Shredding Gnasty and Finishing the Move

This is supposed to be a blog about racing (specifically mountain bike racing), and I have yet to mention the shredding of the gnar, let alone racing.  Friends visiting, family visiting, and partying sort of got in the way of riding for a bit there, but I got to go on 2 sweet rides before leaving the Reno area.

The first one was in a place called Graeagle, California.  Most mountain bikers have probably heard of Downieville, CA, since it's the location of the All-Mountain World Championship, but Greaegle has less-crowded trails that were built by the same folks.  I went riding in the middle of the day on a Sunday, and only saw 2 other riders on (supposedly) one of the sickest trails in town.  The ride was an out-and-back on Mills Peak trail.  I think it had about 3000 or so feet of uphill and downhill.  Check the map here: Link.  There's one bike shop in Graeagle, and it's super rad.  They have maps of the area available for 1 dollar donations, and they're pretty detailed.  Also, I bought some ceramic-wax based chain lube for six bucks - not a bad price for a tourist trap!  Riding wise, Mills Peak trail was pretty buffed out for the most part, but the top had just been built, and was still inherently more technical in a totally rideable, shred-tastic sort of way.  The descent was filled with little whoops that turned into jumps with enough speed, the occasional brake-check-rock-garden, drift-tastic switchbacks, and one section of sketchy fast, loose, fire road filled with babyheads. Oh yeah, and the views were incredible on all sides, as I hope these pictures demonstrate!

(trail went up to that peak in the distance)

(hella berms, everywhere)

(mid-august, and there's still a bunch of snow everywhere)

(stealth bike with wildflowers)

(I think that's Mount Lassen or Shasta in the background, view from the top)

(I tried to capture a riding shot with a timer, this is what came out (same berm as before) )

The second ride was with Casey Clark.  Initilally, he was planning on riding with a buddy, MJ, but then I tagged onto the roster, and two of MJ's friends, Hunter and Brook, joined shortly there after.  We drove to Truckee, then decided that the North Shore of Lake Tahoe would be better, since we had already driven most of the way.  I have no idea which trails we rode, but I know that some of it was on Tahoe Rim Trail. The ride started off with a marginally miserable, super loose climb away from the Truckee river, then continued onto a more gradual climb with more traction.  When we got into Paige Meadows (I think that's what they called it), we lost Brook.  At a trail intersection, we all went left.  Brook was a bit behind and went right.  We saw him through the meadow and yelled, but he didn't here.  We all hopped on our bikes and scattered around trying to find him, but Casey and I realized that we'd all get separated and lost if we kept that up, so he and I chilled at a main trail junction and waited for the party to reconvene.  Nobody found Brook, so we continued the climb toward the top, stopping here and there for the requisite chill-out.  It took a little bit, but I figured out that this bike ride wasn't the total shred-fest I had half expected; Brook and Hunter are two older Truckee stoners, and they ride bikes as you'd expect people of their nature to ride: slow, wandering, with plenty of 420 degree view points, and the strangest trail ethic I've ever encountered. It is exemplified by this instance: at one point, Casey and I were heading up the descent, and stopped at a major trail intersection.  Hunter was next in line, and he slowed down, maneuvered his way through our tangle of handlebars and feet, and kept mooseying down the trail.  A bit later, after the rest of the group had caught up, we ran into Hunter again, stopped to wait for us in the middle of a sweet descent with no trail intersection in sight!  It mystifies me to this day.  Riding with these two old truckee men, who were rock climbers at heart, reminded me of riding with Ken Lane, if Ken had an entire mountain range to work with, instead of 1 hill and a mountain.  At one point at the beginning of the descent, Hunter was positive that there was awesome single track down the other side of the mountain, better than the stuff we were planning on riding back to the truck.  We trusted him in all of his stoney-glory, ripped down this short section of trail, and ended up on some dirt road.  He whipped out his cell-phone, confused, and called a buddy because the single track vanished.  His buddy affirmed that there was no more trail, and so, we plodded back up to where we had broken off.  The ride finished with a quick dip in the Truckee River, tacos, and beer, which is the way every mountain bike ride should end.  Enjoy the pictures!

(420 degree view from the ski patrol shack at the top)

(there's a rider there in the distance, I think)

(yup, 420 degree view alright. I think they were talking about skiing)

The day after that shred, Roger and I began the last leg of our journey to Missoula.  We drove from Sparks, Nevada, to Sun Valley, Idaho, where we camped at a trailhead.  I had planned on shredding there, but while waking up at the trail head, the hikers started showing up.  And they weren't just hikers, and there weren't just a few of them.  There was an entire fleet of middle aged women driving Volvos and Subarus with approximately 2 fat and happy golden retrievers each.  All of the dogs distracted Roger from his breakfast, and I knew at that point, that I couldn't take him out riding.  Instead we went for a quick hike, since he attacks dogs, and he's easier to control if I'm on.  It was super pretty, and I wished I was on my bike the entire time.  You know, in retrospect, it may be a good thing I didn't ride, I didn't have a rear brake then...

