no lack of pumpkins, but am told it requires a special kind of pumpkin that only grows in this region of Austria. Get it together, Californian genetic engineers! Get Styrian pumpkins out there! Styrians also have more pumpkin cream soup, and schnitzel in pumpkin crumbs. Delicious. I am already planning a second suitcase for my May trip to SoCal so I can bring several bottles of pumpkinseed oil.
And wine. I noted that Bremen white wine is generally sweet, whereas the wine here is quite dry. Much better. But similar wine can be found in SoCal, whereas the pumpkinseed oil seems to be a truly local phenomenon.
They also make bratkartoffeln differently in Austria. The northern Germans make it with bacon and onions. The Austrians instead skin the potatoes, bake them, and serve them naked. Also quite good, but I like the German potatoes better. I further learned that the locals have some beef with potato skin. Only figuratively; they do not like potato skin. I learned that after cooking for my labmates 2 weeks ago. I sent this email to everyone in the lab:
Hello,
Chef Brendan will most humbly grace our esteemed establishment with fine dining today (11 Mar) around lunchtime for anyone interested. Our Haute Cuisine for heute shall be:
Canary Island "Papas Arrugadas" (Wrinkled Potatoes), Boiled with Love and Fresh Sea Salt
A Melange of Gourmet Sliced Austrian and Imported Sausages, Drizzled with Gourmet First Cold Press Olive Oil
Fine Spanish Cured "Jamón ibérico" (Iberian Ham)
A Selection of Fine Leftover Pizzas from Cafe Schillerhof, heated a la Microwave
Cilantro Garlic Sauce
Spicy Pepper Vinegar Sauce
Cheese and Garlic Sauce
Chef Brendan personally assures you the three Canarian sauces remain magnificent and fresh, as determined by visual, gustatory, and olfactory inspection ten minutes ago. Chef Brendan further guarantees that the top three items on our prix fixe menu are even fresher, according to the highest standards of a food supplier so fantastic and elite that he is not even recognized by most gourmet chefs, Messr. Billa.
Substitutions are not allowed.
Your humble culinary servant,
Chef Brendan
My Canary Island potato party was disrupted when the boss came around 11, right when I was about to start boiling the potatoes, which need almost an hour. We met for an hour, meaning lunch was delayed an hour. Otherwise, the event went well, except some of my labbies peeled the skin off the potatoes before eating them. Why? Potato skin is good, and quite healthy. They had an educational cartoon on Saturday mornings, in the same series as "Interplanet Janet" and "Conjunction Junction", just to encourage us to eat potato skin. I know the planets (all nine of them), and can use conjunctions, or, at least I think I can. So the potato skin cartoon must have worked too. Surely, if they had them in Austria, the world balance of power would be different.
After the feast, I busted out a gift my brother brought from China: Pop Rocks. Half the lab smiled knowingly, and a few told me that Austria was not that isolated. The other half disproved that. Yes, several of them had the classic eye opening experience of candy detonating in your mouth. I tried to give some to my bosses, but they did not want it. Probably for the best.
People in Austria and Germany asked me what Americans say when they start their meal. Nothing, really. They don't believe me, but it's true. Unless prayer precedes the meal, we just eat. Maybe "enjoy your meal", but that's it. The Austrians (much more than Germans) have the declaration "Mahlzeit", which means meal time, and can be used before any meal. You say it to comrades at the table, waiters say it to you, you can use it to suggest getting lunch with someone; it is universal. "Guten appetit" runs a distant second. After this or really any greeting, Germans and Austrians alike often answer "likewise". In English. Which is odd, since I never heard any native English speaker use that term. Similarly, they also have pizzas here dubbed California, America, or New York pizza with exotic toppings like corn, broccoli, salami, ham, or tuna. Not authentic, but quite good. I have some in the fridge now patiently awaiting reheating. Mahlzeit!!
Quite a lot of food in Graz features pumpkinseed oil, or Kuerbisoel. I was suspicious of this after my encounter with the Samen Koenig, and remain wary, but am getting over it. This is the best salad dressing by far. (I mean, pumpkinseed oil.) I wondered why Americans don't make it, since we have no lack of pumpkins, but am told it requires a special kind of pumpkin that only grows in this region of Austria. Get it together, Californian genetic engineers! Get Styrian pumpkins out there! Styrians also have more pumpkin cream soup, and schnitzel in pumpkin crumbs. Delicious. I am already planning a second suitcase for my May trip to SoCal so I can bring several bottles of pumpkinseed oil.
