A request.
For all those who would like to know how my thesis is "coming along": Thank you, I really do appreciate your concern, but please, do try and refrain from asking. Distilling the past five years of my academic/professional life into a single, roughly-300-page document is a long, tedious, and --- more often than not --- incredibly frustrating exercise. When I'm finally done and satisfied with it, I'll let you know --- with the utmost joy. Until then, if I'm in a social situation with you, I'm most probably seeking escape from the drudgery for just a little while, and talking or thinking about it is the last thing that I would want.
The brilliant Jorge Cham captures the feeling perfectly, here.
Thank you. :)
Monday, October 29, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Wish I DID have some daylight in my savings account
Er... just when, exactly, did it start getting dark so early? I could have sworn that, just last week, it was still light outside up until almost dinner time (7:30-ish). Now it's pitch-black by 6. And it seems like this only just happened in the past two days. Did the Earth just jump? Did *all* the clocks in the world, and not just my computers, automatically fall back to regular time when my back was turned? Should I be pointing fingers at gremlins (if I could see one at which to point a finger!)? Am I losing my mind?
Zoom-zoom
*God*, that was fun.
Needed to get out of the house and away from my computer and the day-in, day-out monotony of thesis writing. So took my car out, just now, and slung it around all the little back-roads of my neighbourhood for a bit. Nothing rash, nothing stupid --- I stayed below the posted speed limits + 15 mph (except for one wide-open straightaway that parallels the Metro tracks and doesn't have any parked cars or children running around), came to a complete stop at *all* the stop signs, yielded to other drivers when the road became too narrow for two cars to pass, used my turn signals each time, both hands on the wheel, except for the gear changes... But it was still just such sheer bliss, slaloming in smooth sinusoids around all the parked cars, hitting the apexes in the turns, ascending --- and descending --- through the shift-points at just the right rpms, the gears snicking precisely into place each time (well, most of the time. I was driving in flip-flops --- chappals --- so there was sometimes a little bit of play between my feet and the pedals.)... Ahh, rev-matching, double-clutching, seat-of-your-pants, mind-in-the-moment Fahrvergnügen.
Made even better by the fact that there was a light drizzle falling, and the roads were slick with carpets of wet, fallen leaves. So you had to be extra careful to not tease the tires too close to their traction limits. Red, orange, yellow and black on the ground; red, orange, yellow and green up above. Wipers on Intermittent. The sound of the engine swelling and cutting, swelling and cutting, swelllllllling and cutting... and sometimes, swollen, but not achieving release in the next upshift, growling back down for a smoothly executed, jerk-free engine-braking manoeuvre. A graceful symphony of perfectly modulated throttle and clutch, the flowing dance of tire and road, pistons and neurons. Fifteen minutes of suburban autocross heaven.
Needed to get out of the house and away from my computer and the day-in, day-out monotony of thesis writing. So took my car out, just now, and slung it around all the little back-roads of my neighbourhood for a bit. Nothing rash, nothing stupid --- I stayed below the posted speed limits + 15 mph (except for one wide-open straightaway that parallels the Metro tracks and doesn't have any parked cars or children running around), came to a complete stop at *all* the stop signs, yielded to other drivers when the road became too narrow for two cars to pass, used my turn signals each time, both hands on the wheel, except for the gear changes... But it was still just such sheer bliss, slaloming in smooth sinusoids around all the parked cars, hitting the apexes in the turns, ascending --- and descending --- through the shift-points at just the right rpms, the gears snicking precisely into place each time (well, most of the time. I was driving in flip-flops --- chappals --- so there was sometimes a little bit of play between my feet and the pedals.)... Ahh, rev-matching, double-clutching, seat-of-your-pants, mind-in-the-moment Fahrvergnügen.
