New refrigerator. No report card to stick on it.

Roommate and I have a new pad. I don't know how this happened. Not the moving part. I was there for that. And it involved many days, boxes, flights of stairs, and trips in a minivan. What I mean is that this is surely the nicest place in which I have ever lived. I'm a graduate student in New York City for crying out loud. Utterly ridiculous. Two bedrooms. A living area. A big beautiful kitchen. We have much more room than the photos show. It wasn't until we started working with our fourth broker, Summer, that we found this place. Her name is no accident. Summer could likely sell water to fishes with her disposition. Thankfully she used her powers for good; otherwise, she could have found us a dump and we might have been happy to have it. Our new place is at the upper end of our budget but is really a great deal (by New York standards at any rate).

I've lived in New York City for six months now. I assumed I would move at some point within my first year to a better setup than whatever my very first living arrangement would be. And so that's just what has happened. We now live at the south west corner of Prospect Lefferts Gardens. We're one block from Prospect Park and one block from the subway (two stops closer to school, in fact). It will be a lovely walk to the subway in the spring, summer, and fall. Our building was built before WWII and has been partially restored since then. We live on the sixth floor by way of a classic Otis elevator. Our apartment is the product of a relatively recent gut renovation with all new floors, walls, and appliances. We have a dishwasher! And a microwave! And laundry in the building! I now have enough room to sleep in an extra long bed (once I get one)! We have plenty of space to host guests and have people over.

The photos show the interior of the apartment just before we moved in. Pardon any dirt — it wasn't spic and span at the time. We're now at the stage where we still have lots of boxes and decisions to be made upon opening them. We've been bringing in furniture as we find deals. We've been tackling some small repairs — though the renovation is recent, this place had tenants before us. The rest of the photos show some interior detail of the building and the views from our windows.

The photos do not show our shiny new refrigerator. You're not missing much. It has an upper and lower door in stainless steel and absolutely no report cards on it. I miss report cards. Everything is online now. I can say that my first semester went very well. The kind of well that got back to me through the grapevine regarding my standing with the powers that be. I don't know that this semester will go quite as well given that 80% of my Artificial Intelligence course grade is comprised of just two exams. Time will tell.

The difficult thing about a doctoral program is explaining just what I'm doing. School usually equates to classes. And I do have classes — especially as I do not have the credits earned from having a masters. But ultimately classes are meant to support the real focus of my academic life: research projects. Unfortunately, I don't have much latitude to talk publicly about these projects until they're published. So here we are. Let me say that I am really enjoying my classes this term. They are all kinds of fancy pants learnin’: Artificial Intelligence, Social & Emotional Approaches to Human Computer Interaction [special topics class — no web page], and Values Embodied in Information Technology and Digital Media. This is good stuff. The kind of stuff I hoped I would encounter in grad school. I have not yet finished my first year, but I am certain of two things. First, I am being exposed to several topics of which I have very much wanted. Second, I am being exposed to topics I did not even know existed. And, as an added bonus, I've also been meeting students in these classes that I enjoy and connect with; this did not happen so much in my first semester.

Roommate: A. New apartment: A. This semester's classes: straight A's. Yet to be seen what grades I will get in those classes. Speaking of which, I have several assignments I should get back to…

Hail to the Chief. Or, ridiculous costumes aren't going to wear themselves.

Update (March 8, 2012): Photos and stories from the entire night!

In honor of President's Day I give you the costume I wore for a President's Day themed party this past weekend. Yes, I made it — even the old-timey bow tie. Yes, I wore money-colored stage makeup  — didn't turn out as great as I had hoped. Yes, I wore this getup the whole night, while managing not to move my head around too much. Yes, I rode public transportation in that makeup while my headgear was in a plastic trash bag. No, nobody seemed to notice much.

I got the idea in the week leading up to the party. And then I got so excited about it that I had to do it. Took me several hours Friday night and Saturday morning to put it all together. And by all I mean: two different kinds of cardboard, spray paint, markers, two kinds of glue, a headband, paper clips, a pencil, felt, two kinds of stage makeup, and a design that formed in my head while I scavenged and bought supplies. I had the three piece suit already, though it's now a little too big on me in recent years. The makeup was meant to match my face to the bill and suggest the dot pattern used to print portraits on U.S. currency. I'm greener and grayer than the photo really brings out. The head piece was suspended so it always righted itself (that engineering education put to fine use).

Originally, I had thought I would go as Abe Lincoln in the five dollar bill. But I couldn't bring myself to shave just my upper lip to replicate his beard. So I went with a nondescript dead president on the nonexistent three dollar bill. Funny money, if you will.

The party was held at the same locale, hosted by the same fabulous ladies as the most excellent Thanksgiving dinner I wrote about last year (last year!). The place was done up with presidential photos, copies of our founding documents, bunting, and little cards explaining the hors d'oeuvres as past presidents' favorite foods. People came dressed as a secret service agent, JFK, Jackie Kennedy, the Red Scare, Lady Bird Johnson, President Obama / Colin Powell, James K. Polk, the Bush twins, and more. The West Wing played on a laptop all night. A finer presidential gala this side of the 2013 Inauguration could not have been had!

p.s. I should point out that if you haven't seen them already, my Thanksgiving post was updated some time ago with links to photos of me in the feather fascinator.

So much walking.

The semester officially started two weeks ago, but I've been working on projects and the like since before then. These last few weeks have been especially full. Even tomorrow (Saturday) I have an all day seminar to learn a particular programming environment. After that I still have a tremendous amount of reading to do before next week. It's been too long since I sat down and wrote something. I miss writing here when I don't get to it as often as I'd like. When I'm walking around the city I'm often composing rough drafts of these posts in my head.

Speaking of walking (smooth segue, no?), it was probably my second day living in New York when I had a very grave conversation with myself about footwear. We (me and myself) had a robust debate about the shoes I owned. After only maybe six or eight blocks I would find that my feet hurt with a sort of intensity I don't know that I've ever felt in my feet before. When one's feet feel like this, one becomes preoccupied with one's shoes. At that moment it seemed that nothing but my running shoes was capable of sustaining me in this city. I had visions of throwing out every pair of shoes I owned except for anything with a scientifically formulated advanced foam insole. It took about three weeks of regular walking around the city before I noticed I no longer noticed how my feet felt.

Ever notice how many phrases in the english language have to do with walking? “All walks of life.” “Put your best foot forward.” “Walk the walk.” “Hit one's stride.” “Walk in the park.” I can only imagine that this is because walking is such a central part of our existence. A baby's first steps are a big deal for a reason. When we talk of Apollo 11, we don't say that men visited the moon or explored it; rather, we say that men walked on the moon. I no longer own a car. And though I get around using the busses and trains, I do an awful lot of walking too. In fact, I've come to feel a real energy in all this ambling about. Even if I'm completely pooped, there is an intangible vitality to walking beyond only my elevated heart rate.

I got to visit home for a little more than two weeks over the Christmas and New Year holidays. I was absolutely spoiled rotten. Thank you everyone for all the meals and times together. I had few things I absolutely had to do. No assignment deadlines. Certainly no job to get to every morning. Almost every free moment was spent with people I love. Nearly the whole break was sitting. If I went anywhere I drove. And it was the most peculiar thing. I missed walking. I mean I really missed walking. When I got back to New York, it felt so good to go up and down stairs and walk stretches of city blocks at a time. I did quite a bit of running for a few years before I moved to the city. I never recall my legs wanting to run back then the way they ached to walk.

Now I've certainly made a few missteps since getting to New York. I've put my foot in my mouth a couple times too. I'm now walking out my faith with an entirely new community that I'm still coming to know. I'm suddenly walking in the shoes of a true urbanite, as it were — being especially mindful of rain and clothing choices, how much I carry and to where; strolling through parks and coming upon occasional public performances; I'm starting to bump into people I know on the sidewalk and have interesting conversations. But more than anything, I have a foot in two different worlds. One in Michigan and the other in New York City. I feel the tension of that. In some small way I can relate to kids who have to split their time (and hearts) living in two different places both called “home.” While home in Michigan, I wondered what was happening in New York. When I'm home in New York, I long to know what is going on back in Michigan.

And, yet, here I am. Motivated by an ache, perhaps even the pangs of hearing a call to adventure, in August I took a giant step forward into the unknown. And despite how it hurts sometimes, it still feels good to walk.

Math + Ice Cream = Research

I just uploaded my very first YouTube video. When I started grad school this past semester, besides classes and my own fledgling research project, I joined an ongoing research project called Scoop! with my advisor and our lab group.

We are using Scoop! to explore the relationship of emotion and gesture design in games. Using something known as power poses, our goal is to demonstrate that it's possible to increase confidence and reduce anxiety in math learning for children through their motion interactions with a game. This video complements a submission to the CHI 2012 conference. It only touches on the main points of the project to help reviewers process the lengthier prose also submitted — hence why it may not make a great deal of sense to you.

[Video Link]

My part of the project has been to help restructure the game mechanics to better support the ultimate aims of the study. The first study (before my time) revealed the need to rework and refine the experiment setup for another round of testing with school age kids. I modified the existing game code somewhat, created the software for the multitouch trackpad you see in the video, and assembled a non-video game version for comparison testing using large paper strips and magnets.

This is the very first time I've ever edited video. I completely enjoyed it. Admittedly, I am entirely an amateur so please be gentle with me [Cough. Professional film friends. Cough.].

Surprise. Wonder. Ground Beef. Joy.

Wait. WAIT! Hold on! As much as you can help it, don't look at these photos until I tell you to. Just cool your photographic jets for a minute.

It's a few days before Christmas. So this post is like a Christmas gift to all five of my readers. Remember when you were a kid, and Christmas presents were THE BEST THING EVER? The mystery. The waiting. The anticipation. Ripping off the paper and opening your gifts with a mixture of breathless expectation and unbridled ecstasy? Waking up early because you just couldn't stand it a single second more?

I'm going to share with you in exquisite detail one of my very favorite places in all of New York City. And I intend to craft the wrapping paper of my words to give you the experience of opening this gift as much like you were a kid on Christmas morning as I am capable. I first encountered this place several years ago and had a very similar experience to the one I'm about to unfold for you now. Back then I had no camera with me and had no idea just what it was I was about to experience. This time I came prepared. I suppose I should mention that I was here with a group of volunteers following some time messing around with a bunch of middle school kids. If I keep up volunteering with this organization, I'll write more about that later.

But for now, back to unwrapping your Christmas gift. First the mystery and anticipation. Here we go.

Go ahead. Look at that first photo. Really look at it.

Imagine you're in Manhattan. And you duck into a fancy hotel off the street. Le Parker Meridien Hotel to be exact. It's a French name — that's the level of fancy we're talking about here. Marble floors, high ceilings, wood paneling, large pieces of artwork. The staff is dressed smartly. High powered business people and well dressed theater goers are strolling about. You probably feel quite a bit under dressed. Maybe even self conscious. Just why did I drag you in here? You know I'm not to be trusted.

Second photo.

Then you notice there's a line formed. It stretches around a corner in one direction and ducks into a dark hallway beyond the front desk in the other. To the immediate right of all those in line are floor-to-ceiling red curtains. To their left are the same sort of retractable waist-high “barriers” you might see at a bank or at airport security. Odd. You notice the people standing in line. There's probably a couple men in business suits and a lady or two in a nice dress or pants suit of some sort. The rest are in jeans. There's a flannel shirt or three in line. What in the world.

So I push you to the end of the line. I explain that in New York they would say we're waiting on line whereas in the Midwest we say we're waiting in line. You agree that this is peculiar. No. I have no idea why it's this way. Yes. I realize I'm the guy who usually knows these things.

You start asking questions. You're shaking the box to listen for telltale signs of what's inside. I smile coyly, playing dumb. We strike up conversation with the people who just joined the end of the line. I immediately tell these people not to ruin the surprise for you. They oblige. Our new friends behind us distract you by asking about your time in New York. The inevitable subjects of the subway and how fast everyone walks come up.

We wrap around the corner of the line. We're quite close to the staff behind the front desk. They're busy. They pay no attention to us at all. You started off uncomfortable and disoriented, but now there's an odd coziness to standing in this line anonymously, amidst all the opulence.

Over the heads of the people in front of us you make out a neon glow.

Third photo.

A burger. At the end of a dark hallway. Actually, it's almost more like a dark alley. Ten feet behind you are marble floors and polished brass doors on the elevators. Ten feet in front of you is a dark, dusty service way.

We inch a bit closer while still talking with the couple behind us. They lived in the city for years but recently moved to Connecticut. They're back visiting friends for the weekend. There's a din of indistinguishable voices and music off ahead of us. Every so often a few people filter out. And then a few others at the front of the line duck into a doorway. Nobody is in much of a hurry — mostly because it's such tight quarters. We've been standing in line maybe twenty five minutes. Possibly longer.

You remember that you're actually antsy to see what's going on ahead of us — where exactly in Wonderland Alice is taking us on the other side of her looking glass. You turn around, looking forward again. We're right at that doorway. You go just a bit slackjawed as your eyes tear the paper off the present.

Okay fine. You can look at the rest of the photos now.

Welcome to The Burger Joint. Dim light. Rough plank flooring. Movie posters. Flames flicking up behind the counter in the back. People packed like sardines in a can. The divine smell of beef and potato grease hangs in the air. We are now about six feet from the counter. I point up to the cardboard sign explaining how to order. Step 1: Hamburger or cheeseburger. Step 2: Pick how you want it cooked. Step 3. Pick your toppings. There's also a warning that if you aren't ready to order you get sent to the back of the line. I get your order and send you off to scope out some seats. You may even have to ask for dibs on a table as people are finishing. Don't worry. This is normal for The Burger Joint. It's how this place rolls.

While I'm in line you finally grab a couple seats and sit down. There's marker all over the walls. Even on the lamp shade that's lighting our table. I come on back with two paper sacks speckled with the grease that is yearning to be free of those bags and flowing through our arteries instead. Cheeseburgers. Mine is medium with the works. I spread the fries out on the bag and sprinkle more salt on them than I should. And then you bite into yours. The full on gift.

You realize you're entirely conflicted. Which is better? Biting into a juicy, darn near perfect burger with a side of fries? Or stepping into an alternate universe where grill flames light this new found paradise? Tough call. Merry Christmas.