(that cheesy bumper sticker was my life for a while)

(flat roads through golden fields can get pretty boring)

(it's like Kansas, but cooler, because it's Idaho)

(whoo-buddy, I want to go back and ride here)

(I think this is a small beaver dam)

(Raj, which is Roger's Indian name, shredding his face off in Sun valley)

(again, perfect single track, with my bike at the bottom of the hill)

After the hike, Roger and I hopped into El Trook and blasted off for Missoula.  I stopped at the Starbucks in Sun Valley to get a cup of coffee, compliments of my math adviser and met a dude name Patrick Reynolds.  He order a "doppio," whatever that is, in a double cup after I had placed my order, then proceeded to chat up the decently attractive help.  They blew him off as some creepy older tourist, in the politest way possible, and got back to making our coffee drinks (which I was happy about, that's why we gave them money).  He looked at me, and saw a new victim.

"Where're you in from?"
 "Uh,  Arizona, I guess. You?"
"L.A., isn't this a great place?"

And so our conversation took off.  I told him about moving to Missoula, starting grad school, and all that jazz; he told me about working for an anti-tobacco company.  Out of nowhere, the conversation abandoned the social niceties one expects whilst waiting for a cup of coffee, and headed toward finance.  He asked me if I had to work for money, and I said, "Well, yeah, I'm teaching some math class when I get up there."  Patrick was happy for me; he believed that wealth fucks up rich kids in a bad way.  They never learn how to work, etc.  He then told me about how he was a rich kid, how the money he had ruined his self-esteeem, and about how beneficial seeing a therapist was to him.  Patrick then told me that I should see a therapist as well, not because I was fucked up in any particular way, but just because therapy is such a good thing, since it helps everyone sort themselves out.  He was careful to explain that he didn't think I was loony, he just thought that everyone could benefit from some mental therapy.  I dismissed his advice at first, grabbed my coffee, said a polite good-bye, and went back to my truck, but then I started thinking about it.  Maybe a therapy isn't quite the right word, since it has such a negative connotation, but people seem to require emotionally driven dialogues with people that listen.  At best, it's a way for them to sort their thoughts and feelings out in a quasi-logical manner, and put all their little problems into perspective... Isn't that what therapists do?

Anyway, with coffee in hand and dog food in toe, Raj and I continued on toward Montana.  I had Google Maps directions from Sun Valley to Missoula, and they sent me over a sinlge lane dirt road mountain pass. I was psyched because it was ultra pretty and there was no traffic, but I'm not sure how many people would have been stoked.  I thought a horse was in the middle of the road at the summit, but it was a moose!  How 'bout that, 12 hours in Idaho and I saw a moose.  The dirt road lead to US-93, which took Roger and I into Montana.  Interestingly enough, the Montana/Idaho border on US 93 is at the top of a mountain pass.  I guess it makes sense, given the name "Montana," but I didn't expect it at all.  I don't think Roger did either, as you can see in this picture.

(the googlemaped road)

(notice the bullet holes in the sign.  yup, that's the sort of place I'm living now)

We arrived in Missoula around 4:30 local time, and I got sorta lost looking for my new house.  After finding it, my new landlady/housemate, Marcy took Raj and I in and showed us around.  I unloaded my truck, but have yet to bring myself to unpacking at all.  It's not that I don't like the new digs, it's just a total change from the last few places I lived.  This place could be the exact opposite from the Greenhouse, in Flagistan.  At the Greenhouse, we had a front yard filled with empty beer cans and broken glass, here we have a well manicured front lawn complete with lawn ornaments.  The kitchen is clean, the bathrooms are clean.  People don't just walk in the front door with beer and other consumables.  Instead of living with some of my closest homies, I'm now living with a 62 year old lady, a 73 year old deaf man, two twenty something year old dudes, a 9 year old mutt that distrusts all males, a 15 year old Pomeranian, and a handful of declawed cats.  The cats don't run from Roger, which confuses him, so he doesn't chase them.  The house is quite, and far from downtown and school.  Being in a place where you know no one, far away from the young scene is lonelier than I expected it would be, so I think a trip to the downtown are tomorrow night might be in order.  While the change of living situation and lifestyle is sudden and sharp, it could be very positive, so long as I can find some bike trails within riding distance.  They should be there - there are mountains everywhere.

 I'm going to do as much exploring as I can before school starts, and will write another post with pictures of of town and trails (if I find them)!

