On this return flight from holiday and home town, my thoughts fall to our defining travels. To what are we driven, and from where does this drive emanate? What flights have we taken towards adventure and away from pain? When are we passengers and not pilots? When are we along for the ride, and when are we masters of our fate and captains of our souls?

College is, undoubtedly, a period of rapid change. Lifetime friendships are forged despite the singular gravity of geography; love is discovered and lost; knowledge is simultaneously infinite and futile. I have thoroughly enjoyed this contradictory period, and despite the failures and challenges I have endured, I recognize its purpose, emboldening, and wonder.

I survived the challenges of the last year by focusing almost all of my time and attention to drive. The majority of my colleagues from undergraduate studies took flight to careers outside the bay area, allowing me to focus on my studies, but isolating me from those with shared paths. I miss many, but relish the longing for shared paths and the chance to share more.

In an unexpected but welcome adventure, I fell in love with a truly special woman. Prior to meeting her, I had always believed that love was an unparalleled force, the most human of capabilities that trumped logic and circumstance. As of a few short weeks ago our destinations diverge, and the romance and naïve notion wane. Despite the heartache we both feel, perhaps the most loving and compassionate act is to say ‘goodbye’. When I think of her – and I often will – I will always think kindly.

On the horizon lies great opportunity, the culmination of feverish work and calculated strategy to find the company where I will begin my career as an electrical engineer. The dream job for me is one where I am challenged, I have the privilege of challenging others, and growth is expected of me and my company. I have several offers that reward my preparation and present potential to contribute to and learn from my team. In this difficult economy, I never forget the value of these opportunities and how fortunate I am; most often think of the friends and advisers who enabled my success. When decisions are guided by friendship and advice, I am a passenger, and when faced with challenge and uncertainty, I am a pilot in uncharted waters; I am not sure I ever know the difference, but I do my best to pay forward the kind and selfless acts I receive.

On this return flight, I witnessed geriatrics struggling with items and independence (though surely they had earned both) pre-boarding with the mothers coddling the young and helpless. I wonder where within this spectrum I fit, and if this fit changes on an hourly, daily, or yearly basis. I wonder when I am the master of my fate. I wonder when – if ever – I am the captain of my soul, or if the help of others is inseparable from who I am. Irrespective, my plan for the future is to succeed with the help of and to the benefit of others.

Jeff dashed from his Victorian studio, having risen moments ago but still well before the lethargic sun. He tugged a blazer over his shoulders, the tail snapping and wafting a plume of freshly-lain cologne like a roadrunner spinning a dusty cloud after flipping its tongue at its predator. He found at his feet and on his doorstep the advanced mathematics textbook once lent to a lover; both the book and the lover had faded with time. Victim to his feverish rush to battle, the book was tossed back into the stillness of the apartment, and both were locked away from thought and intrusion. It was not until the solitude of a predawn commute that he would wonder if a note, a charm, a kiss lay inside the cover. The answer would remain in stillness…

Relationships strike a complicated balance between three layers: image (that which we selfishly hope to project), knowledge (that which we emanate), and vulnerability (that which we protect). We all wear masks in different social situations; psychology argues we do so even to ourselves. Somewhere in this mix falls friendship - the intersection of image (selfishness), knowledge (existence), and vulnerability (dreams).

Friendship, I argue, is a perpetual and multidimensional ascension through these layers. One can never know a person too well; else the nature of the self would no longer be mystery. I believe the human psyche is sufficiently complicated that if a person were to be captured in stillness and studied, the course would last a lifetime. But the clock is ticking, the sun sets, and we change seemingly at the moments in which we were closest to mastering these now deprecated snapshots.

On this most reverent of days, I am humbled by thoughts of our great leader, spiritual adviser, and humanitarian – me. In observation of such a well-deserved holiday, I share a collection of thoughts that reflect the heart and personality of a magnanimous spirit.

On a warm spring afternoon, Jeff, J-Man, Jaz, Mehdi, and photographer Alex Bain hosted a free hugs campaign. Not one to let warm fuzzies get in the way, Jeff was instead captured fervently debating Berkeley City Council candidate George Beir. George lost that election.

Jeff once visited outer space, but only because he kept trying to get a closer look at the Hubble Space Telescope. “If you can’t see it well enough, move closer“.

As a humble student, Jeff attended more than seven straight years of university without once demanding the PhD offered to most who have made such a sacrifice.

I now share with you a set of life rules developed by Jeff that give us guidance as we plummet aimlessly through space on this rock we call Earth.

In Students vs. Associated Students of Santa Monica College, a prosecutor brazenly accused Jeff (then Associated Students Vice President) of lacking the authority to chair an independent student council.

Rule 1: You never lack the authority. Sternly refusing to act out of intimidation (or, perhaps, the law), Jeff and his loyal ponytail did not waiver in the face of protesters or fanatic thousand-page blogs threatening to name him in lawsuits charging violations of the Ralph M. Brown act.

Rule 2: Hair rocks. Though many have shared their visions on how his hair should look, Jeff styles his impressive mane in accordance with a higher calling.

Rule 3: You are not stopped by locks. See, “Caffeine-Driven Overconfidence“.

Rule 4: You may alter probability distributions.. Consider the Jeff Field, which is attributed with the late-night landing of a dart on top of another dart.

Rule 5: Your holidays are not safe.

Halloween

Earth Day

Rule 6: Hawaiian shirts are strictly prohibited.

Rule 7: You can park anywhere you want. If you are good at navigating a bureaucracy, you can get away with more than you think.

Parking, traffic, and toll violation tickets.

Rule 8: Socially appropriate is boring.

Rule 9: You are not too old to build a fort in your living room.

Rule 10: Your friends are the best. They give meaning, excitement, insight, and adventure in life. They elevate you, celebrate you, and catch you when you fall. They do crazy things like declaring a holiday in your name. They enable you to laugh at yourself, to share goofy photos, and to tell embarrassing stories. They are the topic of the only rule that really matters.

You guys are the best!

My brain is a neural network of contradiction. It recently craves adventure. It receives information via text message and Facebook. It yearns stimulus and high-volume trance music. It rapidly and sporadically swings between drama and insight, between passion and apathy, and between ineptitude and euphoria. It never reads books, but always street signs and instruction manuals. It experiences persistent anxiety yet demands more of itself when afflicted. It is both isolated and social, damaged and growing. It aches a lot. It confuses hopefulness for faith and delusion for optimism. It is needfully complicated and absorbed, but consumed by thoughts of others.

[…]

My brain needs degaussing.

Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorems are discoveries that have had far-reaching impact on the field of mathematics. I found a brilliant synopsis in a magazine article, and thought I would share its plain English explanation:

From Discover Magazine: Albert Einstein - “Einstein and Gödel”; March 2008. http://discovermagazine.com/2008/mar/ .

Elementary arithmetic, Gödel demonstrated, is incomplete and will remain so. Whatever axiomatic system you base your calculations on, there are true statements that lie beyond the system’s reach. Adding such statements to the system as further axioms does no good. The enriched system is also incomplete, the infection moving upward by degrees.

I write this as an only slightly-willing passenger on a Utah bound flight. It’s the perfume (thick spice), the hair (flat, overdone blonde highlights), the doctrinal literature (Book of Mormon), the 3.5 children per family (spawned from a slightly evaporated gene pool), the smugness (derived from guaranteed self-ascension), and the glares towards the man who orders a whiskey (me) that all remind me of what was once home. Both age and geography grant me a greater appreciation for the home I found in California.

Aų4 (alternately Au4) is worth a listen. It captures my mood, depth of abstraction, and distance from reality.

The last few weeks have been dominated by travel. A weekend in Seattle for an ad-hoc convention; a weekend in Austin for a research presentation; a weekend in the Gulf of Mexico for beaches, soul searching, and sunburns; a weekend in Utah to pick up a new ride (well, family hand-me-down to be accurate); the last two weeks were in the Baltic; next weekend is Shabbat dinner and catching up with my adopted family in LA.

