Republic of Panda

Malls and the food courts that reside in them is one of those few constants in America that marks the homogenizing effects of capitalism to the cynical and a comforting sign post and equalizer for the optimistic.  The high end and low end ones tend to follow the same recipe, in the last year, however, things have changed at our local food court.

The "Texas BBQ Factory" now serves Chinese food (and only Chinese food, though the menu says "brisket").  As does "Bourbon Street Cajun Cafe."  And "Wok USA."  Moreover, they all have the same prices.  $5.89 for 4 'entrees,' $5.49 for 3, and so on.  Mother said she asked about it a few months ago.  The stalls said they agreed on the prices to make it easier to do business.  All three stalls, of course, have set their prices lower than that of Sakura, the old food court staple.  I don't really know where they're all going with this plan.  But I can't wait for something to happen.  My hope is for a giant price war (as Prof Papa will say, "Cheating in price fixing is like having an affair-- sooner or later, somebody finds out.").  For now though, almost everyone at the local food court is having Chinese take out.

Bloods and LYF

This conversation happened in December, but I just thought of it today and it made me laugh.  I had a lot of time to think today because I spent much of it in suburbia, going from mall to plaza to mall, buying and returning things with Mother.  I lost most of my soul in those car rides.

(we're looking through old youth group pictures for Stephanie's shower and come upon one in which Lillian and Steph are both in baggy boy basketball shorts, pretending to look tough)

Moi: Do you remember what this was for?

Lillian: I think it was a dress up thing for a theme activity...

Moi: (look that says, "I can clearly see that)

Lillian: It was probably "gangster day?"

"Gangster day" was not a youth group sanctioned activity.

This recollection in turn, reminded me of when I visited Ash in Korea and we were perplexed by a concert video in which the guys in the group all wagged giant foam fingers around.  Finally, a Korean speaker, in the form of Wilson, showed up for Bible study early and we asked him to interpret.

Wilson: I think the gestures have something to do with the lyrics.

Ash et Moi: (the exact same looks I gave Lillian)

Sun Downing

(see the introduction for yesterday's post)

Discussing the Downton Abbey series-

Mother: Doesn't the family lose their fortunes?

Moi: The series hasn't ended yet.  It's still going on, so no, the family doesn't lose their fortune. This isn't based on a book or anything.

Mother: So the guy who wrote A Tale of Two Cities didn't write this?

Moi: Charles Dickens?  Did he predict the future and write about a family in the early 1910s and 20s?  No, he did not.

Mother: Yeah, I thought that that was strange.

Over and Out

Mother is a talented pianist, and (so I have been told) writer.  But movie watching is not among her talents.

(as the credits roll on a forgettable basic action-rom-com, especially light on the 'com')

Mother: So who killed the people?

Moi: The bad guy.

Mother: So the main character didn't-- it turned out that he was framed?

Moi: Yes.  That's what they've been showing us the entire movie.

Mother: Oh.

A&P

I am sharing this for no grander purpose than to give credit to the good people at JetBlue Airways.  As far as stories go, this isn't that exciting.  Sure, it involved a screw up on my behalf (buying a ticket for 7PM instead of 7AM), which in turn ruined a family trip, which involved a lot of phone calls and rescheduling on everyone's part, but in my defense, the letters A and P look very similar.  And I have messed up in more spectacular fashions before.  In fact, my struggle to make sense of the printed word gets me into trouble almost daily.  But this story is special because JetBlue flew in for the rescue.  They read my story of how I messed up because I booked the ticket while preparing for finals and the trip was meant as a nice short time with the family (and my 5 year reunion!) before I sink into the pit of despair that will be my Qualifying Exam, and they had compassion.  They helped me get on an earlier flight.  Without charge.  Without putting me on hold.  Without making me go through hoops.  Because there was no way I could afford the normal ticket changing process. 

It was all very kind of JetBlue.  And now I get to go home this weekend, take a trip with my mom, and rest before the pit of despair that will be my Qualifying Exam, so that I can continue on with some more years of schooling.  And learn the difference between A and P.

Strangers with Chicken

Ahhhhhhh, hello, World.  My 1st/19th year of classes is finally behind me.  I can't breathe a sigh of relief yet because I have a qualifying exam in 2 weeks, but I can at least watch a whole lot of TV for a week.  And do some work for fun/money instead of grades.

I played with strangers again yesterday.  I'm still trying to fight off a cold (different from the flu last week) and decided that the best way to do that was to go outside and play with a slightly different group of strangers than those I played with last time.  We went out to a park, had a little bit of food, and some kickball.  Well, I showed up in flip flops and did not play kickball.  But I was an awesome score keeper whose allegiances switched every half inning.  Turns out, it was smart of me not to play because kickball with grown ups in a non-regulation field can be very, very dangerous.  There was, for example, the giant hole that people kept falling in between 2nd and 3rd base until we finally marked it with orange cones.  Then there was poor Cory, who slipped, rolled his ankles, and when he sat down on the grass to rest, got stung by a bee.

