I don't often post about current events, but in light of my apparent graduation from a School of Government, I thought I'd dip my feet in the pond.
First, you may have heard about recent Republican moves toward preventing Democrats from fillibustering (i.e. prolonging debate indefinitely) in order to block certain Bush appointees to the federal courts. Some conservatives, apparently including the Speaker of the House, have been making the case that Democratic senators who oppose Bush's nominees are really just against people of faith--and that these Democratic senators must themselves lack faith.
I therefore admire Republican Senator Lindsey Graham of South Carolina for urging flat-out that this stop. Sunday, he said on Fox:
"What I do not want to do is cross the line and say those who oppose these nominees are people who lack faith. I don’t believe that. I don’t think that’s appropriate."
* * *
In other news, the bodies of two children were found in a pool of sewage in Georgia. Investigators are still not sure if foul play was involved.
Right. Because children drown themselves in sewage all the time...
Between this and the train disaster in Osaka, it's been a sad day out there.
Monday, April 25, 2005
"...your invisibility notwithstanding..."
My Kennedy School advisor wrote me today to say, "It will please you further to know that your invisibility notwithstanding, I gave your PAE a [passing] grade."
I'm grateful. To her, to FARO, to the friends of HCAP, to everyone else who helped me finish my second thesis on schedule for a change.
What's more, I think this means... with or without a bibliography... I'm actually graduating.
I'm grateful. To her, to FARO, to the friends of HCAP, to everyone else who helped me finish my second thesis on schedule for a change.
What's more, I think this means... with or without a bibliography... I'm actually graduating.
Column Five
I was lucky to attend an elementary school where the teachers served us trail mix during standardized tests. I came to think of them as an opportunity for snacking. But years later, when I took my GRE on a computer, the administrators forced me to stash my trail mix in a locker. Either they were worried I had written vocabulary words on the peanuts or that I would spill on the keyboard (given my history, the latter would be a perfectly reasonable fear.)
At any rate, computers permit more than just taking traditional tests on a screen; they enable entirely new testing methodologies. Thus, the GRE and the GMAT are now computer adaptive, which means that they get harder when you answer questions correctly and easier when you make mistakes. This allows them to pinpoint your score by seeing how far up or down you diverge from the performance of an “average” test-taker.
Such a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure approach to test administration may be more efficient, but it also introduces new sources of test-taking anxiety. For instance, you can’t go back and change your previous answers, or skip tough questions and return to them later. In fact, you can’t skip questions at all. Worse, if an easy one comes up, it’s cause for panic—since you must have done something wrong to deserve it. And if you get an incredibly hard one, that’s great!—except you may not be able to answer it.
This new emphasis on computerized testing may explain why after 27 years, the nation’s leading producer of mechanically-scored paper testing forms, Scantron Corporation, spun off a new business unit to explore opportunities on the Internet. This unit’s products have included web-based software that allows students to “take their tests online or on paper”—a clear concession to the growing popularity of Internet testing, and one sure to strike fear in the heart of #2 pencil manufacturers.
It’s one thing to have computers decide whether you answered “b” correctly and then adjust the next question accordingly. It’s another for them to score the quality of your prose. In Michigan, computers are doing just that, grading sixth graders’ essays. One company, Pearson Knowledge Technologies, offers products employing “Latent Semantic Analysis” to perform “automatic writing assessment.” Pearson claims that its software, unlike human graders, never gets tired or bored. It even rates essays for style.
I do agree that essay test responses should be typed whenever possible. Nowadays people grow up using word processors that allow them to cut-and-paste; it seems awkward to test them on a skill (straight-through-writing, for lack of a better term) that they don’t practice very much. Typed responses also eliminate potential bias against students with bad handwriting.
But in life, we don’t write for computers (unless we’re in the CS department.) Computers don’t shop at bookstores. They don’t really understand the difference between the verse of Walt Whitman and that of a Stanford Daily columnist who dabbles in rhyming ditties. Do we really want our sixth graders conditioned to write text in a way that will satisfy a software algorithm?
I’d rather consider existing problems in multiple choice testing and look for new ways to resolve them. For instance, some current standardized exams aim to penalize guessing by deducting a portion of a point for a wrong answer. However, most test-takers are still advised to guess as much as possible, particularly if they can eliminate at least one answer choice.
Instead of a straight-up guessing penalty, I propose introducing a new aspect to multiple-choice testing: a “certainty factor.” If it were implemented, you would be able to choose not only your preferred answer—a, b, c, d or e—but also how certain you are of it—20, 40, 60, 80 or 100%. If you were 100% certain and you got it right, you would receive full credit—say, 1 point. If you were only 60% certain and you got it right, you would only receive 0.6 points.
Conversely, if you were 100% certain and got it wrong, you would incur the full wrong-answer penalty—perhaps 0.5 points. But if you were only 40% certain and got it wrong, your penalty would shrink to 40% of 0.5, or 0.2 points.
This kind of testing would require students not only to know something, but to consider how well they know it. Critics might complain that this makes test-taking too much like gambling. I disagree—it’s simply a formalized extension of what is already taking place every time someone decides to make a guess. Furthermore, the testing process would teach important lessons in risk management and decision-making—and significantly reduce the possibility of people who are naturally "good test-takers" guessing their way to a high score.
Are certainty factors the future of testing? I’d love to say yes, but I know it’s not too likely. I’ll give it… 20%.
At any rate, computers permit more than just taking traditional tests on a screen; they enable entirely new testing methodologies. Thus, the GRE and the GMAT are now computer adaptive, which means that they get harder when you answer questions correctly and easier when you make mistakes. This allows them to pinpoint your score by seeing how far up or down you diverge from the performance of an “average” test-taker.
Such a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure approach to test administration may be more efficient, but it also introduces new sources of test-taking anxiety. For instance, you can’t go back and change your previous answers, or skip tough questions and return to them later. In fact, you can’t skip questions at all. Worse, if an easy one comes up, it’s cause for panic—since you must have done something wrong to deserve it. And if you get an incredibly hard one, that’s great!—except you may not be able to answer it.
This new emphasis on computerized testing may explain why after 27 years, the nation’s leading producer of mechanically-scored paper testing forms, Scantron Corporation, spun off a new business unit to explore opportunities on the Internet. This unit’s products have included web-based software that allows students to “take their tests online or on paper”—a clear concession to the growing popularity of Internet testing, and one sure to strike fear in the heart of #2 pencil manufacturers.
It’s one thing to have computers decide whether you answered “b” correctly and then adjust the next question accordingly. It’s another for them to score the quality of your prose. In Michigan, computers are doing just that, grading sixth graders’ essays. One company, Pearson Knowledge Technologies, offers products employing “Latent Semantic Analysis” to perform “automatic writing assessment.” Pearson claims that its software, unlike human graders, never gets tired or bored. It even rates essays for style.
I do agree that essay test responses should be typed whenever possible. Nowadays people grow up using word processors that allow them to cut-and-paste; it seems awkward to test them on a skill (straight-through-writing, for lack of a better term) that they don’t practice very much. Typed responses also eliminate potential bias against students with bad handwriting.
But in life, we don’t write for computers (unless we’re in the CS department.) Computers don’t shop at bookstores. They don’t really understand the difference between the verse of Walt Whitman and that of a Stanford Daily columnist who dabbles in rhyming ditties. Do we really want our sixth graders conditioned to write text in a way that will satisfy a software algorithm?
I’d rather consider existing problems in multiple choice testing and look for new ways to resolve them. For instance, some current standardized exams aim to penalize guessing by deducting a portion of a point for a wrong answer. However, most test-takers are still advised to guess as much as possible, particularly if they can eliminate at least one answer choice.
Instead of a straight-up guessing penalty, I propose introducing a new aspect to multiple-choice testing: a “certainty factor.” If it were implemented, you would be able to choose not only your preferred answer—a, b, c, d or e—but also how certain you are of it—20, 40, 60, 80 or 100%. If you were 100% certain and you got it right, you would receive full credit—say, 1 point. If you were only 60% certain and you got it right, you would only receive 0.6 points.
Conversely, if you were 100% certain and got it wrong, you would incur the full wrong-answer penalty—perhaps 0.5 points. But if you were only 40% certain and got it wrong, your penalty would shrink to 40% of 0.5, or 0.2 points.
This kind of testing would require students not only to know something, but to consider how well they know it. Critics might complain that this makes test-taking too much like gambling. I disagree—it’s simply a formalized extension of what is already taking place every time someone decides to make a guess. Furthermore, the testing process would teach important lessons in risk management and decision-making—and significantly reduce the possibility of people who are naturally "good test-takers" guessing their way to a high score.
Are certainty factors the future of testing? I’d love to say yes, but I know it’s not too likely. I’ll give it… 20%.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
March 2001
A long time ago, I didn't know what a blog was, but I sort of had the idea: I would write travel update e-mails from different places. I just found four of them, from Turkey and Georgia, and posted them here. They're probably more fun than eye surgery. If you're interested, you can click the March 2001 archives in the lower left.
Rereading them reignited my wanderlust. And early May 2005 sounds like a good time for a trip...
Rereading them reignited my wanderlust. And early May 2005 sounds like a good time for a trip...
Saturday, April 23, 2005
E-mail and IQ
I just read an article on CNN.com suggesting that checking e-mail during the workday lowers IQ relative to checking it less frequently.
This is troubling... maybe if I play Mozart I can counter the effects.
This is troubling... maybe if I play Mozart I can counter the effects.
The Rain is Gone
Saturday morning. Last night, I lost the archetypal struggle between "man and bed" as follows:
Bed: "Come here."
Me: "Yes, but first..."
Bed: "Come now, or I'm going to start tossing your pillows out the window."
Me: "Good try, but I know better: a bed can't toss a pillow. No hands."
Bed: "Try me."
Me: "Umm..."
Pillow: "Help!"
*distant plopping sound*
Bed: "One down. Two to go."
Me: "Aaah! Okay, I'm coming. Please, anything, but not the pillows..."
Thank Apu Pinchau (Incan creator-god of the alpaca) I was able to escape the clutches of "bed" around 7:30.
* * *
I'm sipping Earl Gray tea made with an infuser. Thank you, Sun and Julia, for reminding me of Captain Picard's favorite brew. I picked it up at Whole Foods yesterday in a massive tea-acquisition expedition, from which I also came home with white, green and decaf vanilla maple.
* * *
So, I've promised a post about what the LASIK procedure was like, and it's time to deliver.
Before the procedure began, my mother and I waited in the "Freedomvision" lounge watching the TV talking heads debate the new pope's "hard-line" views. After a while, I lost interest and instead admired the letter "v" in the Freedomvision logo. It looked like a bird. Not all birds have good vision, but eagles do, so I was reassured.
Eventually my doctor's younger colleague, Dr. Shaw, came down to greet me. He is an energetic man of Indian descent, and looks about 25. "I'm here to give you your Valium," he said.
I thought the Valium was optional, I said.
"It is," he explained, "But you really should take it."
He then lectured me on the benefits of being sedated. When he was done, he smiled like a defense attorney who had made a very good case, or Garfield after eating lasagna.
"Thanks," I said. "But I think I'll opt out."
He walked off, disgruntled. A few minutes later he returned with Dr. Gordon. "So. you taken your happy pill yet?" asked the older optometrist, fixing his eyes on me, one bright, one dull (from two different procedures.)
"Two weeks ago, you said it was optional," I reminded him.
"Yes," he admitted. "But you really should..."
"I've spent the last two weeks preparing to come in today in a state of--" I gestured up then down with my hands, thinking of Weber, Cathers and the team from Granada Hills--"High energy and low anxiety. I don't need it."
Or at least I didn't till you all started pressuring me to take the darn thing, I thought.
The standoff continued for a little while. I asked if the Valium would improve the chances of the procedure working out. No, he said, it's really for afterward, so you just go home and sleep.
"I'm sleep-deprived enough that won't be a problem," I said. (I didn't tell him my plan was actually to go home and blog.)
At last they relented, and it was time for the actual procedure.
It began with Dr. Gordon putting little marks in my eyes. "I can write any initials you like," he offered. "They'll be very small but last a few years."
I thought about it for a while. "D and D," I said. For DemiDec.
"Okay," he smiled.
There were, of course, no initials. He just put dots in m eyes. But I give him credit for fooling me with the straightest face you can imagine.
Then I walked into a larger room full of equipment, the lead surgeon (Dr. Elkins), a nurse (Laura), and a teddy bear (whom I named "alpaca.")
"Is the bear here to squeeze or something?" I said, amused.
"Exactly," said the nurse, and handed it to me.
At first I was skeptical, but it turned out that squeezing a bear when someone is slicing a flap in your eye is a really really good idea.
The slicing itself was the most painful part--or, rather, the setup involved. Dr. Elkins placed a suction cup in my eye, and then a circle of bright white lights began to whir. The cup was so highly-pressurized that I went blind right after it came on. The whole world shrank away into darkness faster than I could blink (not that I could have blinked if I'd wanted to--they'd pinned up my eyelids.)
Each eye then took 40 very long seconds to perforate; fortunately, the second one went faster when I began (very quietly) reciting poetry.
The weirdest part (for lack of a better description) was when the surgeon pulled back the flap with a tiny edged instrument. I could see my whole field of vision slowly floating away and to the right. Then when it had been totally removed, I could see straight ahead again, but only very blurrily. "Air bubbles," explained Dr. Gordon.
The actual LASIK part was easier (as opposed to what they call "Intralase"--the removal of the flap.) I had to stare up at (in their words, "fixate" on) a bright red light which flickered for about 20 seconds. The hardest part was seeing it with my right eye--everything was just a pale smear. With my left, the light was a beautiful, fixed point, like a red giant from this year's Super Quiz curriculum but without any contradictions.
I smelled something burning; I decided not to ask what.
Between eyes Dr. Gordon said, "You're doing well, Daniel."
"Thank you, Dr. Gordon," I said, politely.
The nurse then said, "You're doing well, Daniel."
"Thank you..." I began, and realized I had lost her name.
"Laura," said Dr. Gordon.
"Thank you, Dr. Laura," I said. Then my second eye caught fire and I went back to squeezing the teddy bear.
When the procedure ended, I stood up slowly. The world was bathed in milk--but painlessly so. Within an hour it felt as if I had a giant eyelash trapped beneath my right eyelid. I took a quick nap, watched The Hostage, and then pondered how to sleep with goggles on. (Still haven't figured that out, and three nights to go.)
By the next day, I could see 20-20 out of my left eye. My right one is still catching up, but already the world is an amazingly clear place--reading license plates is particularly fun--and to celebrate I've been drinking lots of tea (though not eating any meatballs.)
* * *
Just scheduled an appointment at the DMV for this Thursday. I need a new license that doesn't require me to have corrective lenses. It might be the first time in my life I'm happy to visit the DMV.
Bed: "Come here."
Me: "Yes, but first..."
Bed: "Come now, or I'm going to start tossing your pillows out the window."
Me: "Good try, but I know better: a bed can't toss a pillow. No hands."
Bed: "Try me."
Me: "Umm..."
Pillow: "Help!"
*distant plopping sound*
Bed: "One down. Two to go."
Me: "Aaah! Okay, I'm coming. Please, anything, but not the pillows..."
Thank Apu Pinchau (Incan creator-god of the alpaca) I was able to escape the clutches of "bed" around 7:30.
* * *
I'm sipping Earl Gray tea made with an infuser. Thank you, Sun and Julia, for reminding me of Captain Picard's favorite brew. I picked it up at Whole Foods yesterday in a massive tea-acquisition expedition, from which I also came home with white, green and decaf vanilla maple.
* * *
So, I've promised a post about what the LASIK procedure was like, and it's time to deliver.
Before the procedure began, my mother and I waited in the "Freedomvision" lounge watching the TV talking heads debate the new pope's "hard-line" views. After a while, I lost interest and instead admired the letter "v" in the Freedomvision logo. It looked like a bird. Not all birds have good vision, but eagles do, so I was reassured.
Eventually my doctor's younger colleague, Dr. Shaw, came down to greet me. He is an energetic man of Indian descent, and looks about 25. "I'm here to give you your Valium," he said.
I thought the Valium was optional, I said.
"It is," he explained, "But you really should take it."
He then lectured me on the benefits of being sedated. When he was done, he smiled like a defense attorney who had made a very good case, or Garfield after eating lasagna.
"Thanks," I said. "But I think I'll opt out."
He walked off, disgruntled. A few minutes later he returned with Dr. Gordon. "So. you taken your happy pill yet?" asked the older optometrist, fixing his eyes on me, one bright, one dull (from two different procedures.)
"Two weeks ago, you said it was optional," I reminded him.
"Yes," he admitted. "But you really should..."
"I've spent the last two weeks preparing to come in today in a state of--" I gestured up then down with my hands, thinking of Weber, Cathers and the team from Granada Hills--"High energy and low anxiety. I don't need it."
Or at least I didn't till you all started pressuring me to take the darn thing, I thought.
The standoff continued for a little while. I asked if the Valium would improve the chances of the procedure working out. No, he said, it's really for afterward, so you just go home and sleep.
"I'm sleep-deprived enough that won't be a problem," I said. (I didn't tell him my plan was actually to go home and blog.)
At last they relented, and it was time for the actual procedure.
It began with Dr. Gordon putting little marks in my eyes. "I can write any initials you like," he offered. "They'll be very small but last a few years."
I thought about it for a while. "D and D," I said. For DemiDec.
"Okay," he smiled.
There were, of course, no initials. He just put dots in m eyes. But I give him credit for fooling me with the straightest face you can imagine.
Then I walked into a larger room full of equipment, the lead surgeon (Dr. Elkins), a nurse (Laura), and a teddy bear (whom I named "alpaca.")
"Is the bear here to squeeze or something?" I said, amused.
"Exactly," said the nurse, and handed it to me.
At first I was skeptical, but it turned out that squeezing a bear when someone is slicing a flap in your eye is a really really good idea.
The slicing itself was the most painful part--or, rather, the setup involved. Dr. Elkins placed a suction cup in my eye, and then a circle of bright white lights began to whir. The cup was so highly-pressurized that I went blind right after it came on. The whole world shrank away into darkness faster than I could blink (not that I could have blinked if I'd wanted to--they'd pinned up my eyelids.)
Each eye then took 40 very long seconds to perforate; fortunately, the second one went faster when I began (very quietly) reciting poetry.
The weirdest part (for lack of a better description) was when the surgeon pulled back the flap with a tiny edged instrument. I could see my whole field of vision slowly floating away and to the right. Then when it had been totally removed, I could see straight ahead again, but only very blurrily. "Air bubbles," explained Dr. Gordon.
The actual LASIK part was easier (as opposed to what they call "Intralase"--the removal of the flap.) I had to stare up at (in their words, "fixate" on) a bright red light which flickered for about 20 seconds. The hardest part was seeing it with my right eye--everything was just a pale smear. With my left, the light was a beautiful, fixed point, like a red giant from this year's Super Quiz curriculum but without any contradictions.
I smelled something burning; I decided not to ask what.
Between eyes Dr. Gordon said, "You're doing well, Daniel."
"Thank you, Dr. Gordon," I said, politely.
The nurse then said, "You're doing well, Daniel."
"Thank you..." I began, and realized I had lost her name.
"Laura," said Dr. Gordon.
"Thank you, Dr. Laura," I said. Then my second eye caught fire and I went back to squeezing the teddy bear.
When the procedure ended, I stood up slowly. The world was bathed in milk--but painlessly so. Within an hour it felt as if I had a giant eyelash trapped beneath my right eyelid. I took a quick nap, watched The Hostage, and then pondered how to sleep with goggles on. (Still haven't figured that out, and three nights to go.)
By the next day, I could see 20-20 out of my left eye. My right one is still catching up, but already the world is an amazingly clear place--reading license plates is particularly fun--and to celebrate I've been drinking lots of tea (though not eating any meatballs.)
* * *
Just scheduled an appointment at the DMV for this Thursday. I need a new license that doesn't require me to have corrective lenses. It might be the first time in my life I'm happy to visit the DMV.
Friday, April 22, 2005
A Thought on AP Classes
If AP classes truly seek to model the college experience in a high school setting, they should allow unlimited absences.
What a Wonderful Team This Would Be
Don't know much about Super Quiz
Don't know much anatomy
Don't know much about that Shakespeare book
But I do know I'll outscore you
And I know if you outscore me too
What a wonderful team this would be
Don't know much about impromptu
Don't know much in interview
Don't know much about calculus
Don't know what a scantron is for
But I know that one of us has a clue
And if this one could cheat off of you
What a wonderful test this would be
Now, I don't claim to be an "A" student
I wouldn't want to be
For maybe by being a "C" student baby
I can win more medals for me
-- Original Song by Sam Cooke --
Don't know much anatomy
Don't know much about that Shakespeare book
But I do know I'll outscore you
And I know if you outscore me too
What a wonderful team this would be
Don't know much about impromptu
Don't know much in interview
Don't know much about calculus
Don't know what a scantron is for
But I know that one of us has a clue
And if this one could cheat off of you
What a wonderful test this would be
Now, I don't claim to be an "A" student
I wouldn't want to be
For maybe by being a "C" student baby
I can win more medals for me
-- Original Song by Sam Cooke --
This is Your Story
Today I finished the cover letter for the new DemiDec mailing. I had a lot of trouble figuring out what to write until I realized that I was thinking too much about DemiDec and not about the subscribers themselves. So I decided on a theme that felt more right to me--more in keeping with what DemiDec really means to all of us who work on it.
"This is your story."
* * *
"This is your story."
* * *
Dear Coaches and Teams,
There are so many compelling stories in the Academic Decathlon. Among them this last year…
- Mark Keppel High School, which in its rookie season scored over 40,000 points in
- Immaculate Heart, which achieved the Arizona IA state title in its first try with a total enrollment of only 58 students.
- Granada Hills Charter, which came in third in
- Keller, which won the Texas state title for the first time and whose three Honor students took turns as the top scoring Decathlete at the regional, state and nation levels.
- El Camino Real, which won its first back-to-back national titles, and
- King-Drew, a Title I school which turned heads by winning its conference in the
- Friendswood, which under new coaches repeated as
- West, which didn’t win the
We count it a privilege to have worked with all these schools and with five hundred others around the country, in states big and small—with teams that meet as a class, others that meet as a club—with coaches who are new, and others who have been involved since long before I competed with my own team in 1994.
But we also know that the stories in Decathlon aren’t about DemiDec, or about any other source of materials: they’re about you.
We’re not the official curriculum. You don’t need us to succeed.
But we would be honored to be part of your story.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Disturbing Dream
I woke up today with much clearer vision from one of the murkiest dreams of my career. Years ago, I dreamed I was a Smurf; over winter break I imagined myself in Hell with the cast of Star Trek: The Next Generations; last night, I was held prisoner by a Nazi supersoldier.
After she and her colleagues first deluded a friend of mine (a writer) into believing he would be freed, then shot him dead, she took a few of us survivors to an expensive restaurant overlooking the ocean. I don't know why. But each time she looked away, I scribbled notes on the back of a DemiDec business card--"We are being held prisoner by Nazis. Get help"--and tried slipping it to other diners.
Two things went wrong with this plan. First, I had drafted several business cards but my hands had been too jittery to finish writing them, so I dropped them on the ground. Our captor found them there with her foot and cackled merrily as she shared them with the table. Simultaneously, the man to whom I had given the final version of the card read it out loud in disbelief, loudly enough for everyone in the restaurant to hear. I realized with a collapsing heart that while he and his companions were in fact American, they were also very drunk.
The Nazi woman holding us laughed at me.
But there was only one of her. And if I hesitated any longer, it might be too late. So I began pummeling her head with my fists. No one else in the restaurant reacted.
She laughed harder. "I have a super-enhanced skull," she said, "You can't do a thing to hurt me."
I ignored a flare of dismay in my chest--and stuck my fingers through her eyes.
* * *
That's when I woke up, pulled off my goggles, shook my head a few times to clear away the nightmare, and had eggs and muffins for breakfast.
After she and her colleagues first deluded a friend of mine (a writer) into believing he would be freed, then shot him dead, she took a few of us survivors to an expensive restaurant overlooking the ocean. I don't know why. But each time she looked away, I scribbled notes on the back of a DemiDec business card--"We are being held prisoner by Nazis. Get help"--and tried slipping it to other diners.
Two things went wrong with this plan. First, I had drafted several business cards but my hands had been too jittery to finish writing them, so I dropped them on the ground. Our captor found them there with her foot and cackled merrily as she shared them with the table. Simultaneously, the man to whom I had given the final version of the card read it out loud in disbelief, loudly enough for everyone in the restaurant to hear. I realized with a collapsing heart that while he and his companions were in fact American, they were also very drunk.
The Nazi woman holding us laughed at me.
But there was only one of her. And if I hesitated any longer, it might be too late. So I began pummeling her head with my fists. No one else in the restaurant reacted.
She laughed harder. "I have a super-enhanced skull," she said, "You can't do a thing to hurt me."
I ignored a flare of dismay in my chest--and stuck my fingers through her eyes.
* * *
That's when I woke up, pulled off my goggles, shook my head a few times to clear away the nightmare, and had eggs and muffins for breakfast.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
World Blurry
Can't really see what I'm typing. But the procedure went well--they gave me a big teddy bear to squeeze, and I only wished I had brought an alpaca. Wearing gogglles, off to close my eyes for a bit, maybe nap.
2020 Visions
I named my senior thesis "2020 Visions: Ethics at the Edge of the Possible"; it was a collection of three novellas that (at least in theory) explored potential ethical issues of the future.
The English department at Stanford didn't allow fictional theses, probably because they knew how easy it could be to procrastinate on them, but the Science, Technology and Society program liked the idea. I even got a grant to go camping in Yosemite.
In the end, the English department's fears proved justified. I finished two years late.
This is how my thesis started:
Prologue: Veils of Ignorance
No one, said death, knows more than you do.
I don’t know anything, I said back, automatically.
Death spoke to me in a vast chamber of his plunder. Here, he must have collected the trappings of the deceased across all time—trophies, treasure chests, gems of every size and color. My feet were wedged between bars of gold and piles of precious stones. Petroleum tickled my toes.
There is a reason you are here, said death.
Simple enough. I lifted my hands in surrender. In the end… I died.
Death chuckled.
He cut a gruesome figure. I had been told he would come for me riding a pale horse, or cloaked all in black. That, or he would double as my savior, and lead me to the promised land. This Death, however, was all bumps and bruises, a splotched figure with a bad complexion. He wore a red coat that might have been a designer label once, but needed to be washed. He stank faintly of cinnamon and sulfur.
You’re not the first, he said. Every so often one of you arrives looking for answers—and bringing some, too.
Who else has come?
A French doctor, for one. He was good at treating plague.
Pasteur?
No, said Death, Nostradamus.
* * *
The premise was that every now and then, Hell needs to update its code of ethics, its census of possible sins. Otherwise, people being judged for new ethical trespasses might be sent to the wrong place by mistake. So at appropriate intervals Hell calls down a consultant.
Among other things, this particular consultant spots inefficiencies in the processes of torture and damnation and recommends that Hell shrink its demonic workforce by about 20%.
* * *
But I digress. The reason I titled this post 2020 Visions is not because I am suddenly nostalgic for my days of creative writing at Stanford (though I am.) It's because in about two hours, lasers are going to slice flaps in my eyes, then burn a predetermined pattern of proteins in such a way as to give me much better vision.
We'll see what happens. And I'll write about it here.
The English department at Stanford didn't allow fictional theses, probably because they knew how easy it could be to procrastinate on them, but the Science, Technology and Society program liked the idea. I even got a grant to go camping in Yosemite.
In the end, the English department's fears proved justified. I finished two years late.
This is how my thesis started:
Prologue: Veils of Ignorance
No one, said death, knows more than you do.
I don’t know anything, I said back, automatically.
Death spoke to me in a vast chamber of his plunder. Here, he must have collected the trappings of the deceased across all time—trophies, treasure chests, gems of every size and color. My feet were wedged between bars of gold and piles of precious stones. Petroleum tickled my toes.
There is a reason you are here, said death.
Simple enough. I lifted my hands in surrender. In the end… I died.
Death chuckled.
He cut a gruesome figure. I had been told he would come for me riding a pale horse, or cloaked all in black. That, or he would double as my savior, and lead me to the promised land. This Death, however, was all bumps and bruises, a splotched figure with a bad complexion. He wore a red coat that might have been a designer label once, but needed to be washed. He stank faintly of cinnamon and sulfur.
You’re not the first, he said. Every so often one of you arrives looking for answers—and bringing some, too.
Who else has come?
A French doctor, for one. He was good at treating plague.
Pasteur?
No, said Death, Nostradamus.
* * *
The premise was that every now and then, Hell needs to update its code of ethics, its census of possible sins. Otherwise, people being judged for new ethical trespasses might be sent to the wrong place by mistake. So at appropriate intervals Hell calls down a consultant.
