Tentative post: Bike on a Hill

One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

In any case, I write about dreams often.  I even have a "dream journal" I keep next to my bed, so that if a particularly vivid dream hits, I can write it down before it fades from memory.  [Insert bit about dreams being portents and signs and such.]  Last night, a dream re-visited, however briefly, an incident from my childhood that, while I haven't forgotten it (and have a scar to remind me), I haven't thought about it in a long time.  

I learned to ride a two wheel bike fairly early in life- first or second grade.  My older brother (OB) taught me.  His bike had no training wheels, so he'd push me down a hill in a parking lot, and, at the base of the hill (where there was sediment gravel near a drain) is where I'd intentionally ditch the bike, as it was too big for my feet to touch the ground.  Crash!  Scrape!  Minor road rash.  "I wanna do it again!"  After a few trips down the hill, I'd mastered the necessary balance, and went into the house dirty, bloody, and happy.  Within a day or three, my dad (on a rare day off) removed the training wheels from my smaller bike, and off I went with my new found freedom!  

From an ad- the bike I had.

Maybe a year or two later, my parents got me a bigger kid's bike from K-Mart for my birthday.  That's the vehicle upon which this tale concerning Newton's Second Law of Motion takes place.  This bike, like all bikes of that type, had coaster brakes, which means if you pedal backwards, that would slam on the brakes, and you'd come to a quick-ish stop.  And if you did this as a skid, you'd look "BOSS!"  (Yeah, that was a thing in the 70s).  The weakness of coaster brakes was that the bike chain needed to be on to work.  Bike sprockets back then would bend if you crashed enough, which meant the chain could "pop" off.  An easy fix if one is stopped.  I think you can see where this is going.  

As I've written before, the street where I grew up was on a steep hill.  Hall street was about three blocks long.  West to east, the first block was flat, the second block was a steep-ish hill (and was closed after snow storms for sledding), and third block, upon which I lived, was far steeper with a slight bend to northeast.  At the bottom of my block was Main St, and across from that, the foundry and a driveway leading to the creek.  

 

In that order.

Current USGS Topographic Map

Using google maps and equations I looked up (hey- physics class was almost 40 years ago!), the second block descended at an angle of 350 degrees (slope -0.167) and my block was 338 deg, slope -0.4.  QED.

One summer's afternoon, I decided to walk my bike to the top of the hill and ride to Church Street (top of my part of the street) for a quick thrill.  After all, it was summer, I had a bike, and why not?  ZOOM!  SKIIIIIID!  Maybe do it again.  Hey!  Maybe if I practiced skidding enough, I'd do it cool enough that the older kids on the block would be impressed and pick on me less for being girly!  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

Still with me?

So up I went, uphill, barefoot, (shoes in the summer?  Oh please!) to the top of the hill.  Of course, I'd be pedaling as well down the hill to reach maximum speed so the skid would have maximum coolness!  And... they're off!  In my mind I was pursuing an enemy plane, and catching up for the kill!  Nearing the bottom by the police station, I decided to slow a bit before doing the spectacular skid, and...

The chain popped.  No brakes!

The trip

I zoomed through stop sign and intersection fast enough that I didn't want to ditch.  Preacher's yard?  No I'd hit the curb and wreck.  Now the steeper hill... no brakes!  Mounted the sidewalk using a driveway about half way down...Zoomed past my house doing 0.5 past light speed.  At this point, I had the brilliant idea of slowing by dragging my left foot on the pavement!  I forgot- no shoes!  Scrape!  Owwww!

Angle into the fire house parking lot, maybe ditch there?  No going too fast... oh shit!  I'll run straight out onto Main Street into traffic!  I'll be crushed!  

Lower hill.  The red X is where I put down my foot

By the time I reached Main street, I was easily doing warp 9.7.  Leaned into turning to the right, hoping not to flip and... into the street!  Fortunately, no cars were coming.  Main street was flattish, so the bike eventually slowed after a couple of blocks, and I put my feet down to stop and OUCH!  I left a bloody footprint from my left foot.  I ended up stopping next to a yard, hauled my bike onto the sidewalk and turned it over to fix the chain.  Then I lay on the grass, my left foot finally sending signals of intense pain.  

Don't cry- only babies cry... only girls cry...

I don't remember riding back to my house or dressing the wound (my mum probably did that with mercurochrome- the red-orange cure all that stung like crazy!)  In any case, this dressing made me don sneakers for at least a month to avoid infecting the injury, which of course happened anyway, and left me limping, which made me useless for what few games I'd be invited to join by the neighborhood kids.  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

Speaking of those kids- no one saw my epic death-defying stunt.  At all.  So obviously, it never happened.  If a bike crashes on the street and no one sees it...  OB knew I was hurt, knew it was bike related, and, being an older brother, made fun of me.  (As I would've had the positions been reversed.)  

In any case, said infection led eventually to a Planter's wart (how??) and in either case left the third visible scar on my body (after the Arrow-Chisel Affair and the Bat-rope Rusty Nail Episode.)