Made even better by the fact that there was a light drizzle falling, and the roads were slick with carpets of wet, fallen leaves. So you had to be extra careful to not tease the tires too close to their traction limits. Red, orange, yellow and black on the ground; red, orange, yellow and green up above. Wipers on Intermittent. The sound of the engine swelling and cutting, swelling and cutting, swelllllllling and cutting... and sometimes, swollen, but not achieving release in the next upshift, growling back down for a smoothly executed, jerk-free engine-braking manoeuvre. A graceful symphony of perfectly modulated throttle and clutch, the flowing dance of tire and road, pistons and neurons. Fifteen minutes of suburban autocross heaven.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Clicks and purrs
Prologue:
I've heard of clicking beetles. And hissing cockroaches (I've actually seen them, too -- my entomologist friend Andrew has a pair). But cats... cats just keep on surprising me.
On with the story!
I'm almost 30. And I'd never heard a cat purr until 3 years ago, would you believe it?
Indian cats don't purr, it would seem. They just snarl, and hiss, and yowl. But then, growing up in Bombay, I never knew anyone who kept a cat as a pet. People had dogs, fish, squirrels, parrots, budgerigars... one or two had rabbits... but no cats. The only cats around were the stray, feral ones --- and there were plenty of those. But they never purred. Not to my knowledge, at least. Purring was something only the cats in storybooks did.
Americans, on the other hand, seem about equally-divided between cat-people and dog-people. And in the past few years, I've made a number of friends with members of the former division, and so have had much more exposure to domesticated felines than before. (I myself grew up a dog-person, and still consider myself as one, but I've learned to appreciate and enjoy cats too, now.) But the first time I heard a cat purr, I damn near jumped out of my skin --- I thought it was growling at me! And heaven knows, I didn't want to be within range of those irrational, easily-aggravated claws. Much hilarity ensued, of course, amongst the cat-owner and other humans present.
But this particular species wasn't quite done pulling my tail just yet. More surprises were still in store. That other same day, while I was peering fascinatedly at the baby cats (see my previous post), Katie asked me if I'd like to hear them purr. "Sure!" I said, confident now in my ability to correctly identify a purr. She held one up to my ear, and I waited. And waited. And heard nothing that matched anything in my mental database of animal sounds. "Listen!" she said. "Don't you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
-- "That clicking sound!"
"That clicking sound?!?"
-- "Yes!"
(And yes, I had heard a series of clicks emanating from roughly the animal's thoracic region, but they hadn't registered as anything noteworthy. I had been expecting *purrs*!)
"They click?!?"
-- "Yes!"
"I thought you said they were purring!"
-- "Well, that's how kittens purr."
... My education continues.
I've heard of clicking beetles. And hissing cockroaches (I've actually seen them, too -- my entomologist friend Andrew has a pair). But cats... cats just keep on surprising me.
On with the story!
I'm almost 30. And I'd never heard a cat purr until 3 years ago, would you believe it?
Indian cats don't purr, it would seem. They just snarl, and hiss, and yowl. But then, growing up in Bombay, I never knew anyone who kept a cat as a pet. People had dogs, fish, squirrels, parrots, budgerigars... one or two had rabbits... but no cats. The only cats around were the stray, feral ones --- and there were plenty of those. But they never purred. Not to my knowledge, at least. Purring was something only the cats in storybooks did.
Americans, on the other hand, seem about equally-divided between cat-people and dog-people. And in the past few years, I've made a number of friends with members of the former division, and so have had much more exposure to domesticated felines than before. (I myself grew up a dog-person, and still consider myself as one, but I've learned to appreciate and enjoy cats too, now.) But the first time I heard a cat purr, I damn near jumped out of my skin --- I thought it was growling at me! And heaven knows, I didn't want to be within range of those irrational, easily-aggravated claws. Much hilarity ensued, of course, amongst the cat-owner and other humans present.
But this particular species wasn't quite done pulling my tail just yet. More surprises were still in store. That other same day, while I was peering fascinatedly at the baby cats (see my previous post), Katie asked me if I'd like to hear them purr. "Sure!" I said, confident now in my ability to correctly identify a purr. She held one up to my ear, and I waited. And waited. And heard nothing that matched anything in my mental database of animal sounds. "Listen!" she said. "Don't you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
-- "That clicking sound!"
