To seek the individual is to lose the individual.

The exact quote: "Well I guess I'll start a blog" returns 66,000 hits on Google... not sure why that's interesting to me...

I actually just lied, I know why that's interesting to me. And it's this: we all want to feel and express a sense of individuality. The irony is that we usually do this in funny ways. In fact, sometimes the harder we try to avoid conformity, the more we look conformist. "Well I guess I'll start a blog" is the expression that, "Well, I'm finally getting around to telling the world what a unique person I am, to tell my story via the blogosphere." Actually, the exact opposite is happening: you're doing what 66,000 other people have done--at a minimum

(blah blah blah, not every google "hit" represents that exact phenomenon. Yeah sure, well, I bet the actual number representing this phenomenon is much higher, I'm just too lazy to quantify it elegantly).

Look at how many wedding blogs there are, how much variation could there possibly be in planning a wedding given a sample of more than 10,000 weddings. ZOMG! you did NOT use the cyan table runners! The phrase "my wedding blog" returns 286,000 hits, and most of those are to websites that host wedding blogs. Adding the word cyan to that search nets 2300 hits. Cyan? Really? What can you really say in your wedding blog that will make you seem like an individual?

"It's not about being an individual, you a-hole! It's about chronicling my life so my friends can keep in touch!" You say.

I bet I could take any of the 50,000 or so semi-short-white-guy's grad-student-y-clever-er-than-thou-est meta-commentary blog, switch my picture to the top and it would be pretty much indistinguishable to anything I could say to set myself apart as an individual.

To be sure, some people are more unique than others, just like the girl I saw pogo-sticking to class at Santa Cruz one day. Then again, individuality is a group activity at UC Santa Cruz. In that moment, people desperately avoided giving her any attention, that bitch, how dare she be an individual in a way we didn't think of yet. I just wanted to see her get up the stairs--she did with aplomb.

So how to be an individual? It's like the Buddha always says, "To seek the Buddha is to lose the Buddha" (What's fun about that quote is exchanging any noun for the word Buddha and still seeming very profound). In other words, you lose your individuality as soon as you try to be an individual, you can be just like everyone else, but if you're owning it, that's good enough.

There are very few things I have found that are "individual" type activities that are actually as fun as people say they are. They include: Surfing, Guitar, Science (speaking of these things, when does one stop being a "beginner" and just be "not very good?"), and uh, not really that much else. Things that people love that I really don't get? Live outdoor sporting events, facebook (I think everybody actually despises facebook, but doesn't know how else to stalk people), church (sorry folks), drinking at bars without live music, and finally: blogging.

My Roommate, the hooker.

After college, I found myself without a place to live. My girlfriend, still in college, parent-subsidized, and generally in charge of her life, had found a nice, reasonable place on the Westside of Santa Cruz. It had a reserved parking spot, a grill, laundry, call it easy living. I could not stay there, I was told directly, so I was left to toil homeless on Craigslist in search of a dry floor.

My last living arrangement started well but ended badly. I had moved into a house with three friends and enjoyed a utopian college lifestyle. We hung out every weekend, the girl roommate did all the cleaning and we did all the drinking. Of course, these friends graduated, leaving me with the house and a chance to try to replicate utopia on my own. I did not handle this well. The house vibe, cleanliness and structure collapsed off its last leg. Under my watch, the house began to sink back into the dark Santa Cruz soil as if the earth was trying to reclaim it. Mushrooms rose out of the carpet, mold grew on the wall, snails crawled from the shower drain. Roommates drank too much, one developed a meth addiction. New roommates replaced these, but still, it was over; I had vibe-failed.

A new house then, must improve upon this. I must find a mushroom-free carpet, snail-free drains and mold-free walls. I must regain my utopia. I must find a place to work on my truck, find a job and enter adulthood.