My first pond jump came at the offering of my family. They graciously offered a ticket to cruise the Baltic, a trip I could not have afforded with my modest grad student budget. After two lovely weeks in northern Europe, I began my return trip this morning (and as of my writing, is not yet complete).

My third cruise (the first two were Caribbean) confirmed for me that cruising is not my preferred mode of travel. Cruise ships are not vessels, they are cities: destinations that establish a distancing bubble between pampered passengers and foreign cultures. While cruises offer an enticing sequence of cities and countries along the voyage, each stop lasts mere hours, and most passengers disembark onto tour busses that have been sequestered by the cruise to further extend the bubble. What I do enjoy about cruises is making new friends to join in some of the ship activities, such as cocktail demonstrations, trivia games, table tennis, and just hanging around drinking martinis. It doesn’t take me long before I turn the boat into a floating high-school halway, where I’m saying “hi” and giving high-fives to friends as they pass.

I want to get lost in culture, to be in a city center without a map or a schedule, without friends or contacts. I want to leave each city with new friends, new first experiences, and a few new words from the local vernacular. A cruise doesn’t facilitate this, and I feel a backpacking trip through Europe is a must in my life. That, or I should just take a job overseas.

Princess Cruises proved itself a dishonest corporation. Perhaps this is true of all cruise ships, who operate unregulated in international waters without the guidance of law, police, or gaming commissions. Regardless, Princess got caught, and I take offense in a sense akin to Kant’s superior hatred of dishonesty. Finnish medical teams confirmed cases of H1N1 swine flew on both my and the previous voyage of the Emerald Princess. Administrators aboard the ship claimed this was false, and blamed the “rumors” on the Russian media. Okay, not that I care so much about swine flu - I think it would be funny if I were to catch it, almost a novelty - but the blatant lies were right to my face and implicated another country. There are other examples, but I shall only mention the most interesting here.

I was rather worried about the Baltic trip, not because of anything related to travel, but because I would be spending a great deal of time with my family. The last time I spent as much time with my family, it did not end well. I have a complicated relationship with my family, and I have discovered that in their presence, I am reduced to the 17-year-old kid who was compelled to move out into his own apartment. While the vacation was beautiful, there were times I needed some serious armor. It will be nice to return home to a world where I feel less need for shielding.

On a positive note, Europe is beautiful. There is so much history, such encouragement for culture and differentiation. This is a drive that I feel is lost in the states. I had Brat & beer in Germany and Cloudberry ice cream in Finland. I climbed castles in Denmark and churches in Russia. I shopped in Estonia and Sweden. And everywhere the art, the beautiful art. I simply must return, though next time with a backpack and a pocket translator.

Of special note are the East Germans, who lined the shores by the hundreds to wave off our ship, playing music over shoreline loudspeakers, and showcasing a fireworks display directly in front of the boat. If there has ever been a sign of the rise of East Germany, it is a cruise ship full of tourists from around the world who come to share their culture, and I was deeply touched by their gratitude. The scene brought tears to my eyes, and I now have a special place in my heart for the people of East Germany.

Lastly, I need your help. I brought back a souvenir from Copenhagen, a gift for my drop zone. Amongst my trans-Atlantic carryon luggage is a large inflatable duck. It is a spitting image of a canary-yellow rubber ducky, and it is designed to be a pool toy. It has two pontoons and two sturdy handles, and when I saw it, I thought, “my friends should ride this duck out of an airplane”. I am far too inexperienced to make the jump myself, but I hope to live vicariously through my friends. What I need from you is a name (preferably Danish) for my new yellow friend, thoughts on how to hand the yet unnamed duck to a crew who is down for a toy jump, as well as insight into whether or not the duck is even airworthy. If it’s not airworthy, it’s the thought that counts ;-)

Blue skies!

(P.S. Do I get bonus points for writing this entire blog on a cell phone?)

In Fast Company, I saw an advertisement for Chocolate Covered Bacon and thought it to be an absurdity - some kind of bourgeois excuse for indulgence. Friends have corrected me, informing me that in fact the combination of sweet and savory is delicious.

This characterization of chocolate covered bacon transcends the topic of food, and in fact loosely describes my life for the past few months. Sweet, savory, and absurd.

The sweet: great foods, great wines, great conversations. First kisses. Laughing.

Savory is a sense of completion, of success. My exceedingly difficult academic semester ended, and I performed well. Given some breathing room after a feverish pace, I spent three days skydiving. The drop zone crew is one of interesting and adventurous people who challenge and encourage me as I am brought into the sport. Friday marked my first jump out of a helicopter, my first sunset load, and my first formation (hybrid) jump. The sunset hybrid is a jump l will never forget, and it was cool of the more experienced jumpers to include me.

I have found myself recently attracted to the absurd and the surreal. In the last week, I have found myself in freefall, esoteric nightclubs, odd parties, an offshore wedding, and the zoo. (On the topic of parties, I owe a friend beer for being such a cooperative trooper when I arranged for five beautiful “take no prisoner” women to ambush him with flirts and makeup kits.) My strive for more energy and love for life drives my desire for the absurd. I will often augment these experiences with music (trance, trip-hop, or electronica pop) and great people.

Summer on!

Duchamp - Mona Lisa with Moustache (1919)

Perfume Tree saved me this week.

An advertisement featured in the magazine Fast Company caught my eye, and is now on my desk. “Two equally obsessive foods come together in one perfectly balanced bite of savory, smoky, and sweet.” - chocolate covered bacon.

My fish are happy. My math professor is pushing his class hard.

I left the office today, a Friday night, at 7pm. I was thinking, “man, what am I doing here?” and then on the drive home, jamming out to Flunk, I see the Golden Gate and am all like, “oh, yeah”.

I have to clear up my schedule - sorry, some stuff’s gotta go. If the ship begins to sink, the first thing you drop is ballast. And fat people.

I write a post-it note a day and stick it to my desk. Some pretty random stuff there.

Logan, Los Angeles, Long Beach, Hollywood, Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, Oakland, Berkeley, and Emeryville. I have earned parking tickets in each of these cities, and plan to continue my statewide tour.

Okay, you know what, I’ll admit it, I watch Hell’s Kitchen.

Pomegranate saved me this week.

Arg, last TV dinner demolished, better go shopping this weekend. Then better start cooking. Then better start working…

Take a tealight candle and remove it from its aluminum base. Form a tepee over the wick using three or more sticks of mechanical pencil lead. Set on paper plate, light the candle, and microwave for 30 seconds. Wicked cool.

Going up in the air again…

Morgan asked an interesting question, and I thought I would post part of my response. The question is, “Why does software become slower and bulkier as time goes on?”

Jeff’s Law:
1) Users of software always need more features
2) By accommodating users, software always has more features than you need

Bill Gates is famously quoted for his claim that no computer would need more than 640K of memory. In a sense, it wasn’t entirely wrong, but the numbers are more than a thousand-fold for what we use in memory today.

Software always needs more features, support for varied hardware, and languages, and the ability to be backwards compatible with older versions (so in a sense, every new version has tricks to remember the old stuff - like remembering your past lives if you believe in reincarnation).

There is a strong movement of developers in the GNU project who develop free, open-source, targeted software that solves a single problem. However, if the software does not expand to a larger user base, or if it cannot escape its ties to an obsolete standard, it is destined to fail. So, we extend the software, and it gets bigger.

The more interesting question is “why does software speed up more slowly than hardware?”. A couple of thoughts:

First, software theory is academic, and requires incredible thought and research before extending to the next level. Hardware depends on physical techniques, and a “better” or “faster” solution often exists, though it may be cost prohibitive. That is to say that hardware techniques keep the next version in sight. However, Moore’s law is on its last leg, and when we are in the sub-45 nanometer transistor range, we have a new (perhaps academic) problem to solve.

