Induction

"If my past experience of induction has been mostly positive, should I predict a positive experience this time?"

What would David Hume say? Something disparaging in a Scottish accent, probably. Nevertheless, I have been inducted into the realm of faculty life. All the new hire faculty in a room together. Lots of good advice on how to get ahead ("diversify your research interests","always have several publications in the pipeline"), recruitment of grad students ("be aggressive; give lots of talks at local state universities"), life philosophy ("always remember why you got into this!"). And some excellent roast beef sandwiches. Splendid.

My thoughts exactly

This TV review in the Guardian is a clear exposition of a thought I have had kicking around my head for years:

"Spirituality" is what cretins have in place of imagination. If you've ever described yourself as "quite spiritual", do civilisation a favour and punch yourself in the throat until you're incapable of speaking aloud ever again.

If only.

What's so great about that valley anyway?

Engaged, as I am, in moving from one end of California to the other, I have spent a lot of time of late driving up and down the freeway. Or to be more specific, the 'Golden State Freeway', Interstate 5. This major artery runs all the way from San Diego to the Oregon border and beyond. The northernmost stretch runs through forests and past big pointy volcanoes and is fantastic. The rest of it, the Tejon Pass apart, is utterly, dreadfully, tedious.

And, worse, it stinks of cowshit.

This is all the fault of the 'Great Valley'. Pancake flat, featureless and hundreds of miles long, the agricultural engine room of California has inspired many a long-distance truck driver to crash off the road in a deep torpor. The whole ensemble just screams 'unstimulating', if one could scream in a way so as to be completely unnoticeable. Even the place names are banal: Patterson, Firebaugh, and, er... no, sorry.

One more time. I have to drive it again next week. 430 stultifying miles. Bloody hell.

Standard intro blurb

I set up a blog. Two years and five posts later, I let the domain expire in a typical non-act of benign neglect. I set up another one. I like to think that this time I will stay true, keep posting, service my notional non-captive audience, but if I had to put money on it...

Riversiiide!

Notes inspired by my second visit to the capital of the California citrus industry:

1. The Mission Inn

This place is a cross between a fairy castle and a Christmas tree. In a Moorish stylee. I am staying here. It is awesome.

2. The World's Largest Paper Cup

Is, I learn, actually made of concrete. Is nothing sacred?

3. The Santa Ana River

Where the hell is it? What is the city beside exactly? A grassed-over gully? A ditch?

4. Ditchside?

Actually, maybe Riverside is a better name.

5. Someone around here likes palm trees

Orange trees, too. I agree with them. They're ace.

Jobsworth TSA cnuts

Imaginary remonstration with an airport security official:

Was it really necessary to throw all of my toiletries away? And with quite so much contempt? Somehow being in a one quart clear plastic ziploc bag makes my half-empty deodorant, travel size toothpaste and mini bottle of sunblock benign and safe, but in a one quart clear plastic bag with a knot in it they become deeply dangerous. The exact same clear plastic bag that I took on the exact same flight six weeks ago? I note that my contact lenses were not imbued with the same life-threating properties, despite being inside the same iniquitous enclosure. But I'll spare you the logical objections. America is, and remains safe, thanks to your actions.

I guess I can accept that you are enforcing the letter, not the spirit of the law. But did you need to be so unpleasant about it? Did someone leave a human turd on your doorstep? Someone should.

2 fish ‘n’ chips, 10 rusty nails, and 60 Ferraris

Bodega Bay is one of the many places claiming to be the mooring place of Sir Francis Drake on his jolly jaunt around the world in 15-somethingorother. It is also home to the San Andreas fault, which is as good a reason as any to hang out there for a day looking for survey benchmarks (those little steel plaques on the ground that you see on triangulation points).

A sunny day, a nice variety of sites to look for, cheery rangers down by the beach, 2 generous baskets of fish and chips for lunch (not just for me; young Romain was with me and was suitably hungry too), and the day was rolling on by nicely. Well ahead of schedule, at around 3pm we drove to Bodega Head to look for the last site of the day, a short walk from the parking lot, with pretty views of the ocean on one side and the bay on the other. Following the directions and a handheld GPS, we arrived at the top of a hillock, feeling optimistic that we might be done early and skip off home.

The hill was completely grassed over.

No problem, said Romain, I'll get the metal detector and the shovel (such a can-do attitude, he'll go far; I went nowhere, to be sure to 'mark the spot'). And so we set about our search. The metal detector went 'WEEEEEEEEEEE', and we started digging. (When I say 'we' I mean my young French friend, of course.) One foot beneath the surface, we found our prey: a rusty nail.