Finding a room to rent in Santa Cruz is like a tour of J.R.R. Tolkien's unwritten, uninhibited, imaginative lands. As an example, I met a man renting a room out of his dank ivy-covered house with the world's largest VHS collection of movies exclusively from 1987-1989 ("The only decent time of American cinema"). About the movies, he said: "I guess if you must you can watch one, but I have a sign-out sheet and you have to sit in the pod. The sign up sheet is because I still can't find Beetle Juice 'cause someone borrowed it and I hate that it is gone. If I lose Spaceballs, I will be inconsolable" he informed me monotonically. The “pod" sat in the corner--a plastic, spherical contraption with a cushion in the middle and speakers behind the headrest. The room itself was about 8 x 10 with faded wood flooring and rent was approximate $10,000 a month--reasonable, he told me, and the list of fawning potential candidates was growing by the minute. No thanks.

The next place was on the Eastside of Santa Cruz--known to be more relaxed and a little cheaper than the Westside. It was dubbed "The Shiphouse" due to its nautical theme and because it had, get this: an ocean view. The landlord, Frank, and I hit it off right away. There was a driveway and a garage--great for working on the truck. The room was big, the carpet was nice and the bathroom was clean. Rent? $600 per month, not bad at all. I walked into The Shiphouse across a squeaking door threshold--very ship-like, and into a large front room with an interior mezzanine looking down at the living room. The house itself was light blue colored with grey trim, and triangular shaped, like the bow of a ship, and the bow itself faced the ocean across the street. The wall facing the ocean was floor-to-ceiling windows, with a sliding glass door to a porch outside. Upstairs was a walkway all the way around the house; all three rooms were upstairs in addition to another living room with huge windows overlooking the water. The room for rent was opposite this room and consisted of a few windows and even had a loft and plenty of room for a desk and a dresser--like a real grown-up might have.

I was ready to sign the lease, but there were two hiccups. Catch number one was that this was technically a sublet, since the room's former tenant was off trying to find a job and once he did, he would not come back--leaving the room to be mine-oh-mine. If he did not however, find a job, I would have to find another place to live in September--the worst time to find a place in Santa Cruz as this is when all the college kids return and scramble for housing. Given the unexplored depths of Tolkien's imagination waiting around Santa Cruz, this first risk seemed a gamble worth taking.

The other catch was that I did not get to meet my roommates before moving in and so I had to rely on Frank’s description of them. There were only two roommates, both women. One, Angie, was an attorney in town and she lived in the master bedroom. The other, Desiree, was a local teacher and she was mostly gone for the summer. The sum of the arrangement sounded reasonable and without many other housing options, I went for it.

My girlfriend loved the place. It had a huge kitchen, easy parking, a nice yard and it was clean. It was, aside from being further from campus, much nicer than her place. HA! I'd done it. Me, the snail-shower-mushroom-carpet man, had found a good place to live. I moved my truck into the driveway, my tools into the garage and my post-college belongings into the room. Most of my post-college belongings now seemed strangely out of place in this house, this was too nice. I went to pottery barn and bought a framed picture of a pier. Much better. I started drinking white wine on the porch every night and life was generally good. I ended up getting a job at the UC and I began my first phase of adult life while floating away in The Shiphouse--but things are never this simple for people like me.

I met Angie, the lawyer, the day after I moved in. She was in her thirties (ancient, by 24 year old standards). Brown hair, fair skin, and about five foot three inches tall, she immediately struck me as very friendly, smart and generally fun to be around. Angie was a public defender for the county, so her job was very intense and required a lot from her. She was clearly very sharp, and I could tell, a very good attorney.

She had a cat, Schmurples (name changed). Schmurples hated everyone except Angie. Angie in turn loved Schmurples more than anything. He was a rescue-cat, poor-thing. Schmurples was a large and somewhat shaggy grey and white cat with a head proportionately too small for his body. Schmurples was afraid of his own shadow. In the four months I lived at The Shiphouse, he never let me get within ten feet of him. His sensitivity to surprise surpassed anything I had seen; Schmurples would startle at the movement of a glacier. Whenever I would walk into the house and across the squeaky front door's threshold, Schmurples would run like Jesse Owens to Angie's room, leaving just his tiny head peering around the door, eyes narrowed, watching me like a sex offender.

Desiree, the teacher, was out of town vacationing in southern California with her boyfriend when I moved in, so it was another week before I met her. In that week before I met Desiree, Angie and I had gotten to know each other pretty well and everything was going nicely. I remember having some anxiety about another person coming into the equation but I had no reason to really worry. Angie spoke highly of Desiree. Desiree, for her part, seemed to be the head tenant. Most of the bills were in her name, she was also very clean and Angie said, responsible.