A quick agenda breakdown:  Aug. 22nd - new grad student orientation.  Aug. 23rd New TA orientation. Aug 24th Register for classes, get adviser.  August 25th get teaching assignment.  Aug. 29th, Classes start.

When you search the Bah-Wah and only find the Police: A San Francisco Experiencea

I've been putting off this blog-thing for a few days (beside the boring math-post) and I don't know why; I've had some new adventures and such, but it hasn't sounded appealing.  Maybe it's too emotional of an experience, or maybe I'm just plain lazy.  Either way, it's pretty late right now and I can't sleep for some reason.  As far as I can tell, there's no better way to put your self asleep than to rant about your own silly little existence.

So.  Where did I last leave off?

Kelsey and I had returned from Tour de Nez in Reno.  We spent a day recovering and, in that time period, made plans to travel to the Bay Area.  We hadn't planned what we were going to do, where we were going to stay, or how long we were staying - we just decided to go.  So the next morning, after walking the dogs, we threw some expired Builders bars (thanks Absolute Bikes), Lara bar samples, some shirts, pants, deodorant (showers seemed unlikely), cameras, and sweatshirts in backpacks, threw the backpacks in El Trook, and tore off at the blinding speed only a 1998 4-cylinder Toyota Tacoma can achieve.

By the time we got to Berkeley, we realized it might be wise to start making plans (at least to find a place to sleep) and that rush-hour was fast approaching.  Both seemed to be great reasons to exit I-80.  The Berkeley Apartments had "free" wi-fi, so we interneted it up on Kelsey's ipod touch, eventually getting a hold of another friend from Belgium.  Her evening was booked, but she recommended exploring Mission and 16th Street.  Rush hour was still jammin' at this point, so we went to a gross-out (grocery outlet) that Kelsey spotted to pick up as much food for as cheap as possible.  The big find at the gross-out, beside the reduced fat Cabot cheese, was a $2.99 12-pack of GameDay Ale.  Looking back on, I'm pretty sure they should call it "Malt Liquor" rather than "ale," but you can't beat 3 bucks for 12 beers. 

(here's dinner for the day, eaten at the Berkeley Marina whilst watching wind surfers)

My my, dinner was scrumptious.  The mixture of a cheap hummus, cheaper beer, processed turkey strips, an entire bag of lettuce, and some African Red Devil Chili chips didn't quite mix well in my stomach, but was we drove over the Bay Bridge I realized I needed to harden the fuck up and focus on finding a place to park.  

(so this might not be from the Bay Bridge, but it's neat anyhow)

Miraculously, finding free overnight parking somewhere within ten or so blocks of 16th and Mission wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be.  My Pops told me horror stories about parking in S.F.; I think he skewed the situation a little bit, but that can happen when one goes from driving in Ohio to driving in San Francisco...    But being parked in a free overnight zone left Kelsey and I to wander the Mission and figure out what was going on.  We got our mosey on as hard as possible, avoiding the inevitable (going to a bar and getting some drinks), when the first of a few striking coincidences occurred:  a friend, Anna, from Flag-istan who moved to San Francisco, called and said, "Oh, crap, I forgot you guys were coming in tonight.  Where are you?"  I had asked her about sleeping on her floor before, but it had seemed unlikely by the time we were walking south on Mission. We ended up being a few blocks from her house, so we met up in a jiffy, jumped on a few different buses, and found ourselves at a small bar in the Haight district that reminded me of a cave.  The bar had lots of great beers on tap, and allowed dogs - it felt like a dingy, shrunken Mia's, as if some crazed Fijian witch doctor stole Mia's from Flagistan, doctored it up, and gifted it to San Francisco.  The city, being as tolerant and multicultural as it is, couldn't deny the gift, even though it was a sort of abomination of a good thing.  After a few beers, I found myself being called out by a middle aged black man in a navy blue polo.  He said "you're one of those guys that taps girls on the knee."  I still don't know what that means, but I did tap someone on the knee.  Rather than letting it go, I pried, which lead into an hour and half conversation with this gentleman.  I found out he was a nurse, had a degree in English, and wrote poetry.  I asked him to recite some poems; they were a strange mix of Gil-Scott Heron, Iron Maiden, and Stokely Carmichael, complete with air-guitar interludes and solos.  These poems were driven by some racial tension, so we chatted about that for a bit, then the he brought up the knee-tapping again, then asked for some money for a cab ride home. I figured he had performed some of his trade for me so shit-yeah, I'd give him five bucks.  A few minutes later, after our conversation ended, he came back, gave me more shit about tapping girls' knees, then told me he was just a coke dealer and poet!  Hmm... I think I may have been hustled.  Tensions elsewhere in our group were elevated as well, so we left that bar for another across the street.  They had Lagunitas GnarlyWine on tap, which sounds delicious, but reads dangerous.  Kelsey, Anna, and I drank one each, followed by a few cups of water, and walked out with a total of five Maessomeone's inner 8-year-old took over and he/she hurled a cup into the street while we were waiting for a bus, which, of course, brought an onslaught of shattering glass.  A local resident heard the ruckus while walking down a side street, picked up a construction barricade, and came to chat with us about breaking the glass.  The conversation went something like this:

"You're defiling the city, what makes you think you can do that?"