"That clicking sound?!?"
-- "Yes!"
(And yes, I had heard a series of clicks emanating from roughly the animal's thoracic region, but they hadn't registered as anything noteworthy. I had been expecting *purrs*!)
"They click?!?"
-- "Yes!"
"I thought you said they were purring!"
-- "Well, that's how kittens purr."
... My education continues.
Miniature-mamal magic
I had the opportunity, a couple of days ago, of carrying around a basketful of just-a-few-days-old kittens. Five of them. They were the tiniest things I'd ever seen. I mean, I knew baby puppies, kittens, piglets, etc. are small when newly-born, but I had never realized just *how* small. And yes, they were incredibly cute. Not just in the miniaturized-version-of-a-bigger-thing way (hey! I *am* an engineer!), but also because of that evolved baby-animal strategy of endearing themselves to adults and provoking nurturing feelings and thereby facilitating survival by having heads and eyes disproportionately larger than the rest of their bodies and by emitting those plaintive, woebegone cries. (Yes, I am a scientist, too.) We adults are such suckers. :)
I had to carry that basket (which otherwise could have passed off as a small laundry hamper) through a study lounge full of hard-at-work students --- and in a building on campus in which I'm quite sure pet animals are not allowed. (Shhh!) The first time, on the way in, the kittens behaved. On the way out, though, they didn't. (And just so you know, their heads weren't the only things larger than you'd expect. Their voices were, too.) And everybody, oh just evvvverybody knew I had kittens in the basket.
I couldn't stop grinning.
I had to carry that basket (which otherwise could have passed off as a small laundry hamper) through a study lounge full of hard-at-work students --- and in a building on campus in which I'm quite sure pet animals are not allowed. (Shhh!) The first time, on the way in, the kittens behaved. On the way out, though, they didn't. (And just so you know, their heads weren't the only things larger than you'd expect. Their voices were, too.) And everybody, oh just evvvverybody knew I had kittens in the basket.
I couldn't stop grinning.
In the footsteps of the Earl of Sandwich, that intrepid pioneer
Tabasco sauce tastes great on tuna-and-cheese sandwiches.
Old Bay... surprisingly, not so much. Kinda "meh", really. (Yes, I'm aware that I'm "from" Maryland. Wanna hear some more sacrilegious stuff? I don't care much for crabs, either! ... Although jousting's kinda cool.) It does taste great on 'fries, though!
Old Bay... surprisingly, not so much. Kinda "meh", really. (Yes, I'm aware that I'm "from" Maryland. Wanna hear some more sacrilegious stuff? I don't care much for crabs, either! ... Although jousting's kinda cool.) It does taste great on 'fries, though!
Jason bought a crock for butter, and now his butter tastes so much better!
I have re-discovered the goodness of butter. Actually, let me correct that: I have *discovered* the goodness of butter, never having realized it before. Back home, when I was a kid, we used to keep the butter in the fridge (naturally), and if I wanted to have some with my breakfast, or to make sandwiches with, I'd have to leave it out for several hours beforehand --- like overnight --- to melt. (We didn't have microwave ovens back then.) I didn't use that butter very much.
Besides, I don't ever remember it tasting all that wonderful, either. Might just have been the kind of butter we got in India back then. The cheese there wasn't so great, either.
