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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
One of my friends is a graduate student. He’s in a PhD program, and he’s defending his thesis next week.
In case you’re unfamiliar with the ‘thesis defense’ process, I’ll tell you — it’s a grueling and inhumane ordeal. I know, because I watched my wife go through it a few years ago. I could see the gruelery. And oh — oh, the inhumanity.
“She’s more of an ‘I know how to read DNA, and I will kick your everloving ass at Scrabble’ sort of doctor.”
And if you’re wondering — yes, that makes her a doctor. Not an ‘open up and say ah’ sort of doctor, nor a ‘drop your pants and cough’ sort of doctor. She’s more of an ‘I know how to read DNA, and I will kick your everloving ass at Scrabble’ sort of doctor.
She doesn’t really use the title much, though. For one thing, many people she works with have advanced degrees, too, and who wants to spend the first ten minutes at the office every morning sounding like a Marx Brothers sketch?:
‘Morning, Doctor.‘
‘Hello, Doctor.‘
‘Coffee, Doctor?‘
‘No thanks, Doctor.‘
‘G’day, then, Doctor.‘
‘See you, Doctor.‘
Without Harpo honking the horn in the middle of all that, it’d just get damned tedious. So none of them worries too much about titles. Mostly, she uses it to dissuade telemarketing weenies:
Her: Hello?
TeleWeenie: Hi there! How are you? Me, I’m fantastic! Is this Mrs. Charlie?
Her: This is Doctor Mrs. Charlie, yes.
TeleWeenie: Oh. Doctor, eh?
Her: That’s right.
TeleWeenie: You’re probably too smart to buy sixteen subscriptions to ‘Llama Fancy’ over the phone, then, aren’t you?
Her: Quite. Good day, then.
TeleWeenie: Good day. Any chance you could forward me to a trailer park, or retirement home nearby?
*click*
Awfully handy.
(Oh, and I apologize if my shortening of ‘telemarking weenie’ into ‘TeleWeenie’ has given you the same queasy mental image I just got of some sort of bastardized perverted TeleTubby clone.
That wasn’t my intention, really.
I’d pitch it to Spice, if any network execs are out there reading, true. But that’s not where I meant to be going with that. So sorry.)
Now, where the hell was I? Ah, right — my friend, the graduate student. Peachy.
So far, my buddy’s survived the first of the three-pronged virtual colonoscopy that is the academic thesis defense: he’s written the thesis. One hundred and twenty pages of it, last I heard. You’d think that would be enough, that the profs would say, ‘fine, you’ve written a novel-length bit of work that most people couldn’t read, and many more wouldn’t want to; congratulations, you’re in the club!‘
But no. The writing is just the beginning.
Actually, I suppose the five or six or nine years leading up to the writing is the ‘beginning’, technically. But that doesn’t really count. The early parts of that time involve sleeping through classes, and there’s a murky haze of drudgery, desperation, and doozy hangovers clouding the rest. Graduate school is not for the faint of heart, the timid of spirit, nor the weak of liver. But none of that really counts towards the ‘defense’.
So, here’s how it goes: when the writing’s done, the beast of a manuscript is handed in for review. That gives the thesis committee a couple of weeks to really sink their slavering fangs into it. What else could have been done? Shouldn’t there be a comma in the ninth sentence on page forty-one? Why, in this experiment, did you blithely assume that the force of gravity would be present that day? How lazy can you get?
Meanwhile, the victim student prepares for a presentation. If the actual paper is ‘the dogs’, that still leaves ‘the ponies’ in the show to be accounted for. So right now, less than a week before his big date, my friend is feverishly slapping together PowerPoint slides, pasting in pictures and data and fancy bulleted lists.
Will the presentation appease the committee? Will a sufficiently silvery tongue and a wily waltz of hand waving keep the academic wolves at bay?
No. Not a chance.
Because the presentation isn’t for the committee, you see. That’s the cruel irony of the preparation — you can’t not present your work. Certainly, the committee will be there, in the room, to ensure that.
But they’ve already seen the script — they know what you’re going to say, before your first snazzy slide goes up on the screen. And they’ve already got their probing questions and alternative theories ready for you, no matter what you say in your big moment in the spotlight.
The presentation is for everyone else — the family, the friends, the other students who thought you’d never get out of this place. They’re the ones who pile in to watch the last half-dozen years of your life unfold in the space of an hour’s chat.
(And don’t think the irony of that time-collapsing slice of humble pie is lost on the candidates, either. I think it’s the main reason they get so damned snippy leading up to their defense.
Personally, I don’t see what they’re so upset about. I don’t need anything close to an hour to describe my last six years. Here, I’ll prove it:
Hardly degree-worthy, but at least I don’t have to defend it in front of a group of grumpy judgemental types. Unless visiting the in-laws over Christmas break counts. Meh.)
The real fun of a thesis defense comes after the presentation. That’s when they lock the candidate in a room with the committee, and let them grill the living shit out of him or her. That’s the third and final prong, and usually lasts about an hour, too.