When I met Desiree the first time, she was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that said, "When in doubt, assume competence." The shirt, I later discerned was actually from her work and it referred to working with people with disabilities--when in doubt, assume competence. (It actually makes sense, not trying to be funny there.) The t-shirt in question was, however, ill-fitting. Desiree had what we will refer to as large assets and the t-shirt was just slightly too small so the assets made the t-shirt hang roughly three or four inches in front of her naval, like a stage curtain. Desiree was of above average height, dark brown hair, slender build, and wore wide-rimmed glasses. I would estimate that she was also in her mid to late thirties--ancient. Her skin was fairly tan, but also a bit worn of too many days in the sun or at the tanning booth. Overall, she was quite friendly, outgoing and generally polite. She did develop the habit of using my laundry detergent, which I detested, but as far as roommates go, she was perfectly acceptable. She also had a habit of walking around in jean shorts and a black bikini top, reminding me of watching two well worn buoys resonating with the tide. It was not what I would call nice, but like the buoys, a bit mesmerizing.

I was lucky enough to have found a job at the UC, but it did not begin until the end of summer, leaving me with a few months to scrimp and save until my first paycheck. To help make ends meet, I began moonlighting as a mechanic. I got a little work from some of the professors at school and I also got some more funds from working on Angie’s car, a Volvo. Angie and I developed somewhat of a friendship in a short time. Her boyfriend, Randy, would also visit on the weekends and proved to be another good person. Randy was also an attorney, about the same age as Angie, but with dark blond hair and a boyish face. Randy was also into working on cars, so we spent quite a few afternoons wrenching and hanging out. This was actually a fairly new type of friendship for me. At the time, I did not have any friends older than 25, so hanging out with people ten years my senior was a novel experience. Randy had a way of interacting with me that told me that he understood my youthful perspective, and how it was doomed to change in the coming years. Randy, it seemed, was a bit unsure of being an attorney and did his best to prevent anyone from also becoming an attorney, including my girlfriend. My girlfriend, Melissa had wanted to become an attorney since a very young age. When Randy found out about her intentions, he made it a mission to dissuade her from doing so (it didn’t work, Melissa is now an attorney). Overall, I’d say Randy was kind an existential dude.

My interactions with Desiree were seemingly less interesting, and just generally more annoying. Because it was summer, she did not have to be at her teaching job, leaving her to spend her time on multiple trips to Los Angeles to see her boyfriend. I once asked her what school she taught at, and she really did not provide a useful or definitive answer. She also made some money doing yoga lessons and Chakra cleansing, she told me. Other than that, she did not have any direct income that I could discern. That said, she lived modestly, drove an old car and did not really seem to spend much money on anything, so you could see how someone could get through a summer.

Desiree also earned a new nickname from me: Spazaree. This is because she was a spaz. Desiree was a woman with many opinions on everything from Autism, to magnetic fields to how the brain functioned. Spazaree would get set off by just about anything. When Frank the landlord would drop by, she would freak out, “What is he doing here?!?” To which I would say, “I think he is here to mow the lawn.” Everyday had a new drama to react to, whether it was a bad driver, the ducks across the street, the weather, anything really, would set her off. I remember a conversation we had where she spelled out in excruciating detail an exchange she had with a Trader Joe’s cashier, “And he just looked at me like I should be grateful for my change!?!” she exasperated. “Well, it is pretty common to have to count out the change to a customer,” I replied.

Unfortunately for Angie and Randy, they were attorneys, which meant that they had to hear more about the objects of Desiree’s ire in a much more extensive manner. One evening, I remember hearing Desiree talk at great length about whether or not she could press charges against her boyfriend after a domestic dispute over money. He had apparently lent her money, which she felt was a gift, but when she didn’t repay him, he threatened to beat her up. “Well, why don’t you go to small claims court for the money, and file a restraining order for the violence” Randy suggested rationally. Her reply: “well, it is not so simple, my boyfriend, he, has some warrants out, so he really shouldn’t go near a courtroom.” I forget exactly what Randy said at that point, I think it was something to say basically, “so why are you bothering me with this?” I shared the sentiment, but I chalked this up more to Spazaree’s spazzy behavior.