We realize that if we can’t keep bumping up processor speed, we can just add more processors to do two things at once, hence my second thought: software theory is (at the moment) horribly inadequate for concurrent processing. Multicore processors are cool and everything; the Berkeley philosophy is “manycore”, that is collections of hundreds or thousands of processors. Describing a problem in such a way that it can be solved by several thousand sub-problems is immensely difficult. Imagine a model of a nuclear explosion, where every atom is accounted for, and conservation of mass and energy are asserted. How can I solve the position of every atom without knowing of its neighbors? If I partition the explosion into larger regions, how do I account for the interactions at the boundaries? How can I compute the next value of the Fibonacci sequence without knowing the two previous values? It turns out we need a fundamentally different understanding of software and how we describe problems.

… as a math aside, generating the nth value of the Fibonacci sequence does not require the knowledge of any of the previous values in the sequence.

If you pursue programming, you are going to learn threading, which is the worst concurrent model of computation (see The Problem with Threads). There are more advanced models, though somewhat less expressive, that enable powerful concurrent computation that is more easily analyzed and understood. This is largely an electrical engineering venture, and in my opinion, computer scientists have been hesitant to consider models of computation other than threading. So, to be blunt, many computer scientists are stuck in the past with regard to concurrent processing.

So, without regard to the imminent failure of Moore’s law, we can just pack more and more cores into a processor, but we don’t have software that knows how to use it.

At the Alamo Drafthouse in Austin, Texas, the movie had just let out. Four guys enter the restroom and occupy all four available urinals. At one end, a cell phone begins to ring, loudly spouting a familiar guitar/synth lick. The guy closest to the offending ringtone says to his friend, with great urgency, “no, dude, turn that shit off now.” Alas, it was too late, and the lyrics to Journey’s “Midnight Train” blare out,

Strangers waiting… hold on to the feelin’

A moment later the four of us were laughing so hard we were crying.

Some brilliant student council member named our seasonal formal dance “Winter Snowball”. Kudos to you.

My sophomore year, I attended a private boarding school. Joining mid-year positioned me on the lowest rung of the social ladder. Top rung was reserved for four-year students - those who started freshman year and stayed through senior year. The lesser cast consisted of those who joined their sophomore year. Then there was me.

I appreciate this period in my life, as it frames every moment of happiness experienced since. Being unpopular, unkempt, and eccentric, my friends were few and far between. Johnny the Irishman was the highlight of my Wasatch Academy experience. Without our cigarette-infused conversations and the infrequent yet potentially expulsionary tequila tastings, I don’t know how I would have survived.

Beat up and ostracized, I had even experienced a modern-day tar-and-feathering: soaked in an inflatable wading pool, only to be later tackled into the sand of the nearby volleyball court. Lost and alone, I share now with you an experience that restored my sense of self and commitment to my friends. It is a hallmark example of a rebellious attitude that has, on rare occasions, saved me.

I used to have a crush on Julie Cordell. My adornment was obvious, and in moments of weakness, her softness towards me surfaced as well. Dating me, however, was out of the question: for the student body representative and spirit squad member, it would have been social suicide to even be seen with me. Her character was demonstrated in her willingness to exploit the torch I carried.

The night of the big dance, I shared a couch with Johnny, Neo, Josh, and other students who successfully evaded a date for the big dance. Our evening, dubbed “Snowball in Hell”, was hosted by a sympathetic professor. The evening was interrupted by a comical outburst from Johnny: “Guys - I’m going to the dance”. He had our attention - how was this even possible, the dance was underway, and all attendees had been paired. “In my BATHROBE,” was the addendum that cracked the joke. A short laugh later, attentions fell to the floor, and I replied “I’m in.”

Johnny, Josh, Neo, and I ran to the dorms. We threw on bathrobes and attitudes that we were to be the life of the party.

Alas, at the door, we were turned away for lack of shirts and pants. Our argument of non-nudity had little sway.

Little did the doorman expect our return following a hurried addition of underclothes. We presented ourselves in plaid shirts, bow-ties, wrinkled slacks, and bathrobes. We passed the test and were admitted into the dance.

Julie Cordell could not have been more pissed. She had envisioned the perfect dance, theme, and royalty. We were a clog in these plans. We didn’t care - we found what friends we had and danced. We got down and dirty, sensual and sexual, careless of what others thought.

And we were a hit.

The DJ called us to the stage, where we lead the congregation in the quintessential “YMCA”, followed by “Mungo Jerry - Summertime”. We danced and laughed and had fun.

In a change of heart, Julie Cordell approached me, wrapped her arms around me, and with her beautiful brown eyes invited me to a slow dance. We moved closer together, her breasts pressing against my chest, her arms caressing my lower back. She leaned to my side, pressing her lips against my ear. The wetness of her kiss was apparent only after she had whispered the words “Jeff, if you were to come back with your suit on, I would dance with you all night.”

Lured and caught, I responded with equal suggestiveness. “Julie,” I whispered as I softly kissed her ear, “there is nothing I would love more.”

In a passionate expression of wanton and lust, I pressed my hands to her sides and thrust her away from me as her eyes fell eagerly to mine: “but I’m here with my friends.”

She pushed me away and a frustrated growl escaped her throat. I returned to my friends to dance through the night. Despite any social stigma that followed us, that night, we were the stars of the show.

For your enjoyment, the Winter Snowball:

Johnny the Irishman and Jeff C. Jensen

Freaking with Shelly

First of two formal photographs

Second of two formal photographs

Up and Close with Amy

Today, I learned that a broken window can total a car.

On Wednesday, the driver side window of my car fell off track, and sank into the door. I was able to prop it back into place, but not tight enough to form a weather seal, and my car was more vulnerable to theft. On Thursday, I dropped by car off at the Berkeley Honda Dealership.

Since my car was going to be at the shop anyway, I asked them to perform a tuneup. Friday afternoon, they call with the bad news: $800 to fix the window. But wait, there’s more!

The tuneup will require new spark plugs and gasket, which is not surprising, and adds $200. But wait, there’s more!

During inspection, it was found that my power steering unit was leaking fluid. $750. But wait, there’s more!

The front control arms, which fix the wheel axles to the frame of the car, are shot. The bushings are worn and need to be completely replaced: $800. But wait, there’s more!

Because of the control arm problem, my tires have worn prematurely and need replacement. $200.

Clearly, I’m not about to dump three grand into a ‘92 Honda, despite my love for the car. The engine and transmission are great, as is the kickass stereo, and it’s a bummer to find out the suggested repairs total three times the resale value of the car.

Okay, well, so it’s an older car - I’ll have them rig the window so it is fixed in the proper location but cannot move. I’ll keep changing oil and filling it with gas until she dies - I am not a supporter of assisted automobile suicide. At least she works for now. So, no repairs were done.

Upon picking up my car on Friday evening, I find a loud, periodic knocking noise underneath my car, which gets worse when turning. The steering wheel is bouncing left and right, like my car is possessed by Kit from Knight Rider and he’s fighting me for control of the car. “Shit…” I thought, “there is no way this is safe to drive.”

I immediately returned to the shop, pissed that something was broken that wasn’t before, and dismayed that a dealership would send a customer home in a car that was clearly tearing itself apart.

The service director of the dealership calls the next morning: “You know, Jeff, we didn’t do anything to your car. We did not loosen one bolt, or remove a single part, we only performed a visual inspection.” I explained the problem again, that my car was certainly different as a result of the “visual inspection”. (I did not, though I am known to, discuss Darwin’s belief that the observer, in the act of observing, changes what he or she observes, nor the implications of this belief in the context of quantum physics. My phrasing was more akin to “FIX IT!”). Clearly, the service director had not driven the car, so rather than attempt to recreate the sound, I encouraged him to drive the car himself. A few hours later, he calls back with his answer: “I am 99.9% sure that, because of the wear on your front control arms, that when we lifted your car for the visual inspection, something in your control arms shifted when not having the weight of the car on them.” And, basically, because driving my car is riskier than driving a Ford Pinto in a demolition derby, I can’t drive my car off the property without $1000 in repairs.

WTF? It was driving fine before, I just wanted a fixed window and a tuneup.

Hours later, I have the service director underneath my car, demonstrating how lifting my car could have caused such a dramatic (and dangerous) change in its handling. Now I’ve never studied physics, or mechanics, or engineering… oh, wait, I have, and somethin ain’t right. Someone please explain to me how this part breaks when lifting the car, but not over a speed bump, curb, or small child (as I am prone to do):

I have no clue as to what actually cased the problem I experienced the night before. Something Berkeley Honda did was whack. My best guess? A mechanic left a wrench attached to a moving part of my car. Though I am not convinced, I also have to consider that someone was trying to screw me - and my car.

I get my keys, get in my car, and I’m outta here. I can at least limp my car home.

My drive home was pleasant… in fact, quite nice. No banging, no shaking of the steering column, the steering wheel remains fixed straight ahead, the suspension is smooth…

They have exercised the daemons!

While the first lift of my car marked its fall into hell, the second lift - with me present - marked its ascension to heaven. Darwin was, in fact, right.

I installed a new automatic lie detector on my blog. Kinda interested to see if it works.

Today, for some reason, I am fixated on my inability to flirt. I trace this back to my experience as a popular student in high school. Though small-town northern Utah offered ample dating opportunities, I never fully adjusted to the environment. In retrospect, I can not imagine myself having been well-adjusted to, well, a kinda screwed up place. I am reminded of Jiddu Krisnamurti’s assertion that it is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.

My fixation is not with the past, but with how I completely lose sense of self, presence, and decency when talking to a beautiful woman. At least I am able to converse without launching a flatus. It’s not a confidence thing - I have no doubt in my abilities in… well… tasks relevant to the topic of dating. Alas, there is some switch inside my brain that melts away any of its useful functionality, and it’s triggered by beautiful women.

Lie Count: 5

Okay, seriously, assigning a problem set which is due the day of an exam is not productive, especially if the exam depends on it. Assigning an additional problem set due two days later is excessive.

Join me in rebelling against professors who assign such ludicrous workloads: boycott homework due on exam days.

1. I can only count by numbers that are sums of perfect squares.

25. Done.

Anatomy of a robotic wine bottle retriever and opener. The robot was designed to sit atop a counter, next to a wine rack. The target users were disabled or geriatrics, many of whom consider wine integral to their culture. Alas, due to financial constraints, this robot never came to be - but we share the idea with the cloud in the hopes that it may one day come to fruition.

I write in the twilight of an amazing winter break.
The holiday began with celebrations of graduation, culminating in a Kensington barbecue with a view of the bay and the company of colleagues with whom I have studied for more than two years. We celebrated a hugely successful project (GoBot, only Nimbus could beat it), new jobs (Rick please don’t tap my phone between 7-9pm, that’s Jeff’s Time), new internships (Mehdi, get some sleep), new homes (Angel, surf goofy on Trussels for me) and all the possibility that tomorrow brings.

My second family (whom I adopted without giving them much choice in the matter) opened their home for two action-packed weeks in Los Angeles. It was wonderful to spend time with Philippe (who has extended the lifespan of the 4am conversation beyond college years), Loren (whose advice demonstrates her compassion and commitment to others), Elliot (whose love for life is as intense as are his mad techno-mixing skills), Morgan (who can discuss calculus, physics, and the legalization of pot in the same sentence), Tybalt (who is still a “good boy” despite getting his ass kicked by a terrier), and Portia (cutest dog ever, excluding her pneumatic bowels). They bring warmth and excitement wherever they go, and I am thankful to have such a loving family.

Los Angeles was capped off with a wonderful dinner party featuring friends who have journeyed with me from Santa Monica to Berkeley and back, as well as cameos from the Hartleys. We consumed conversation about accomplishments, plans, and dreams, as well as healthy amounts of champagne and Pasta à la Q. The night ended with a wonderful firelight conversation that morphed into breakfast at a Cuban bakery. The conclusions from our hot tub conversations are that Avi needs to speak up more in class, Sarah needs to leave the country, and Jonathan needs to move closer to me.

My return to Northern California was hella delayed (Tejon Pass closed), but I arrived in time to ring in the new year. Our gracious host (Tala, I grieve for your broken glassware) filled us with cheese and champagne (a delightful distraction from Alex’s iPhone), and enlivened us with what was my first try at Rock Band - excuse my inappropriate lyrics, you get points regardless of what words you sing. Josh, thanks for being cool, I promise never to Facebook unfriend you again, Mike you rock the guitar, and Eliza your poker losses are soon to be returned in original form.

With life changing so quickly, I appreciate having the opportunity to spend time with my colleague, project partner, drinking buddy, and close friend whose name will be memorialized as Nerd Cowboy on account of his never checking his Facebook. Cowboy is perhaps the first person I turn to in celebration, defeat, or angst. Not sexual angst, mind you - I’m flattered, maybe even curious, but ultimately not interested in such backdoor shenanigans. He plans to move out of Northern California, but he’ll be back.

Worth noting is my reconnection with my parents, whom despite seemingly insurmountable cultural and philosophical differences have enabled my pursuit of a masters degree. I am both surprised and indebted by their gratitude.

This winter has marked milestones in academics, family, and friendship. I have been honored by the support of the faculty at Berkeley, warmed by the birthday wishes and dinners with friends, and empowered by overcoming an existential crisis. I have never been more relaxed, supported, or happy in my life. I send my warmest regards to the friends who have marked this joyous time in my life - too many to mention here.

In the year to come, I will be challenged in new and difficult ways. While I may be delayed by research or schoolwork, I promise to respond to every Facebook message, e-mail, text, and singing telegram I receive. I wish the best to all of you in the new year.

This is the last of three in the series about Shibrowner, the much adored (and worn) car throughout my high school years.

Until a few months after high school, I smoked cigarettes. As smokers know, smokers congregate in groups; your friends, lovers, and hangouts all become smoke friendly. What I truly miss about smoking is the perfect excuse for a little break, a few moments to myself or to converse with friends. Cigarettes were a social utility that connected strangers and friends alike.

In what would become a beloved tradition for myself and three friends, we escaped the bustle of suburban life to a quiet mountainside with a view of the valley below. Shibrowner’s windows rolled down, and the four of us climbed to sit over its doors, feet resting inside the car, elbows resting on its roof. Cigarettes flare up as we watch the sunset over the valley, our attention frequently turning to one of the heads bobbing above the roof. Our regular participants included two Americans, one German, one Swede, and one Norwegian, though occasional guests were invited to join.

To the best of my recollection, there were some rough guidelines about Top of the Car Conversations. They became an honest, open, and a unique way to exchange thoughts and ideas. We felt as friends, and equals, and will remember these moments as some of the best in high school.

This is the second of three installations that, in some way or another, revolve around my 1983 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. Age had faded its beige color into a soft brown, which warranted the nickname “Shibrowner”. For its age, it was surprisingly comfortable and fast, boasting its speed on a dashboard bearing a needle that swept horizontally (as opposed to the modern circular design). Shibrowner was the only car in which I was able to bury the needle; at a speed at which we could only estimate was between 100 and 110 mph, the needle actually disappeared beneath the dashboard. At such a high speed, the age of the car became apparent, as worn sealing leaked air through turbines that sounded like the engine of an airplane, and loosened bolts and fixtures rattled in a symphony of restlessness. Shibrowner was purchased in 2001 at a price of $600, and died roughly one year later when a bearing in the engine locked due to heavy throttling. Shibrowner lived hard and died hard.

One Saturday afternoon, my friends and I were raising hell in our hometown of Logan, Utah. Having offed enough of the city, we roamed into the construction zone of a new mountainside property development. With all of the arrogance and bravado of youth, we concluded that Shibrowner was the perfect sport utility vehicle, capable of handling the most rugged of terrain. Shibrowner and its six occupants sought to digging (off-roading to the layman) through the mountainside. We whirled about, tossing rocks and dirt everywhere, spinning the car wildly in the smooth but unpaved terrain. My passengers cheered and laughed at the ride, with every moment more exhilarating than the last.

As we inched towards the mountainside, I saw a hill of dirt that was begging to be climbed by my awesome SUV. It was if I was at the base camp of K2, doped on oxygen, and propped up by the confidence of a Sherpa. I turned towards the mountain, gunning the engines despite the screams of my friends who had less confidence in my Himalayan experience. A quick leap through the air and sudden impact with dirt yielded a car propped against the hill, its hood embedded, its rear wheels suspended above the earth.

For nearly an hour, we tried desperately to free our car, but alas, Sir Issac Newton had other plans. With the hood stuck, the rear bumper sitting on the ground, and the rear wheels suspended, there was little hope of freeing Shibrowner from her entanglement. I left the driver’s seat, stepped away from the car, and took in the desperation and despair of my friends. My heart sank. While there was worry of tow trucks and cab rides home, I longed for the cheers and laughter of the moments before the impact.

“Friends,” I said, “let’s watch the sunset.”

My friends turned to notice sun as it was beginning to set in a brilliant show of colors carried through the warmth of an idle summer. My friends took but a moment to observe my sincerity, that the car should be left for the time being, and that we should live in the moment. We climbed over the car to the top of the hill, sitting in the dirt, arm in arm, laughing and watching a beautiful sunset. At that moment, we were the kings and queens of our world. We were young, and energetic, and could roll with whatever life threw our way. We knew our youth and enjoyed every minute of it; moreover, we were solaced and comforted by our friendship. Until the sun would escape below the horizon, we had forgotten all about Shibrowner and the mess we were in.

“Shit,” I thought, “how are we going to get out of this. Guys, can we give it one more try?”

What great friends - lifting the bumper from behind and pushing the hood in front, the car escaped the earth’s grip in a slurry of gravel and dust.

“What should we do now?” my friend asked.

Minutes later, dirt and cheers were flying through the air, illuminated by our headlights in the night.

I had an awesome trance session last night. Someone posted a four disc trance collection that blew my mind. I was home, programming, chatting with friends, and seriously jamming out. When it was time, Goldfrapp brought me down with her latest reinvention. I experience music surrealistically, and am ever so thankful for my occasional departures from typical consciousness. Monks have meditation, naturists have rainbows and butterflies, nerds have World of Warcraft, and I have trance music.

Assuming the legal statute of limitations for prosecuting arson has expired, as has any interest in pursuing the matter anyway, tonight I share one of my more reckless adolescent exploits. As an epigraph, please note that no useful property was damaged, no one was hurt, no animals were used in producing this story, and no daemons were summoned that were not immediately returned to hell.

I burned down a school bus - from a private Catholic high school.

Judge me not, for first I was adolescent and therefore immune from adult capacity or responsibility. Second, the bus had long been abandoned and lain to rest in an automotive graveyard.

As to why my friends and I chose to spend time in this remote location in the mountains of Utah, I shall not elaborate more than to say we were idle hands.

Sitting in the bus, I retrieved my trusty lighter (ever the modern Dennis the Menace) and set to lighting a seat on fire. Damned seats were flame-retardant. Eager to continue my quest, I saw a cardboard box near the front of the bus. My friends remained in the back as I walked the aisle to the front and peered into the box. The box was filled with old car parts - seemingly harmless, I thought, so I lit the corner of the box on fire. I returned to my friends who had formed a circle and were conversing at the rear of the bus.

A moment later, my friend pointed towards the box and said, “huh, that thing is really going, Jeff.” I turned from having my back towards the fire, took a moment to see two or three foot flames and moderate smoke emanating from the box, and replied, “yeah, I guess so”. I turned away again to rejoin the conversation, with little concern of the fire spreading.

A minute or so later, the cabin of the bus was beginning to fill with smoke. Determined to enjoy what we had claimed as our domain, we merely scooted towards the very back of the bus. We took little interest in the increasing flames or blackening smoke, until it became difficult to breathe. “Damn, Jeff, what was in that box?”

“Just some old car parts, it must be the grease that’s burning.”

We jumped out of the emergency exit, but remained behind the bus. It was minutes later when my friend rudely interrupted the group, pointed into the bus and exclaimed “guys, THAT’S A FIRE!” We turned to see flames pouring from the front of the bus, through the side windows, seats burning, and black smoke pouring into the air.

Had the windows of my two-door ‘83 Oldsmobile been open, we would have jumped through them to save the time of opening a door. We ran to my car and sped away from the scene of the crime. We passed a fire truck on the way, lights flashing and sirens blaring as it barreled towards what was surely our creation.

I have since made peace with school buses, and there is a feeling of mutual respect when I see them. I stop at every school bus stop sign I see. However, I appreciate this memory as one that captures the recklessness, anarchy, and adventure of my youth.

Disregarding the recklessness and risk, this story speaks to a part of my personality that has both gotten me into trouble and led me to great success. Maturity is knowing when to unleash adventure (safely) and when to persevere (non-destructively). Sometimes, when life throws you a “STOP” or “DO NOT ENTER” sign: melt it.

The Santa Monica Civic Center hosts an annual Thanksgiving event where medical care and warm meals are provided to the needy. Today, I am reminded of my disappointment with the experience of volunteering at this event four years ago.

I was disheartened by the blare of the megaphone directing volunteers towards the needy like the corralling of children towards animals at the petting zoo. Organizers dedicated enormous resources to shuffling about the legions of volunteers - volunteers who, because of their staggering numbers, were idly seated by the hundreds until their numbers were called. After service was done, volunteers were given a meal, eaten at tables alongside other volunteers, away from the tables filled with struggling families, veterans, the homeless, or the destitute.

I was saddened to think of Santa Monica, a city with thriving commerce, booming real estate, beautiful beaches, and the citizens such a city attracts. There are many homeless in Santa Monica, but they are few in comparison to those who have so much. I asked myself, how many volunteers arrived in churches in South Central? How many volunteers arrived in soup kitchens and clinics in Echo Park? Where help is needed most, are there people with money or skills or elbow grease or compassion or a warm smile?

If you are volunteering on Thanksgiving day, I commend your spirit and humanitarian effort. But I challenge you to make an additional commitment: choose one more day to reach out and help someone in any way you can. If you can spare part of your Thanksgiving day, then surely you can spare one more of the 364 remaining in the year. Remind yourself that people need help every day.

YouthBuild USA
One Laptop per Child

In an interview on the ABC News segment “Faith Matters Now”, author Marianne Williamson had some intelligent, insightful comments about the political environment and the roll of spirituality in political conversations.

Accepting the fact that, for now, atheists and religious followers must live together, I wish there were more Marianne Williamsons in the world.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

I adore a woman’s lisp. A mild lisp is distinguished, striking in the unique sound and rhythm it perpetuates. For some reason, I am hugely attracted to a woman with a lisp.

As for the genesis of this particular fancy, I have little insight. My mother, a speech pathologist, trained me to enunciate and articulate my words carefully (unbeknownst to my poker buddies); perhaps my ears prefer to be graced by a foreign and exotic sound. I am captivated by and find beauty in what is considered an impediment. Despite the weirdness, I am totally content to seek out a lispie. Will someone please found http://elispharmony.com?

People flowed into the streets of Emeryville, Oakland, and Berkeley. At every corner, there was an Obama sign, people cheering, and cars honking. Bars and restaurants spilled people into the sidewalks. Streets were lined with students and residents offering salutes and high-fives to crawling cars.

Berkeley Celebration

Dancing in the Streets

On Friday night, while returning from an evening with friends, I was the victim of what I believe to be an attempted carjacking. Just a few blocks from my home in Emeryville, I was driving through a residential neighborhood in Oakland. Shortly after making a left turn, I heard a loud crack on the frame of my car, loud enough to be heard above the trance music blaring from my stereo. I silenced the music and quickly looked around, but saw nothing, and continued without stopping. Perhaps a rock was kicked up by my tire, I thought. I slowed to a stop before a red light at the next intersection. A moment later I was startled by a loud crack followed by a crumbling sound outside my door. My first glance was to my rear view mirror, revealing three men in black hoodies sprinting towards my car. I threw open the throttle and barreled through the red light and empty intersection. Less than a minute later I was home - though not by my usual route - and on the phone with police.