(But not always. It’s like a visit to a mechanic — an hour, more or less, is par for the course. Far longer, or far shorter, and you’re probably in for a lot of pain. Grease guns and jumper cables may well be involved. And it’ll cost you.
Oh yeah, it’ll cost you.)
There’s no real way to prepare for the defense proper. You can’t know what those devious, demented academia lifers might get into their heads. You just have to know your own shit, forward and backward, and hope they don’t throw you a curveball you haven’t considered. All while revising your manuscript, building an hourlong slideshow of ‘What I Did With My Young Adulthood‘, and trying not to cry, throw up, or throw in the towel and move to Tijuana. I don’t envy my friend right now.
On the other hand, he’ll be fine. Soon, it’ll all be over but the shouting and the obligatory tequila bender. I have faith that he’ll nail the questions, quell the fears, and walk out of the room a free and relieved man. Make that a free and relieved doctor man.
Just don’t listen to him if he asks you to drop trou and cough. I don’t care how many people he fools with that stunt — he’s not that kind of doctor!
Permalink | No CommentsOne of the posts I had the most fun writing — and one I often use in my standup act — was written two years ago this month. It listed helpful ways to remember grammar lessons (and spelling rules, as was pointed out by a commenter).
“Am I out there, spelling words like ‘heinous‘ and ‘deceived‘ and ‘sex fiend‘ seventeen times a day?”
I’ve decided it’s time to revisit the idea, and to add a few more lessons to the primer. First, a bit of background to catch you up:
I realized a while back that, after years of English and grammar classes in grade school, high school, and college, I could only recall one lesson on the subject. It’s the rule of:
‘I’ before ‘e’
Except after ‘c’,
Or when sounding like ‘a’,
As in ‘neighbor’ and ‘weigh’.
And it made me wonder — why do I remember that, and nothing else? Am I out there, spelling words like ‘heinous‘ and ‘deceived‘ and ‘sex fiend‘ seventeen times a day? No. Of course not.
I mean, I haven’t written a personal ad in years. So that can’t be it.
I decided it was because it rhymes. I’ve heard that it’s easier for people to remember shit that rhymes. And that’s when it hit me — why not learn all our grammar lessons that way, so we’ll remember them all? Simple!
So, I tested the theory. I came up with mnemonics like:
‘There’s no room for ‘of’
In ‘I could of been rich.’
The correct word is have,
You ignorant bitch.‘
See? I could remember that, I think. So I kept working, and produced more like:
‘Don’t use ‘their’ with an ‘i’
When you mean ‘they are’, or ‘there’.
If you keep that shit up,
I’ll dip your nethers in Nair.‘
Small words, clear message — you could teach that to a four-year-old. I’m just trying to give back, here.
And now, two years later, I’m ready to give more. So here are a few more ditties to help you learn ‘Grammar, Charlie-Style‘:
‘A lot‘s not one word,
Unless there are things being alloted.
Keep using alot to mean ‘many’
And you’ll end up garroted.‘
Nice talk. Let’s try another:
‘If you don’t know that excepted
Means ‘left out’ or ‘not included’;
It will be widely accepted
That your dumb ass is deluded.‘
Now we’re rolling. Play it again:
‘You should say, ‘I’m not well‘
Instead of, ‘I don’t feel good‘.
The medics might leave you to die,
If you’re misunderstood.‘
And one more for the road:
‘Many grammatical errors
May be excused or forgotten;
But I’ll bitchslap your punk ass
Next time you claim, ‘It has been broughten!’‘
Whoops, there’s the bell. Single-file out the door, kids. I’ll see you back here in another two years or so. Class dismissed!
Permalink | 5 CommentsI’ve come to the conclusion that I’m growing gradually stupider.
The decline was inevitable, I suppose. At thirty-five, my best mental years have been behind me for a decade or more, at least. Soon enough, they’ll fit me for my padded helmet, and feed me applesauce with a foam-covered spork.
“I imagine myself as a fetal genius, doodling differential equations and painting breathtaking frescas on the uterine wall.”
Until then, I’m swimming in that uncomfortable limbo we all reach, sooner or later. I’m ‘out there‘ every day, being mildly productive and accumulating experience in the ways of the world. That’s valuable, certainly. I know far more tax laws and Scrabble words than I ever did at twenty. Meanwhile, I can’t remember my license plate number, and I stand in the shower every morning wondering whether or not I’ve washed my hair yet.
The evidence of my impending stupidity is all around me. At work, I have this conversation a lot:
Me: Wait. Why the hell is [whichever database we’re working with] built like this?
Co-worker: Well, it’s —
Me: I mean, it doesn’t make any damned sense!
Co-worker: Yes, but —
Me: What kind of raving jackass would build it like that?
Co-worker: Um… you.
Me: I… really? I did that?
Co-worker: Yup.
Me: What the hell was I thinking?
Co-worker: Well, at the time, you said [perfectly clear and reasonable explanation for why the database is built the way it is]. So that’s how we did it.
