hmm, now where did i pack my green and gold body paint?

Lying is a young person's game, as of course one of the great virtues of honesty is that then you don't have to remember. Yesterday, while standing down by the loading dock with the movers, I was distracted when a maintenance guy for my apartment building said hello to me.

"Where are you coming from?"
"Madison." (Not a lie, strictly speaking, since I was just there. But, really: I haven't lived in Madison in two years and it feels more like four.)
"Packer fan?"
"Yeah." (Lie! I am completely indifferent to the fate of the Green Bay Packers. I don't really follow the NFL. To whatever extent I do, there are some teams I sort-of root for and some I sort-of root against, and the Packers aren't either. Worse still, I don't know if it was trying to seem manly in the presence of movers or what, but I said 'Yeah' with enthusiasm.)
"Great! I've been hoping for more Packers fans. We lost three in the building last year..."

I was afraid he was going to ask questions that would reveal my ignorance of any fact about the Packers other than their quarterback's name, but men are usually good about not penetrating the affable bubble in casual conversation that presumes any non-effete male maintains a working knowledge of the NFL). Still, the guy tracks Packers fans. I worry that now I'm on a track where this lie will be compounded with other lies, and I am eventually going to be sitting in a bar with a giant foam wedge of cheese on my head.)

dispatch from aspen

("thank you" slide at the end of my presentation today.)

I'm here for my third and final conference for my fellowship program. I'm sitting on my patio doing e-mail rather than hiking or any of those other associated activities that I feel like I'm really supposed to enjoy but, beyond the sunshine, really don't.

Because the Aspen airport is closed for repairs, we had to book flights to Denver and then drive. My flight left early Wednesday morning. I arranged Tuesday night for the cab to pick me up at 6:45, and, unlike my usual last-minute style, I packed most of my things the night before. I still set my alarm for 5:45, and when I woke up with the alarm I thought, "I probably can be ready in 20-30 minutes. What the hell am I going to do for an hour?" So, then, next thing I know I open my eyes again and the clock says 6:45 and there is a taxi honking outside. I sit up in bed, and for whatever reason I've got a nosebleed. So, then, I put on pants and run downstairs and outside shirtless holding my nose, to tell the cab driver to wait 5 minutes. (Me, going outside shirtless, I don't know if I've done that since high school, so you know we are talking desperate times.) I run to go back up to my apartment, and I realize I have locked myself out.

And, yet, everything managed to work out okay and I was on my flight in time. Moreover, for those who wonder from my recounts of misadventures whether I am completely hopeless, my talk today seemed to go over really well.

(ongoing series) things i really don't need right now but nonetheless seem to have

346. A Veronica Mars addiction.
347. An Arrested Development addiction.

So, back in 1998, my then-girlfriend bought me a TV tuner card as a present. I bought cable TV to go with it. This was whatever month the Women's World Cup was where the US won and Brandi Chastain took off her shirt at midfield. Anyway, I got sucked in and watched like every televised match of that World Cup, developing actual feelings about who would win the Ghana-Uzbekistan match. Then, after the championship, I discontinued cable. I think I need to bring television into my life every 5-10 years to remind myself why I don't have television in my life.

Remember how after the fall of Communism, multilevel marketing schemes got introduced into places that had never had them before, and it was like unleashing a virus onto a population that had no antibodies to it. Well, the SAT analogy problem would be TELEVISION:JEREMY::AMWAY:ALBANIA.* Argh.

Don't even think I am going to start on any of the other shows you recommended to me when I started Netflix. Suffice it to say that the plan where I was only going to watch shows while I worked out has run aground on the shoals of low self-discipline. I think I'm going to watch these series and then cancel Netflix. It's warm enough I can run outside anyway.

* Do the SAT and GRE still have analogies, or am I dating myself? They got rid of the antonyms but kept the analogies, right?

trapped in a tin can!

I am writing this from my phone from a train at the Route 128 stop
outside of Boston. We have been stuck here for more than an hour. I am
supposed to be feeling lucky that I didn't fly to Philadelphia as
maybe then I would be stuck at the airport. I am out of reading
materials. The guy in front of me has these strange pimples on the
back of his head that I have studied in way too much detail. I want to
be home.

sequel to previous post

I was having a conversation with a friend on one of the couches in the lobby of the hotel. As we were finishing and I was about to stand up, she said, "Make sure you don't lose your wallet."

