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When you look at these photos, you need to imagine that someone is blasting “Thunderdome” by Messiah, a techno track that opens with a sample of Tina Turner screaming, “THUNDERDOME! THUNDERDOME!” because dude, that is how it was. I brought a mix for my opponent (the mix, if you’re interested) and the people doing the announcing for mud wrestling at Steer Roast* were totally willing to play a track for the match.

It didn’t look bad for me in the beginning. I have strong legs and I had a good grip on the ropes.

Jumping on his opponent’s back may have worked for Westley, but it didn’t work for me. I think the mud was too slick.

I gave it my best shot, but…

If you look closely, you can see my head being ground into the mud.

I put up a good fight, but ultimately, my blue-haired opponent emerged the victor.

These photos were taken for me with my camera by Ivan. As you can see, the lighting conditions weren’t ideal for a point-n-shoot at some distance, but these shots convey the basic idea. Other people were taking pictures, so better shots may become available in the next few days, but I wanted to provide Matt with some immediate proof that he did not make me up.

Also, I would like to note that I later asked my opponent how tall she is, and it turns out that she is, in fact, six feet tall. I did not imagine it to compensate for my loss.

And although I got my ass roundly kicked at mud wrestling, afterwards, there was a performance by FREEZEPOP. Who are apparently intimately tied to the Senior House/MIT community and I had no idea, although I have loved them for years now. I go-go’ed** to “Science Genius Girl”! And after their set I got a hoodie.

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*Steer Roast is an annual party at Senior House, one of the dorms at MIT. One of the residents told me that they used it to get MIT into Playboy’s top 25 party schools one year in the 80s by convincing them that it happened every weekend.

**On Thursday night, I went to a go-go dancing aerobics workshop with my friend Andrea. It was super fun and I can do both the Twist and the Mashed Potato now, although my favorite is the Batoosi (the version of the Watoosi that Adam West did in the opening credits to “Batman”). The Pony is practically like moshing.

Fruity cocktails count as health food, study finds

Oh, the Cha Cha Cha. Bright red and gaily garnished with raspberries. Madison people: does the Opus still do half-priced drinks from 5-7 on weeknights? I think we can all guess my plans for September.

I have to admit, I never really understood the (inter)national obsession with chocolate. Sure, I like chocolate, particularly dark chocolate, and used to eat it if it was around, but I pretty much avoided it after I went on WeightWatchers. The problem was that I basically had two modes of chocolate consumption: if it was put away somewhere, I never craved it, so it would end up forgotten and stale; if it was out, I would gorge myself on it and end up consuming approximately 15,000 calories in a sitting and feeling slightly ill. So it seemed better just not to have it in the house at all, and I really didn’t miss it. I never lusted after it feverishly as I did, say, extra sharp cheddar.

Here in California, however, I have discovered: 70+% cacao chocolate. Holy fuck.

I realize that intense dark chocolate was no doubt available in Madison. Here, however, you cannot enter a retail establishment of any freaking kind without encountering a random chocolate display. It’s EVERYWHERE, along with the wine. Chocolate and wine. The Targets here have a WINE AISLE. Nobody smokes here and there are very few overweight people, but I tell you it is a realm of hedonists. There are people at my job who routinely wander around barefoot.*

I really like it. The 70+% cacao dark chocolate and the $5 Yellowtail at Trader Joe’s** and the ubiquitous murder-suggestive oleander and the sunshine and the fact that I can wear jeans unremarked pretty much anywhere I desire to go. I love the Bay Area. I do not want to leave.

Although the kicky suede boots I ordered from the Amazon sale, which turned out, according to their tag, to be “designed and engineered in Canada to meet and exceed the needs of Canadian winters,” are not so appropriate for this environment. They should, however, come in handy in Cambridge this winter. And I am looking forward to working with people at MIT. I just think I would really like to come back to California.

