Queasy at The Crocodile

So in the middle of having the flu, this happened, forgot to write about it at the time: So, my wonderful roommate MaReesa is a little more into the music scene of Seattle than I am. Not too difficult to do since I'm not even that into the music scene that comes over the radio, let alone finding a local concert. Anyway, I promised MaReesa that I would go with her to a concert at The Crocodile of "Hot Buttered Rum" which is a folk band with amps. I was just coming out of the flu and was sick and nauseous every time I was in any other location than in bed. MaReesa was just starting her bout with it so we may not have been the best pair. Fast forward to the club. We got there at 8:45 and found some standing room near the front and immediately found ourselves surrounded by forty-somethings from Colorado wearing capes and smearing glitter all over each other. Yup, I did check that sentence for accuracy. Capes and glitter people. The opening band started and everyone started swaying, smelling of musty old-ness and patchouli. It started getting warm and crowded and needless to say, I started feeling really sick. I pushed my way to the back to stand by the door and stood there for another half hour. Then I moved to the other side of the hall. Then I went for a walk outside. Then I came back inside. By this point, it was 11:45 and the band STILL hadn't started. I turned to MaReesa as I was bent over double in the corner and said, "If we don't leave now, we're never getting home because I'm about to pass out on the floor". She agreed and we left. So, hurray for my concert experience at the opening night of the re-open of what is apparently the premier venue in Seattle (all the famous Seattle grunge bands played here during the 90s . . . but I didn't recognize a lot of the names).

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, let me graduate!

It's about time. Getting the flu had an impressive impact on me. As I laid in bed for those few days, I had a lot of time to think. (Turns out that watching Matthew McConaughey find a civil war ship in the Saharan Desert doesn't take too many firings of the old neurons.) I thought to myself, how long is this going to drag out. June? July? August? September? What am I am waiting for? For this dissertation to magically write itself? Okay, probably . . . but if science has taught me anything, it's this: "Tenacity doesn't always lead to success, but it's the only thing that will." -William H. Foege. Therefore, it's time to just set the deadline (have thesis in hands of reading committee on April 15) and end this merry-go-round. So today, after a week of emails to five extremely busy but willing professors, I've set my defense date and booked Pelton Auditorium for June 3rd at 11 AM. Hurray! Was getting a PhD a total waste of the past six years? Absolutely. Will it prove to be, in the seventy years ahead, one of the best decisions I've made? Probably. If that line of reasoning doesn't make sense, don't worry, writing a thesis apparently makes everyone crazy . . . but it goes away after the defense. Or so I'm hoping.

Never been so happy to see a virus in my life.

Oooh influenza! Usually I get sick during vacation (see Christmas 2008 and Christmas 2007) but this time, woo-hoo! Sick during work time and during the week! And not just a cold, honest to goodness flu. The kind where Thursday, Friday, and Saturday were spent mostly in bed watching movies and listening to the NCAA tourney. Wowzahs, seriously. I was so sick of writing about the immune system and then wham-o! My immune system entirely gave out. Guess it got sick of the thesis itself. It couldn't have been better timing if I had walked down the hall at lab and gotten a whiff of influenza straight out. Of course I still had to take care of cells, etc. but the rest of it, freedom! Yay for illness.

Museum of Flight? Museum of Awesome you mean!