And wine. I noted that Bremen white wine is generally sweet, whereas the wine here is quite dry. Much better. But similar wine can be found in SoCal, whereas the pumpkinseed oil seems to be a truly local phenomenon.
They also make bratkartoffeln differently in Austria. The northern Germans make it with bacon and onions. The Austrians instead skin the potatoes, bake them, and serve them naked. Also quite good, but I like the German potatoes better. I further learned that the locals have some beef with potato skin. Only figuratively; they do not like potato skin. I learned that after cooking for my labmates 2 weeks ago. I sent this email to everyone in the lab:
Hello,
Chef Brendan will most humbly grace our esteemed establishment with fine dining today (11 Mar) around lunchtime for anyone interested. Our Haute Cuisine for heute shall be:
Canary Island "Papas Arrugadas" (Wrinkled Potatoes), Boiled with Love and Fresh Sea Salt
A Melange of Gourmet Sliced Austrian and Imported Sausages, Drizzled with Gourmet First Cold Press Olive Oil
Fine Spanish Cured "Jamón ibérico" (Iberian Ham)
A Selection of Fine Leftover Pizzas from Cafe Schillerhof, heated a la Microwave
Cilantro Garlic Sauce
Spicy Pepper Vinegar Sauce
Cheese and Garlic Sauce
Chef Brendan personally assures you the three Canarian sauces remain magnificent and fresh, as determined by visual, gustatory, and olfactory inspection ten minutes ago. Chef Brendan further guarantees that the top three items on our prix fixe menu are even fresher, according to the highest standards of a food supplier so fantastic and elite that he is not even recognized by most gourmet chefs, Messr. Billa.
Substitutions are not allowed.
Your humble culinary servant,
Chef Brendan
My Canary Island potato party was disrupted when the boss came around 11, right when I was about to start boiling the potatoes, which need almost an hour. We met for an hour, meaning lunch was delayed an hour. Otherwise, the event went well, except some of my labbies peeled the skin off the potatoes before eating them. Why? Potato skin is good, and quite healthy. They had an educational cartoon on Saturday mornings, in the same series as "Interplanet Janet" and "Conjunction Junction", just to encourage us to eat potato skin. I know the planets (all nine of them), and can use conjunctions, or, at least I think I can. So the potato skin cartoon must have worked too. Surely, if they had them in Austria, the world balance of power would be different.
After the feast, I busted out a gift my brother brought from China: Pop Rocks. Half the lab smiled knowingly, and a few told me that Austria was not that isolated. The other half disproved that. Yes, several of them had the classic eye opening experience of candy detonating in your mouth. I tried to give some to my bosses, but they did not want it. Probably for the best.
People in Austria and Germany asked me what Americans say when they start their meal. Nothing, really. They don't believe me, but it's true. Unless prayer precedes the meal, we just eat. Maybe "enjoy your meal", but that's it. The Austrians (much more than Germans) have the declaration "Mahlzeit", which means meal time, and can be used before any meal. You say it to comrades at the table, waiters say it to you, you can use it to suggest getting lunch with someone; it is universal. "Guten appetit" runs a distant second. After this or really any greeting, Germans and Austrians alike often answer "likewise". In English. Which is odd, since I never heard any native English speaker use that term. Similarly, they also have pizzas here dubbed California, America, or New York pizza with exotic toppings like corn, broccoli, salami, ham, or tuna. Not authentic, but quite good. I have some in the fridge now patiently awaiting reheating. Mahlzeit!!
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Waltz of the Snowflakes
It is snowing.
This is rather novel, since it hasn't happened in a few weeks. It has been snowing long enough that the trees are refrosted and the ground is solid white, which adumbrates sliding and sludge for a few days. I am instead focusing on the fact that it is currently relaxing and quite pretty. I downloaded Tchaikovzsky's Waltz of the Snowflakes, a great title and very playful piece that reminds one of the simple wonder snow can inspire. It would have fit well in the Nutcracker Suite.
Two weeks ago, I saw a quite different style of music, a band called The Base at a local club recommended by my buddy Guenter Krausz from Guger Technologies. The band name was enough to make me think for a while about whether it was clever before deciding it was not. Great band though.