Desiree’s spazzy stories often shared the same characteristic of being hopelessly complex, with no possible way you could help her. It was always a battle between two terrible options. Like with the cashier, you could say, “Why don’t you go to another store?”

“Because I hate the other stores too! They’re even worse!”

And so forth: two terrible things were bound to happen given any of her dilemmas, she just wanted to share it with you so you could spaz out together. After these episodes though, Desiree would often offer some sort of euphemistic aphorism to offer a resolution, thus providing a release from the tension of the exchange. “Well better late than never with that ‘fun guy’” she would say, with her hands demonstrating air quotes around “fun guy” to denote that he was in fact, a violent ogre. Strangely, you could see her point though, and you would be inclined to agree and you would feel a sense of relief that the there were better things ahead, but mostly also that the conversation was drawing to a close. I guess her t-shirt had a greater impact on me than I originally thought: When in doubt, assume competence.

Indeed, I stand by my early assertion that between Angie and Desiree, Angie was the interesting, smart and fun one to get to know and be around. In Santa Cruz, there are millions of Desirees running around, spazzing out about the following: toxins, Autism, the Republicans, the Democrats that act like Republicans (all Democrats, basically), the importance of Dennis Kucinich, the environment, best dumpsters for free food, and coffee. This was an abridged list. Desiree, like most Santa Cruzians, had at one time or another, spazzed out about all these topics and I had simply grown accustomed to dealing. In Santa Cruz, people moonlighting as yoga instructors and Chakra cleansers are as common as actors in Hollywood. This is why Desiree was really not all that interesting to me. I did not pay attention to her behavior anymore than I pay attention to a wannabe actor in Hollywood telling me she was the prettiest girl in Des Moines, and she is definitely going to be famous in LA. It is safe to ignore these things, be they in Hollywood or Santa Cruz.

Toward the end of summer, I was lucky enough to get a bit of work doing some repair work for a local professor. His car was a Toyota like mine, so working on it was familiar and he was very generous paying me. One foggy morning, I had his car up on jack stands and I was installing his front brakes, but I could not remember some specifications. I needed to access the internet, which meant I had to go inside. Desiree had been gone all day, but I had left to get parts, so while it was possible that someone had come home while I was gone, I was not expecting anyone to be home. I walked inside across the squeaky threshold and onto the squeaky floorboards. Squeak, squeak, squeak it went as I walked across the room. I noticed at that moment two things: one, the boards didn’t normally squeak in this part of the floor and it did not make sense that they should be continuing to squeak now that I had stopped walking. Second, the cat had not jetted from his normal perch and appeared to already be sitting behind Angie’s door, head peering outward, looking disturbed. I was definitely not the only one in the shiphouse. Fearing the worst, but not entirely sure of the situation, I continued upstairs to my room. The squeaking grew louder and now I realized was coming from Desiree’s room. Another noise entered my ear: the sound of moaning. Desiree was definitely getting it on. Suddenly two more things became obvious: one, the torque specs were not important. Two: the squeaking of the door threshold and the squeaking of her bed shared the exact same pitch and timbre, which now explained Schmurple’s conditioned response to the sound of people coming in the door. He was not actually scared of people coming in the door, he was scared of what he normally associated with that sound.

I fled the scene as quickly as I could, back to the safety of the car precariously perched on jackstands on my uneven driveway. Hearing your roommate’s getting it on is familiar to all college students, it was the sheer randomness and Desiree-ness of this that made it feel a little disturbing. But whatever, it was a bit random, but really no big deal and not all that surprising. I left the house and I set to work on the car, rapidly recovering from the incident. Soon I heard the door open and Desiree and her suitor step out onto the porch--the car was placed conveniently between myself and the door, so I was not visible from the door.

“That was great, just what I needed, I feel very cleansed,” the gentleman suitor said.

“No problem, I’m glad we could make an appointment for you, and just let me know when you need to make another one,” Desiree answered.