Moral of the story, Children: Strangers?  Great.  Great outdoors?  Dangerous.

Off and Away

It is graduation season.  All over the interweb, there are pictures and updates from happy people excited to be done with school.  Even among those who are not graduating, many are celebrating the end of yet another school year.

Here at J'Hop (J'Ho?), graduation season is far, far, away.  Finals week is still in full swing.  Comprehensive exams are in two weeks.  And after that, we all get a fun summer of work, another year of classes, and several more years of dissertation-ing before even the idea of graduation season can become reality.  Needless to say, we're all a little bitter.  But as we all talked about this last week, Leila's retort made us immensely happy.  At first, I thought it was a little mean, but sweet, wonderful Betsy, hearing it second hand, approved, so I knew it was OK.  And now as I work, it has become a rallying cry:  Good luck getting a job in this economy!

Little Birdie

Despite, or perhaps because of, years of higher learning, there are just some basic skills and facts my head refuses to learn.  I still have to hum the alphabet song in my head to find books in the library, write out fractions when I convert rates to different units to figure out when to divide and multiply, and consult google for the differences between cold and flu symptoms whenever I get sick.  Currently, it appears that I have to flu.  Good thing I got that flu shot.

This being the second day of my illness (it came on suddenly on Sunday night- Roommate Claude found me sprawled on the couch and when she asked how I was, I said, "I can't tell if I'm hot or cold."), I decided that I felt well enough to head to school.  And was promptly sent home by Julia, Amber, and Liz.  Mostly Julia.  Amber was still deciding whether I was actually sick or not.  My stay was so short that I managed to catch the same bus home that I arrived in.  Before I got sick, Tuesday promised free lunch at school, ice cream party in the afternoon, and ramen in DC for dinner.  Now all those things are out of reach.  I also wanted to stop by the Korean stand by the school to pick up food for tomorrow.  But I could not in good public health conscience bring myself to go to a serve-yourself-buffet when I know that I have the flu.  Damn you, Public Health.  Damn you also, Private Lack-of-Health.

Friday-O

I have been having such a great couple of days of fun that my impending biostat project doom almost seems worth it.  Last night, I finally paid my first visit to Camden Yards.  I had felt bad about not going to a game until then but discovered that whenever I said that, people who've lived in B'more for years would reveal that they never watch baseball.  The game was between the top 2 teams in the A.L. East, teams that did not include the Red Sox or Yankees.  That was odd.  Other things I found odd?  That the stadium was so nice and the seats so wide and sturdy.  That nobody actually cheers for the players because no one really pays attention until there's a home run.  That there is a song about country boys.  And finally, that leaving the park is wonderfully calm and devoid of crowds.

I am sad to report, however, that I did not witness my favorite story of the night firsthand.  That was when Meghan was standing in line for beers and saw a 10 year old in front of her.  Naturally, she berated the kid for being obviously under 21 and made a crack about fake IDs.  The kid just looked appalled and scared.  Then Meghan realized that they were in the line for beer and hot dogs.  And she just became a public health authority yelling at kids.

A Study in Orange

I plan on going to the O's game tomorrow night.  But I may never get there.  I'm not speaking of all of life's surprises and tragicomedies that may keep me from the game between now and then.  Or the fact that I 1.5 booked and have a dinner planned earlier in the evening.  I may never get there because I don't have a ticket yet.

I have the promise of a ticket.  The department had a handful of free ones to give out and I reserved one.  But picking up the ticket has proven more difficult than expected.  There was the forgetting, then the all day conference, and now a twist I do not yet understand.  Yesterday, I asked Liz to pick up my ticket when she picks hers up, since I had to leave campus early.  I then sent a note to the organizer saying that Liz would pick my ticket.  I naively believed, since they both happily agreed, that organizer would give Liz my ticket and Liz would pick it up.  That is not what happened.  It is not clear what happened.  Both Organizer and Liz speak fluent English and both agreed to my request and there really was no other room for complication.  But Liz did not pick up my ticket.  She thought the organizer mentioned a different friend picking up my ticket, though I specified her by name in my note.  Or that I needed a second ticket (that was the impression the Organizer gave).  I do not.  As for the organizer?  He has stopped replying to my emails.  He has probably left town.  I have a feeling Moriarty is behind this.