"No, man, it's glass, it'll just turn back into sand." - me.

"But it doesn't look good and it isn't safe."

"While you might be right, I disagree." -me

"And why are you carrying a construction barricade?" -Kelsey

"I hope you're not planning on hitting me with that.  That seems threatening." -me

"No, I'm taking it home to use in my garden."

(a second or two of silence)

"Well isn't theft defiling the city as well?" - Kelsey or me 

The guy left after that, came back again and really seemed like he wanted to fight.  I don't why he didn't take a swing, maybe he was too stoned or something. Regardless, I'm glad he didn't - and he was right - we shouldn't have been breaking glass in the middle of the street (that doesn't mean it wasn't fun though).  We caught the bus, walked to the truck, shotgunned the rest of the GameDays (as if we needed to drink any more), grabbed blankets, and promptly passed out at Anna's house upon arrival.  

Kels woke me up early the next morning and we loaded up into the truck to drive to some suburb in the South Bay area in order to meet up with Casey, Rae, Lyssa, and Erik, after some requisite coffee.  We all decided to hop in the cars and drive to Santa Cruz, which initially seemed like a great idea, but after about 45 more minutes heading over the mountains between suburb and Santa Cruz, people started driving like lunatics.  In order to survive, I had to pretend like El Trook was a F1 race truck with carbon fibre (miss-spellling intentional) skid plates and supercharges.  And that was just for survival.  Somehow Eric was actually passing people, drifting corners, jumping banisters, and doing wheelies.  Note that he drives some generic silver colored Japanese-made sedan, the make and model of which I don't remember.  He's an amazing man.  Once in Santa Cruz, we went to a tiny local brewery and order up big frosty, liter mugs of IPA.  I guess it was organic and all that crap, but most importantly it was delicious.  I may have even tasted hints of raspberry and kelp (in a good way, I guess).   Post-liters, we loaded up with sandwich fixin's and head to a beach north of town. 

(pretty, but not an ideal beach day)

We walked around, drank more beer (Pacifico and Pabst, duh), ate, and swam for about 19 seconds.  The water was cold, the breeze was stiff - the main reason for the dip was obviously man-hood.  We had talked about it, and by that point nobody could back down; we were all committed to the core. It was refreshing and eliminated any traces of a hangover I may have had.  The Minorly Extended Hall Family had to get back to the old folks for dinner, so Kels and I moseyed our way up the One back into town, found free overnight parking again, ate some burritos (delicious burrito al pastor!), drank Tecate, and called it an early night.

Shit, this is turning into another novel. Oh well.

Kels and I were up early again, searching for postcards, coffee, and a way to get to Fisherman's Warf in the Castro area.

(good coffee just below the sign)

(A view from the Cable Car we caught to get to the Warf:  is this what happens when you get too educated?)

Coincidence Number 2:  Kelsey got hooked on a particular kind of coffee at the Castro Coffee Co., drank too much, and needed to pee really badly while on the cable car.  We exited at the Ferry Station, found bathrooms, then jammed ourselves into the corner of the next cable car.  When the car started unloading, we hoped we could find the Hall family without too much hassle.  I looked to my left and said "Well, shit, there they are!" They were on the same car we were.  For the majority of the rest of the day, we moseyed hard with the Hall family, visiting Haight street, the Presidio, the Warfs, and drinking a lot of coffee.

(you have to take their picture)

(the heroes of our story, the Hall Fam)

(goddamn I like the fog)

Eventually the older folks trailed off and caught the Caltrain back to the burbs, the younger folks found a happy hour in the Haight at some Middle Eastern restaurant called Hookas Not Bazookas.  They had cheap beer and expensive food, which isn't a terrible combination if you don't eat the food.  The resto had minimal graffiti in the bathroom, but the little it did have seemed strange for San Francisco.

(Kill Hipster Invaders?)