One hour, nine more nails and no benchmark later, we decided to "fuck it" and go for an ice cream. Rumbling the Suburban through downtown Bodega Bay (a post office, a cafe and a dog grooming parlour), it was clear that something funny was going on. Both sides of the (narrow) street were lined with Ferraris. About 30 more of them were parked in the lot of the yacht club, including a heap of 60s old 'uns, a Testarossa, a couple of F40s and an 'Enzo' which Romain assured me was worth 4 million on its own. And I, driving a vehicle with all the manouverability of a tank. I have never parked so carefully, I can tell you.

Another standard day, then. The ice cream was very good, incidentally.

Ashley Giles

[with translations for American readers]

I have been tracking with interest of late the to-ings and fro-ings [behavior] of our humble wheelie bin [garbage can]. Being something of a modest [Unamerican] consumer of disposable items such as food containers and other unneccesary packaging, there simply hasn't been that much rubbish [trash] to put in it. Hugo is seemingly equally frugal [you guys Australian?] Thus, until last week, it had been several weeks since either of us remembered to actually put the bin [garbage can] out on the street for collection. It just wasn't full.

(Before any horrified readers write in to express their disgust, the accumulated refuse didn't smell enough to frighten my as I walked past the bins [garbage cans] in the mornings, and so I believe the chances of a major public health calamity as a result of this benevolent neglect were minimal.)

Anyway, fast forward to last Friday, and the bin [garbace can] is sitting proudly on the pavement [sidewalk], as I head off to work. This could have been the work of Hugo, or it could have been the act of our next-door neighbours [neighbors], who probably regard us as slightly incompetent/irresponsible individuals [single young men]. It is still standing proudly there on Friday evening, as I hurtle back home on my bike. And on Saturday. And on Sunday.

(The keen reader may have noticed at this point that I noticed that 'we' had left the bin [garbage can] out on the street for several days without doing anything about it. In reply, I merely point out that it is one thing to observe that something is a bad idea - e.g. going to war in Iraq [saving the western world from Al Qaeda] - and another thing entirely to do anything at all about it.)

Monday comes and with it another opportunity to haul my desperately unfit arse [ass] up the three mile gentle uphill incline to work. Locking the door to the house, I noted that the bin [garbage can] had not made it back to its trusty home under the outside stairs. Mounting my bike outside the visitor exclusion device [gate] I notice that the bin was no longer there. This caused some mild concern (a mental note was penned to ask Hugo about it). As it did on Tuesday and Wednesday when there was still no sign of it, and I had still done nothing.

And now, on Thursday evening, I return home from a strenuous day's driving around Bodega Bay eating fish and chips [fries], to find the bin [garbage can] back in its place on the pavement [sidewalk]! For three days I had been passively worrying about its whereabouts, but the situation had righted itself, weeble-like, without any output from me. And so I find myself now wondering where our dear bin [garbage can] has been (away on a city break? did someone borrow it? did someone escort it back home?) and what the hell is in it (body parts? toxic waste? someone else's rubbish [trash]?).

Of course, if I really was that curious, I might have looked by now.

There's a moral to this tale somewhere in there.

Two sugars

That's Professor Monkfish to you.

Standard working day

I pity all youse who surf desks for a living. I can legitimately spend a day strolling along the coast of northern California and claim a day's wages...



Pacific coast looking toward Tomales Point, Point Reyes National Seashore

I am prepared to consider applications from prospective field assistants.

On Savagery

Keen observers may have noticed that I list 'savagery' as one of my interests. This is not to say that I advocate the collapse of civilisation, or even the hunting of explorers with spears, but I do very much like the use of those concepts as metaphors.

The concept of savagery has evolved considerably within Webster Towers this past six months or so. Hugo (m'housemate) and I tend to use the word to describe a genre of food; key constituents including some kind of beans, meat (preferably ground and/or boiled), a frying pan (for the assembly, not as part of the meal... that really would be savage) and (all-important, this) chilies and chili sauce.




Wossauce you wannnnt... yer wannnnt hot chili, yeah?

The class of foods which qualify as savagery is fairly broad, and encapsulates several better known and/or widely feared items. The carnitas burrito I had from the Cancun at Mission and 19th in SF on Monday night, certainly qualified. I was afflicted (as were Matt and Ben who ordered similar beasts) with uncontrollable tears/runny nose/sweat as I crammed plastic forkfuls of white-hot salsa down my neck. However, the more conventional style of savagery is a homemade dish:



Savagery. Yesterday.

To reproduce such wonders, simply fry a load of onions and garlic, add meat, hot chili, mild chili and some vegetables (whatever's lying about in the fridge - in this case, green bell pepper), and fry it some more. Don't worry if part of it sticks to the pan; this is normal. When it looks like it's done, add more beans than strictly necessary, and add chili sauce to taste. (The taste you are looking for is furious to incandescent.) Serve with rice and low quality beer.

If you tire of the basic recipe, try these variations:

California savagery: same as the basic recipe, except with brown rice. Garnish with avocado.

Savagery Madame: The same as the basic recipe, but with a fried egg on top.