Otherwise, my waking hours have approached pure work. I was completely overloaded a week ago, when it was quite unexpectedly suggested by Brussels that I lead a new grant application. Brussels, the European equivalent of DC, does not make such suggestions often or casually. I gave a talk on 9 March titled "Developing Grant Proposals" and said you should start at least 3 months ahead of time. I got The Call about 2 weeks before the deadline, which is 1 April. I doubt any fooling is involved. I would not get The Call unless such a quick proposal could be feasible, and I'm just the sort of person who can do it, both for better and worse. The other 2 senior postdocs in the lab lack the requisite writing skill, general BCI knowledge, or megalomania; they also each have families with new babies. I like them and my labmates. It is one of the best BCI labs in the world, and I have not worked for any such institution in about 5 years, when I worked for the Wolpaw lab. So it's not so much that I have nothing to say, it's just that I am saying it all in to my new grant proposal, plus 3 others I am working on, and my book for Springer, and several projects I'd love to talk about but not as much as I'd love to not have them stolen.
The govenator was in town a couple weeks ago and was spotted eating hot dogs in the main plaza. Ooooh. I wonder if he goes around with bodyguards. Who would have the temerity to guard that guy? To essentially consider himself the bigger man?
There's an old saying: If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. I swap "nice" with "witty" and return to work.
This is rather novel, since it hasn't happened in a few weeks. It has been snowing long enough that the trees are refrosted and the ground is solid white, which adumbrates sliding and sludge for a few days. I am instead focusing on the fact that it is currently relaxing and quite pretty. I downloaded Tchaikovzsky's Waltz of the Snowflakes, a great title and very playful piece that reminds one of the simple wonder snow can inspire. It would have fit well in the Nutcracker Suite.
Two weeks ago, I saw a quite different style of music, a band called The Base at a local club recommended by my buddy Guenter Krausz from Guger Technologies. The band name was enough to make me think for a while about whether it was clever before deciding it was not. Great band though.
Otherwise, my waking hours have approached pure work. I was completely overloaded a week ago, when it was quite unexpectedly suggested by Brussels that I lead a new grant application. Brussels, the European equivalent of DC, does not make such suggestions often or casually. I gave a talk on 9 March titled "Developing Grant Proposals" and said you should start at least 3 months ahead of time. I got The Call about 2 weeks before the deadline, which is 1 April. I doubt any fooling is involved. I would not get The Call unless such a quick proposal could be feasible, and I'm just the sort of person who can do it, both for better and worse. The other 2 senior postdocs in the lab lack the requisite writing skill, general BCI knowledge, or megalomania; they also each have families with new babies. I like them and my labmates. It is one of the best BCI labs in the world, and I have not worked for any such institution in about 5 years, when I worked for the Wolpaw lab. So it's not so much that I have nothing to say, it's just that I am saying it all in to my new grant proposal, plus 3 others I am working on, and my book for Springer, and several projects I'd love to talk about but not as much as I'd love to not have them stolen.
The govenator was in town a couple weeks ago and was spotted eating hot dogs in the main plaza. Ooooh. I wonder if he goes around with bodyguards. Who would have the temerity to guard that guy? To essentially consider himself the bigger man?
There's an old saying: If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. I swap "nice" with "witty" and return to work.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Trip down memory wane
When I was an undergrad, I was at Longs Drugs in the shopping center at the corner of Nobel and Via La Jolla. I don't remember why, but do somehow feel confident that I wasn't buying anything, just accompanying Andy, and also that we were not buying beer. There was only one checkout counter open and a long line. We were at the end of it, and in front of us was a decrepit old bag with posture that made a candy cane look straight. Someone opened the adjacent checkout counter and announced that he would take the next person in line. The shriveled caterpillar didn't budge. Andy asked her, quite politely, "Excuse me, ma'am, are you in line?"
She replied, in a voice that wavered and cracked under its own sarcasm, "Am I standing here?" Andy said nothing, and moved to the front of the new line. He bought his stuff and we looked back and there was the old saddlebag, still in line, with a bit of a smug glare like she just told off that young whippersnapper. 2 other people in line gave us a conspiratorial grin.
Fast forward to this morning. I was walking to work along a dirt road through a forest. It was pitch black. The dirt road does have some street lights, but they are poorly positioned and pine trees are opaque. I heard some rustling to my left and froze. This was startling at first, but with my handy little pocket LED light, I soon discovered it was a deer. I was in no hurry at all and so I decided to sit at a local tree and watch. The deer did not seem to care, and after a minute I didn't either, so I quietly stood up and continued walking.