After some beers (or maybe it was before, I don't remember), we went to a little taxidermy shop called Creepy Little Things.  It was the creepiest store I've ever been into.  They had human skulls, preserved human hands, and feet, shrunken monkey heads, crow wing necklaces, old Victorian pocket bibles, doorknob canes (not that strange), jellyfish in glass, and a gaggle of other peculiarities.  The strangest things in the store weren't for sale: enclosed glass boxes with small mammals or birds taxidermied, dressed in Victorian clothes, and put with miniature, but typical Victorian mis en scene.    Everyone got the heeby-jeebies real quick, and so we left, and even left the Haight back toward Mission.  This was gunna be a last night out with Casey and Rae, so beer was purchased and consumed on Anna's stoop, but energy was low.  We had walked a shit-ton that day, and one can only handle so much of the bizarre nature of San Francisco if one is not accustomed to it.  Casey and Rae decided to stick around the entire night, which meant hard partying.  The first bar we came upon was called the Beauty Bar - which was themed like a 1960's beauty salon.  Except the bar owners had outfitted the joint with a laser light disco ball and a DJ spinning ridiculous dance tunes. We ordered the cheapest thing on the menu (Pabst), and started dancing.  The first song to start while we were there began in a very straightforward manner: you know, generic house beats, synth noises, high pitched girl singing.  When the first lyric was belted, I looked around at my compatriots to make sure I had heard right.  The song said:  "I wanna fuck you in the ass."  That ended up being the only lyric in the song as well.  And our only beer in that bar.  If we wanted to party harder, we needed to move to Castro.  Rae suggested going into a place called the Q-bar and it ended up being everything we ever wanted from a bar in that part of town.  Topless (male) bartenders, 2-4-1 wells, heavy dance tunes.  Everything was going smoothly and the drinks were going down quick, when, all of a sudden, I found myself on a table bumping and grinding with what appeared to either be a cross-dresser, or a straight up transgendered individual.  Kelsey and Casey joined in as well.  Man, were we gettin' down!  I noticed Rae taking a picture, and immediately felt bad.  The transgendered individual noticed as well and left the dance table, he/she/(goddamn it while gender may not be black and white we don't have a continuum of pronouns) recognized the objectification and objected.  I felt like a mean hearted tourist and vowed not to subjugate the locals much more that night.  

Rum and coke felt like the right beverage for that bar, so we had a few more of those, then went off to find bigger and better things. Specifically, Casey and I developed the notion that there must be dubstep around somewhere, and began hassling people on the street about where to find the Bah-Wha (as named by our friend, Ryan, from hitching a ride around Lake Tahoe).  So much for not subjugating the locals.  We interrupted 2 ladies heartfelt goodbye, then felt like assholes, and interrupted again to apologize for being assholes, and double check that they didn't know where the Bah-Wha was.  Instead of dub-step we landed in this old-timey punk bar with the Clash, Ramones, Sex Pistols, etc. playing.  Oddly enough, someone bought us a game of pool, and the bar had free popcorn.  The drink here was Pabst, of course, so we drank some drink, ate some popcorn (which I am convinced saved our lives), then headed out around 1:30.  

We all got lost in the excitement of a big city, and forgot that the bars still close at 2, so we walked down toward 17th and Harrison, where a late night speak easy themed bar should have been located.  Before we got there, I threw two Pacifico cans from the top of a newspaper machine into the street, right in front of a police car.  Great.  The cops stopped, and I reached in my pockets to pull out my I.D, and the police had to politely inform me to never reach into my pockets like that again - it's a good thing I was an intoxicated tourist and obviously both.  One cop went to supposedly write me a ticket, while the other chatted to Casey, Rae, and Kelsey about the Haboobs in Arizona, also explaining that we weren't looking for Henderson, we were looking for Harrison, and that the green bins were for compost.  The other officer came back to me and told me he wasn't going to write me a ticket, and I was all "Yes, Sirs" and "No, Sirs" and full of drunk, polite, good charm, when he told me to go ahead and put the cans in the green bin.  Yup, an officer of the law told me to compost two aluminum cans, while the other officer had instructed my friends to recycle the can.  What does one do in such a situation?  Well, you hope that aluminum really is as biodegradable as everyone says it is, and maybe say a prayer or two.  Then you walk home and try to stop laughing before you stumble into your hosts house at 4 in the morning.

The next day was suuper mellow, do to the ruckus nature of the night before (a fair amount was intentionally left out...).  We cruised down to Union Square, drank coffee, saw Rae and Casey off on their Caltrain, and found a great little park with lots of sunshine to sleep a bit in.  Somehow, I got sunburned in front of Grace Cathedral.  Well, not somehow, I feel asleep with my shirt off in the sun, but who gets a sunburn in San Francisco?