I parked my car, inspected it for damage (I found none), and walked to the nearest street corner to meet the police. A marked cruiser with two officers inside arrived seconds later. I briefed them on what happened, and was asked only one question: “Could you identify them if you saw them again?”

It was pitch dark, half-past midnight, and my glance at the attackers lasted only a fraction of a second. Three men, black or blue jeans, black hoodies.

“No,” I replied, in an instinctively honest demeanor, “I can’t even tell you their ethnicity”. While replaying the event in my head, I thought I saw black faces beyond the hoodies, but I could not have been reasonably sure in such poor lighting. The cops told me to go home, that they would contact me if needed, and then hurried towards the intersection with lights off and engine roaring.

The next day, I returned to the scene to investigate. There at the intersection where I had stopped the night before was a large block of cement, whose broken remnants amounted to roughly ten pounds. The block had crumbled under its own weight as it landed a mere two or three feet from my door. The cement block would have blown through my window or windshield effortlessly, and could have knocked me unconscious or worse. The three men running towards my car demonstrated the least of their intent was to hurt me.

The encounter feels to me like a carjacking. I drove through an empty street, late at night, in the model of car most frequently stolen in this country. Alternately, it could have been racial - the part of Oakland I drove through is almost entirely black, and I have gotten the sense of racial tension before. I’m a blond caucasian guy driving a Honda - an appealing target if you’re pissed off at white people.

I am relieved that I kept cool, quickly assessed the situation, and decisively got out of danger. My doors were locked, I watched for traffic ahead of me, and had the police on the phone immediately. There was, for a fleeting moment, a temptation to abandon my flee, flip my car around, and turn the assailants into targets; clearly, an unwise (and unfulfilled) impulse. However, this is not my moral dilemma: I’d have gladly run the assholes over had it been safe and legally justifiable.

The officers found the attackers. They were young black men, wearing blue or black jeans and black hoodies. They were a block away from the reported intersection. Clearly, these were the guys, and there isn’t a sad story in the world that would prevent me from pursuing severe criminal and civil recourse. They were let go because I had earlier said I could not identify them.

It is this honesty I call into question. Had I thought for one moment, thought to say “yes, I can identify them,” three criminals would be in jail. On all accounts, identifying the assailants would have been a positive force in the universe. I cannot understand why I was so emphatic in the first place. There was no doubt as to who they were. What meaning existed in telling the truth? Would there have been any cost in lying? What value was there in infantile honesty?

What would you have done? In all truthfulness - without which thought exercises are meaningless - would you have positively identified the assailants, leading to a criminal conviction? If so, would it have been a lie? Would it have been immoral?

GI Joe was one of my favorite shows growing up. Each show ended with a corny (and sometimes inexplicable) public service announcement. Below are original PSAs, which demonstrate the moral obligation felt by the show’s producers, followed by irreverent (perhaps immoral) parodies.

Don’t pull false alarms
Don’t pull false alarms (parody)

What to do if you catch on fire
What to do if you catch on fire (parody)

Don’t skate on thin ice
Don’t skate on thin ice (parody)

After a frantic 3am team programming session in a lab, we decided to call it a night. Too amped up on caffeine and ginseng to sleep, I opted to take care of some neglected errands. I filled up my car at a 24-hour gas station, picked up some household items at a 24-hour Walgreens, and then went to pick up groceries from a 24-hour Safeway.

The grocery store was mostly empty, though there was the occasional customer inspecting produce or shuffling through shelves. At 4am, I had no interest in perusing the store, so I filled up my cart quickly. Despite my hurry, I paused for a moment to inspect a bottle of salsa. Off in the distance, across the isle, I noticed an employee staring at me. I decided it best for my mission to simply ignore him. However, his prying eyes were unrelenting. I looked at him and shot him my “what the hell, man?” expression.
“Sir, we’re closed.”

“What? Aren’t you open 24 hours?”

“No, no, we closed three hours ago.”

Looking at down at my cart, full of fresh meats and produce, I exclaimed “but I have all this stuff… can someone at least check me out?”

A crowd of customers - who were in fact employees dutied with restocking - began to form around me. “Sorry, sir, we can’t even turn the machines on.”

Miffed, embarrassed, and wondering how I passed so many unquestioning employees during my spree, I looked up and said with a near-purple face, “okay, well, I’ll let you guys take care of this cart.”
…and I walked out as quickly as I could.

I now shop at Trader Joes.

Hereafter referred to as “The Blond”, a once-familiar Ashley requested to add me as a friend on Facebook. Who was this woman?

Venturing into a dust-covered high school yearbook, the once treasured relic of a past that seems beyond the horizon of my willing recollection, I found The Blond. I remembered her as being married - no, wait, that was her Facebook relationship status. Were I to care, I suppose marriage would be an interesting informational tidbit. In fact, marital status was the only fact I knew about The Blond.

With what little optimism I could muster up,

While waiting for a response, the message from The Blond surfaced repressed memories of junior high. To drop the bomb: I was not popular in junior high. Shocking, to be sure. Moreover, my brother was older and hugely popular, an athlete and a rebel. One day, Mindy - the cutest girl in my grade - approached me in the hallways between class. She was accompanied by a fellow beauty, who could hardly constrain herself from hopping to and from the ground in excitement.

“Are you Jeff Jensen?” Mindy asks.

Confused by sudden attention, but ever eager for the prospects of being sought out by two beautiful girls, I enthusiastically replied “Yes, I am Jeff Jensen”. (The ‘C.’ was not added until college). At this moment, I was one with Denny Crane. I was the wherewithal, the Alpha and the Omega, the doer of cool stuff.

Bubbling with energy, Mindy exclaims “Wow… your brother B.J. is so hot!”

Which sets the stage for the return of The Blond:

*sigh* High school managed to not only to bite me during its temporal reign, but to invade the present.

And you know what? I like my profile picture. No one else can bridge the duality of the post-shaving expressionism of Macaulay Culkin and the champion of parted blond hair, David Spade.

Coding C++ on a Sunday afternoon in Berkeley is a dream. Cool breeze flowing in through the windows in Cory Hall, the soft pitter-patter of a keyboard like dancing raindrops, a heavenly experience.

As is typical, my programming solution is overly elegant and scalable.

Deceivingly simple is the light at the end of the tunnel, the redemption at the end of the rainbow. Today, this redemption was found:

It would be nice to venture into the skies again, to 18k feet, only to fall back to ground minutes later. To the diver, those minutes are dilated, stretched out of shape. There is no more personal and exhilarating experience. It is the most extreme form of freedom.

Skydiving is to surf mind-altering acceleration through air and gravity. However, if you are going to be a space traveler, as I hope will be possible in my lifetime, you need to escape gravity altogether. You need more juice. Modern rockets have anywhere from three to five separate stages of acceleration. Distant shores require planned and powerful bursts of energy.

The lack of a destination has fueled my current existential crisis. Grad school, industry, or couch surfing… nothing is clear. What is important? What about choices that affect geography, friendship, or love? What is my next purpose in life? It’s like being grounded at Cape Canaveral because clouds mask the path ahead, chilling on a landing pad with five stages of kickass underneath me anchored to the ground.

While speaking with friends on this topic, I wonder how in the hell so many people can know exactly where they want to go, and with such resolve. Half of the time I think they are fantasizing, and might as well tell me the goal is to rocket into outer space. I’ll need to see your riggs and a flight plan before I’m convinced it’s a done deal. Not to be cynical; I think most of my friends are going to achieve great success, I just don’t think they know how yet.

I’m not all that concerned with success right now (a statement reemphasized by the grad students who grade my problem sets). I honestly don’t care - I’m confident in my ability to land a great job. Right now I think I shouldn’t focus so much on the clouds as in the people with me on the ground. I should spend more time with friends, travel, and connect with people. If it were sustainable, I would couch surf after graduation. Despite the absurdity, couch surfing seems like the most grounded trajectory right now.