Savagery pobre: The same as above, except with two fried eggs on top.

Game savagery: use ground or diced venison, rabbit or wild boar. Double points if you killed the animal yourself; quadruple if you used your bare hands.

French savagery: reserve the feet and/or head of the animal you are eating, and boil it in a big pan. Serve with garlic butter.

Savagery tartare: Mix ingredients together. Don't bother cooking them.

Conspicuous consumption pt 2

Ben wanted to go shopping. He asked if I'd drive him to Vacaville to go outlet shopping. I said sure, I'll tag along...

Whoops.

Conspicuous consumption

After two days in the pub, it became apparent that to keep my guests entertained it was beholden on me to find them newer and more interesting ways to get drunk. Hence a plan was hatched: to go to Sonoma to go wine drinking*.

Here are some selected excerpts from the conversation at the counter:

Buena Vista 2003 Carneros Merlot (Ramal Vineyard estate) - "Oaky taste, smooth" (GJF); "Phil Oakey taste" (FHL); "I'm sure there's some kind of berry ('Barium?' - FHL) in there!" (GJF); "It's nice." (BFF)

Sebastiani 2004 Cabernet Sauvingon - "Oh yes" (GJF); "This is my 'favorite' wine in the winery" (Winery dude); "Dark red berries, yeah!" (GJF); "Nice" (MJP); "Yeah, it's nice." (BFF)

Gundlasch-Bundschu 2004 Mountain Cuvee - "This reminds me of a Bordeaux" (GJF); "What is it?" (FHL); "This is all grown on the estate - right outside!" (Winery dudess); "It's nice." (BFF)


Brotherly love at gunned-lash-bunned-shoe


Gotta lotta bottle

* Let's face it, apart from me, the driver, who was keeping the spitoon company, the rest of the party were there to ingest wine, not to make tasting notes.

Catchphrase overload

Webster St Mansions is a bastion of Albion, which is to say the inhabitants are wholly English. To preserve their national identity, only the finest tea is consumed indoors, and a constant supply of cultural materials from the Homeland is maintained.

At my behest, Ben brought two DVDs of the Fast Show with him from home. To the uninitiated, the show is(was) composed of short skits from an array of characters who appear(ed) weekly, each of whom had a catchphrase. To supply such materials to two people who find amusement in prolonged repetition could be considered unwise. Especially when you have to share a car with them all day. (I feel sorry for Matt, who was blameless in every respect, and had to deal with the consequences nonetheless. All four of us - Ben, Matt, Hugo and I - were going wine tasting, you see.) Over breakfast, Hugo and I watched a couple of episodes for old times' sake, thus lighting the blue touchpaper.

On the way out of the house, Hugo accused me of going into catchphrase overload. Coming from him, this was a bit rich, but I was using approximately two in every sentence, to be fair.

Examples include:

"This is prepeursterous."
"Marvellous. Isn't it?"
"Good. You'll know your way around a coffee machine, then."
"My aunt lives in Scotland. She says it's quite nice." "Well, she's wrong."
"Isn't drinking brilliant?!"

To be fair

My brother Ben is visiting, with his friend Matt. It is very reassuring to be able to go to the pub and talk about football. And, as is customary, such conversations are laced with certain phrases which are rarely heard beyond the pub/football axis. Matt contributed the majority of these (e.g. "Jose Mourinho's not going to have a problem getting another job, to be fair"), and it soon became apparent that my delight at hearing the football manager's favourite equivocatory phrase, meant that every other sentence was destined to be a cliche. The lads couldn't help themselves, to be fair.



"To be fair my bruvva looks pretty tasty knoworrimean?"

This is Ben and I trying to recreate the John Barnes World In Motion rap at home shortly afterward. Notice that a) we had to improvise with the footballs, and b) Ben dropped his ball at the crucial moment:

Diabolical

Last night saw a Puerto Rico marathon with Hugo, Abby and Nick which probably lasted two hours, one case of beer and a bottle of two buck chuck too long, given the human wreckage strewn about the house this morning. Despite two nights of minimal sleep and the resultant fug that would accompany the enthusiastic emptying of alcoholic drink bottles, between sips of iced water I could still distinguish rays of bright sunshine seeping through the gaps between the blinds. As surely as hangover follows six pints of Stella, it was a beautiful day out there.

A hasty plan was hatched: to go and attempt self-healing through taking lungfuls of fresh air. A certain degree of elevation would be necessary to get the requisite degree of freshness; some kind of mountain would be involved. Hugo must be persuaded to come; he looked worse by some distance than had I felt even the previous day (which is saying something). In the event, it took maybe three rashers of bacon to close the deal.

(The walk, incidentally, was splendid.)

Hugo, Mt Diablo summit, and a big bird of prey

And then…

Ah yes, where was I? In Oxford, I think. I meant to blog all over that. Forgot, sorry.

Here is a picture though, if all y'all out there were curious: