Archive for the ‘Rar.’ Category

So, after traveling through time at one second per second for the last year, I am now twenty four years of age – I had a quiet but enjoyable birthday – had dinner and much wine with friends at a wine bar here in Nashville.  Much joviality was had by all.

Irritations include the USPS losing track of my deposit for my apartment in Berkeley… they claim that they will call me tomorrow with news as to where they delivered the priority mail envelope, but I am distinctly unamused.

And now, with a decent amount of wine on board, with work in the morning and a cat who is happy to see me, I am off to bed.


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In lieu of actual content, I will note that sleep deprivation (went to bed at 2330… got to sleep at 0200) and problematic software are a very, very bad combination.  I edited four retinotopies today (adding in foveal deliniations, for those who know about such things), and the process ate my fucking brain.  I left the lab moaning brains, brains and staggering down the hall like a zombie.

Maybe I should add that to the lab manual – be well-rested prior to wrestling detail-oriented neuroimaging data.  We want our subjects well-rested, so having the researchers be the same way is also a good idea.

Wombat out.

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Bagel 1, SnarkyWombat 0

Things you Do Not Want during lunch: feeling something go *crunch* and realizing that one of your molars just lost a fight with a bagel.

Dentist on Tuesday (admittedly, this made me find a dentist here, as I have been rather bad about that in the last four years or so).  Likely to be a fun afternoon, probably ending with my trying not to drool on my collar as the tooth is in my lower jaw which means that any injected anesthetic agents will numb out half of my jaw.

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A good way to start the day: Excellent, strong espresso.

A suboptimal way to start the day: By finding cat vomit on the living room carpet.

Today? Both.

Now, for a day of meetings and trip planning.  I would really like some good news somewhere in there, but I would settle for merely uneventful (and fewer slush piles between my apartment and the lab – even with boots, they are lame).

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General Grumbling

For some context, I am a career researcher.  I have worked in a range of them from high school to the present day (and given that high school is lost in the mists of the early years of the previous decade, this gives you a sense of chronology) and am now a research assistant.  At the present time, I am waiting to hear back from graduate programs – applications went in back in December, and it is about that time.  Now, the waiting and the stress now is not as bad as the two months of brain-munching torment that was studying for the GRE, but I will be much, much happier once I know where I will be in six months [yes; I will move sometime in August, which means right about six months from now. ack].  This week and next week are when most schools start talking to applicants – and I would really like to find out sooner rather than later.  At a minimum, I am looking at a 1000mi move, and at most, well over 2000mi – which is somewhat complicated by my feline overlord, who will come with me on said moving roadtrip.

Now, you would be excused for asking why I am not applying to the department where I currently work – the major reason is that I am distinctly not fond of the city that I currently live in.  Transplanting cranky northerners to southern cities that do not seem to have been designed for humans to live in is a good way to make said northerners particularly grumpy.  More recently, said southern city has conclusively proven that having anything fall from the sky constitutes an expression of divine disfavor (they cannot plow; they have no idea how to salt intelligently)… hell, when it rains, it takes twice as long to get anywhere because each and every one of them lose their fucking minds.  I have no desire to spend another five years of my life in a non-city that seems to go out of its way to make me unhappy (that is a much longer rant, suffice it to say that I am not the kind of twentysomething who actually likes this city).

I want a city I can walk in – and while I can walk to the lab, not being able to walk to a decent bookstore (no, a borders-in-a-mall does not count, you drooling homunculus – nor does the borg-owned university bookstore that sells overpriced promotional crap to undergrads with more money than brains) does not improve my general outlook on life.  I want a bookstore that does a decent trade in classics and history (this does not exist here), ideally with a large resident feline or two.  The cat is not critical, but a decent selection of interesting stuff is – and the closest we have here are a couple of sad examples.  We have one massive volume operation, which is great for bargains on recent texts and one canonical used bookstore that has a limited selection of the kind of things I want (and they generally want more than I want to spend).

In the realm of other things chewing on the edges of what passes for my sanity, Amazon has decided to fuck over a bunch of my favorite authors (although, as of this writing, the massed power of the internet and likely some voices of reason within the company itself have made them think better of it) – they delisted all of Macmillan’s books over a pricing spat for the Kindle Store.  As Scalzi so accurately put it “let me know when you are finished acting like twelve year olds.”  Grumble.  Can someone take the clue bat and apply it to their heads?  When you are the World’s Largest Bookstore, common sense dictates that you do not defecate on those who create the items you sell.  Twats.

And that is enough in the way of a disjointed rant for this evening.  Time to crawl back in bed with the cat.

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