After another few hundred meters, I encountered a nice old lady heading the opposite direction. Her face was more wrinkled than her cortex, and probably had more live neurons. She was with a massive German Shepherd who probably outweighed her by 20 kilos and was on a leash that she had wound tightly round her hand, several times. Now, we both know that ostensibly domesticated dogs and deer don't mix, especially when the dog is far stronger than the leash holder. The following conversation ensured (in German):
Good morning.
(no reply)
Good morning!! (quite loudly)
(no reply)
Excuse me!!
(she turned)
Excuse me.
I can hear you. (looks at me quite sourly, as if greatly put out.)
Excuse me, ma'am, you should know that there is a deer ahead on to your right, about 300 meters.
(cocks her head)
There is a deer ahead, on the right. I tell you, for it is likely, your dog will run, and try to eat it. (I do not know "chase" in German, though surely Gerv does.)
He is just a puppy.
(in German, all dogs are male.)
Ma'am, that is a large dog, and he will try to eat the deer.
I said, he is a puppy. You do not listen.
(unlike the beginning of the conversation, she switched to the informal "you," which is normally reserved for friends, children, or morons. I doubt I was in category one or two. I remained formal.)
Ma'am, I think, that your dog could eat me. He is a very big dog.
I know that.
Ma'am, I only tell you, because there may be a problem. An emergency. When your dog sees the deer, he will try to eat it. Maybe you should remain here.
(no response)
Ma'am, I recommend, you remain, or return. The walk up the hill is not safe.
You are stupid.
(pause) Sorry ma'am! Have a good morning.
(mutters something incomprehensible, but clearly not nice. There are rare occasions when I am delighted to speak poor German, and this was one of them.)
So this served as a reminder that not all old ladies are nice. Positive prejudice is no more intelligent nor accurate than mainstream prejudice. Ah well. The two bitches kept walking up the hill, and I continued down it. Hm, my streetcar plans are now in disarray too, and they don't run that often in the mornings. I probably won't make the 1 like I planned, but I think if I turn left on Hilmteichstrasse, I can get the 7, or just walk to Jakominiplatz, it looks like a clear morning. I can just follow the streetcar lines, or I have my map, right? Yes! Plan: go to the streetlight up there, check the map for shortcuts, and-
WOOF!
Nein!!!
WOOF! WOOF WOOF WOOF!
(collision sounds)
Oh, oh! Rauwven! Halt, Rauwven!
WOOF WOOF! (Branches break. Or maybe it was a hip.)
Oh! (also something in German I couldn't understand, but I could certainly detect a dramatic change in tone from her last words to me.)
Rauwven!
(Clear sounds of thumping hooves, excited barking, and more broken branches, all waning like my memory of ages past.)
And, let's see, the 1 and the 7 are staggered, so if the streetcar that just went by is the 1, my best bet is the 7 in front of the hospital. OK, so I basically walk around the hospital along the western side, then go left, and that's the closest stop. Or maybe the other one, on what is it, Lenaugasse?
She replied, in a voice that wavered and cracked under its own sarcasm, "Am I standing here?" Andy said nothing, and moved to the front of the new line. He bought his stuff and we looked back and there was the old saddlebag, still in line, with a bit of a smug glare like she just told off that young whippersnapper. 2 other people in line gave us a conspiratorial grin.
Fast forward to this morning. I was walking to work along a dirt road through a forest. It was pitch black. The dirt road does have some street lights, but they are poorly positioned and pine trees are opaque. I heard some rustling to my left and froze. This was startling at first, but with my handy little pocket LED light, I soon discovered it was a deer. I was in no hurry at all and so I decided to sit at a local tree and watch. The deer did not seem to care, and after a minute I didn't either, so I quietly stood up and continued walking.
After another few hundred meters, I encountered a nice old lady heading the opposite direction. Her face was more wrinkled than her cortex, and probably had more live neurons. She was with a massive German Shepherd who probably outweighed her by 20 kilos and was on a leash that she had wound tightly round her hand, several times. Now, we both know that ostensibly domesticated dogs and deer don't mix, especially when the dog is far stronger than the leash holder. The following conversation ensured (in German):
Good morning.
(no reply)
Good morning!! (quite loudly)
(no reply)
Excuse me!!
(she turned)
Excuse me.
I can hear you. (looks at me quite sourly, as if greatly put out.)
Excuse me, ma'am, you should know that there is a deer ahead on to your right, about 300 meters.
(cocks her head)
There is a deer ahead, on the right. I tell you, for it is likely, your dog will run, and try to eat it. (I do not know "chase" in German, though surely Gerv does.)
He is just a puppy.
(in German, all dogs are male.)
Ma'am, that is a large dog, and he will try to eat the deer.
I said, he is a puppy. You do not listen.
(unlike the beginning of the conversation, she switched to the informal "you," which is normally reserved for friends, children, or morons. I doubt I was in category one or two. I remained formal.)
Ma'am, I think, that your dog could eat me. He is a very big dog.
I know that.
Ma'am, I only tell you, because there may be a problem. An emergency. When your dog sees the deer, he will try to eat it. Maybe you should remain here.
(no response)
Ma'am, I recommend, you remain, or return. The walk up the hill is not safe.
You are stupid.
(pause) Sorry ma'am! Have a good morning.
(mutters something incomprehensible, but clearly not nice. There are rare occasions when I am delighted to speak poor German, and this was one of them.)
So this served as a reminder that not all old ladies are nice. Positive prejudice is no more intelligent nor accurate than mainstream prejudice. Ah well. The two bitches kept walking up the hill, and I continued down it. Hm, my streetcar plans are now in disarray too, and they don't run that often in the mornings. I probably won't make the 1 like I planned, but I think if I turn left on Hilmteichstrasse, I can get the 7, or just walk to Jakominiplatz, it looks like a clear morning. I can just follow the streetcar lines, or I have my map, right? Yes! Plan: go to the streetlight up there, check the map for shortcuts, and-
WOOF!
Nein!!!
WOOF! WOOF WOOF WOOF!
(collision sounds)
Oh, oh! Rauwven! Halt, Rauwven!
WOOF WOOF! (Branches break. Or maybe it was a hip.)
Oh! (also something in German I couldn't understand, but I could certainly detect a dramatic change in tone from her last words to me.)
Rauwven!
(Clear sounds of thumping hooves, excited barking, and more broken branches, all waning like my memory of ages past.)
And, let's see, the 1 and the 7 are staggered, so if the streetcar that just went by is the 1, my best bet is the 7 in front of the hospital. OK, so I basically walk around the hospital along the western side, then go left, and that's the closest stop. Or maybe the other one, on what is it, Lenaugasse?
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Halo
(written 14 Feb)
I arrived in Graz last night. My friend and, now, co-worker, Robert Leeb, met me at the train station. The last time I saw him, he was fretting over his PhD thesis like all good PhD students do, worrying way too much about details. I told him the same thing my Mom told me when I was revising my PhD- you are not writing for the ages. Meet the requirements for your PhD, get the signatures from the committee, and move on. Save the obsessive mastery for work that will be read by more than five people. Harsh, but true.
I notice an interesting psychological schism in late stage PhD students. You hit the extremes of stress and peace. Femke Nijboer, who successfully defended her PhD in the Birbaumer lab last year, called herself the “freakishly calm late stage PhD student” at the time. I called her a couple times planning on calming her down and instead found myself getting more relaxed talking to her. There are so many stressors, fears, and consummations devoutly to be wish’d, all at the mercy of five mysterious committee members, you get all confused about just how stressed out you are supposed to be. I find myself in a similar situation now. I am starting what is, and should be, my highest pressure job ever. Working at the Wolpaw lab was close, but I had little direct contact with him. Not so here. When Dr. Robert Leeb met me at the train station at 8:30 PM, he said we should get to my apartment by 9 PM since my boss Prof. Dr. Pfurtscheller wants to meet at my apartment at 9 PM to discuss the grant proposals I am working on. Now there’s a devoted boss. He is one of the original giants of noninvasive BCI research, along with Birbaumer and Wolpaw. However, Niels is distracted with a new son and Jon somehow manages to run a separate, larger lab that does spinal research. So I have the twin turbochargers of a top BCI lab and being under a magnifying glass held by the big boss. Bring it!!
Inspiring, but confusing. On the bright side, things seem fine at the moment. Pfu told me last night that I did a “very good job” and indeed it’s hard to have an unhappy boss when you’ve essentially been working for his lab for free for months. On the other hand, he seems eager to put me on as many grants as possible, including one with Bremen that screams disaster from every pore. I can already sense that being forced to work with Bremen will be one of the major stressors of my new position. However, time is on my side with that one. As news of what really happened in Bremen percolates through the community, this pressure should abate. Until then, I must eat shit, waste time on poorly conceived projects, and whine appropriately- enough to make damn sure I am heard, not enough to alienate bosses.