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*When I got the nurse’s information sheet in my intern orientation packet, I assumed that “Wear shoes at all times while in the building,” like “Call your parents! They miss you!”, was directed at the undergraduate interns. So far, however, the only people I have observed flouting this injunction have worked here, I assume, for well over a decade.

**Even if, mysteriously, they carry every variety EXCEPT my favorite vintage, the shiraz-grenache blend.

So I took my prelim yesterday. It was okay, I guess. In the morning, on the “general” questions, I felt like I didn’t get a chance to say everything I knew, but there wasn’t really an opportunity to say everything I knew, and that’s probably better than feeling like I said everything I knew and wishing I’d known more.

The afternoon questions, which were more specific, seemed to cover a lot of stuff I’d already touched on in the morning, but maybe that’s because I wrote 11 single-spaced pages. I don’t actually know if that’s a lot; it’s useless to compare to anyone I know, anyway, since they weren’t taking the same one.* But anyway, I just answered the afternoon questions as best I could and hoped there wasn’t too much repetition (I had to pick three out of five).

Afterwards, my neck was tenser than it has been in recent memory. I went to the gym, which helped a little bit, but not as much as the four** glasses of wine I had later on at Jeremy’s farewell party.

Jeremy’s party was a very good time.*** It was actually a joint party for him and Katy, who I didn’t really know and now it is too late, which is sad. But anyway, there was a quiz in which Dorotha read various anecdotes that had happened to someone, and we had to write if it was Jeremy, Katy, or someone else. Nina argued that “someone else” was always going to be a perfectly valid answer, but was shouted down by Dorotha.

Anyway, despite my total non-knowledge of Katy and what one would assume would have to be less comprehensive knowledge of Jeremy than many other attendees, I tied with Ang for second place, and received a handsome pair of novelty socks.****

In retrospect, I think I will take this as an omen of my general test-taking prowess. As Dad said when I called to check dates for visiting the family this month, “[I] have always had a talent for bullshitting [my] way to success.” It’s good to hear what your family REALLY thinks, I suppose. I reminded him that this talent had failed me in the advanced history class I took in high school, though.

I fly to Boston on Friday for a five-day conference. I’m a bit worried about where I’ll exercise and what I’ll eat, and my wardrobe in general is pretty scruffy, although I really don’t know why I even bother thinking about THAT. I have Cherry Bomb hair, it’s not like a nice pair of shoes and a smart pantsuit is going to fool anybody.

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*In case you couldn’t tell, this is your cue to tell me what a HUGE AMOUNT OF PRELIM ANSWERING that is.

****I love novelty socks. Admittedly, I had had quite a bit of wine by the time they were awarded, but I’d like to assure everyone involved that my pleasure over them was really not that exaggerated. I just really love novelty socks.

Last night, having discovered that the Terrace was way too packed for our tastes and not being particularly committed to seeing fireworks, Keely and I went to the wine bar up the street from my house, C’est La Vin.

They have outdoor seating even if the surrounding buildings obscure fireworks displays; it was a bit chilly for July, but I had chosen to wear my new light sweater that matches my hair, so I was okay, and Keely warmed up after we got some booze into her.

We had a bottle of a New Zealand sauvignon blanc, which was nice, but things started to go wrong when it turned out to be five after nine and we were unable to purchase a second bottle of wine to take back to my apartment and thus avoid the $8 corkage fee. Keely suggested that we switch to cocktails, a plan which I fully admit I endorsed enthusiastically at the time, and they make a great Cosmo.

I probably shouldn’t have had that raspberry thing after it, though, as evinced by the fact that I tried to settle the bill with my library card.

The waiters seemed to find it funny; the guy came back with the little plastic tray saying, very solemnly, “I’m sorry, but there seems to be a problem with your… library card.”

My debit card did work fine, once I managed to produce it. And I even managed to tip appropriately, as the receipt I discovered this morning demonstrates. Along with my ability to distinguish between cards in my wallet, my math skills tend to deteriorate when I drink.