(I was going to upload some more photos, but the uploader crapped out)

That night, Anna took us to a neat little bar called the Phone Booth that was sorta decorated like Creepy Little Things, Ultra Light.  They had a Barbie chandelier, matador paintings, jukebox,  pool table jammed into a corner, and cheap Tecate tall-cans.  From what I experienced in San Francisco, pool playing is a serious endeavor.  You don't throw some quarters down to play doubles with your homies, you right your name on a chalk board, wait your turn, and try to win the table.  Singles only, I guess.  The most interesting thing about the Phone Booth is that you can still smoke inside, if you like to smoke.  But shit, if you don't smoke, and you're hanging out there, you might as well due to second hand smoke.  I don't know how they get away with it, in the same way that I don't know how the little taxidermy store could sell human body parts, but both establishments seem to be about as legit as places like them can be.  

We called it an early night, woke up, drove Anna to work, ate some food at her place of work, and got the hell out of the city.  I realized, after driving east, back over the Bay Bridge, while the next toll bridge attendant told me I was going to get a 30 dollar ticket for not having a 5 dollar bridge toll, that I don't understand San Francisco one bit.  Human Skulls, smoking in bars, german chocolate flavored coffee, 8 dollar breakfast sandwhiches, Kill hipster invader tags, Chrome bag stores, bums ranting about disrespect to trash cans and newspaper machines, city-wide compost, public transit, cheap beer, expensive food, cheap food, expensive beer, yuppies, Diesel, Castro, Mission, Haight, Presidio, Warfs, outrageous rent, low wages, Golden Gate Bridge, Jesus Christ.  It all makes so little sense together, that you might as well be able to find all of that stuff within a 10 mile diameter circle.  When it boils down to it, who doesn't want Chinese pastries right next door to some of the best huevos rancheros on the planet?

(Quick update:  It looks like I found a place to live in Missoula and I'll be heading there around the 17th of august.  Kelsey left a few days ago, and since then, I've been spending time with my grandparents doing yard work and thinking in the boondocks of Nevada.)

What does a mathematician do?

So I'm not quite up to the level of legitimate mathematician right now, but I feel like I'm on the right path by entering a Ph.D program.  As such, many people have asked, "So... What exactly do you do as a mathematician?" and "Math research?  I thought we had all of that figured out..." In order to give those of you curious enough to ask the question an answer, I'm going to post 3 papers I wrote last semester.  Two of them are about the philosophy of mathematics (which is about as esoteric as one can get), and the last is a final paper I wrote for an undergraduate research project on Hadamard matrices.

The first paper is about logic and it's role in mathematics.  Most people, I believe, confuse "logic" with "rational thought."  Logic is the languageless tool use when performing rational thought.  The paper discusses this distinction a bit, explains how three of the most prominent 20th century philosophies of mathematics view logic, and (if I remember correctly) has my own little take on it.  I wrote this for an  independent study I did with Matt Fahy, and you can find a link to it right here:  Link.  (I just realized I hadn't put my name on this paper, but trust me, it's my own work.)

The next paper is about whether or not this philosopher, Stephen Korner, was (he committed suicide...) a nominalist or a realist about mathematical objects, entities, etc.  This paper might not be quite as interesting since it was sort of a response to a book of Korner's I read, but it should be self-contained for the most part.  This paper was also for the I.S. I did with Matt Fahy.  Find it's link here: Link.

The last paper goes through an introduction to Hadamard matrices, their generalizations, and constructions, then outlines our attempts at generalizing a particular construction.  We also provide a new definition of a Hadamard hypercube that is more inline with the historical definition of a Hadamard matrix.  We didn't have time to do much with this definition, but hopefully this paper will provide someone with the desire to do slay some Hadamard hypercubes.  Here's the link to my last paper:  Link.
(Note:  While this is the paper that I put the most work into, and also the paper that I'm most proud of, it's by far also the hardest to understand, especially if you have little mathematical background.  There are a bunch of proofs and proof like things included, so enjoy it as best you can.)

Lemme know what y'all think!

(I'll be posting a more interesting thing post later, I've been wanting to do this for a bit though)

Guns, Beer, and Snow

First and foremost, I must say I feel sorry for all you folks that are still working full time; I believe a month long vacation is what everyone needs.  Who knows though, I'm only 2 weeks or so into mine, maybe I'll get tired of vacating and recreating.

I've been in the Reno-Carson-Tahoe area for a bit more than a week now, and the radness keeps coming.

On my first day in town, I basically just kicked it with my mom, ate some sushi, decompressed from the drive up.  That same day my grandma had a hip replacement done, so we went to visit her the next day in the Carson City hospital and played a round of golf with my uncle, Steve and his friend Pat.  While I sucked it up in many respects, I was psyched to find out that the game doesn't really leave you;  I made one rad ass chip in, hit some good drives, and sleighed it with the irons.  My putting sucked bad, which is about standard for not playing for 2 years.  We played golf the right way though: carts and lots of Coors.  I don't know why I didn't play golf this way through high school, it makes for a way better, more relaxed game.  Nobody cares, and ends up having way more fun.  Snobby rich folk tend to make this silly game into some life or death matter, when in reality, it's nothing but a mega-luxury.  Why not make it even more luxurious with cold beer and skids through corners in the little electric carts?

