The Hanover Collaboration

Dahndest thing happened to me today. I gave my usual class 4,5 class to a bunch of kids at MIT. Not only that, it was in that crazy fahking Statar Center up in this fancy-pants conference room.

They were all like 25-30 yeah olds so I assume theya all PhD students oha post-docs. So I ask them, “Whya you all wantin’ to drive fahklifts.” They look at me funny and one says, “because we’ve got one.” Fahkin’ MIT kids!

A 17yr old eagle scout was lost for three days in the Presidentials. I’d assumed that he was dead a day before they reported that he had been found okay.

A number of people apparently haven’t heard this story yet.

I was working at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base this summer. On my way home on my first day, I had a bit of a run-in with “the man”. I got a little bit ACLU-ed up. I did okay, but not great. I think next time it will be

1. Am I being charged with a crime?
2. Am I being detained?
3. I would like to leave. Am I free to go?

I never heard from the government (nor the US marshals) and am assuming that the relevant prosecutor has a shred of good sense. There did end up being a military investigation however and that looked likely to end poorly for the dickheads involved.

The “guns kill” is where you get to show how good of a pilot you are. Missiles… eh. The guns kill is what you are really going for. Not only that, the system is recording video so if you can hold the guns on the other guys helmet for 8 seconds, you can show him later. The problem is that the bullets are supersonic and you can’t see them. So to help aim, you’ve got these tracers on your HUD and it’s just like in a video game.

I went to a conferrence in Fort Worth. A number of people have been asking me about the trip, so I’ll just post my notes rather than organize it into a “real” post. It’ll be a little rambly.

Lindsay Mann, Courtney and I went out to rad Jenna Farleigh’s DOC trip (road biking) the other night. It was the first night and they were up at the Raine’s camp in Bradford.

As some of presumably already know, rather simply pick a best-man for my wedding from amongst my four¹ best friends, I’m going to hold an arduous series of competitions to determine who indeed is the best man. Since everyone is all over the country right now, we’re going to start with stuff that can be done online namely bored games and quizes.

So I feel like yesterday – or more specifically, last night – [ actually, two nights ago at the time of publication – ed. ] deserves some retelling. Now I suppose it could be that for some of you out there (indeed, probably for some of the characters my party came across that very night) the events of yesterday evening will seem tame; mundane, even. To those hell-raising few, then, I offer an apology, and to the rest, this spine tingling (if somewhat pointless) narrative.

The raison d’etre of the evening’s activities was a last-second, shoe-string bachelor party for one Jay Emmanuel Bone. There apparenly was some problem in securing Mr. Bone’s attendance for the event, as upon my arrival (via bicycle) at the agreed upon time and location, no one else was to be found. Dialing Tyro Dobson, the ringleader of sorts for the evening’s circus of destruction, I gathered, over much shouting in the background, that the group had indeed arrived in Cambridge and was making tracks to Fenway and the Game On sports bar as fast as possible. I was then instructed to secure a table for ten and order some freakin’ nachoes and steak fries already.

The hostesses at Game On, whose summated age still probably puts them a decade short of Don Zimmer, seemed a bit confused but were happy to indulge my requests, and I took a seat at the bar and ordered a Caucasian, which was terrible. Messrs. Cocky Emmetts and Dichronic Inks arrived shortly thereafter, followed by the rest of the group (Mel Metpot, Helve Liens, Tyro Dobson, and Dr. Alvin Sol). We took our table and hogged down the excellent natchos and so-so fries right around the time the Sox game was getting underway. Someone (Helve, perhaps?) attempted to order pitchers, but turns out Game On doesn’t have pitchers, so we had to settle for tall (20oz?) beers instead.

Warmed by the irreplicable buzz of beer and nachos, we discussed topics ranging from Mel Metpot’s forays into the business world to the idiosyncracies of performing laproscopic surgery on fat chicks. We also drank a lot of beer. For dinner, Mel and I split the steak bomb pizza, which was small, tomato-free and dissapointing, but since I had eaten far too many nachos, the quality and quantity of my dinner were at best marginal concerns. Judging by the volume of his voice and capriciousness of his conversation, I’d say that the pizza, and indeed, the entire sense of taste, was something of a non-issue for MM as well. Everyone else’s food looked good though, and they seemed to posses a sufficient level of sobriety to enjoy it.

At some point Cousin Rob (Helve’s, not mine) showed up with arm candies by the names of Carolyn and Cole, who filled the empty seats at the far end of the table. This resulted in the formation of a sharp conversational dichotomy: the normal vacuous prantings of newly-acquainted twentysomethings (upheld mostly by Helve and the girls) on one end of the table, and the interesting-though-distressingly-nerdy musings of Bone and Metpot on the other. I kind of bounced between the two, and went to the bathroom a lot, which, with the waitresses swooping in like hawks to get our empty glasses, and with no bottle caps to pocket, was the only indication I had of how much I’d had to drink.