By the time I came to the US, I had heard all about margarine. And was quite vehemently opposed to using it. a) Because it wasn't the "real thing", and b) because I badly needed to put *on* weight, not lose it. (I still do. And still grumble at having to hunt for "regular" food among all the low-fat/non-fat/reduced-fat variants whenever I go grocery shopping.) My aunt --- with whom I stayed for a while before I moved into the dorms, and whose choice of household items for running her house (Tide detergent, Polaner jam, Philadelphia Flavours cream cheese, Lipton tea bags, Eggo waffles...) left me, an impressionable, fresh-off-the-boat newcomer to the American Way, forever brand-loyal --- used to use something called "Shedd's Country Crock". It looked, to me, and behaved, like butter, except that it never got hard in the fridge. And I remember it actually *saying* "butter" somewhere on the outside of the container. Eight years of devoted usage later, I actually re-read the label, and was left incredibly disappointed. I guess I should've been more suspicious about it having that miraculous non-hardening quality.
So I set out to look for a butter dish, just like I'd seen in other people's homes. A container in which I could leave the butter outside so that it would always be ready-to-spread whenever I wanted it. (My roommate used to use a regular tupperware container, but that was just ugly, and meant one less tupperware container for storing other things in.) Strangely enough, I was never able to find one --- that was inexpensive enough. (It's just a *butter dish*, for crying out loud!) Then I found something called a "butter bell" at Marshalls, a local discount department store. (You can read more about it at the manufacturer's website, and at all these other websites, too.) It didn't look like anything I'd ever seen before, but it looked neat, and seemed to make sense from a scientific/engineering standpoint (it was very-practically sized to contain the same volume of butter in a standard stick... the water not only sealed off the container, but also, by evaporating, kept the whole thing cool, just like the clay/earthen `matkas' we have back in India for keeping water cool) and it was just 10 bucks. I bought it.
And it works like a charm! Haven't had any problems with mold so far (See the concerns expressed here), and the butter makes my sandwiches and pancakes and waffles and toast taste so much better! Plus, it just seems to have a certain old-world charm about it all. Or maybe that's just me. Whatever. Yay for butter!
Besides, I don't ever remember it tasting all that wonderful, either. Might just have been the kind of butter we got in India back then. The cheese there wasn't so great, either.
By the time I came to the US, I had heard all about margarine. And was quite vehemently opposed to using it. a) Because it wasn't the "real thing", and b) because I badly needed to put *on* weight, not lose it. (I still do. And still grumble at having to hunt for "regular" food among all the low-fat/non-fat/reduced-fat variants whenever I go grocery shopping.) My aunt --- with whom I stayed for a while before I moved into the dorms, and whose choice of household items for running her house (Tide detergent, Polaner jam, Philadelphia Flavours cream cheese, Lipton tea bags, Eggo waffles...) left me, an impressionable, fresh-off-the-boat newcomer to the American Way, forever brand-loyal --- used to use something called "Shedd's Country Crock". It looked, to me, and behaved, like butter, except that it never got hard in the fridge. And I remember it actually *saying* "butter" somewhere on the outside of the container. Eight years of devoted usage later, I actually re-read the label, and was left incredibly disappointed. I guess I should've been more suspicious about it having that miraculous non-hardening quality.
So I set out to look for a butter dish, just like I'd seen in other people's homes. A container in which I could leave the butter outside so that it would always be ready-to-spread whenever I wanted it. (My roommate used to use a regular tupperware container, but that was just ugly, and meant one less tupperware container for storing other things in.) Strangely enough, I was never able to find one --- that was inexpensive enough. (It's just a *butter dish*, for crying out loud!) Then I found something called a "butter bell" at Marshalls, a local discount department store. (You can read more about it at the manufacturer's website, and at all these other websites, too.) It didn't look like anything I'd ever seen before, but it looked neat, and seemed to make sense from a scientific/engineering standpoint (it was very-practically sized to contain the same volume of butter in a standard stick... the water not only sealed off the container, but also, by evaporating, kept the whole thing cool, just like the clay/earthen `matkas' we have back in India for keeping water cool) and it was just 10 bucks. I bought it.
And it works like a charm! Haven't had any problems with mold so far (See the concerns expressed here), and the butter makes my sandwiches and pancakes and waffles and toast taste so much better! Plus, it just seems to have a certain old-world charm about it all. Or maybe that's just me. Whatever. Yay for butter!
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