“Hey who’s car is that? it wasn’t here when I got here,” he said.

“Oh, that’s just my roommate’s, but he’s not here right now; nothing to worry about.” Desiree responded.

I was completely frozen, mouth agape, wrench hanging from a brake caliper, brake fluid dripping onto the ground. For some weird reason, my thoughts turned to the car. It was here so innocently, and somehow I felt bad for the car having to witness this, I had led the Toyota to a den of iniquity. I stayed put for an hour or so before going back inside. I was not sure how I would make eye contact with Desiree.

I mulled things over in the meantime. Was Desiree soliciting sex for money? That was the main question in my head. Schmurples’ behavior told me that the squeaking had at least been common enough that he had developed the conditioned response. One thing was certain: she had definitely been getting it on, but it was hard to say for absolute certainty if she was doing it for money. My innocent frame of mind held out hope, but I think deep inside, I knew the truth, even if I didn’t want to believe it.

I ran out of stuff to do in the garage, my professor picked up his car, and I was forced to go inside. Desiree was still home, so I was certain to see her. I stepped across the door, jumping across the squeaky threshold to avoid my own newly-conditioned response. Schmurples was no where to be found. Desiree, however, was headed out to the washing machine. Dirty sheets? I didn’t want to think about it. She engaged me, “Oh hey Glenn, nice day huh? When you’d get home?”

“About an hour ago--but I’ve been outside working on my professor’s brakes,” I replied.

“Oh, okay cool, uh yeah, just so you know, I do these chakra cleansings and I was a little worried in case you heard some noises” she said, then laughed awkwardly.

“Uh, yeah, no problem.” I said. She was definitely a hooker. A hooker with clean chakras, apparently.

Oh well, what the heck, I thought. I’d moved from a place that had mushrooms growing out of the rug, now I had a roommate with probably other sorts of rug action problems. I also figured that since I’d lived there for a couple of months already, and since this was the first incident, it couldn’t be all that common, so you know, who really cares. Honestly, the concern gave way to bemusement.

That night, I saw Melissa and told her what happened, “I think my roommate is a hooker.”

“No way, she was probably just having sex, it happens.”

“Yeah, but what about the conversation I overheard afterward?”

“Who knows, it could have been about any other number of things,” she retorted, lawyer in training.

“hm-mmm sure,” I said.

Melissa was very interested in becoming an attorney, so she and Randy and Angie became fast friends as well. Randy was a bit cynical about the legal profession, so he took it upon himself to dissuade Melissa from joining the jurist ranks. We went out to dinner a couple of weekends later and Randy went full on to tell her just what he thought she should know about the legal profession.

“You know, the real problem is that you’ll be one year into law school and already thirty thousand dollars in debt and you might not like it, but you’ll go on, because you don’t want to be thirty grand in debt without anything to show for it, and so you keep going and then you finish and you’re a hundred grand in debt and not totally sure about your profession,” he projected.

He continued, “Yeah, and then pretty soon even Desiree’s job looks good.”

Angie smacked Randy before he could continue, “Stop it, your theory is just wrong!” Angie said.

We all paused. I looked at Randy, “WAIT! Do you think?!?” I exclaimed as the lights started to come on in my mind.

He replied, “Yeah!! Wait, What Do you think?!?” He looked so excited.

“Yes!”

“She’s a hooker!!” Randy and I both said in unison loudly to the rest of the restaurant patrons.

“I mean come on, her ‘boyfriend’ in LA that steals her money and beats her? Her weeklong trips to LA that she does about every month? The fact that she has no other discernible source of income? I mean, she is for sure a hooker,” Randy explained.

I told them my story about the day at the house and the “chakra cleansing.” Randy was giggling like crazy, so was I. Melissa and Angie, however, were not completely convinced at this point. Angie, the lawyer, the public defender, could not believe that she inadvertently moved in with a hooker.

“Guys, come on, she’s a teacher! She’s told me that. And it makes sense if she has a boyfriend that she goes down for a week at a time--it’s a long distance relationship,” Angie said coming to Desiree’s defense.