I looked down and my wallet had fallen out of my pocket onto the couch without my noticing.

"I read your blog."

dispatch from philadelphia

Sara and I took the train here together for the Eastern Sociological Society meetings. I bought a salad at the station but forgot to grab a fork. I picked up my ticket off the tray and went back to the cafe car for one. When I came back, the conductor was coming down the aisle to take tickets. I reached into my pocket for my ticket and it wasn't there. I looked all around my seat, in my bag, in my coat pocket. I went back to the cafe car and looked to see if I dropped it. The conductor went by, clearly hoping I would just find my ticket and not have to call into motion whatever Amtrak machinery there is for lost tickets. I looked all around my seat again, my bag again, my coat pocket again. I had Sara stand up so we could look and make sure it somehow hadn't fallen underneath her or into her backpack. I looked all around my seat, in my bag. I checked my cell phone to make sure that I had the Amtrak confirmation number in case I needed it with the conductor. I looked all around my seat, in my bag, and there the ticket was, right there the first thing I saw when I opened my bag. I understand the logical inference is that it had been in my bag all along and I just didn't see it when I was going through my bag looking specifically for it, as opposed to the ticket having some kind of magical invisibility or teleportation properties.

I said to Sara, "Welcome to my world. This is every day for me. It's like you just got to witness the ten minute abridgement of the story of my life."
"I'm not that surprised. You have told me how in the last year you've lost your iPod, cell phone, coat--"
"Did I tell you I lost an air conditioner?"
"How did you lose an air conditioner?"
"Remember how I bought two air conditioners, even though I ended up only installing one. I put the other one down in the basement and--"
"Later you took it back to the store."
"Oh, wait, you're right. I forgot that's what I did. Well, I can stop being perplexed about that."

the continued oratorical misadventures of jeremy freese

At LAX, about to catch the red-eye back to Boston. Three days of talking to people here, and, unlike my last few trips elsewhere, no displays of awareness of the existence of JFW except for already known blognoscenti. Still, that doesn't mean I am comfortable enough to admit in this forum that, due to certain misgivings regarding color coordination, the necktie I wore today for my talk was actually an alternative I borrowed from the hotel lost-and-found. I like it, actually. The clerk welcomed me to make it lost-and-stolen instead of lost-and-found.

Despite reminding myself several times before the talk that, whatever else, I shouldn't do the talking-way-too-fast thing yet again, I did the talking-way-too-fast thing yet again. (Not as bad as some other talks I've given, and on the whole I think the talk went okay. I endeavored to be even a little provocative, although I don't know if I succeeded.)

don't let's tarts

I went to a dinner party at Nina's, who has recently launched her Ask For An Ocean View companion site. The site's slogan is a spot-on distillation of Ninaness and worth clicking over just for that. Anyway, for the dinner, I bought a bottle over of Bogle wine, and explained that the reason that I bought it was that the name was an anagram of BLOG + E, for Blog Entrepeneur. Nina did a passable job of acting amused.

Not like the time shortly after I began at Madison and was invited to a beginning of the year party. I brought tarts. I said I brought them because "tarts" was an anagram of START and so seemed the rousing choice given the party theme. The person to whom I said this looked at me the way you might imagine someone would look if the seemingly ordinary conversationalist she had been talking with had been suddenly replaced by a two-headed space alien, especially if that alien had something incredibly disgusting hanging out of one of its noses.

Moral: If you are someone who enjoys anagram humor, understand that this is a lonesome joy that will only bring awkwardness and pain if you try to share it with others.

(madison) my mad city pseudo-pretend-not-quite-half-marathon

So, the original reason for me being in Madison this weekend was the marathon I was supposed to be running in. I backed out, but Sal stayed in, so I was there at 7:30 at the starting line to see him off. Feel free to play Where's Saldo? with this photo from the start:


(Hint: He's the guy who is looking in the direction of the camera and waving.)

While I would have rather trained and prepared and then run, I was certainly glad that, since I hadn't adequately prepared, I wasn't running, because it was going to be WAY TOO HOT to be running a marathon (like 85+ degrees hot), and, even in better shape, I'm exactly the type who wilts in the heat.