Right- so the Dream.  This dream was unusual in that I didn't have to be somewhere and by going, end up further from my destination.  Also, I wasn't being attacked by someone who I couldn't hurt.  Nor was I being abandoned by a loved one.  No, in this case, I was driving in "Spring City", the dream version of which is older, rotting, and hillier than reality.  I stopped at the intersection of Hall and Church Streets, facing south, when I saw my young self zoom by on the bike, barefoot and yowling like Slim Pickens riding the bomb at the end of Dr. Strangelove.  (I don't remember saying or yelling anything on my escapade.)  I knew that I had to cross the intersection in my car quickly, as that bike was on an endless loop, with each lap increasing speed until... I don't know... I actually get hit?  In the dream, I crossed the intersection, and in the rear view mirror, saw young me on the bike whip past again, face distorted like I was in a 10G dive.  Part of me wanted to stop, and, when I zipped by again, try to grab me from the bike and roll into the preacher's yard.  But- I (older me) was in a dress, and that wouldn't be lady-like, and what if the neighborhood kids saw me in a dress?  I'd get beaten up for sure and they'd tell my parents and...

I woke up.  

Went to the bathroom.  3 am.  Back to bed.  No more dreams for me tonight, thanks, I'm driving!

Looking back now- remembering how I felt careening out of control on that bike- I don't remember being really scared of being killed or maimed or such.  I was scared of getting in trouble for breaking the bike.

Some things never change.

FYI: Out of curiosity, I enlisted a Physics PhD candidate to help me figure out how fast I was going, and impact force had I hit a car on Main St.  By taking measurements on Google earth, and approximate heights from a topographic map, using my approximate weight at the time (plus bike), constant of friction from air and from bike tire on asphalt, he whipped out equations, calculations, and eventually determined that, depending upon certain factors such as how I was sitting on the bike for wind resistance, and tire pressure, by the time I reached Main street I was going somewhere between 40-60 mph, probably on the lower side of that range.  In a car, 35 mph is lethal upon impact, so (checks the numbers in Tefft, 2013), I had a 75-100% chance of serious injury, and a 50-90% chance of death... depending upon various factors.  So me not hitting something at the bottom of the hill was damn lucky.

Be well. 

Tefft, B. C. (2013). Impact speed and a pedestrian's risk of severe injury or death. Accident Analysis & Prevention, 50, 871-878.

Inspirations: Victoria Datta

 I was challenged to write something positive, so I thought it was past time to honor another one of the people who inspire me everyday.  

I met Victoria that first night out as Sophie, when I went to a Renaissance meeting and to Angela's Laptop Lounge afterward.  She was (and still is) elegant beyond compare: exotic and aloof.  Also, I learned by asking someone that she was dating one of the Movers and Shakers in the Philadelphia transgender scene- the person who ran the Yahoo group that everyone used for events.  As I don't have permission to name that person, I'll assign her the pseudonym: W.  Victoria was "W's girl" which meant "stay away from her."  I always thought that was a lonely circumstance.  

Victoria

The first few times I saw Victoria, I thought she wasn't trans.  Then I wondered if she was one of the "pros" who would come out of the city to get some "business" from the admirers, but ended up dating W.  I admit: I was intimidated by her beauty, poise, and class.  I could never look that good.

Eventually, W introduced me to Victoria, and I did my best not to be dumbstruck.  Not long after, the local trans community was abuzz- W and Victoria had broken up!  I assume many people started hitting on her directly after, but I never saw her dating anyone.  

Around that same time, my therapist invited me to join a support group, then named "Trans Sans Sition."  Members of this group would become some of my dearest friends.  Victoria was there (in addition to Amy, and Jen L) and always had wise input.  She seemed so very approachable.  Eventually, she suggested the group change its name to Transquility, and so it remains to this day (however it is now virtual.)

Amy and Victoria Keystone 2015

During this time I really learned what an amazing person Victoria is.  Her strength and determination are awe inspiring.  She transitioned on the job at a major company, and was instrumental in writing policies for them concerning transgender employees.  Victoria also presents on that topic at various transgender conferences.  Soon after I came out, I was honored to co-present on the topic, as my company was smaller.  

Through it all, Victoria has been a model of grace, beauty, strength, generosity, and compassion.  I was honored to be invited to her Confirmation Party in May 2014 (which I wrote about here.)  She is a major music lover, including being a mega George Michael fan.  She spoke at my "coming out party" in 2015, and I did my best not to cry (I failed.)  

Debutante Party 2015

I could write so much more about this amazing woman, but I'm sure she'll blush enough at what little I have revealed.  She is a fairly private person.   All that said, the world is so much richer because she's in it, and she has been a guiding light and dear friend for years.

And her beauty still intimidates me,

Thank you for being you, Victoria!  I love you!

  

56, Nine, and Forever

As I type this line, it's Monday September 12, 2022.  That means yesterday was the 21st anniversary of the terrorist attacks, and that tomorrow is the anniversary of my birth.  Don't ask me which I think was the bigger disaster.