Then I remembered an important detail: Schmurples. “Angie, the reason Schmurples runs when we come in the door is because the squeaky floor sounds exactly the same as Desiree’s squeaky bed. It’s a conditioned response--he runs because he associates the sound with people getting it on, not because he’s afraid of people. Who knows what he’s witnessed?!?” I explained.

“Oh god, Schmurples.” Angie said, deflated.

She could no longer deny it. She, as well as I, lived with a hooker.

Frank, the landlord, called me later that week. Apparently, the guy who’s room I was subletting was going to move back in, so I had to find a new place to live. I eventually found a hooker-less place back on the west side of town. After I left, Frank got a divorce and ended up trying to move back in with Angie and Desiree. Angie got a new job and relocated to San Diego. Spazaree and her buoys are probably still cleansing chakras. Whatever happened to her, we are in not in any doubt, and we’re not assuming competence.

Portugal is not in Africa

This post is only about this one image.

My lab-mate, Helder, is from Portugal and we always joke around that most Americans think Portugal is in Mexico, or at least South America (Fancy Mexico). So, to test the theory, I put an extra credit question on a quiz asking what continent contains Portugal. Out of 33 students, 12 answered that Portugal was in South America. One, however, was only sure that it was not in Africa.

Live Blogging of me grading a bunch of lab reports!!

Howdy~
So, haven't posted in two years, how will I come back from this time duration to crush you with my brilliant and folksy analysis of the world? I will now accomplish this by live blogging while I grade students lab reports. Admittedly, this mostly accomplishes the goal of being able to publish real student quotes for a little schadenfreude in the morning.

The assignment for the kids was to measure their ability to throw some bean bags onto a target while wearing some prism glasses--this shifts your perspective 30 degrees to the right, making you throw the bean bags way off target. Then when you take the glasses off, you still throw the bean bag way off the target because your nervous system has adapted. No biggie, but you have no idea how students have interpreted this exercise in the past, let's have a look shall we?

Oh, also, the fun of this is when kids say funny things, these will be designated as "Real Student Quotes" or RSQs. However, I want to note that this may be deemed inappropriate to put what my precious students might say on the internet, so for the sake of everyone, I want to state explicitly that RSQs are fictitious and are not actually from students, they are fictionalized examples of what would be funny if a student said it--but didn't. I think everyone understands the importance of this statement.

10:54 I'm about 1/2 way through my first section, so far, kids have said that this exercise is about how the left brain controls language, so the right handed kids will have an disadvantage since kids who throw with their right hand will use their right hemisphere. Unfortunately, all the kids have a corpus callosum, so that part really doesn't matter at all, unless there are split brain patients among us.

11:00 A student just referenced his figures as "Exhibits A and B." I object!

11:03, wow a student just followed instructions and gave a near perfect score--noteworthy enough to post on my prestigious blog.

11:13 Real Student Quote (RSQ) #1: "the brain is an extraordinary organ in the body that controls thought and major processes of the body." Oh really!

11:25, just finished 8am section's reports--a little more than an hour, going to have to pick up the pace for the next two sections.

11:30-3:00--in class lecture/eating lunch, now I'm back at it...

3:13 -- Dear students, I do not need you to attach the raw data, consisting of 10 pages of excel spreadsheet to your assignment--that is not what is meant by "results"

3:14-- why is the last page of this report stapled upside down?
3:14--never mind, I see that that wasn't actually the last page, the last page was actually unstapled and floating around--that's okay.

3:23 --RSQ 2: "The brain receives visual input from the motor cortex." Not sure that's what you meant to say...

3:37 --RSQ 3: "The nervous system adapts to new environments, such as sensory inputs."

3:40--end of 10am section grading; wondering the effects of listening to Ke-dollarsign-ha's "Blow" while grading/living.

3:45--uploaded image of best student graph ever; erm, I mean, a dramatic recreation of what would be a best graph ever.

5:42 -- kid keeps referring to "Handiness goggles" what?

--5:50 --and we're done...

Red start

This blog is not for the people. This blog is for me to ramble on about whatever it is that is keeping my head busy. My goal is to post up some of my ideas about what I find interesting in people. It is also a place to keep people updated on my truck's restoration. My favorite book is Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and I want to do my own version of that, minus the insanity part, also minus the profundity--I will try and fail at this, so just stating that outright.