Mere Mortals

Yesterday, I saw the Cirque du Soleil Michael Jackson show with Rachael, Juan and Amber.  Per my diagrammed instructions, the first 2 sat on either side of me.  Naturally, we discussed code violations and safety hazards while waiting for the show to start (we were really, really high up).  Public health aside, the show was incredible.  It was very much like a Michael Jackson concert, with equally amazing dancers, pyrotechnics, and what-the-hell ballad moments about the earth and nature.  All that was missing were the fans fainting all over the place.  There was a break dancer on crutches (he only has one leg) that made me feel bad about the way I use my two legs.  As Amber pointed out, we were a cheap crowd-- the loudest applause at the end, other than those for amazing dancer on crutches, went to scantily-clad-pole-contortionist and slightly-more-clad-guitarist-in-leather, both women.  In the crowd's defense, it wasn't their fault that the male dancers were so well clad.  In my defense, I also clapped when I saw a little boy in red pants and a Thriller jacket.  He wasn't a part of the show, but he was adorable.

On the Wagon

I am a bandwagon jumper, a superficial sports fan and a fair weather friend.  I only follow the Bruins during the playoffs and the Knicks when Lin is in play.  I root for specific people and stories.  It's how I started watching baseball in high school.  Baseball is the one sport that I watch during the regular season.  The slow pace annoys many, but that's exactly what appeals to me.  It's the perfect sport to channel surf or procrastinate to, or to listen to in the background.  As my doctoral cohort will tell you, there's nothing I like better than to do something else while reading the paper.  Baseball allows me to do that.  This week, I was gripped by 2 stories in the news: this and this, both tales of dashed dreams and renewed hopes, ever changing by the hour.  Both have been great fodder for conversations between Father and Me.  China and baseball are our 2nd and 3rd favorite discussion topics.  The first, of course, is Taiwanese pro-athletes who compete in the U.S.  Here's looking at you, Wei-Yin Chen, and a speedy recovery to you, Chien-Ming Wang.  If your country was the size of Maryland, you'd be on their bandwagons, too.

Dress for Success

(for our health policy presentations, the master's students have to present to congressional staff members; the doctoral students present research proposals to upper level doctoral students)

TA: (to the master's students) [The staff] will be in suits, so maybe you should be, too.

Dan: And the PhD students?

TA: You can be as scruffy as you like.

It's sad, but true.  We are not slick people.

Prices and Choices

This might join gypsy cab ride in the Annals of Questionable Decisions that Worked Out.  It wasn't that I hung out with complete strangers tonight.  Or that I went to a complete stranger's house.  Where I did not know a single person there, including the hostess.  That part wasn't half as shady as getting into the back of a black SUV.  I joined couchsurfer.com last week (see also: shopping for hostels in Fiji; unrealistic vacation dreams) and in the process, found a group of happy strangers who didn't know each other who all wanted to play board games together.  That part actually worked surprisingly well.  It's just that I forgot that I also have a biostat exam tomorrow.  And when I did remember, I still chose to hang out with strangers instead.  Actually, that may not make it into the Annals of Questionable Decisions that Worked Out.  It may just be in the Annals of Questionable Decisions that Led to the C (see also: not understanding trigonometry; not reading chemistry textbook until it was too late).

Maine Plan

Do you see a pattern here, ciabattas?  Last night, with a paper still to edit and turn in, I looked up affordable hostels in Fiji.  This morning, rather than prep for my meeting with Advisor Who in an hour, my mind went to my 5th year reunion.  There are so many things to do in Maine.  And by Maine, I mean at the Bo': Fat Boy, Cote's, 5:15 dinners at Thorne (Gak seems confident that he can make early dinners a hipster thing- stay tuned), being cold at the beach, being cold at night, being cold, German dinner at Richard's, having more than 10 friends at one place at once... the possibilities are endless.  In a couple of hours, this stats lab will end, and in a couple of weeks, this academic school year will be, too.  My mind, however, is already long gone.

Summer Forecast

Remember summer jobs, brioches?  (I am co-opting Nicolatte's practice of addressing friends as tasty bread products.  Why limit myself to pretzels when there's a whole world out there of buns and rolls?)  Those sticky, long days spent scooping ice cream or folding khakis?  Or, in my case, sitting around in too-cold offices, pretending to look busy?  Now in the third decade of my life, I still have to have summer jobs.  Last week, Doc Nice offered me one.  It was very nice of him but for one problem: I already had a summer job.  With Doc Nice.  He'd offered me a different job weeks earlier.  Fortunately for you, the details of all this are not interesting and fortunately for you, they all got worked out earlier this week.  (Note to future important self: Pitch to funders before recruiting project staff.)  I should be in Boston for about half of my summer.  There will be no biscuits, but there'd better be literal lobster, and figurative brioches.