(steve and pat, shredding the shit out of their cart)

Following a round of golf and in order to keep up with the middle class niceties, my Mom took me wine tasting outside of Placerville, CA.  I like wine most definitely, but sometimes descriptions like "mildly under-ripe raspberry overtones with subtle hints of Mexican cinnamon and a robust leathery finish reminiscent of John Wayne's belt in Dakota" can be a little over the top.  An interesting thing happened when we walked into the first winery.  An exceedingly cute server in a black dress stared at me for a solid five or six seconds  as soon as we entered.  My mom noticed this and asked "Do you want to see his I.D?" assuming that that was why her stare lasted so long.  I thought the server looked familiar, but passed it off as a mere coincidence.  In response to my mom's question, she said "No, but I think I know you from somewhere."  Confused and intimidated, I mumbled something back about her maybe living in Arizona, then it struck her - I sold her a bike, a 17 inch Myka Sport Disc I believe in May!  We chatted about Flag-istan for a bit, and then I proceeded to drink a bunch of wine, without getting her name, number, or anything of the sort.  Something just doesn't sit right "trying to chat up some philly" with your mom around.  The fortuitous and haphazard nature of our meeting seemed meaningful, but ascribing meaning to these sorts of things is silly.  Running into someone you sold a bike to in Flagstaff in some tiny California mountain town is no more coincidental or meaningful than finding a pair of socks that matches in the dryer.  Through the rest of the day, we went to a few more wineries, then ended up watching some band of old guys play classic rock covers and a bunch of middle aged hippy sorta folks frolic in the dim light of the evening.

Kelsey, a friend I met in Belgium, flew into Reno the day after wine tasting.  We by-passed the whole Reno thing for a moment, and went straight to Steve's house.  That night, we shot the shit, drank a bunch of beer, and fell asleep pretty early.  The next morning, we were all up early, loaded up the dog, some rifles, handguns, and a few other gun-like things into Steve's Toyota Tercel and shredded that sub-compact out to a impromptu shooting rang.  We blasted through a bunch of .22 ammo, some .38 ammo, a few shotgun shells, and totally annihilated some Coors tallboyz, clay pigeons, and some targets on cardboard boxes.  Shooting guns is such a liberating experience - I don't understand why, but it probably has to do with the loud noises and destruction.

(kelsey, blowing up the scene with a pistol)

Post explosions, we resupplied ourselves with the necessary equipment for a hot Nevada afternoon (a 12 pack of Pabst) and drove out to American Flats, an old destroyed smelter that somehow got covered in graffiti.  It's sorta like Mad Max meets N.W.A, or something like that, and made me think about what's going to happen to all the Safeway's, Targets, HomeDepots, strip malls, head shops, and freeways once the inevitable collapse comes about.  Bird shit will probably become the new graffiti and the post-human wasteland will inspire some rodents to collect their thoughts in order to write passively sentimental songs about the coming endtimes...  I could rant more about American Flats, but pictures do better.

(roger sneaked a drink of this water and started glowing...)

(Steve gets his Pabst on)

(roger gets it)

(a brightly colored Rome?)

We killed the 12-pack, then headed up to Virginia (Vagina?) City, where we could enjoy a shot of Maker's Mark and, of course, another Pabst.  The bartender at the Bucket of Blood was so drunk she forgot how much all the product was, couldn't add 12 and 9 together, or read the birthday on my driver's license... That's what you want, and what you get in Jerome done the Nevada way.

(oh yeah, free popcorn too!)

After finishing up our drinks, checking out the Suicide Table (tourist trap in another bar), we loaded up the Tercel and headed back to Steve's house for some delicious homegrown rabbit dinner, acid jazz, and a tincture that made my head spin around in multiple directions and orientations.

A 2.99 Breakfast special was in order after the Shooting-Drinking-Graffiti Day, then some swimming up at Lake Tahoe.  Kelsey and I went to Secret Cove, a nude beach, after hiking around the forest for a few hours.    Swimming in the summertime can't really be beat by anything.  Well maybe shredding mountain bikes, but...

(Roger swam more than I've ever seen him, and hated every moment of it) 

  We loaded back up in the truck and drove back to my mom's house to plan our next adventure.