Me: Oh. Right. What I said, then.
The longer ago it happened, the better the ideas get. And the longer it takes me to catch on to what past-Charlie was thinking. I imagine myself as a fetal genius, doodling differential equations and painting breathtaking frescas on the uterine wall. These days, I’m lucky to put on my pants without falling over sideways.
(Oh, and don’t get your hopes up. That ‘longer ago, better ideas’ doesn’t seem to apply to the weblog. The archives are full of nonsense exactly like this. I just spell a little better now, is all.)
The same thing happens at home. I subscribe to a puzzle magazine — because hey, I’m obviously not wasting enough time, right? And I’ll occasionally pick up a back issue to try out one of the brain teasers. More than once, I’ve sat, drooling and stumped by a tricky poser… only to notice the answer, in my own handwriting, scribbled on the side of the page.
It’s one thing to be taunted by a sibling or classmate or spouse who’s smarter than you. But to have your nose rubbed in your mushy brain by yourself, from three years ago? That’s just fucking wrong. I can almost picture me writing it, too, and pointing a jeering finger into the future with a Nelsonesque ‘Ha-hah!‘ That just seems like something I’d do. Asshole.
I suppose I should take my increasing idiocy in stride. It’s happening to all of us — except my wife, she smugly assures me — so why fight it? I’m as smart as I’m ever going to be, and somewhat less smarterer than I was before. So what if I start watching reality TV and need my social security number tattooed on my forearm? At least the writing here won’t change. Maybe I’ll even take a couple of you down with me. Watch out!
Permalink | 2 CommentsIn this house, it’s my wife who’s in charge of buying things. This should surprise no one who knows us well at all. My wife is the practical, down-to-earth, well-reasoned, wicked smart, and generally wonderful sort of person who can be trusted with important purchases.
I, on the other hand, am the blithering, addled, pants-on-backwards sort of moron who shouldn’t be allowed to operate an electric toothbrush without adult supervision. But sometimes I get to help. I like to help.
List, Unadulterated
Take, for instance, our most recent grocery list, shown to the right.
(Click on any image in the series for an embiggened version.)
This is one of my wife’s typical grocery shopping lists. Note the responsible choices she makes on our behalf. Nutritious foods, like ‘yogurt’, ‘fruit’, and ‘asparagus’. Necessities, such as ‘milk’ and ‘dishwasher detergent’.
Even her penmanship is commendable. A handwriting analyst would look at this list, noting her bold strokes and elegant loops, the curvature of her ‘c’ and the strong confidence oozing from her ‘s’, and say:
‘Now here’s an impressive young woman who appears to have it all figured out. Watch out for her!‘
Typically, I leave the grocery planning in her more than capable hands. Getting involved in the process would only muck things up, and we’d end up with nothing but three weeks’ worth of HoHo’s and prune juice to eat. Again.
Once in a while, though, I make a small request. I’ll notice that we’re out of, say, microwave popcorn or jalepeno bean dip, and I’ll mention it to the missus. Her response, invariably, is this:
‘Okay, put it on the list.‘
“Remember, I’m like Garey Busey at a free vodka giveaway — no good can possibly come from getting me involved.”
She says this to test me, of course. She realizes that under most conditions, I’m not going to actually touch the list. Remember, I’m like Garey Busey at a free vodka giveaway — no good can possibly come from getting me involved.
Besides, my wife will pick up on anything important that we need. She eats most of the same foods I do, so she’s all over it when we’re low on the basics — bread, OJ, salsa, cold cuts, and the like.
(And beer. Did you notice that, on the list? Beer! I didn’t tell her; she listed it all by herself.
God, do I love that woman.)
This week, though, we were out of pickles. Sammich pickles — and my wife doesn’t make sammiches at home. She prefers hot meals, made on the stove or in the microwave. I’m not allowed to play with ‘burny things’, so I make sammiches instead. With pickles.
A Pickled List
So I told her we were out of pickles. She said, ‘Put it on the list!‘ So, finally, I did. The new list is on the right.
See how I don’t exude ‘responsible adult’ so much? I imagine that same handwriting expert as above, examining my wobbly ‘P’ and misshapen ‘K’ and proclaiming:
‘Now here’s a four-year-old child who appears to be mildly retarded. Watch out for him!‘
*sigh* The barbs I endure for my kosher dill slices.
Having already sullied the list once, I decided to scour the kitchen, looking for other low supplies the missus might miss. Mostly, we were okay — popcorn, check. Microwave burritos, check. Lik-M-Aid, with emergency supply of Stix, check. Only… hey, that bag of Chips Ahoy in the pantry is looking a little light, isn’t it?
The Final List
See? I told you I liked to help. I’m not about to actually go into the store, of course — and she’ll probably strap me to a chair and feed me prune juice when she sees the new list — but at least I can feel as though I’m part of the process.
And I’ll be able to make a decent sammich, with dessert to boot. Grocery shopping is fun!
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