Among other things, this particular consultant spots inefficiencies in the processes of torture and damnation and recommends that Hell shrink its demonic workforce by about 20%.
* * *
But I digress. The reason I titled this post 2020 Visions is not because I am suddenly nostalgic for my days of creative writing at Stanford (though I am.) It's because in about two hours, lasers are going to slice flaps in my eyes, then burn a predetermined pattern of proteins in such a way as to give me much better vision.
We'll see what happens. And I'll write about it here.
Purple-and-Fold
From the Associated Press, on yesterday's pummeling of the L.A. Lakers by the Golden State Warriors:
Here's how bad things were for the Lakers: The loss assured them of finishing with a worse record than the Los Angeles Clippers for the first time since 1993 -- a humiliating statistic that shows just how far this franchise has fallen.
Here's how bad things were for the Lakers: The loss assured them of finishing with a worse record than the Los Angeles Clippers for the first time since 1993 -- a humiliating statistic that shows just how far this franchise has fallen.
Monday, April 18, 2005
DemiSummit 2005
Standing: Chris Crisman-Cox, Lanie Kagy, Dean Schaffer, Julia Rebrova, me, Clare Conroy, April Roberson, Melanie Goodman
Sitting: Catherine Chen, Craig Chu, Andrew Miller, Greta Baranowski, Kevin Teeling, Reina Hardy
Not pictured: Tom Brazee, Grant Farnsworth, Saranya Srinivasan
* All captioning from left to right
The P Building Roof
We used a copy of "In the Country of Last Things"--a Paul Aster novel--to keep the elevator doors from closing (thereby locking us on the 25th floor) while we explored the roof of the Palmer House Hotel.
It seemed there had to be something symbolic about that particular title propping open an elevator as Dean, Lanie, Julia, Andrew and I checked out the skyline and yelled greetings to people on the street--none of them heard us--but for the life of me I had no idea what it was.
Certainly it's not the last roof we'll stand on. There's bound to be one in San Antonio.
* * *
I just boarded my flight back to Los Angeles: seat 18F on an American Airlines 757. My favorite tool for choosing where to sit on an airplane: www.seatguru.com. When I was little, my dad and I would often talk about different airplane models, though never military ones--just passenger jets. I still grow giddy when I get to fly on one I haven't tried before, or in a long time.
A woman four seats to my left just said into her phone, "Yes, I told him I wanted a divorce." She listened to the response for a moment, then giggled loudly. Meanwhile, someone in the row behind me is saying into hers, "I don't know what to do to be happy."
Airplanes, no matter what the model, are an odd blend of public and personal space. They're a little like elevators or subways, with people trying hard not to make eye contact even while they have incredibly personal conversations that everyone else can overhear.
* * *
As I walked down the streets of Cambridge last night, a woman stopped me. "Excuse me," she said, "Do you know where I could find a piercing parlor around here?"
I wonder if I look like someone who frequents piercing parlors. Maybe it's my jacket?
It seemed there had to be something symbolic about that particular title propping open an elevator as Dean, Lanie, Julia, Andrew and I checked out the skyline and yelled greetings to people on the street--none of them heard us--but for the life of me I had no idea what it was.
Certainly it's not the last roof we'll stand on. There's bound to be one in San Antonio.
* * *
I just boarded my flight back to Los Angeles: seat 18F on an American Airlines 757. My favorite tool for choosing where to sit on an airplane: www.seatguru.com. When I was little, my dad and I would often talk about different airplane models, though never military ones--just passenger jets. I still grow giddy when I get to fly on one I haven't tried before, or in a long time.
A woman four seats to my left just said into her phone, "Yes, I told him I wanted a divorce." She listened to the response for a moment, then giggled loudly. Meanwhile, someone in the row behind me is saying into hers, "I don't know what to do to be happy."
Airplanes, no matter what the model, are an odd blend of public and personal space. They're a little like elevators or subways, with people trying hard not to make eye contact even while they have incredibly personal conversations that everyone else can overhear.
* * *
As I walked down the streets of Cambridge last night, a woman stopped me. "Excuse me," she said, "Do you know where I could find a piercing parlor around here?"
I wonder if I look like someone who frequents piercing parlors. Maybe it's my jacket?
Sunday, April 17, 2005
It's a Wrap
I'll post more soon about nationals and DemiSummit 2005. Most importantly, it was a great weekend and I enjoyed meeting everyone. Thanks to all, DemiDeckers and AD'ers alike, for together making this experience so excellent. Hope no one got hit too hard by a flying alpaca on the dance floor...
Saturday, April 16, 2005
No Snooze
I'm used to "snoozing" after my alarm rings. But Craig woke up like a Polynesian volcano and disabled the alarm. So I'm up, showered, wearing a pink Park City sweatshirt, and ready for another day of DemiSummit discussions. As for Dean, I swear he's stirring, but he claims he once slept through his sister pouring cold water over his head--and that he opened his eyes the next morning to find a very damp pillow.
Updates from yesterday:
(1) Chicago has a tremendous number of revolving doors. There are fifteen DemiDeckers here, which makes the process of getting through each set of these doors protracted--and theatrical. I wish I'd had a video camera.
(2) The Utah team and I have now had cheesecake together two years in a row. This restaurant was less shady than the one in Idaho.
(3) I dance about as well as I karaoke.
Craig is out of the bathroom. Time to go find breakfast for everyone.
Updates from yesterday:
(1) Chicago has a tremendous number of revolving doors. There are fifteen DemiDeckers here, which makes the process of getting through each set of these doors protracted--and theatrical. I wish I'd had a video camera.
(2) The Utah team and I have now had cheesecake together two years in a row. This restaurant was less shady than the one in Idaho.
(3) I dance about as well as I karaoke.
Craig is out of the bathroom. Time to go find breakfast for everyone.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Giant Toothpicks
"Bring us the new DemiDecker!" said Derek Painter, a Utah Decathlete wearing a pink sweatshirt (pink is not a color, he had assured me earlier--it's a statement.)
I obliged, and led Craig over to meet him and his teammates, as well as a student from Ohio and another from Connecticut who was busy painting.
Earlier, Derek had met Grant Farnsworth, who singlehandedly wrote a third of DemiDec's materials in the long, mad summer of 1997. For lunch Grant and I finally had sushi and smoothies together--something we had been planning since at least the turn of the century.
Then through the rest of the day he had met other DemiDeckers as they rolled their bags into the gigantic, mosaic-spangled lobby of the Palmer House Hilton: Tom Brazee, who had no voice, Chris Crisman-Cox, who came in a suit (easier to pack the clothes and wear the suit, he said), Melanie Goodman and Lanie Kagy, who deciphered my subway instructions even though they were meant for a different airport, and April Roberson, a Texan.
Over dinner six of us discussed ways to improve the test-writing experience at www.demidisc.com while munching on the Rock Bottom Brewery's "giant toothpicks"--enormous fried taco sticks, as far as I could tell.
But the DemiSummit begins today in earnest. About an hour from now, we'll discuss category organization. Which means I should leave to pick up breakfast for everyone. I learned a little bit about this from our hosts in Taipei. I just wish I could bring back cartons of Taiwanese milk tea.
I obliged, and led Craig over to meet him and his teammates, as well as a student from Ohio and another from Connecticut who was busy painting.
Earlier, Derek had met Grant Farnsworth, who singlehandedly wrote a third of DemiDec's materials in the long, mad summer of 1997. For lunch Grant and I finally had sushi and smoothies together--something we had been planning since at least the turn of the century.