I can’t remember which inning we left during, but it must have been ways into the game, as the tab was well over 350 dollars. Somehow, this divided out to $65 per person, which required a quick bike ride to the Bank of America (don’t want to catch “foreign” ATM fees, y’know?) on Comm Ave. I added my cash to the pile, which was quite large. We left 400 bucks and Tyro gathered up the rest for “cab fares”, though I can’t seem to remember riding in a taxi at any point later that evening. Our remaining pizza was packaged for carry-out only to somehow find it’s way into a nearby US Mailbox – I believe the only Federal offence committed that night – and we were on our way.

But where to? Discussion on changing venues ranged from the restruant on top of the Pru to some bar downtown to other, far skeezier options. At some point, a decision was made, and six of our party of eight crammed into Alvin’s Passat, with MM and Dichron’ electing to run to our destination instead. Sardining into the car was met with some grumbling at first, though once inside, consensus was that Mel and Dichronic could have easily fit inside (this was probably due in part to my taking the unusual and largely inexplicable action of riding with my head and shoulders completely outside the vehicle.

We arrived at Jacob Wirth’s in the Chinatown/Leather District/Theatre District and made immediately for the urinals, which were the old-school can’t miss ‘em variety that run all the way to the floor. They were also exceptionally close together. I received a cell phone call while urinating, which is a first, and the ensuing conversation touched off an entirely unsucessful wave of drunken dialing in an attempt to get “bitches”. MM and Dichron’ arrived during this, and with much fanfare, recounted how Mel had stopped to take a leak in the Ritz Carlton without being a registered guest (apparently, the secret is to walk in like you own the place).

We must have ordered a round of drinks at some point, though I can’t really recall how it happened; beers just sort of appeared at the table. They were Maudites, which, exceptionally thick and alcoholic, were totally unsuited to our present style of drinking, and, on a full stomach, definitely not the best thing to have. They must have been served in magic glasses, though, as each time I let my eyes drift from my empty cup, I turned around to find it mysteriously full again. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention to my beer, but the essentially non-stop train of comely young ladies entering and leaving the bar made this somewhat difficult.

Despite the fact that it was still only 11 or so (we barely caught the end of the Sox game there, I think), the bar was closing down. I convinced the proprietor to give us one more round (though I don’t seem to recall paying for it…) on the condition that we “drink it fast”. Most of us obliged (despite the fact that they once again brought Maudites…), except for Mel, who seemed pretty freakin’ hammered. Speculation at the time seemed to be that he’d been squirelling furtive nips from his storied Water Bottle Full of Vodka since before the party began. Unwilling to leave wounded soldiers, especially of such an expensive brew, I cowboyed up and finished off his drink just before heading out the door.

The next stop was a chowder house. Though Boston is renowned for it’s many fine chowder-serving establishments, this one, called “The Glass Slipper”, was somewhat different than what you might expect. For instance, this place had bouncers, and by this point, Metpot was so mangled that they didn’t want to let him in the door. However, they were also worried that we might all leave, so eventually they let him in and just told the bartender not to serve him. The rest of us got $10 Coronas – I assumed this exorbitant cost would be reflective of the quality of their chowder, but upon the arrival of the next waitress, I was exceptionally disappointed. I think the chowder’s flavor would have been much improved it been served by Game On waitresses instead.

Of far more note than the chowder was Metpot’s staggering level of intoxication. He was having trouble forming complete sentences (not that any one of us was exactly Faulknerian at the time) and so for some reason, he decided to give his wallet to me. I then decided it would be a good idea to hide it in my pants. Not in the pockets of my pants, but literally, inside of my pants. It soon gained the company of several Boston Bruins/Heineken coasters, which, for some reason, I found it necessary to steal. At any rate, I think one of the waitress may have seen me stash the wallet so protectively in my pants, because she immediately asked me “Whatsa matter? You don’t like chowder?” I replied that I preferred it fresher and in less generous portions, but I do not believe she heard me over the music.

Distressed, I think, by the poor quality of the chowder and by the likelihood that Mel would not make it home without assistance, Cocky Emmetts decided it was time to show himself (and MM) the door. He did this somewhat stealthily – or at least seemed to, though beyond this juncture, my recollections become a bit (more) hazy – but I think I was sent to try and retrieve them. Yes, that must be it, because there’s really no other explanation for my memories of wandering around lost in the closest thing Boston has to a Red Light District. I’m pretty sure I made it back to our chowder house at some point, because I have a much sharper notion of one of the waitresses attempting to flirt with Tyro upon my return. Consensus may have been reached that it was time to leave when the bartender announced that her drinks would cost us thirty dollars each.