Next time I saw Sal was about 12 miles into the marathon, when the route came by the lakeshore path down the hill from the Social Science Building:



I was wearing my running shoes anyway, since by accident they were the only shoes I packed other than my dress shoes, and I ended up running alongside Sal for awhile in jeans. The guilt of talking to this guy who had 14 miles to go in 85+ degree weather due to something I told him we should do together and then flaked out on was e-freaking-normous. Anyway, through some complicated compatriotic reasoning, I decided that I would get some shorts on and run the rest of the way with Sal. Through some sprinting, quick dressing, and arguably illegal parking, I was back beside Sal before he reached Mile 15:



Among the things in my man purse was my ridiculously large cel phone because this was such an impromptu decision that I had to make a couple calls while running to re-coordinate or re-schedule things, including telling Dorotha et al. that I wouldn't be able to take them to watch the finish (the finish line being conveniently at the site also hosting The World's Largest Brat Fest this weekend). Dorotha still came, though, and even made signs that were intended to underscore the difference in deserved praise for Sal and I:



(You might note something blue on my sign. It's a sticker. Why did I warrant a sticker? The sticker is a blue star with one of the points torn off. Says Dorotha: "I've been wondering what I would ever do with this torn and ugly sticker, and then I got the chance to make a sign for you.")

Most of what I seemed to regard as "Sal support" as we ran seemed to comprise providing incessant commentary, taking water and stuff from volunteers just like a legitimate participant (thanks especially to the guy handing out Fla.Vor.Ice), and shouting to spectators to cheer for Sal, even if this meant sometimes claiming he had various ties to the TV show "American Idol." I was surprised at the number of people in the latter half of the race who had brought cowbells; every single one of these people had guy with a man purse yell at them, "More cowbell! More cowbell for Sal!"

If I had thought of myself as being able to do a half marathon, much less a half marathon carrying a man purse on an unseasonably warm day, I would have entered the half marathon. So, not surprisingly perhaps, the Jeremy tank ran empty about a half mile from the finish and I told Sal (and Julieta, who ran the last 2-3 miles with us in regular--stylish, even--clothes) to go ahead. I was, however, able to regroup. My original plan was to duck out right before the finish since I didn't deserve to finish (since I hadn't, you know, started). But by the point I actually reached it, I had swung around the rationalization that since the half-marathoners used the same finish line, I was willing to take the karma hit for crossing. As you can see, by the time I did finish, I certainly looked like I had been through something quite trying:


(I think all you need to know about how shockingly unphotogenic I am is that this is by no means then unflattering photo of me in existence.)

Of course, Sal and I got some photos together as well. If you want to know why I wasn't doing the whole marathon, you need look no further than the creeping-paunchiness evident here:



Sal now wants us to do the Chicago marathon in the Fall. The idea being I would actually run this one all the way from start to finish, so we could get a photo with both of us wearing medals.

therms of endearment

So, I was surprised last month when I opened my gas bill and it was $300, considering how small my apartment is and the radiator in my bedroom doesn't even work. This month I've mostly kept the thermostat at 58 degrees, which is easier for me than most people because of my inner radiance. I got my gas bill yesterday and opened it eager to see what difference my icy determination had made. Lo:



Which was less distressing once I remembered that I hadn't actually paid my bill from the previous month. Meaning this total included that, and my bill for this month was less than half of what it was the month before.

I should still call my landlord and ask why the radiator in my bedroom still doesn't work. I recognize that the previous sentence contains two stills, but I'm in a hurry and a non-cumbersome edit that exactly preserves semantics is not obvious to me.

the continued oratorical misadventures of jeremy freese

Background: The International Association of Social Science Information Service & Technology (IASSIST) has been having their annual conference this week in Madison. This is the main professional organization for persons who work as social science data librarians and related jobs. I was asked to be one of three speakers at a plenary session this morning at 9AM. (The session was titled "Data in Dairyland"; it was about some of the major data collection projects centered here at UW; I was supposed to talk about the WLS.)

Yesterday afternoon: I exchanged e-mails with the organizer of the session yesterday and agreed to meet her in front of the building hosting the conference between 8:30 and 8:40.

Late last night, early this morning: As I have mentioned in this weblog from time to time, sleep is the bane of my existence. I have trouble falling asleep and trouble staying asleep. I am not one of those energetic dynamos that "just needs less sleep than other people": I need every bit as much sleep as the average person, I just usually don't get it. When I set an alarm, I hardly ever end up using it because I almost always wake up before it goes off. So, anyway, last night I ended up being awake until past 3AM working on this Stata program to process responses for this one part of the survey (I may write a post about this program later). I set my alarm for 7:15, which, especially since I would likely be awake sooner seemed like it should give me plenty of time to get ready and get up to campus.

This morning, 8:35 AM: This was the time when I opened my eyes and looked at the clock this morning. Apparently I slept through my alarm. Note that it would normally take me 15 minutes to drive to campus and then walk to the building where I needed to be.

8:36 AM: I panic. I realize I don't even have the cel phone number of the person I was supposed to meet. I quickly ponder the question of whether leaving the organizer standing in front of the building puts me more in the category of "disorganized loser" or "inconsiderate jerk." I try to envision whether I have ever been to a plenary session at a conference where one of the speaker showed up late without telling anyone beforehand. I consider how oversleeping becomes increasingly lame and wow-you-are-an-unreliable-mess excuse for anything, much less a plenary talk, after about one's sophomore year of college. Since I was giving the talk because a senior colleague who had earlier agreed to do it had a scheduling conflict (Bob Hauser, for those who know my department), I imagine how I would tell him later about how I overslept and showed up late and disheveled for this talk I was doing on his behalf. I envision the TradeSports market-estimated probability of me getting tenure careening toward zero.

8:37 AM: Then, my normally meandering mind focuses remarkably incisively on the question of what is absolutely essential for me to do in order to be able to give a non-disgracing talk. No time to shower. So, first: Pants. A nice-enough long-sleeved shirt with buttons. (I realize then that a good deal of the shirts I wear for teaching are still at Klinke's, where they have been utterly forgotten about since finals week). A jacket--you can get away with a slightly wrinkly shirt as long as you wear a jacket--besides, plenary speakers should wear a jacket. Socks, shoes. Shave, more or less. Bring comb with you for use in car. Grab keys. No time to print out the slides or anything like that. Thank God I had sent the PowerPoint e-mail to the organizer yesterday afternoon; luckily also I made the slides just yesterday so, without any notes, I would have a general idea of what would be on the next slide.

8:46 AM: The time on my dashboard clock when I start my car.

8:46:30 AM: On the road, driving to campus. [Here, JFW legal counsel insists that policies regarding self-incrimination prevent me from describing with any specificity how fast I was driving. Let's just say that The Fear Of God was in me about the potential consequences of showing up late for this talk, and The Fear Of God weighed especially heavy on my right foot as I drove. Fortunately, the lights mostly went my way, especially with a lenient interpretation of when a couple of lights turned from yellow to red.]

en route: Okay, what am I going to say for this talk? Luckily I only need to speak for 15 minutes. I know I can talk for 15 minutes about the WLS off the top of my head--I've talked for several times longer than that off the top of my head before, albeit not in a formal presentation less than an hour after I woke up. The problem is not in having stuff to say, the problem is to be coherent in saying it. [I imagine myself stammering and getting confused about what I was going to say next and feeling like a disorganized oratorical puddle, which has happened before.] The key is to stay calm. Actually, that's just the one key. Two more are look enthusiastic and look like I have no doubt about the sensibility of the next sentence that will come out of my mouth, even if I have no idea what that next sentence will be. Poised, professional, but a little quirky (since I can't help it, I might as well go with it). Speak clearly and at a deliberate pace. And, crucially: have at least three jokes. [And, as I fortunately took care of yesterday, have at least one not-the-same-old-bulleted-points PowerPoint thing; for this talk, a series of slides that build up a diagram of how the WLS has grown in its relational coverage over time.]

8:56 AM: The time when I turn off my ignition in the Lake Street parking ramp. Luck was again with me as I found a spot quickly. I pulled my car into the space at a wildly diagonal angle but did not even contemplate fixing this.

8:58:30: The time on the clock in the room when walk in. I apologize as profusely as one can briefly to the session organizer, who does not seem perturbed. She may have just been relieved that I actually showed up. The two other professors speaking in the session actually come in about 30 seconds after I arrive, so she may have been worried about the possibility of more than just me being a no-show.

And then: When my turn comes, I actually do a good talk. The jokes worked, and I had a couple of other good ad-libbed lines. The slides went over well. The organizer seemed very pleased afterward. This all only furthered my resolution, arrived at last year, that I should go with only minimal or no notes for any talk of 30 minutes or less. Instead, make good PowerPoint slides (or overheads) and then DON'T READ THEM. Also, especially in comparison to certain other speaking situations I find myself in from time to time, I have also learned how much, MUCH easier it is to give a good talk when you are speaking to an audience that seems disposed to be interested in what you have to say.