I have my head in the clouds enough with theory and music. In fact, of any force that has propeled me out of existential stinks, music has been the most powerful. Maybe that should be my destination - get a job in the music industry. God knows Britney Spears and Ashley Simpson need the help of an audio engineer. (Well, engineers have limits… there are some constraints that are unbreakable, which is when the Theory of Milli Vanilli applies.) Pandora needs AI people. Apple needs embedded systems guys. I should surround myself with music. And friends.

I write tonight with a heavy heart. Sometimes I just wish time would stop - if only for a few moments - so that I could collect myself, catch up with paperwork, manage my finances, finish homework, prepare for exams, get ahead in research, write graduate school essays, apply for jobs, and (oh yeah) focus on my existential crisis, which has lasted far longer than any I have had before.

Life is too beautiful to spend it always catching up.

I have spent an incredible amount of time fighting bureaucracies. A win/loss summary:

I’m running out of time and energy to fight crap like this. I am standing atop a cliff in the fog, screaming at unknown depths, the only person who can hear the echoes.

I was hesitant to admit that I didn’t have a partner for a class project. I feared that, by contacting the course assistant, I would be called to the front of the class of 200 and auctioned off. I never was first pick for pickup basketball, and I feared this might be the same. So, I figured I have to have a partner, so I’ll own it. I sent the following message to the class mailing list.

Unpartnered EE 122 Student,

Hello, my name is Jeff. I am a lonely electrical engineer in a class full of computer scientists.

As an independent person, I am seeking someone who enjoys dividing and conquering joint tasks. I think the most beautiful thing in the world is when two independent codebases come together in a union of compiling and linking.

I may not be as attractive as Linus Torvalds, but what I lack in boyish good looks I more than make up for in C++ cooking skills and cool-headed error handling. My coworkers at Cisco say my TCP stack is both elegant and robust, and that I encapsulate the best destinations. During my extensive industry development experience, my work has been referred to as a symphony of data structures - a symphony I yearn to conduct with a partner.

I enjoy candlelight dinners in front of my laptop, listening on my headphones to trance music from the epoch or euphoric periods, long walks through well-documented code, gazing into a backlit debugging environment, and the occasional glass of red bull.

My hobbies include flexing my schedule to work with others, dramatic hamsters, sharing development tasks, and submitting completed projects on time. I like to think of myself as a bright spark who could ignite a shared library path with binary potential.

If this sounds like you, then give me a call.
-Jeff

(P.S. Seriously I need a partner…)

Ugh - I wake up at 5:30am and can’t get back to sleep. Bummer!

I’m sure it’s a stress thing… it’s kind of a downward spiral, because coffee compensates for the insomnia, and stimulants only amplify anxiety.

Another late night ahead…

Life is hard. Deal with it.

When I was a young student at Santa Monica College, I took a trigonometry course. I didn’t understand it (nor would I, until I took early transcendental calculus). I bombed an exam, and asked the professor (who was quite cold) what I needed to do to do well in the course. His answer was short and simple:

“Nothing. Just work your ass off.”

When my financial circumstances unexpectedly changed, and when school was bearing down on me, and family was non-existent, a close friend offered solid advice: “You don’t have time to complain. Just work harder than you ever have before.”

In each of these cases, the advice was right on. So, I think I have to work hard. I resolved financial aid (though questions are left to be answered in regard to future students), I resolved my class schedule, and I resolved my research arrangements. Now all that is left is to work my ass off.

Thanks to Armin van Buuren and Above & Beyond for the help.

At the time of the Manhattan Project, a minority of physicists predicted that the first explosive fission reaction would start an unstoppable chain reaction of catastrophic nature.

My father e-mailed me a couple of days ago. He said he wanted to fly to Berkeley for lunch.

It was the right gesture; but with my recent existential questions and financial hardships, I am hesitant. A fear the instantiation of a chain reaction…

In The Theory of Education in the United States, Albert Nock writes that education can be divisive, isolating, and unforgiving. Though I consider education an enlightening and necessary process, I agree with Nock’s assessment. Education can be cold, competitive, and at times intimidating.

Nock’s critique has become increasingly relevant in my life, especially since I determined that I will not pursue a career in academia (your children have been spared). Unlike vocational training or group work, education seeks highly specialized knowledge to which I hold in the highest regard, though its very nature requires an enveloping commitment that converts happy humans into subverted PhD-wielding monks.

I am completely engrossed in and disoriented by an existential crisis. School may end, or not; work may be in Silicon Valley, or not; home may be in America, or not; I may be Hot, or Not. Friends have disappeared as they are hiccupped out of the churning belly of academia. Even my Facebook relationship status has changed (I am now remarried to The’Open Sea). In such a state of flux - perhaps despair - it is difficult to contextualize and prioritize the opportunities ahead of me.

Great things come from flux. Changing magnetic fields generate electricity. Changing air pressure carries music. Changing philosophies bring enlightenment. I do not believe (though I should hope) my current existential flux shall result in such useful and beautiful impacts, however the self-centric universe (of which, in the interest of resolving ambiguity, I am the unchallenged monarch) simply cannot fathom a more intricate challenge.

The first action one should take when a ship begins to sink is to drop ballast. (I have a particularly morose image of the Staten Island Ferry struggling to remain afloat while it is ticker-taped by a bulbous confetti of fat people hoisted overboard by the skinny.) The existential persona is perhaps best left to sink completely, leaving only its most crucial and necessary artifacts to be salvaged from the wreckage. The crack in the hull formed after I attended a number of events in Napa, with the hopes of connecting with sophisticated, well-traveled conversationalists. Instead I found this culture offered only gaudiness and booze. It was during a random couch-surfing party where I shared little in common with others by face value but connected with so many people - through poetry, music, stories of travels, and the kindness of strangers - that I began to take on water. Off course and sinking, I dropped the ballast of a fanatical commitment to academics, but it was too late and my personality sank to the bottom of the ocean.

I encountered the first artifact of my prior self not by salvage, but buoyancy. Floating atop the misty aftermath of my existential shipwreck was the need to connect with people. Sadly, and perhaps the result of education, this artifact was badly tarnished, but recoverable. I thought how detached and reserved I had been while working in Corporate America. I thought how myopic I had been in academic pursuits. I thought of how critical I can be of others and how difficult it can be for me to significantly connect with another person.

Of all the sunken treasures of my former personality that I hope to recover, I believe the need to connect with others is most crucial. I too often find myself wearing the “Safety Mask” that was instilled by my doctrinal family: pleasant but not too pleasant, interested but not opinionated, safe and never contrary is how one speaks to another. What a soulless, hollow existence if life were lived behind such a mask. It is now my task to revisit this behavior, as I have before in my past, to take off all of the masks - layered as they may be - to express my true self. (Sartre buffs will find humor in this last statement.)

Other artifacts that will likely be recovered from watery depths are my confidence, my sense of loyalty, and a damp ego that may, as many have hoped, shrink upon drying.

I end this entry with the hope of beginning a candid and open discussion. Feel free to reply below with your thoughts.

Should your personality sink to the bottom of the ocean, which artifacts would effortlessly float to the top? Which artifacts would you seek tirelessly to salvage? Which parts would you leave anchored to the murky bottom?

Add Comment.

Two sweet artists are all it took to make this weekend an incredible weekend.

Thanks to my friends for the kickass parties.

Artist: Behavior
Artist: Dt8

Weekend tunes: http://jeffcjensen.net/blog/attach/weekendtunes.zip

“Such a lush couldn’t even figure out where to begin…”

Breakups are hard.

Trance music - especially euphoric or epic trance - numbs the mind and soothes the soul.

Robots and topology are fun.

Friends are rocks.

“Without a hope or a prayer, you have to turn it on.”

I either need a big win or a long vacation… it’s been a while since both.

Sometimes I feel that academia is a harsh environment - information must be at your fingertips, knowledge on the tip of your tongue, and innovation must be second nature. Missteps are criticized and penalized, and there is very little positive reinforcement.

After six straight years of University, 196 credits, and miscellaneous internships, problem sets have lost their appeal.