Then through the rest of the day he had met other DemiDeckers as they rolled their bags into the gigantic, mosaic-spangled lobby of the Palmer House Hilton: Tom Brazee, who had no voice, Chris Crisman-Cox, who came in a suit (easier to pack the clothes and wear the suit, he said), Melanie Goodman and Lanie Kagy, who deciphered my subway instructions even though they were meant for a different airport, and April Roberson, a Texan.
Over dinner six of us discussed ways to improve the test-writing experience at www.demidisc.com while munching on the Rock Bottom Brewery's "giant toothpicks"--enormous fried taco sticks, as far as I could tell.
But the DemiSummit begins today in earnest. About an hour from now, we'll discuss category organization. Which means I should leave to pick up breakfast for everyone. I learned a little bit about this from our hosts in Taipei. I just wish I could bring back cartons of Taiwanese milk tea.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Right Place at the Right Time
Two minutes ago: I'm standing at a Barnes and Noble in Evanston, putting honey in my tea, when a stout, older man behind me says to his date, "Harvard grad students are nothing special." I cough very loudly.
Raining Bears and Bulls
Two things can help me sleep through the day: jetlag and a very dark room. Last night I had both on my side, and woke up around noon.
My hotel room is on the 21st floor, and the lobby on the 15th; below that are the Chicago Art Institute, the Chicago Sun-Times and a deli that serves pepper jack cheese sandwiches to people who missed breakfast.
Tonight I may take a jujitsu lesson at Northwestern with my sophomore and sort-of-senior year roommate, Patrick. Given that I nearly broke a window trying to learn the lance last week, I can only imagine the possible outcomes of my attempting a martial art.
The Daily published my latest column this morning. Readers of this blog will recognize my fascination with a certain home appliance.
What I'm working on: the DemiDec brochure. Where I'm working on it: a gigantic Starbucks with blue lamps. What I'm reading: White Gold Wielder, by Stephen Donaldson, in which Thomas Covenant--leper, unbeliever, and one-time rapist--must save the world (again.)
My hotel room is on the 21st floor, and the lobby on the 15th; below that are the Chicago Art Institute, the Chicago Sun-Times and a deli that serves pepper jack cheese sandwiches to people who missed breakfast.
Tonight I may take a jujitsu lesson at Northwestern with my sophomore and sort-of-senior year roommate, Patrick. Given that I nearly broke a window trying to learn the lance last week, I can only imagine the possible outcomes of my attempting a martial art.
The Daily published my latest column this morning. Readers of this blog will recognize my fascination with a certain home appliance.
What I'm working on: the DemiDec brochure. Where I'm working on it: a gigantic Starbucks with blue lamps. What I'm reading: White Gold Wielder, by Stephen Donaldson, in which Thomas Covenant--leper, unbeliever, and one-time rapist--must save the world (again.)
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Business as Usual
I returned to my weekly RPG today, resuming the role of Canister the explosives guy. It turned out my character (who isn't very bright) had been "out getting pizza" for the entirety of the last session (while the real me wrote a thesis in Taiwan.) In tonight's developments, our team's computer specialist, Nelson, was shot in a UPS parking lot after flirting with a Russian arms dealer.
Refreshments, courtesy of Kaitlin, included cream-filled koala bear cookies and these little Japanese sodas with marbles in them. Mine was strawberry-flavored. Marbles were actually first used as bottle stoppers back in the 1870s; it apparently took a while for the idea to catch on. Someone showed them to me in Taiwan the other day, too, and said they were popular with children who like to collect the marbles.
The session ended a little early for me when I fell asleep on the floor. Darn jetlag.
Refreshments, courtesy of Kaitlin, included cream-filled koala bear cookies and these little Japanese sodas with marbles in them. Mine was strawberry-flavored. Marbles were actually first used as bottle stoppers back in the 1870s; it apparently took a while for the idea to catch on. Someone showed them to me in Taiwan the other day, too, and said they were popular with children who like to collect the marbles.
The session ended a little early for me when I fell asleep on the floor. Darn jetlag.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
For Just the Third Time
I have to admit, I'm surprised this doesn't happen to me more often: I just missed my 12:15 flight to Boston. Technically, I could still have made it, as I got to the airport a full twenty minutes before departure, but my bag wouldn't have. And because I'll be spending the next eight days back and forth between Boston and the national Decathlon in Chicago, I definitely needed my suit and, more importantly, my alpaca sweater.
The delay does have a few silver linings:
(1) The gate agent is a science fiction fan. We debated the relative merits of George Martin, Terry Goodkind and Robert Jordan. This was hard for me, as I haven't read Terry Goodkind, but she did agree that Martin was the best of them.
(2) I hiked over to the international terminal for a bowl of seaweed noodle soup in the food court there. It was nice to eat something meant for chopsticks again, and for a change I wasn't stopped by either the airport's token Falun Gong practitioner or the Salvation Army.
(3) I've settled down and been working quietly on DemiDec for the last couple hours, over first a cup of coffee and then two of tea--one green, one lemon-flavored.
Technically, the first time I ever missed a flight, I was a minor--only about ten--and my parents took us to the airport a couple days late (they forgot to doublecheck the flight schedule.) So I'm not sure that counts. This therefore makes just two.
The delay does have a few silver linings:
(1) The gate agent is a science fiction fan. We debated the relative merits of George Martin, Terry Goodkind and Robert Jordan. This was hard for me, as I haven't read Terry Goodkind, but she did agree that Martin was the best of them.
(2) I hiked over to the international terminal for a bowl of seaweed noodle soup in the food court there. It was nice to eat something meant for chopsticks again, and for a change I wasn't stopped by either the airport's token Falun Gong practitioner or the Salvation Army.
(3) I've settled down and been working quietly on DemiDec for the last couple hours, over first a cup of coffee and then two of tea--one green, one lemon-flavored.
Technically, the first time I ever missed a flight, I was a minor--only about ten--and my parents took us to the airport a couple days late (they forgot to doublecheck the flight schedule.) So I'm not sure that counts. This therefore makes just two.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Looking Through My Eyes
Eyes paralyzed, so everything is shimmery and I can't write much. But the good news is that I passed the test, so I'll be having "custom wavefront" LASIK surgery on April 19th. The new laser apparently follows your eye around if you move it during the procedure, which is good because I have restless eyes.
1 Or Fewer Connections
Next time, I'll remember to click that button at www.aa.com -- so that I don't end up on another 24-hour epic journey that could have taken just 13 on a nonstop (there are novels that suffer a similar problem with unnecessary protraction--see Robert Jordan.)
On the plus side, though, I had a row of five seats all to myself on the Nagoya-Chicago leg. I stretched out, stuck my hands under my pillow, and fell soundly asleep. I dreamed repeatedly of very peaceful airplane crashes--each time, we made a safe emergency landing, and in the last one, all the passengers, myself included, bobbed out wearing black-and-yellow parachutes.
For the meal--supposedly pork stroganoff with a side of sushi and a cryptic kiwi custard for dessert--the flight attendant offered a choice of silverware or chopsticks. I went with the chopsticks.
Somewhere over the Pacific I also wrote an article for the Octopus: "John Kerry Elected Pope; Takes Name 'John John'". No offense intended to Roman Catholics or supporters of John Kerry.