So every first Thursday of the month in Seattle, almost all of the museums (and there are many, people have lots of $$$ here, and they're weird . . . I'm talking to you Paul Allen) are totally free. I haven't really taken of advantage of this little perk as much as I should but last week we went to the Museum of Flight. I saw planes that had cozy wood paneling on the interior . . . but the door looked like it was yanked from a trailer park. Um, a really scary helicopter that looked like it belonged on a Wyle E Coyote cartoon as it crashed to bottom of the canyon. Also, a whole gallery of WWI planes with an Italian plane made of either adobe or a really hard pizza crust, it was hard to tell. Wait a second, some a capella group just started singing here in the QUIET library and although they are lovely, they really need to be quiet. I'm trying to work on my blog, I mean, write my thesis. Shhhhhhhhh! Anyway, And WWII planes, and the best part . . . an SR71 Blackbird! Or rather, a Lockheed M-21 Blackbird (apparently my fruit snacks from 1987 lied to me). That puppy was built from just paper and pencil and something called a slide rule. Everything had to be designed from scratch (new fuels, new electronics, new body design, new materials) in order to withstand the ultra-high temps of operation. Get this, the fuel had to be melted in order to be loaded into the body of the plane and the plane had to be heated to 100 degrees (C? F? K?) while on the tarmac. The plane would drip drip drip fuel because of all the gaps in the body. Then, when it took off, the plane would heat up, expand, and seal everything tight like unto a dish. Huzzah! Good work 1950s! Other good things about the 1950s? Look at these aviators. Yowzahs. Basically if you come to Seattle, come here, it's cool. It also impressed upon me the fact that if we as a civilization ever lose our computers, it's over. We can't do what they did 50 years ago since we're only used to GUI interface. This has increased my desire to use my internet connection to learn important things while I still can. Of course I refer to canning vegetables, gardening, and sewing. Or, I could just ask my mom. That doesn't sound right but she knows how to do all that stuff plus fix everyone's AV issues in 710 so I'm just saying that she's incredible. My parents, another thing the 1950s got right.

Just in case you were wondering.

Okay, here it is. Just in case you were wondering what happens during a PhD process, this pretty much sums it up. Right now I'm typing the introduction to chapter 3 and will hopefully get through "Materials and Methods" and into "Results" by the end of the day. I was planning on walking in June with the actual defense at some other point between now and October, but after digging through two websites, emailing two different program coordinators, talking to two different graduation (two?) offices, and finally calling the commencement office, I've decided not to walk. It turns out that they don't even hood you at commencement, you're already wearing it. You just walk across the stage and shake someone's hand. I think Public School #482 in Topeka, Kansas puts more thought into their kindergarten graduation. Still, clearly there are lots of graduates to get through at UW every year but you'd think that there'd be more to it. Oh well. Oh, and the reason I haven't graduated already is because my boss wants one more publication before I go. That would take a miracle. But, since it's standing in the way between me and fame and fortune as the best lawn mower this side of the Mississippi, I'm going to get it done.

Rock climbing finally!

I've wanted to learn how to rock climb ever since I was a senior in high school but I never did it. I even bought myself a chalk bag for my 17th birthday. What I did with said chalk bag, I'm not sure as I never used it. I've also bought three different pairs of rock climbing shoes . . . which I also never used. I also have pictures of rock climbing all over my walls. Talk about being a poser. Well, I finally did it. When I got back from Christmas break, I signed up for the first available rock climbing class. The ridiculous thing about the class is that forty minutes after it started, I found myself hanging (safely) from the top of the rock gym relying wholy on the merits of a knot I learned how to tie only thirty minutes before and a belayer that only learned that skill twenty-three minutes before. Well, in short, it was outrageous fun, why'd I wait so long! So now I know how to rock climb . . . and by that I only mean to say that I can officially belay at the gym and I can get to the top. Now following an actual route . . . we'll see about that.

These books are a girl's best friend.

Besides a dog and an SUV of course. Recently, Whitney recommended that I read a few books by Georgette Heyer. She wrote primarily during the 50s (I think) about Regency England. With those two magic words, what's not to like? She's like Austen but faster, funnier, and well . . . better. I know this is sacrilege darling, but it's true! Austen tends to wander off into boring side plots a bit too often for my taste whereas Heyer sticks right to the good stuff. To wit, really sharp dialogue between fiercely independent women and smart capable men. And, since they're all loaded (think 90,000 pounds as a starting point), not a single one of them has to make protein in order to support surf weekends or trips to Peru. The other bonus is that she didn't just write six novels like Austen, she wrote like thirty or so. Thanks Georgie! The book pictured here is "Regency Buck" where the ultra-wealthy Miss Taverner and her brother are left to the guardianship of someone only a few years older than them. Hilarity ensues.