I spent much of the day catching up on emails and grant work, then headed back to my apartment to avoid the sickening Valentine’s Day crowd. Yup, they have it here too. My new pad is quite unlike anywhere I lived before, and totally unexpected for university housing. The apartment is in the middle of a little forest next to a tiny lake. It can only be accessed via a ten minute walk up a dirt road that does not allow vehicles except for residents. This apartment complex is the only building I can see, excluding a small shed. The building is surrounded by pine trees. Further, the building is quite old, and seemed a bit too fancy for us meager academics. Pfu explained that this used to be the Lord Mayor’s house, and it was adapted for uni housing. I feel flattered. While the building itself is old and pretty stylin, the inside of the apartment has modern furniture and fixtures, a TV, even a full kitchen with oven. Seems like a good combo.
It also brings back memories. When I was 7.5, we went to Kansas to visit some relatives. I know my age because I can distinctly remember sitting around a table with Dad and maybe 15 other people, having a great outdoor feast, when I felt the urge to inform Dad it was my seven and a halfth birthday. Dad said, “Brendan asked me to announce that we are here, not just to celebrate that it’s Wednesday, but also that Brendan is now 7 and a half.” The table sang Happy Birthday. I was later told that we were going to the mayor’s house. Wow, I thought! The mayor! Didn’t know our family was so connected. In retrospect, I had an overly fanciful view of mayoral regality. Being the mayor of a small town in Kansas is not such a feat. But I didn’t know that. That night, we went to visit the Maher residence and I was thoroughly disappointed by my misunderstanding. Perhaps one of the Mahers is also the mayor? No. Sorry, kid. But the evening was saved by an imminent hurricane. Mom pointed to it and there it was, a dirt brown wriggling twister, just like the pictures. We all had to get to the basement, where Dad told me that it was the only safe place and we might go out tomorrow and the whole house would be gone. I thought this was too fucking cool, and remember thinking about whether I could put some kind of movie camera up there to watch the house get torn apart. (Note this was well before webcams; a 7.5 year old American kid today could probably rig such surveillance without any trouble.) I was again disappointed to emerge the next morning to an intact house. Now, in curious narrative closure, I live in the Lord Mayor’s house. And it is a pretty phat house, as if the mayor of Graz is indeed a VIP. There is thus some restoration of childlike marvel. My new mystery is what difference exists, if any, between a Mayor and Lord Mayor.
The main drawback to this pad is obvious. You can’t get from the middle of a big city to the middle of a forest easily. It’s more than 10 minutes to the nearest streetcar stop, and at least 25 more to work. This is not such a bad commute, and walking 10 minutes through a forest twice a day is much better than driving through heavy traffic on 52 east. However, walking uphill on an unmaintained dirt road without drainage will be far less charming through rain or sleet. I see i cee sludge in my future.
But again, as I did not understand until moving to Europe, commuting through traffic just doesn’t compare to commuting on foot and streetcar. On a streetcar, you can read, talk to locals, watch the news (Graz streetcars, unlike those in Bremen, have TVs with news), or just zone out. Yes, I know, you can do these things while driving, but you aren’t supposed to.
I arrived in Graz last night. My friend and, now, co-worker, Robert Leeb, met me at the train station. The last time I saw him, he was fretting over his PhD thesis like all good PhD students do, worrying way too much about details. I told him the same thing my Mom told me when I was revising my PhD- you are not writing for the ages. Meet the requirements for your PhD, get the signatures from the committee, and move on. Save the obsessive mastery for work that will be read by more than five people. Harsh, but true.
I notice an interesting psychological schism in late stage PhD students. You hit the extremes of stress and peace. Femke Nijboer, who successfully defended her PhD in the Birbaumer lab last year, called herself the “freakishly calm late stage PhD student” at the time. I called her a couple times planning on calming her down and instead found myself getting more relaxed talking to her. There are so many stressors, fears, and consummations devoutly to be wish’d, all at the mercy of five mysterious committee members, you get all confused about just how stressed out you are supposed to be. I find myself in a similar situation now. I am starting what is, and should be, my highest pressure job ever. Working at the Wolpaw lab was close, but I had little direct contact with him. Not so here. When Dr. Robert Leeb met me at the train station at 8:30 PM, he said we should get to my apartment by 9 PM since my boss Prof. Dr. Pfurtscheller wants to meet at my apartment at 9 PM to discuss the grant proposals I am working on. Now there’s a devoted boss. He is one of the original giants of noninvasive BCI research, along with Birbaumer and Wolpaw. However, Niels is distracted with a new son and Jon somehow manages to run a separate, larger lab that does spinal research. So I have the twin turbochargers of a top BCI lab and being under a magnifying glass held by the big boss. Bring it!!
Inspiring, but confusing. On the bright side, things seem fine at the moment. Pfu told me last night that I did a “very good job” and indeed it’s hard to have an unhappy boss when you’ve essentially been working for his lab for free for months. On the other hand, he seems eager to put me on as many grants as possible, including one with Bremen that screams disaster from every pore. I can already sense that being forced to work with Bremen will be one of the major stressors of my new position. However, time is on my side with that one. As news of what really happened in Bremen percolates through the community, this pressure should abate. Until then, I must eat shit, waste time on poorly conceived projects, and whine appropriately- enough to make damn sure I am heard, not enough to alienate bosses.
I spent much of the day catching up on emails and grant work, then headed back to my apartment to avoid the sickening Valentine’s Day crowd. Yup, they have it here too. My new pad is quite unlike anywhere I lived before, and totally unexpected for university housing. The apartment is in the middle of a little forest next to a tiny lake. It can only be accessed via a ten minute walk up a dirt road that does not allow vehicles except for residents. This apartment complex is the only building I can see, excluding a small shed. The building is surrounded by pine trees. Further, the building is quite old, and seemed a bit too fancy for us meager academics. Pfu explained that this used to be the Lord Mayor’s house, and it was adapted for uni housing. I feel flattered. While the building itself is old and pretty stylin, the inside of the apartment has modern furniture and fixtures, a TV, even a full kitchen with oven. Seems like a good combo.
It also brings back memories. When I was 7.5, we went to Kansas to visit some relatives. I know my age because I can distinctly remember sitting around a table with Dad and maybe 15 other people, having a great outdoor feast, when I felt the urge to inform Dad it was my seven and a halfth birthday. Dad said, “Brendan asked me to announce that we are here, not just to celebrate that it’s Wednesday, but also that Brendan is now 7 and a half.” The table sang Happy Birthday. I was later told that we were going to the mayor’s house. Wow, I thought! The mayor! Didn’t know our family was so connected. In retrospect, I had an overly fanciful view of mayoral regality. Being the mayor of a small town in Kansas is not such a feat. But I didn’t know that. That night, we went to visit the Maher residence and I was thoroughly disappointed by my misunderstanding. Perhaps one of the Mahers is also the mayor? No. Sorry, kid. But the evening was saved by an imminent hurricane. Mom pointed to it and there it was, a dirt brown wriggling twister, just like the pictures. We all had to get to the basement, where Dad told me that it was the only safe place and we might go out tomorrow and the whole house would be gone. I thought this was too fucking cool, and remember thinking about whether I could put some kind of movie camera up there to watch the house get torn apart. (Note this was well before webcams; a 7.5 year old American kid today could probably rig such surveillance without any trouble.) I was again disappointed to emerge the next morning to an intact house. Now, in curious narrative closure, I live in the Lord Mayor’s house. And it is a pretty phat house, as if the mayor of Graz is indeed a VIP. There is thus some restoration of childlike marvel. My new mystery is what difference exists, if any, between a Mayor and Lord Mayor.
The main drawback to this pad is obvious. You can’t get from the middle of a big city to the middle of a forest easily. It’s more than 10 minutes to the nearest streetcar stop, and at least 25 more to work. This is not such a bad commute, and walking 10 minutes through a forest twice a day is much better than driving through heavy traffic on 52 east. However, walking uphill on an unmaintained dirt road without drainage will be far less charming through rain or sleet. I see i cee sludge in my future.
But again, as I did not understand until moving to Europe, commuting through traffic just doesn’t compare to commuting on foot and streetcar. On a streetcar, you can read, talk to locals, watch the news (Graz streetcars, unlike those in Bremen, have TVs with news), or just zone out. Yes, I know, you can do these things while driving, but you aren’t supposed to.
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