On the plus side, though, I had a row of five seats all to myself on the Nagoya-Chicago leg. I stretched out, stuck my hands under my pillow, and fell soundly asleep. I dreamed repeatedly of very peaceful airplane crashes--each time, we made a safe emergency landing, and in the last one, all the passengers, myself included, bobbed out wearing black-and-yellow parachutes.
For the meal--supposedly pork stroganoff with a side of sushi and a cryptic kiwi custard for dessert--the flight attendant offered a choice of silverware or chopsticks. I went with the chopsticks.
Somewhere over the Pacific I also wrote an article for the Octopus: "John Kerry Elected Pope; Takes Name 'John John'". No offense intended to Roman Catholics or supporters of John Kerry.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Not Again
Toilet here in Nagoya comes with a warning label: “Warmed seat may case low temperature burns. Children, elderly persons and persons with sensitive skin are advised not to sit long on the warmed seat.”
Don't worry, I'm okay.
Don't worry, I'm okay.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Sesame Paste
Much like these whole last ten days, this feels too good to be true: I'm munching on (very spicy) sesame paste noodles and sipping coffee while typing at a PC with a flat-screen monitor in my own glass-enclosed, wood-paneled cubicle--all with music from "The Lion King" playing softly in the background. I think Cathay Pacific just became my new favorite airline.
This morning, Buddy, Rachel and Sharon came to see me off. I've never felt so well-taken-care-of. They called a taxi, then rode with me to another hotel where the airport bus was supposed to come every thirty minutes. We just missed it (and Victor) so we evaded (temporarily) a very eager taxi driver, and had breakfast together at Dante's.
Rachel gave me a little keychain that says, "My Heart is in NTU." I like it very much, though of course it might have been even more appropriate for Jon. Here's hoping the best for him and Tina, who, like another wonderful Tina I know in Boston, wears cool hats.
Just finished the noodles and a yummy pork bun. It'll take me days to readjust to American food... worse than jetlag is dietlag.
The music just changed to "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." What a perfect waiting room for a Broadway fan... and speaking of Broadway, before I boarded the taxi (because in the end we gave in to its enthusiastic driver, albeit at only 1/4 of his original price) Buddy sang a slightly modified piece from Phantom:
Think of us, think of us fondly,
when we've said goodbye.
Remember us once in a while,
please promise me you'll try.
I'm pretty sure I won't need to try.
This morning, Buddy, Rachel and Sharon came to see me off. I've never felt so well-taken-care-of. They called a taxi, then rode with me to another hotel where the airport bus was supposed to come every thirty minutes. We just missed it (and Victor) so we evaded (temporarily) a very eager taxi driver, and had breakfast together at Dante's.
Rachel gave me a little keychain that says, "My Heart is in NTU." I like it very much, though of course it might have been even more appropriate for Jon. Here's hoping the best for him and Tina, who, like another wonderful Tina I know in Boston, wears cool hats.
Just finished the noodles and a yummy pork bun. It'll take me days to readjust to American food... worse than jetlag is dietlag.
The music just changed to "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." What a perfect waiting room for a Broadway fan... and speaking of Broadway, before I boarded the taxi (because in the end we gave in to its enthusiastic driver, albeit at only 1/4 of his original price) Buddy sang a slightly modified piece from Phantom:
Think of us, think of us fondly,
when we've said goodbye.
Remember us once in a while,
please promise me you'll try.
I'm pretty sure I won't need to try.
Zai Jian Taiwan
The tourism office here prints signs with the slogan: "Taiwan: Touch Your Heart." I'm not completely sure what it means, but I do know this: the students I met here have touched mine. Tonight, two, Victor and Stanley, kidnapped me for tea and conversation on the steps of the library; last night, I went out with a larger group for dinner, and afterward we all gathered in my hotel room for conversation (read: gossip), photo-sharing and doughnuts.
How did I spend my first free day after finishing my thesis?
I visited the library, of course.
Yep, I'm hopeless.
Other discoveries these last two days have included delicious Egyptian sandwiches, crafted by an authentic Egyptian who also frequents Dante Coffee, and an outdoor, permanent computer swap meet called something like "gong hua" near the NTU Technology campus. It's techie heaven: sort of Fry's Electronics gone mad and spread out over several city blocks.
Tomorrow: a 24-hour flight back to Los Angeles.
Good news--my editor approved my writing my next column on bathroom innovations. I knew something would come of the talking toilets.
What I'm listening to as I (inevitably) delay packing: "A Place Called Home," by Kim Richey. It's the song used in the Angel episode "A Hole in the World"-- in which Fred dies -- for a montage flashback scene of her character first striking out for California and her unexpected destiny.
I had a chance to settle down / get a job and live in town / work in some old factory / [but] I never liked a foreman standing over me / no, I'd rather walk a winding road / rather know the things I know / see the world with my own eyes / no regrets...
What I'm munching on: well, I was munching on wasabi peas. But I finished the whole bag. So much for in-flight snacks.
How did I spend my first free day after finishing my thesis?
I visited the library, of course.
Yep, I'm hopeless.
Other discoveries these last two days have included delicious Egyptian sandwiches, crafted by an authentic Egyptian who also frequents Dante Coffee, and an outdoor, permanent computer swap meet called something like "gong hua" near the NTU Technology campus. It's techie heaven: sort of Fry's Electronics gone mad and spread out over several city blocks.
Tomorrow: a 24-hour flight back to Los Angeles.
Good news--my editor approved my writing my next column on bathroom innovations. I knew something would come of the talking toilets.
What I'm listening to as I (inevitably) delay packing: "A Place Called Home," by Kim Richey. It's the song used in the Angel episode "A Hole in the World"-- in which Fred dies -- for a montage flashback scene of her character first striking out for California and her unexpected destiny.
I had a chance to settle down / get a job and live in town / work in some old factory / [but] I never liked a foreman standing over me / no, I'd rather walk a winding road / rather know the things I know / see the world with my own eyes / no regrets...
What I'm munching on: well, I was munching on wasabi peas. But I finished the whole bag. So much for in-flight snacks.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Monday, April 04, 2005
Titan Symphony, 3rd Movement
I first discovered Mahler's first symphony as a Decathlete. Though technically we studied only the fourth movement, I prefer the middle ones. They make me think of weiner schnitzel, fog-clad mountains, and ghostly children in the forest.
The hotel staff must be wondering what I'm up to in here, what with a scrawled "do not disturb" right outside my door, and symphonies, Disney music and 90s pop drifting through it at turns.
Anyways--thesis finished, and delivery arranged. Thank you, FedEx Kinko's. Thank you, everyone.
The hotel staff must be wondering what I'm up to in here, what with a scrawled "do not disturb" right outside my door, and symphonies, Disney music and 90s pop drifting through it at turns.
Anyways--thesis finished, and delivery arranged. Thank you, FedEx Kinko's. Thank you, everyone.
Countdown
I'll be submitting my thesis to the print service--Mimeo--sometime in the next two hours and twelve minutes.
Now working to Frente's cover of Bizarre Love Triangle:
"The wisdom of a fool won't set you free / but that's the way it goes..."
The complimentary hotel breakfast included ketchup, eggs, tater-tots, a poppy seed roll and a nice cup of coffee. American hotels could learn a thing or two.
Now working to Frente's cover of Bizarre Love Triangle:
"The wisdom of a fool won't set you free / but that's the way it goes..."
The complimentary hotel breakfast included ketchup, eggs, tater-tots, a poppy seed roll and a nice cup of coffee. American hotels could learn a thing or two.