Initially, I wanted to hike from Echo Lake to Tahoe City on the Tahoe Rim trail, but the conditions there were still way too snowy, icy, and generally sketchy.  All the lakes above a certain elevation were still frozen over, the streams that drained them were flooding, and there were 8 foot deep snow drifts everywhere.  Goddamn north facing shit and hella snowpacks.  Instead, Kelsey and I decided to hike from Brockway Summit to Spooner Summit.  This segment went over the highest point on the TRT, and is on the north side of the lake on south facing slopes, so the snow should have been a lot more manageable.  This section of trail was about 42 or 43 miles, so we decided that 10 mile days would be more than easy.  Packing our backpacks and getting ready the morning we left took longer than expected and we got hiking around 11:30 A.M, and ended up hiking 12 miles before decided to camp at the base of Relay Peak.  Right before we found a camping spot, we hiked though a bunch of off-camber snow; it was tiring and marginals sketchy, as the snow was starting to ice up a bit.     The next morning we ate some bagels with peanut butter and got an early start, and got to Tahoe Meadows super quick like.  The next 10 miles went by fast as well, bringing us about 5 miles away from a free campground with potable water and bear boxes.  Shit-yeah!  We hammered that out, and got to camp around 5 pm after putting in a 21 mile day.  Well shit, there went out 10 mile per day plan. We woke up the next day, and finished up the last 10 miles before 10:30 am, thus we ended up doing the whole 43 miles stretch in less than 47 hours! Nothing extraordinary, but pretty rad none the less.  I gotta say, the scenery was world class, and the mountain biking looked even better.  Many times, I saw a turn, or a rock move and wished I was on my bike instead of carrying a 35 pound pack...  Finishing the hike left us pretty far from the truck, so we threw out our thumbs.  I bet Kelsey a buck that a Subaru would pick us up and won it. Two middle aged sisters picked us up, asking if we were paint huffers.  Of course, we said no, and they said hop in.  They also misunderstood where we were going so they drove us around to the south side of the lake instead of toward the North.  Oddly enough, they told us about their blown dates, single's night at WHole Foods, invited us to go kayaking with them, and asked for advice on how to let guys down easily.  We respectfully declined their offer of kayaking, and starting thumbing again.  The next car to stop was filled with two girls closer to our age and a bunch of comforters, but they weren't going quite far enough, so we declined that ride in hopes of another.  A dude in a massive F350 stopped and said "Man, I hop you guys are cool or have some weed..."  We didn't so I hoped we were cool.  He told us a story about being on a three day bender, taking a bunch of Zanex and waking up that morning with his eyes glued shut, then about going to Bassnectar shows (they changed his life), and doing designer club drugs with Widespread Panic's personal chemist at BBQs in San Fran.  The dude loved to party, snowmobile and paddleboard.  Luckily, he was going to Truckee, so he took us all the way to our truck.    He let us out, we hopped in El Trook, and drove to Mont Bleu Casino where we saw an add for 99 cent margaritas and tacos.  God damn, I love casinos for their cheap food and drink - we ate 3 or 4 tacos each and drank... 6 margaritas each, and left paying less than 10 bucks a piece.  

(hella snow in the end of July)

(where was my bike)

(little lake by our first camp site)

(the wildflowers were blowing up)

(Relay Peak, the highest point on the Tahoe Rim Trail)

(one of too many scenic views)

(end of the hike)

(some gnarly snow drifts and cornices)

(first camp site)

(second camp site, notice the table and bear box)

(Snow Valley Peak and a rad little meadow)

Kesley and I were doggin' a bit the day after the hike, our feet were wrecked, and couldn't think of anything to do.  Thus, I called Casey Clark to see what was going in in the Reno area.  It turned out that there was a crit in downtown Reno, with goldsprints at the finish line (put on by the Reno Bike Project), and drinking in public was accepted.  We met up with Clark with a 24 pack, a cooler, and an afternoon to drink away.  We gold sprinted (The bike project guys got the award girls, who were dressed like cocktail waitresses to race after the pro men finished), we drank, we screamed, we taunted, we made fun of road bikers, we were humbled by road bikers, and lastly, we left the park to deliver a donated bike to the Bike Project.   I had the my cafe racer, so Kelsey got the donation.  After 3 or so pedal strokes, the left crankarm fell off, the seat slammed, and Kelsey was forced to skate whilst sitting on the rear rack.  Casey brought us to a end of July thanksgiving dinner, complete with turkey, stuffing, that strange cranberry stuff, and bien-sur, more beer.  Kesley started falling asleep in the chair, so we got the boot from the party.  On the bike ride back to Casey's house, we lost track of Clark, then I got lost riding around the neighborhoods the west of downtown Reno.  After rediculous cell-phoning and coordinating, we made it back Casey's house for some sleeping.  We awoke this morning, ate delicious breakfast burritos at Michaels Deli and saw a homeless dude who said:  "I gotta collect cans for a few days so I can afford some cigarettes."   That demonstrates a level of commitment (additional?) that I have yet to feel about anything.

We're heading to San Francisco tomorrow, another update coming soon I imagine.