I've written many times about my opinion of September- I dread it like normal people dread getting a root canal.  Inevitably, the calendar turns, and the month begins though, as time doesn't stop no matter what we try.  So here we are.  

August 2012

All that said, I wrote this letter last night:

Dearest Lisa,

Another year, another anniversary, another slew of letters you'll never see.  I wrote you almost daily in the spring as I tried to sort things out in my broken head.  Not so much lately, as a dull fog descended on me a month or so back, obscuring thought, emotion, and life.  

Ever since I passed my comps, I feel like I've been going in slow motion.  I wonder if you ever felt that way.  You always seemed so in control and way ahead of everything.  You certainly had me fooled- or did you?  After all, your plans and behavior before the execution of those plans fooled everyone.

I can't believe that you left us nine years ago.  Nine fucking years.  In many ways, it still seems like yesterday, but the world has changed so much since you died.  I wonder what you'd think of it.  I wonder how many people still remember you, your smile, and how special you made them feel.  

In any case, another year goes by without you- another year closer to our eventual reunion.  Save me a seat.

I will always love and miss you, Lisa

Yours,

Sophie

Silly Thoughts

As you can imagine, dear reader, there are many posters hanging about the university.  Advertisements of all kinds for different classes, programs and events are everywhere.  Unlike my day, they aren't confined to the occasional corkboard, as there are now electronic posters with shifting pictures, circles and arrows and a paragraph on... sorry.  Started channeling Arlo Guthrie again.

Yesterday was one of those events advertised.  The center where I work held an LGBT all campus welcome jawn in a large sweaty hall in the student union.  It was quite the success, with a lot of people coming, many organizations tabling, and free food (including Swedish meatballs, brie, and chicken amoretto.  Not mixed together.)  There was music as well, but all I could hear was the bass line and drums, as I was on the other side of the room.  

In any case, during the event, I had to run down to the center, which was two floors down.  As I walked, I saw a poster that caused me to pause.

"BECOME AN EMT"

As long time victims, I mean readers of this blog know, in my youth I was a volunteer Emergency Medical Technician (EMT.)  I would eventually become a Paramedic, but that doesn't matter.  I volunteered with an ambulance and a rescue squad.

As I wrote in a previous entry: "Doing this work radically changed some of my thinking back then.  Back when so many people my age thought they were invincible, I looked death in the face.  I watched friends die.  I saw things that hurt and haunt me to this day.  What does that do to someone still in adolescence?  Well, it makes us less fun at parties for one thing.  It puts things in perspective as well.  And for someone who carried the Dark Secret I had inside of me?  Yes, I have PTSD. Not just from the Paramedic days, but from repressing my Truth and swallowing my Pain."

All true.  I still think of what I saw every day.  I think about the people who I tried to help, but couldn't.  When I sleep, I have consistent nightmares of helplessness and failure.  

So why in the world would that poster give me pause... and cause me to consider re-certifying my EMT certification?  My EMT and other certifications ran out decades ago (I keep my CPR current when I can get a course.)  Well, at first glance, I figured that the course might be free, as it would be paid by the University in exchange for  service on the University Ambulance.  Fair trade.  And beside, ambulance work, while not easy, was nowhere near as traumatic as rescue work.  Usually not as bloody.  In fact, in the old days, they were a lot of routine transports.  But here were also heart attacks, births, strokes, and suicides.  The ones that still haunt me from those are the suicides- one in particular.  

I can't say I regret letting my certifications expire.  At the time, I'd met wife, had a steady job, and was ready to move on from that work.  I still stop at accidents when I came upon them (one day I'll have to tell the story of the Christmas accident in Delaware) if no ambulance had yet arrived.  I like to fool myself, once in a while, that I still make a difference.  Heck, I'm considering donating my old helmet to a museum! (Spring Ford Historical Society)

Is it a desire to reclaim my lost youth?  Do I miss the adrenaline rush?  Not really.  The fact is that in my middle age I feel useless.  I want to make a difference  again- directly- in a way that I can see.  

But then those pesky facts get in the way.  I'm really in no physical condition to run ambulance (not that many ambulance people I met are paragons of physical fitness) due to my back, hip, and knees- which were partially destroyed in the rescue days of my youth.  Also, I looked into the program- it isn't free.  Like my undergrad days, they are for-credit courses, which means tuition: $726 per credit hour.  It's a four credit course, so... $2904.  That's too rich for my blood... and bank account.  If I had that money, there are other things I'd need to do first.  Like pay bills.  Or send my mum's ashes to Scotland.  Or...

In any case, I guess my mind is writing checks that my body (and sanity) can no longer cash.  I already have enough bad dreams and flashback.  I think that, in this case, it's best to let this "opportunity" go.

Be well.

Comps II: Oral Boogaloo

On Monday, August 15, 2022, at 10 AM, I started my oral comprehensive exam.  I already finished the written portion (which I wrote about here), so this was where I defended my work and answered additional questions.  

I was allowed to do a ten minute presentation if I wished to explain my answers, so I did (good thing too!).  At this point, a ten minute presentation is nothing.  I worked a few hours on power point slides, rehearsed it a couple of times, and was ready.  All I needed was a good night's sleep.  I took melatonin and went to bed early-ish.  

One of the slides.  On the right is Michel Foucault

And had nasty insomnia.  

When I did sleep, I dreamed of being back in a school setting. Physically, the building was a school I encounter often in my dreams- a random, rambling monstrosity with hills, a multi-level shopping mall, a food court, and hallways that intersect at odd angles.  I had assignments to finish, but it was the last day of school, and the final bell had sounded.  Students were in a desperate rush to begin summer, and the hallways were crowded with kids throwing papers in the air and shouting.  I managed to find my locker somehow (in my dreams, I normally can't) and was putting away books (huh?) worried about the assignments I never did.  

I originally planned to wake up early, shower, do my hair and makeup and read through my written exam one more time before the 10 AM test on zoom.  Well, in the end, I skipped the makeup, and only dried my hair instead of doing anything fancy.  I managed to read through my paper though, as my advisor had technical difficulties so the exam started a little late.

So there they were- the four members of my dissertation committee, each a scholar of note within their field, and each, in my mind, ready to tear me to pieces.  I selected three of these professors as they made an impression on me in class or out.  The chair was my advisor, and also very good.  I gave my presentation, which lasted just a hair under ten minutes (as timed.)  Then the questions began.

I suppose there's no harm in revealing the four questions I was asked to discuss in the written part, as they were tailored to my work.

1) Review the existing academic literature on transgender awareness and inclusion programs (training) for adults, including the types of programs and their outcomes (effectiveness). In addition, how do these programs address the root causes of violence toward transgender people, if at all? Finally, explain how Foucault’s theories of power and knowledge can help us understand transmisogyny and transgender violence.

2) Review the adult education literature on transformative learning, exploring both its central tenets and critiques. How are theories of transformative learning relevant to your proposed study on transgender awareness and inclusion programs? What kinds of verbal statements and actions (practices) would indicate that participants in transgender programs have experienced transformative learning? 

3) Use the gender and women’s studies literature on gender justice to explain how transgender advocacy is related to broader gender justice movements in the USA. How is transgender liberation a disruption or threat to hegemonic and traditional conceptualizations of gender roles, gender identity, and gender as an organizing structure of society? 

4) You have proposed using an ethnographic and autoethnographic approach to answering your research questions. Discuss the central elements of ethnography and autoethnography and why these methods are appropriate for answering your research questions. Consider this a draft of the methods section for your dissertation proposal to include: research design, main research questions, sampling and participants, data collection, and data analysis.

My oral exam focused on these questions as well.  I was sweating like crazy due to nerves.  I didn't want to look like a complete idiot in front of these professors, whom I admire.  That said, I felt like a complete fraud.  I didn't belong in this meeting.  I was a poser- and they knew it.  They were going to fail me most heinously and were going through the motions- I was sure of it.

As I wrote in the earlier bit, there were three possible outcomes of this exam:

1. Pass.  I would then be an ABD (All But Dissertation) and could start work on my dissertation.

2. Partial Pass: If I screw up one question, I will have an opportunity to re-write it and go again.  I get one chance at that.

3. Fail.  Done.  Get out.  Finished.  No soup for you.  Wasted three years.  Go away, loser.  And the horse you rode in on.

I answered their questions to the best of my ability, with only one that was a bit unexpected.  Then, they put me in a "break out room" as they debated my fate.  I was told it would be around ten minutes.  I went to the bathroom.  grabbed another bottle of water.  Organized the desk a little.  Checked the news.  

Ten minutes passed.

                                            

                                            15

                                                                                                        20

After 23 minutes, the break out room closed, and there were the four professors.  I was informed that after considerable debate, I...

PASSED.

However, the debate was on whether or not I should re-write (do over) my answers to questions one and three.  Y'know, the two I was most confident that I'd aced.  Three professors congratulated me and disappeared.  My advisor told me that it was a close thing- and that if I had to re-write, there was still a chance I could salvage a PhD.  

After that, she gave me instructions as to what I had to do next.  I then dragged my roomie/bestie Linda downtown to Cafe 210 West and had lunch and celebratory Long Island Iced tea pitchers.  Then home for a celebratory nap.

At the Cafe

The next day, my advisor sent me six typed pages of notes about the exam: questions she had but didn't ask as well as critiques.  To read these made me think that passing me was a mercy- a concession because I ticked off several diversity boxes.  One of my fellow students doesn't think so- she thinks I'm reading into it.  Maybe I'm letting my imposter syndrome get the best of me.  

As I type this, it's Friday.  The upper classmen are back, and I'm sure the bars downtown are packed with reunions, summer stories, flirtations, and shots.  Me? I haven't showered in a couple days, feel scummy, and need to shave as the laser I had 12 years ago has worn off.  I'd love to be downtown enjoying the day, and the fact that I'm no longer a PhD Student- I'm now a PhD Candidate.  But the Darkness has me, and besides, I'm broke.  As usual.

So there you have it. dear readers.  Somehow, for whatever reason, I passed.  I feel tremendous relief.  Now it's time for the dissertation proposal; fifty pages of fun.  

But not today.

Be well.

Story of a Flapper

 Once upon a time, I did my best to update this blog once a week, and I felt bad if I didn't.  But depression, then school, etc overwhelmed any desire to write anything.  Right now, I'm in a place where I have the time, and I'm not curled up in bed staring into nothingness and wishing for same.  So, now... what do I write? 

A week from today (as I write this), I take my oral comprehensive exam.  A lot is at stake here, as I wrote last entry.  Do I stay or do I go?  Stay tuned.

I started reading a book called Flapper: A Madcap Story of Sex, Style, Celebrity, and the Women who made America Modern by Joshua Zeitz.  The prohibition era fascinates me, and I'll get to why.  Maybe because it was a time of incredible change in this country.  For the first time, the US took away citizen's rights instead of granting them (like the supreme court did recently.)  As most people know who've been on the planet a while, the unintended side effect was that organized crime became entrenched here in the US, while a majority of the populace gave the law the finger and drank anyway.  

I've read several books on the topic already, but none were female-centric.  In this case, the book centers on several women and how they smashed the Victorian sensibilities of their parents and changed how women defined themselves and society.  One of the women profiled is Lois Long, better known as "Lipstick" who wrote a column for the New Yorker.  I read about her in other books as well- through her writing, readers rode along on her adventures club hopping to all the right places.  For me, the best part was that no one knew who Lipstick was, and she took pains to keep it that way.  She reveled in her anonymity (although many women claimed to be her to gain entrance to exclusive speakeasies.)  Her prose, if you can find it, pops with energy.  Lois Long lived to be 72, passing in 1974.  She's buried in Easton, PA, not too far from where True Colors Makeup Artistry used to be.  

Lois Long (on the right)

(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lois_Long)

This leads to a story (you knew it would, right?)  In the summer of 1984, I quit Burger King, worked briefly for a sewage plant, then got a summer job at Montgomery County Geriatric and Rehabilitation Center (it has since changed its name so many times, I have no idea what it's called) doing Summer Maintenance.  Usually that meant painting things, though I also learned how to do locksmithing.  One day, I was taking down air vents in the resident rooms when I met "Beatrice." I won't give her real name.  Bea was wheelchair bound after a stroke, but she wasn't going to let that stop her.  Bea ("don't call me Beatrice, young man, you're not my father!")  Bea was stuck into the home by her nephew, as her son died in Korea in 1952 (if memory serves.)  No one ever visited her as she really had no family.

Bea  loved to talk, and was a dynamo of energy.  I spent more time taking down that vent then I should have (and caught hell for it) and went back at my lunch to visit some more.  Bea was a flapper, "quite a dish," and full of stories.  She was a Main Line girl, and attended Bryn Mawr College (so she says- I never verified any of her stories, nor did I want to).  She told me about the parties and the speakeasies in Wayne, PA, and Philly, of dancing until dawn then going with her date to a diner for coffee.  She loved telling her stories, and brought the era to life in a unique way.  She told me of a "juice joint" being raided and her getting stuck in a window with her butt hanging out.  As a flapper, her skirt was quite short, and, well, she'd neglected to wear underwear, "so the police got quite a view!"  She managed to escape with a little help so her name didn't end up in the newspapers (the embarrassment!).  

Another favorite story was her "cake eater" (ladies man) of the moment trying to teach her to drive, and running his brand new Stutz into a ditch, which tossed them out over the windshield into a creek (she showed me a scar on her arm, which she claims was from that accident), shredding her "glad rags."  He didn't ask her out again after that.  Bea married "a mouthpiece from Yale" (lawyer) with whom she had her son.  She had her son's medals and showed them to me.   Her husband died in the 60s, so she'd lived alone since.  

1925 Stutz model 695

(https://www.conceptcarz.com/valuation/17247/stutz-model-695.aspx)

That fall, I went to Drexel.  When I came home for Thanksgiving break, I learned that Bea had another stroke, and that this one took her at age 83.  I attended her funeral, where I was one of maybe ten people.  She had no one left.  I had a writing assignment after break, so I wrote about Bea.  The professor liked it so much, she entered it in a contest, where it won an award.  I guess standards for writing at an engineering school were low.  

I wonder what she would think of my transition.  She wasn't exactly conservative (she considered Reagan a "flimflam artist").  I'm guessing she would've encouraged me to hike up my skirt to show off my "pins" and enjoy myself.  And then smiled that sly smile she had.  

I think of Bea once in a while, and the life she had.  We are all people of our time: she of the Roaring Twenties and myself of the Eighties and Nineties (that's when I was free to "gad about.")  I assume that all the flappers are gone now, so there is no living memory of that time.  Eventually, there will be no living memory of World War II, then the Sixties, and, someday, the Eighties.  Maybe that's why I tell stories now (like in this blog) so someone, somewhere may read them and learn a little about my time (and yours).  

Be well, and "don't take any wooden nickels."

Summer's Stretch and Sixty One

Summer enters its final stretch here in August, and soon the students will return to State College as an unstoppable wave of energy, curiosity, and lust.  I remember when I was an undergrad I couldn't wait to get back up here- away from parents and their rules and back on my own where the possibilities and parties were endless.

Today I'm really not thinking of that though.  Today marks my dearest sister Lisa's 61st birthday.  Nine years ago, this day was marked by a huge party in her sister's yard in Baltimore which was a combination of her 52nd birthday and "coming out" party.  I was one of the lucky few to be invited, and it was one of the most fun days of my life.  

Me, Lisa, and Ally: August 3, 2013

As I wrote of that day:

I started walking toward the back yard and I saw Lisa.  She was dressed in a white floral dress, and holding a bouquet of flowers.  Absolutely angelic.  She saw our group coming and smiled broadly.  I would find out later that she was feeling extremely nervous until we arrived, and we were like cavalry coming to her rescue!  I can't blame her- that had to be so incredibly stressful meeting so many relatives as a Woman for the first time.

It was a long day- 18 hours and a LOT of driving. Also that day, I met a statuesque beauty who would become one of my dearest friends: Ally.  

Special people and special memories.  Bittersweet.  Lisa is still 52, and always will be.  As those who have read this blog more than a little know what happened.  Lisa committed suicide a little more than a month later.  She deprived the world of her incredible light, and the privilege of watching her and Sandy grow old together.  I think of them both today, as I do every day.  

And so, this last chapter of summer (so to speak) is hot, humid, and haunted.  The hot weather now continues into November, so it's like we skip autumn chill and go into a short winter before summer begins again.  (Spring and fall were cancelled to bring higher profits to oil companies.)  In any case, today I reflect on what was, who she was, what could have been, what is, who I am, and what now?  No matter what, I hope that wherever she is, I'm making Lisa proud.

Happy birthday Lisa!  I will always love and miss you.    

Heat, Covid, and Comps: Ju-ly!

 Ok, so I just finished four very tough weeks.  My PhD program looks like this:

• One year of brutal classes.
• Qualifying Exam
• Two more years of brutal classes (if they were easy, everyone would be a PhD)
• Assemble PhD committee (4 professors)
• Comprehensive exam
• Dissertation
• Dissertation defense
• PhD
• job at Burger King.

The past four weeks have been the comprehensive exams (I am Groot, 2013).  Four questions, 60 pages, 30 days.  Each member of the PhD committee can give me one question, and it can cover anything I've ever learned in my entire life.  f=ma.  I before E, except after C.  Of course, they asked questions relating to my research and things learned during my program (Holmes, 1879).  I'm not at liberty to discuss the questions at this time.  If you remember the movie Back to School:

"Discuss the foundations of modern global business systems. Part one: Define and differentiate the three economic philosophies of capitalism, socialism, and communism, as pertains to: A) Management fundamentals; B) organizing and staffing; C) labor management; and D) production and operations. (flips to next notecard) Part two... Are you getting all this, Mr. Melon?..."

Yeah, it's like that.

In any case.  They're finished.  Long days and nights.  Procrastination.  Some days when I was too depressed to move from bed (Doritos, $1.95).  But on Friday, I finished writing.  Edited over the weekend, trying to make it sound semi-cohesive and semi-coherent.  Now I have to:

• Print out one copy requested by a professor (and deliver it).
• Email copies to the committee members and department admin.
• Print out a copy for myself
• Because...

It's not over yet (Leia, 5.77).  On August 15, I will stand in front of these professors and defend my answers for two hours.  After that, there are three possible outcomes.

1. Pass.  I would then be an ABD (All But Dissertation) and could start work on my dissertation.

2. Partial Pass: If I screw up one question, I will have an opportunity to re-write it and go again.  I get one chance at that.

3. Fail.  Done.  Get out.  Finished.  No soup for you.  Wasted three years.

No pressure.

At Arts Fest, earlier this month

So, I've been working on that.  Had my nose in academic articles and books.  Now that this one bit is done?  I want to read something non-academic (Gygax, 3d6). Some fluff.  Maybe Dragonlance.  And I want to write stuff and not worry about citations and format and all that.  Then again, looking at this piece, it sorta looks a bit academic.  Hmmm... maybe I'll go back in this entry and add goofy citations, just for the hell of it (Old Nick, 666). 

Earlier this month was the Central Pennsylvania Festival of the Arts, also known as Arts fest.  It's a bunch  of artists from all over selling their art in booths that go for several blocks, as well as bands, activities, and such (Archimedes, 3.14).  It's best known to Penn Staters as summer homecoming.  Alumni come up, students come back up (especially those who have apartments whose leases last over the summer), old bands reunite- it's like a football weekend without the football.  For students, it's a break from the drudgery of home, part time jobs, ugh, and a chance to go back up to party like crazy (Cthulhu, aaaaa!).  PSU became more of a home to me than home, and I couldn't wait to get back.  I re-posted an old story about that a little while ago.  Aside from visiting old friends who returned to campus on Friday, I walked around a bit.  I avoided downtown over the weekend nights.  The weekend was for the students, and I'm too old.  And broke.  

I hope you've been watching the Jan 6 hearings.  Riveting stuff- and paints a picture of treason so completely that if the GQP people involved had a conscience, they'd resign immediately.  But they don't. so they won't.  After all, they know they (especially 45) are above the law- it's been proven over and over.  They should sentence the gravy seals who entered the Capitol much more harshly as an example.  But they won't (Arnold, 1780).   

Did I already mention I had Covid in June?  I can't remember.  *checks*  Oh right- I did.  My brain is fried (Sanders, 11 herbs and spices).  

So in any case, that's been my July.  Here in PA we're having a heat wave (like the rest of the country) but had a good soaking rain this morning.  Saturday was near 100 deg (f) and humid.  That's summer!  A lot of people are complaining.  Well, it beats snow!  (Which we never get anymore, because winter is just more summer) (Heat miser, 12, 25).  I hope your summer (or winter for our friends down south) is going nicely.

Be well.

Men of the Skull: Chapter 69: George and Chapter 70: Kamikazes

It's been a while since I posted sequential chapters from my book about PSU in the 80s; Men of the Skull.  These two are short and related, so I combined them (as I would if I were to publish this.

George generously gave me permission to use his name (one of only two brave souls to do so.)  We're still great friends all these years later, and he has been very supportive of my transition.  And- he's a member of this group.  

I was a very mentally wounded person back then, and very unsure of myself, especially in relationships.  My relationship with "Virginia" was only my second long lasting one, and my first, um, sexual one.  At the beginning of these chapters, she and her mother have left for a several week trip to Florida.  

Another bit; I mention my James Bond image.  I grew up wanting to emulate Bond ("he's a REAL man!"), so I wanted to learn to dance, make drinks, drive defensively (or offensively), etc.  Eventually, I took ballroom dance class, I already had defensive (stunt-ish) driving class, so now it was time to learn drinks.  I just wish someone would've shown me how to dress fashionably, as I was (and still am) a mess.   

**********************************************************************

Chapter 2.69:  George

Monday, May 18, 1987 U.S. Ship is Attacked in Gulf

            Virginia was gone.  She left that morning.  I was a mess.

            Yeah I missed her but that wasn’t it.  Last time a girlfriend went away for a trip it was Julianne and she cheated on me.  Would Virginia?

            Wait- this was a whole different thing.  Julianne was in high school.  I may have been in college when that happened, but she still in high school as was the relationship.  This relationship with Virginia- it was College.  We were having sex- a lot of it.  We were both currently committed to getting an education.  It was a whole different world: a whole different relationship.

            So would she stay faithful?

            Did I mention how fucked up my mind was at that time?

            Anyway, I had something to take my mind off it.  I saw an ad in the Pottstown Mercury for Bartending School!  Wow!

            This fit right into my whole “James Bond” image thing.  A man should know how to mix drinks.  Besides, I could get a job at one of State College’s many bars that would pay much more than retail, Burger King, or selling plasma.  And- And- it would get me OUT OF THE HOUSE!

            I had a little savings left so I paid up and that night drove up the road to Pottstown.  The class was held at the Holiday Inn on King St near rte 100.

June 15, 1987 Collegian

            First thing I noticed when I walked in- no chairs.  There were a lot of fake bars made of stainless steel.  Each one had room for two people.  I stood at one hoping a cute girl would partner with me.  That would make things more fun.

            The room filled quickly.  One of the guys wore a Kelly green t-shirt with yellow lettering that said “Lambda Chi Melon Bust” over some kind of yellow stenciled picture.  A fellow Greek!  He came in with a cute girl and partnered with her.  The room filled until the only empty spot was the one next to me.  That sure helped my self esteem.

            The instructor stepped out of a side room.  He was a little shorter than me, with brown hair parted to the side and a cheesy moustache.  He had sleepy eyes, was just a bit overweight, figure he was around forty, and he wore black pants, white tuxedo shirt and a black bow tie.  He looked like the bartender in every movie you’ve ever seen. 

            He introduced himself as Paul Mernoff, Instructor for Bartender Excaliber, and gave us an overview of his qualifications:  AC, Vegas, New York, Philly.  Impressive!  Why was he here?  In any case, he was going to teach us to be bartenders, and if there were anyone in the world I’d want to teach me, it was this guy.

            He started with basics and built from there.  (Whoever designed this course knew what they were doing.)  We poured colored water into glasses with fake plastic ice cubes.  “Seeing the proper drink color is important.”

            At the end of the night’s lessons, I walked over to the green shirted guy.  He was shorter than me- maybe five foot seven.  He was slim but cut- obviously strong.  His face was cherubic, with big blue eyes, rosy cheeks and a perpetual smile.  His wavy blonde hair may as well have been a halo. 

            “Hey Lambda Chi!  What campus?”  I asked.

            “Penn State,” he replied, looking a little annoyed that I interrupted his walk out the door.  “Why?”

            I smiled.  “I’m a Skull at Penn State.  My name’s Lance.”

            “George” he said, offering his hand and visibly less tense.  “You can’t be a Skull, you’re too fucking thin!”

            “I transferred from Drexel.”

            “That explains that.  Hey, I gotta go,” George said.  “Team up next week?”

            “Sure!”

            So George left, and I wandered out into the humid night to my Mustang and…

            FUCK!

            I locked the fucking keys in the God damned car!

 

Chapter 2.70: Kamikazes

Monday, June 15, 1987 Arms pact reportedly is at hand

So it was the last bartending class.  The idea was that each team of students would bring alcohol and make one kind of drink.  Then, we would all sample each other’s drinks.  Not really a final exam, but sort of.  More of a pride thing.

Lambda Chi George, myself, and this one blond had been a team for a while.  We decided to make Kamikazes!  He said he’d bring the vodka, she brought triple sec and all I needed to do was buy the damn lime juice (as I was still underage.) Simple enough, right?

Of course I forgot.

So I arrived early to class just to have George ream me out a bit.  I ran across a road and a parking lot to a grocery store to pick up the juice.  Felt like a fucking idiot.  I returned sweaty and out of breath just as class was starting.

Every group was doing simple shit like martinis and screwdrivers.  We did Kamikazes that had three ingredients.  Yeah- go us!

June 15, 1987 Collegian

George brought a yellow plastic cocktail shaker from homecoming last year.  So as Paul said “ReadyReady!” and called out a drink for us to make, George was loudly shaking kamikazes.  Never mind that you really don’t need to shake kamikazes.

            “Readyready: vodka martini rocks with a twist.”

            SHAKESHAKESHAKE

            Soon, Paul figured out that the class was descending into chaos.  Oh well.  Everyone drink and enjoy!

            “Are you going to be good to drive home?”  Paul asked George.

            “Sure, no problem!”  George replied, and gave him a kamikaze I made.

            Damn good one too.

 

 

 

  Next Chapter

Last Chapter

First Chapter

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Covid Caught Me

 Hell dear reader.  Yes, it's been a while, but for a change, I have an excuse.  As the title suggests, Covid finally caught up to me.

A few weeks back, I went to an "ascension" ceremony, where my daughter 'graduated' from middle school to high school.  I don't know about you, but for me, going from 8th to 9th grade wasn't a big deal.  Alas that was 1980.  But I digress.  Anyway, so I drove down to SEPa on a Wednesday and watched the ceremony with Wife and MIL. 

 

Now, Daughter had just gotten over covid- in fact she learned she had it a few weeks before, right after the last time I saw her.  So I did the whole isolation thing and tested negative.  But sitting there in the stands, I began feeling sick.  As there was a dance after the ceremony, they weren't going to a dinner or anything that I wouldn't be invited to, so I headed straight back to State College.  As I drove, I felt sicker and sicker.

I went to bed early that night, and felt worse the next day- so bad that I called off work (which I hate doing.)  Long story short, Friday I took an at-home test, and it showed positive.  (Why do covid tests look like pregnancy tests?)  I kinda knew before I saw the result.  I was coughing, my breathing felt restricted- like I was wearing a corset laced tight.  My head throbbed, my stomach felt blah- basically I felt like I'd been run over by a steamroller.  Coincidentally, this is how I felt after getting my second covid vaccination.  (I had a total of three, so I wasn't worried about a severe case.)

Linda (roomie/bestie) tested as well, and was negative for a few days.  eventually, she got it as well- after all, it's a small apartment.

So it was for better than a week.  I slept a LOT.  Heeding advice I was given, I stayed hydrated.  Oh, and during this time, I was banned from facialbook as well for posting a political meme.  Didn't matter, I slept most of the time, except during class (which I took on Zoom.)

Eventually, I felt a bit better, and my doctor said I could begin re-integrating myself into polite society (masked.)  That said, I still feel like I'm wearing a corset- like my lungs don't have room to fill.  

Sidebar: the Sunday before the ceremony, my car (which was my mum's before I bought it- long story) was in the shop.  I had to work, so I rode a bike the three miles up and down hills to get there.  I love biking.  However, I couldn't surmount the meekest of hills.  My limbs were afire and I couldn't breathe.  I attributed it to old age and being an out of shape blob, but it seems that covid already had me.  I'm going to get back on the bike soon, for shorter distances, to build up my strength again.

So there you have it dear reader.  That's where I've been.  In other news, I finished my final class, and am now starting my comprehensive exams.  4 questions, 60 pages, 30 days.  Pass/fail.  IF I get past these, I can start my dissertation process.  I'll be an ABD: All But Dissertation.  But first, I must pass these exams.  

Be well.