Writer of the Last Paper
The NTU library closed today at five, so I'm back in my hotel. Along the way, I managed to secure a set of surround sound speakers (as well as a seaweed burrito) and am now working to the sounds of Raiders of the Lost Ark, among other things. Thank you, Napster.
I hummed as I strolled across campus. My last night as a student: a clear, soothing dusk familiar from so many evenings crossing White Plaza. It occurred to me that NTU is a little bit like Stanford injected into the middle of the city: Stanford with a T stop.
For some reason, I remembered Parkman Junior High. Probably the humming: that's when I first picked up the habit (and learned how to open a locker.)
The tallest building in the world guided me from place to place. And I smiled when I saw a CASIO sign--just visible through my hotel window.
The pope ((supposedly) died serenely; there are times when it feels good to live that way too.
I hummed as I strolled across campus. My last night as a student: a clear, soothing dusk familiar from so many evenings crossing White Plaza. It occurred to me that NTU is a little bit like Stanford injected into the middle of the city: Stanford with a T stop.
For some reason, I remembered Parkman Junior High. Probably the humming: that's when I first picked up the habit (and learned how to open a locker.)
The tallest building in the world guided me from place to place. And I smiled when I saw a CASIO sign--just visible through my hotel window.
The pope ((supposedly) died serenely; there are times when it feels good to live that way too.
Vitamin Deficiency?
Sixteen hours to go... I feel altogether too calm. Whatever happened to the good old days of adrenaline rushes before critical deadlines? Maybe I need more antioxidants.
Rationalization
If I don't finish my thesis, would I be eligible to take another trip like this one next year?
A Date Gone Horribly Awry
A couple sat down at the corner table, sipped two tall glasses of iced tea, and then slumped over and fell asleep.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
The Inferno
At Dante's Coffee, online after navigating a series of menus in Mandarin to purchase a pre-paid "HiNet card." Dante's is Starbucks with smaller portions and sides of pasta. Sipping a white chocolate mocha for energy.
My new residence for the next two days until I finish the thesis, my taxes and a brochure, then fly home (though I seem to be homeless--over the weekend my landlord gave away my apartment and my parents sold their house): the Leader Hotel. I can't imagine a much more fittingly-named place to finish a thesis for a program on Political Leadership, except for maybe "Procrastinator's Lodge" or "Thesis Inn and Suites."
Nor, looking back at these last few days, could I have asked for a much more appropriate way to end my college career. I gave my last oral presentations, recited sonnets and posed as the Head TF for a pseudo-course on American Education (in which capacity I messed up the "professor's" PowerPoint presentation, much as I used to Dr. Hurlbut's.) I slept about three hours a night, if that, all week long--and lived in a quad again, with two Taiwanese delegates and a fellow Harvard student named Edward who was simply fabulous and reminded me of C3PO. I spoke on the steps of the Taiwanese legislature--and doing so realized how much I really had learned at the Kennedy School. I saw echoes of Stanford in the palm trees, felt hints of past and future everywhere. I helped mill rumors, and exercised discretion at a train station. Basically, I was in a sleep-deprived, hypercharged, mosquito-bitten and cheerful haze.
And among the Taiwanese delegates and staff I met so many amazing individuals, from Buddy (future Stanford grad, I just know it) and Stanley (a seventh-year undergrad, soon-to-be-second-lieutenant of the Taiwanese army, nicknamed "the Socrates of NTU") to Carol (who observed that Edward and I were the two most Asian members of the Harvard group--an honor, since Edward's from Hong Kong), Victor (whose English we understood everyday but April Fool's) and Tina (online auctioneer with a swift dribble.) I won't list them all--won't describe Nancy of the shaved ice and limitless energy or Amy of the erratic appearances and knowing smile--but suffice it to say that I feel as if I've now had the chance to experience three colleges in my life, and the third is almost as extraordinary as the students who inhabit it.
* * *
Two aspects of Taiwan took my breath away.
The first was, of course, the library.
The second was not, however, the talking toilet.
Nor was it the shower at my new hotel, which offers a control panel more sophisticated than an Airbus 319. You can shoot the jets vertically, horizontally or through a hand-held massage unit. If you've never tried a horizontal shower, I recommend it. Taiwan wins an award for the best water pressure on Earth.
* * *
If that was my last spring break, at least it was also my most memorable. And, as I close this quick entry and dive back into my thesis (on page 21 of 50, 20 hours to go) I send wishes for a smooth flight and decent airplane food to LiQuen, Neha, Jon, David, Sarah, Whitney, Edward and Ben, who are somewhere over the Pacific by now. They're a great group, and one more reason (or, I suppose, eight) that I'll look back at Harvard very differently the second time out.
My new residence for the next two days until I finish the thesis, my taxes and a brochure, then fly home (though I seem to be homeless--over the weekend my landlord gave away my apartment and my parents sold their house): the Leader Hotel. I can't imagine a much more fittingly-named place to finish a thesis for a program on Political Leadership, except for maybe "Procrastinator's Lodge" or "Thesis Inn and Suites."
Nor, looking back at these last few days, could I have asked for a much more appropriate way to end my college career. I gave my last oral presentations, recited sonnets and posed as the Head TF for a pseudo-course on American Education (in which capacity I messed up the "professor's" PowerPoint presentation, much as I used to Dr. Hurlbut's.) I slept about three hours a night, if that, all week long--and lived in a quad again, with two Taiwanese delegates and a fellow Harvard student named Edward who was simply fabulous and reminded me of C3PO. I spoke on the steps of the Taiwanese legislature--and doing so realized how much I really had learned at the Kennedy School. I saw echoes of Stanford in the palm trees, felt hints of past and future everywhere. I helped mill rumors, and exercised discretion at a train station. Basically, I was in a sleep-deprived, hypercharged, mosquito-bitten and cheerful haze.
And among the Taiwanese delegates and staff I met so many amazing individuals, from Buddy (future Stanford grad, I just know it) and Stanley (a seventh-year undergrad, soon-to-be-second-lieutenant of the Taiwanese army, nicknamed "the Socrates of NTU") to Carol (who observed that Edward and I were the two most Asian members of the Harvard group--an honor, since Edward's from Hong Kong), Victor (whose English we understood everyday but April Fool's) and Tina (online auctioneer with a swift dribble.) I won't list them all--won't describe Nancy of the shaved ice and limitless energy or Amy of the erratic appearances and knowing smile--but suffice it to say that I feel as if I've now had the chance to experience three colleges in my life, and the third is almost as extraordinary as the students who inhabit it.
* * *
Two aspects of Taiwan took my breath away.
The first was, of course, the library.
The second was not, however, the talking toilet.
Nor was it the shower at my new hotel, which offers a control panel more sophisticated than an Airbus 319. You can shoot the jets vertically, horizontally or through a hand-held massage unit. If you've never tried a horizontal shower, I recommend it. Taiwan wins an award for the best water pressure on Earth.
* * *
If that was my last spring break, at least it was also my most memorable. And, as I close this quick entry and dive back into my thesis (on page 21 of 50, 20 hours to go) I send wishes for a smooth flight and decent airplane food to LiQuen, Neha, Jon, David, Sarah, Whitney, Edward and Ben, who are somewhere over the Pacific by now. They're a great group, and one more reason (or, I suppose, eight) that I'll look back at Harvard very differently the second time out.
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