Moving On.

Here's Me:


I am a second year grad student at the University of Southern California. I work at a place called the "Brain and Creativity Institute." I am in the neuroscience program where my days are spent f*****ing TA'ing and scanning people's brains while they feel some emotion or think about some crap. We look at the brain, we talk about the blobs on the brain, we try to explain them, we have fun. Not a bad gig; there are lots of people doing exactly what I do and who are most likely better at it than I, but here's something that is difficult to put in a CV: I don't think there are many other ex-rednecks working as cognitive neuroscientists. Note here that I'm not arguing that I am particularly redneck, what I'm working on here is saying that I'm a rare redneck with a brain scanner. There are other rednecks, and there are other people with brain scanners, but I don't think there are many that are as intermingled as myself. See?

Okay, so here are a few redneck credentials I thought of of the top of my head.
-My boyhood dog was part wolf. Also, stupid.
-On days when there was a lightning and thunder storm, my father encouraged us to ride in the open bed of our 1968 chevy truck (still have it).
-We cut down trees on our own property to heat the house exclusively for many winters.
-When it snowed on our road, my dad put my sister and me in the bed of the truck, for more traction on the icy road--we were a solid hundred pounds put together.
-The main road to the house had year-round puddles.
-When our stove died, so we took it out and put a piece of plywood over the gap, then put a camping stove on the plywood and used it as our main stove. For about a year and a half.
- Favorite tools: MIG welder, OxyAce torch, Chop Saw, Tubing Bender, HVLP spray gun, any air tool, stud puller, skil saw, etc...
-I have painted multiple cars in multiple driveways.
-Also, burned many a cars in some of the same driveways.
-I went through a phase with some friends where our hobby was picking up cheap cars and hosting our own demolition derbies.
-I was with some friends once when my buddy said this to a cop: "Well, I'm taking that car there, and I'm running it into that car there. what is the problem?"
-I have lived in a homemade teepee.
-If you show me a toyota truck axle, I can tell you what year of truck it came from.
-My friends and I once weedwhacked a field using a jeep, a rope and a boxspring mattress.
-I was lit on fire, while on a roof, by a roman candle that was accidentally lit by other fireworks.

Here are the specs on two of the cars on my resume:
1. 1985 Toyota 4Runner: "that red thing"
-Replaced engine and transmission
-Twin Transfer case
-six inch all pro lift
-SR5 seats
-500 watt stereo
-35'' Swampers
-Custom shackles, bumper, roofrack.
-awesome.
-On a date, I was showing off and got stuck, and sprayed the girl with mud. Bad news was that I had a spare driveshaft and we didn't actually need to get stuck. oops.
-My current girlfriend and future wife once fell out of it--on our first date. Somehow, I ended up selling it a year later...
-it had a way with the ladies.

2. 1968 Chevy C10 pickup, 2wd: The Old Grey Mare
-Owned it since before I was born.
-new crate 350, mated to 700r4 tranny, new driveline
-all new accessories
-battery relocated to bed
-electric fans/ four core radiator
-Painted at home in the driveway for my senior project
-Mice living in the seats, apparently--some upgrades are free!
-Go and stop; better at going though.
-Current girlfriend/future wife recently found the stomach enough to ride in it.

Here are some pictures of trucks I have owned (red), or currently own (gray):








My Brain scanning credentials are much less interesting, but I have some inchoate ones to offer. I did my bachelors at UC Santa Cruz, from there I spent a brief time at the Salk Institute and from there I went to Stanford. I spent a year at Stanford, then I came to work at USC. I have a couple of papers in print, one that deals with the cognitive architecture of working memory, another that found a difference in the brains of gifted adolescent readers compared to their peers. I have three projects currently (F***ing stupid, that, three projects, idiot). One is on how the brain deals with people we don't like when they are in pain, another for how the brain creates the emotion of gratitude and another that I started at Stanford where we have a frontal lobotomy patient that has been kind enough to work with us and help us understand the long term effects of injury to the brain.

Some Nerd pics:

Me in my office at Stanford.


My lab at UCSC.


My College.


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