Maybe next year . . .

I left the lab early today, that of course being a relative term, but had I stayed I certainly would have sustained the usual 1st to 2nd degree burns from handling a thruster that is still too hot; a situation that reeks of desperation though we’ll just call it “justified academic collateral damage”.

To be honest, the experimental stuff is not going so well these days due to a dizzying array of problems, but after 4.5 years and over 300 thruster tests I know my methods aren’t the problem. Rather “the problem” is the problem. The results of turbo hot temperatures and high voltages yield at best an awkward party with light beer and tequila and at worst a strange competition between a suicide note and a dissertation. But alas therein is the true problem - at some point I need to get on with my life - a sentiment shared by most rational humans familiar with my research. Others might have me continue to what end I know not but it would seem that the current trend in academia necessitates a “victory” at all costs neglecting the fact that there is often more to be learned during the buildup than a synthetic success. To that end, during my thesis proposal defense I suggested the concept of the Phyrric Victory:

A Pyrrhic victory (IPA: /’pɪr ɪk/ -) is a victory with devastating cost to the victor.

“The armies separated; and, it is said, Pyrrhus replied to one that gave him joy of his victory that one more such victory would utterly undo him”. (Dionysius 280 B.C. via Wikipedia)

What prompted this surfacing from the abyss? Three reasons: first, I’m clearly frustrated by the never ending war of attrition with the laws of physics and metuallurgy. Second, however this story turns out I want to document with some amount of posterity the pivotal moments in my life. And finally I need to finish stat or the one job I actually wanted will evaporate and thus the plight of Pyrrhus will come to fruition yet again.

What am I saying here? Not sure but I’ve had a lot of success with my research in the early days but things changed but now the hour grows late and the path has strayed further than anyone would have guessed.

I mean to write this about two weeks ago but you know . . .

So anyway, my flight back to Houghton from Rochester MN was . . . well typical? Under the advice of my parents I hopped on the internet to check in for my flight a few hours ahead of time and in between “System errors” and “Please Call for Details” my flight from Minneapolis to Houghton was first canceled, then rerouted to Detroit. Well, the Detroit airport is no place to spend Thanksgiving so I heeded their advice and gave them a call. Which something like this:

NWA: Thank you for calling . . . blah blah blah

Me: So I see you have me going to Detroit instead of Houghton. Well I guess I would like to talk about that.

NWA: Let’s see . . . type type type . . . hmmmm . . . type type type

Me: No seriously, have you looked at a map? Houghton is nowhere near Detroit. Detroit is actually further from Houghton than I currently am.

NWA: Please hold . . .

Me: (under breath) my fingers around your neck?

Eventually some random number generator cranked out the right flight number and all was well, on the internet anyway. So my folks drop me off at the Rochester airport, nay Rochester International Airport, and I begin the waiting. The flight was more or less on time which was good, and they even upgraded me to first class for the 25 minute flight (first time I’ve ever flown first class).

The funny thing about the Rochester Airport though is the cliental. Almost everyone hopping on that beer can with wings was in Rochester for the Mayo Clinic. This has some interesting implications as nearly half the crowd was in a wheelchair or has being lugged on to the plane by someone only slightly more mobile. Honestly, if that plane would have crashed, only me and the flight crew would have walked away unless of course we were clipped by the shards of hips, oxygen bottles, wheelchairs and other bionic parts from the balance of the passengers.

The contents of that plane really makes me wonder: how many old or infirm people have I accidentally killed in Rochester? Work with me on this one: so I walk the halls of the Mayo Clinic underground complex which essentially constitutes most of downtown Rochester and I had a cold so I coughed a bit. A ancient man passing gives me a murderous look knowing that my toxic wasteland of a body is propped up by the immune system of a hero and likely lives in mortal fear that if he catches what I have, he’ll surely be dead by sunset. Which is like 4pm.

What is the point of this post? I want to die in a glorious explosion where they have to sponge me off the wall instead of slowly rusting to pieces in a sanitary smelling room.