I’m told it was only around midnight when we finally took off, but it might as well have been 4am for all I knew. Helve, the groom-to-be, Tyro, and I split off to ride the T back to lodgings Tyro had secured previously. We got free T passes for some reason, and I guess the thrill of cheating the system made me awful punchy, because I seem to recall executing all manner of calisthenics during the subway ride: pull-ups, push-ups, crunches, the ever-popular Bufu – I may have even attempted to “skin-the-cat” over that bar you grab when there are no seats available, but I think my own fatness foiled my efforts.

Yeah, I must have been going good by this point, because from the time we stepped off the train to the time we got back home, I don’t think I stopped moving even once. Well, no, not quite – the running up the down escalators, freestyle walking, dance moves, air-karate and “crazy ninja shit” – that was a non-stop symphony for the eyes. But the bush-diving, that involved some stopping. Some fast and abrupt stopping. So fast, in fact that I managed to tear up my left knee and hand pretty good. I seem to remember geting a little push on at least one dive, but the suspect pusher has thus far maintained his innocence.

I passed out pretty much as soon as my head hit the pillow (remembering first to rinse the bloody stain my knee had made on the inside of my pants with cold water, of course). When my cell phone alarm started buzzing 6 hours later, I kinda had one of those “Oh yeah, I’m still here” moments. The troops rallied bravely, with everyone up and making horrible smells in the bathroom before 8am. I was still drunk enough to think going to work was a good idea, and through good fortune and the MBTA, managed to slip into the office unmolested and well within the standard acceptable window of arrival. Best part of all – my bike was still locked up safe in front of Gold’s Gym when I came to pick it up during lunch. All in all, a satisfyingly hell-bent night on the town.

I let up the pace a bit as I turned onto Reservoir Road in Newton, or Brookline maybe? I just can’t go as hard when I don’t know where I’m going, and there was another intersection coming up already. Traffic was backed up pretty bad. It was backed up because… because there are three gigantic turkeys in the middle of the road? The gobblers noticed me as I slowed to a walk, and waddled off the road and in my direction. The traffic cleared out and the turkeys walked right past me, within a foot. I was tempted to grab one by the neck, but I also just noticed a cop parked back at the intersection. I walked on, and the turkeys started following me, getting real close like maybe they were going to go for a bite of my thigh. I don’t know how much damage a giant turkey bite does. I wasn’t too worried (except maybe about avian flu), but the cop sure was. He got out and said “I… Get!”, with a slap of two leather gloves, “I would try to get away from those birds!”.

They did kind of have me surrounded at this point. But come on, killer turkeys? Then the cop asked if he could taken down my name and number, because he needed witnesses. “I’m having deja vu with these fucking turkeys” he said in closing.

You’re telling me.

Court, Jon and I did the Pilliage Plunder Booty Seige last weekend. It was a lot of fun. The day had a sort of tragic end when we plummetted from second to DNF due to having mismarked a map.

This was a serious race. It’s got the pre-race meeting/gear check the night before the race, it’s that serious. We get there and I’m fixing my bike since I haven’t ridden it in a long long time. Meanwhile me teammates go inside to start registering. I’ll leave a gap here for Jon to fill in.

He comes out and relays the new info to me.
JS: We have to carry our PFDs and bike helmets all day.
TT: We don’t have to carry our bikes or canoes though right? Why can’t we leave the stuff with our bikes?
JS: I asked and they acted surprised that I would even think of that.
TT: Like “Are you calling my race a wuss?”
CC: Just don’t cause any trouble when you go in there.
TT: Well we’ll have to repack to fit that stuff in.
JS: But we can leave a waterbottle on the bike.
CC: laughs
TT: What’s so funny.
CC: You’ll see.
...
inside
About 15 racers and 4 organizers are inside. Chief Organizer, Assistant Organizer and 2 Volunteers. Of the racers, about 6 are triathlete builds with nice looking gear. About 6 are roughly like use, young and inexperienced except lacking the aura of arogance that surounds Jon and me when we are together. The rest (about 5) are wizened old men and women of the sort that tend to pass you if you falter at the end of a long trail race. Those five plus one of the triathletes would be the only people to finish the race, but I digress.

We register for a while, pack for a while and then go to gear check. Here’s the list

Volunteer 2 has a checklist and is reading down it while we produce the required items. Long before we get to the “lighter or waterproof matches” field, we know that Jon’s paper matches from the glove compartment are not going to cut it.

V2: Waterproof matches or lighter
TT: holds up lighter
CC: holds up lighter
JS: I don’t have one. Can I get one tonight and show you tommorrow?
V2: Umm I don’t think so.
Ackward pause, where we all fight the urge to say what we are thinking
JS: How many matches do I need?
V2: What?
TT: Stiffling a laugh Good thought, Jon.
JS: What is the minimum number of matches that I have to have.
V2: I don’t know. I’ll have to check. Hey AO, this kid wants to know how many matches he has to carry.
AO: Just a minute, I have to check with CO.
Jon starts asking around
CO: You know, two lighters for the team will do.
JS: Great, Thanks!
gear check resumes
...

Then at the end of gear check, we got to take our bags back. I was sort of expecting them to take the bags overnight so I couldn’t replace the 1.5” knife with a lighter 1.25” knife. But I wouldn’t put a finish line gear check past these guys.

It sort of reminds me of IM semi-finals. You just want to be like, “Guys could you just chill out, this isn’t the freakin’ Olympics.” but that tends to make it worse. Stephen taught me a better way. “Holy shit! This is it! The big day! The IM semi-finals. I need some Tums, I am so nervous I’m going to crap myself. Where are my Tums? Oh no, I left them at home! Does anyone have any Tums? Oh god!”

I was up int Tuckerman’s Ravine yesterday and it was fantastic. Great weather, great snow.

Ton’s of people. Hundreds and hundreds of people. The goofer index was unbelievably high. Goofer index is the sum (over runs) of how far people are out of their league. I would estimate the Goofer index as about 200*(double-black diamond—blue square).

I think that the average eastern skiier is much better than his western counterpart but I never saw anything in Highland bowl that compared to yesterday’s shitshow. About a third of the people ate it and slid or rolled the whole way down. Another third skied it so as to make you concerned.

I did my part for the goofer index. Last run, I went for a waterfall that looked like an 85% move but it turned out to be more like a %30. I lost that lottery and did about 4 somersaults (a small, controlled fall by the day’s standard).

Here is the best story of the day. Second run, we were trying to get to an exotic line (Courtney’s idea, Jon, not mine) to gawker’s left where the snow was a little firmer. The hike had a very long straight section at 45+ degrees. The snow was a 1/16-1/8th inch of ice crust on 3 inches of granular refrozen corn on rock hard boilerplate. There was no bootpack. The refrozen granular was a bit too crumbly to really trust. It was nerve-wracking.

We get to a rock outcrop where we could stop without fear of sliding and look across to standard hiking train next to the headwall. We look just in time to see someone fall and roll. He takes out the person behind him and they take out a third person and so on until it is impossible to tell how many distinct people are in the ball tumbling down the mountain. It doesn’t help the eye that gear is flying out out in every direction. As it stops, it disperses and you could count. Not counting the people who were only temporary components, there were 6 people down at the bottom.

That didn’t help our mental state much.

Those of you paying close attention to my life might understand why I would be worried about the Arar case. For the rest of you, it might seem like an unreasonable fear to get kidnapped, rendered to another country and tortured. Seeing how it almost certainly really did happen to this guy among others, it is on the table as a possibility.

Every time I slip up even a little bit, it goes worse than I could possibly imagine. Amongst my problems is that I have a real knack for convincing people with authority that I am some sort of threat. I am terrified of airports. I was planning on sparing the examples but this one is pretty good.

I was going through airport security a bit drunk (375ml @ %40 3hrs earlier). I went through the checkpoint, and went to sit down on a bench (or maybe it was a table) next to the checkpoint to wait for someone. There was no gate or sign or anything but I guess that I crossed the magic “secure/unsecure” line and the security gaurd came over and told me.

I’m like “Okay” and move back to the “secure” side.

He steps in front of me and says “you have to go back through the checkpoint.”

I had a little difficulty controlling how funny I think that is. I went through it literally 10s ago and have moved less than 10m while entirely in full view of this guard. Besides, there was a queue.

I think I said, “Sherley, you can’t be serious.”

He says, “9-11 isn’t just a number on the telephone anymore.”

My mental gears jam. I grope hopelessly through my foggy brain for an apropriate response for a second or two. All I come up with is, “That’s witty. Did you make that up just now on the spot?”

He takes my boarding pass and calls the cops. Then we have a real shitshow. Let me tell you, it took Kasparov-like play to get on that plane. One wrong move—I get the plane to Guantanimo instead.

It is just a matter of time before I do something that “didn’t seem like a bad idea at the time” that, in light of vaporous security concerns, gets me sent to Afghanistan (since nowadays I could get potentially get a lawyer in Gitmo). People say that I don’t think things through before I do them. That’s not quite it. It’s just I am not good at modeling people who don’t think think things through the same way that I do. I wonder if Larry Summers has the same problem.