Where’s the love in academia?

Philatelist and fellatialist are very two very different people. You are best not to confuse them as I have - during a meeting and in response to my boss’ hobby.

Existentialism is not about nothingness; it is about empowerment. It is not about essence; it is about existence. It is not about loneliness; it is about humanity.

If you don’t know about it, Jean-Paul Sartre writes a concise and thought-provoking essay in Existentialism as a Humanism.

Video + Log = vlog, if you didn’t know that you are waaay behind.

Why not vlog? Not enough information. Despite the blizzard of bits that collect and melt in your brain, they do not convey much useful information; at least, in a typical vlog, that is. Most linguists agree with the estimate that 60-70% of all communication is visual, but I believe that statistic is in reference to dialogue, not monologue.

We can read faster than others speak, so why do we stare blankly at the screen, eagerly awaiting the next linguistic tidbit to escape the chattering mouth of the self-important vlogger? The answer: she’s hot.

Don’t get mad, statistics don’t lie (though 62.5% of all statistics are fabricated). Google vlog and you will see that men, minorities, and unattractives are underrepresented. It’s about statistics. Compare the number of uncomely persons speaking on intelligent or provocative topics to the number of post-teenie-bopper hotties in tank tops blabbing about whatever it is that post-teenie-bopper hotties in tank tops blab about while men blatantly ignore them and stare at their chests, and you will find a significant disparity. From an information theoretical standpoint, buxom chests (though captivating) convey little information. (See tomorrow’s blog on the entropy of tits.)

So, in honor of Shannon and in respect of human intelligence, sexual equality, decency, and speedreading, I shall substitute blog for vlog. Though its stimulation may be narrower, its bandwidth will be higher.

Music is a huge part of my life. It elevates me when I am upbeat and consoles me when I am not. It enhances my mood, dulls my mind, or challenges my intellect.

A close friend tells me the best songs in life are introduced with the preface “dude, you have got to hear this.” I agree. From time to time, I will post a tune, a mix, or a review - I hope to open a discussion, so share yours with me.

Topic: Top 10 Influential Albums
These need not be well known albums, or tracks that frequent my playlist. They have, however, strongly influenced the music I listen to now.

1. Goldfrapp - Black Cherry. This album is responsible for my introduction to electronica.
2. Nine Inch Nails - The Downward Spiral. I don’t think I’ll elaborate on this one at the moment…
3. Pink Floyd - Dark Side of the Moon. A master of complex themes, abstract thinking, and blurring the line between a track and an album, between reality and transcendence.
4. Moby - Play. I listened to this album mostly during my days under the sun.
5. Zero 7 - Simple Things. A groundbreaking trip-hop album and one whose aura presided over my discovery of Los Angeles.
6. Sia - Colour the Small One. Before she became a Starbucks counter staple, Sia released this passionate and at times painful album. Driven by love, drugs, and youth, this album captures an era.
7. Nirvana - Smells Like Teen Spirit. It was a kickass album, man!
8. Andy Hunter - Exodus. I heard most of this album in pieces delivered by compilations or internet radio, and when a track popped on up Pandora it all came together. An incredible trance album.
9. Blank & Jones - DJ Culture. One of the first trance albums to which I grew attached, though I listen to it less today.
10. Sneaker Pimps - Becoming X. A hard-edged early trip-hop album, featuring the amazing vocalist Kelli Ali.

It’s official.

University of California at Berkeley, graduate program in Electrical Engineering & Computer Science.

I want IN.

Finding myself watching a deceptive and slow progress bar, I thought I would blog an actual update.

For those of you just joining, I am living in Emeryville (south of Berkeley), commuting to Silicon Valley, and drinking lots of Earl Grey tea.

The interesting issue I am facing at the moment is whether I should continue to study electrical engineering, or if I should jump into industry and later pursue an MBA. A summary of what I am considering:

I have no clue at the moment what to do. I am normally very decisive, but this one has proven a difficult dragon to slay

Help!

Entrepreneurs and engineers succeed not because of what they know, but what they can know. How quickly can your business adapt to new trends and markets? How quickly can your experts learn new technologies? How fast can your team incorporate new communication techniques?

Change is the black hole of progress. It has infinite resistance, you can’t see through the other side, and it can squash you like a bug.

In this spirit, I have challenged myself to try a few new technologies:

Cisco Telepresence: is freaking awesome. I frequently collaborate with my team in California, Amsterdam, North Carolina, and Sydney; you feel like they are sitting right in front of you. In fact, Telepresence isn’t just a wall of video, 3D audio, stereo projection screens, and high speed routing and switching - it’s the whole damn room. Video won’t do it justice, but here it is as an example: visit Telepresence now and Telepresence in the future. It isn’t a far cry of the imagination to see this in the consumer market.

Telephony: Phone via internet. Several companies are releasing wireless IP phones, which use wireless internet instead of a cell phone plan.

Internet TV: is in its infancy. It will soon be the primary delivery mechanism for highly produced television - all without the FCC regulating as they do with standard cable. Sites such as Hulu are an example. They also give a broader medium that allows smaller productions to be widely available.

Robotic Pets: From the makers of the Furbee comes the animatronic dinosaur Pleo. From a strictly research standpoint, the raw circuits are unimpressive and the sensors are not very sensitive. From a consumer standpoint, one finds a responsive, playful, and life-like pet.

Projection Screens: are older than I am. However, they are cheaper and better quality than ever before, so plug one into your computer, hang a sheet (or better blackout cloth) from the ceiling, and you’ve got a 50″. I imagine projection screens being incorporated into handheld devices - how cool would it be to show all your friends that hot new groin-smashing video on YouTube by holding your iPhone in the air and aiming it towards the wall?

Let me know if I missed something that I should be trying out.

Today, I lost a great deal of faith in our judicial system.

50 days ago, I was issued a citation for carpool lane violation. The one-mile stretch of the I-80 freeway was not on my route to Silicon Valley, but I drove it to pick up a friend in order to carpool the remaining fifty miles. It was after picking up my friend up that I was pulled over and cited. For that one-mile stretch of the freeway, a carpool is defined as three people.

Of course, you are exempt if you drive a two-seat car. Apparently Ferdinand Porsche and Carroll Shelby were successful in lobbying California Congress.

In court, the judge was more than dismissive of every case brought before him; if he reduced a fine, he did so by an amount he had predetermined before the case had even been brought. I empathize with him in not reveling in judicial janitorialism, but these cases truly effect people’s lives… the more time I spent with my fellow citizens, the more I began to realize this. What a challenging system for someone without a high school education, or without home internet access, or without a childhood environment that teaches how to dance the bureaucratic tango. So many people did not understand what was happening.

My case lasted less than two minutes. I plead guilty, described the situation (I mean, I really did form a carpool), and asked the judge if he would reduce my fine. He did, but only by 25%.

I formed a carpool, misread a carpool lane sign (the sign looks exactly the same as the 2-person carpool lane signs), spent three hours in court, and was fined $281. What a massive fine for a technicality. I feel like I did the right thing by forming a carpool, and while I accept responsibility for my mistake, the penalty is excessive. In fact, despite the reduction, I paid double the fine of a motorist who drove with no insurance whatsoever.

My thoughts settle on the woman who was escorted out of the courtroom as I was beckoned to the stand. Though her cries distracted the judge from listening to my case, he was insistent that I proceed. The woman may have been mentally disabled, and did not comprehend her case nor why she had been fined. Her anger peaked as she was escorted out of the courtroom, yelling “justice was not right”.

I thought of the idealistic view of jurisprudence instilled in me through my childhood. My father, a proud attorney, always spoke highly of it; of course, he knew the dance. I thought of mock trial in high school, where students dreamed of dramatic courtroom cases where fact, logic, and persuasion preside. These dreams have been all but shattered by experience and university education. Philosophy, law, and legal studies classes have taught me the extent of the power of police and prosecutors, the complexity of the judicial system, and the consequences when these powers are abused. I have experienced firsthand (ahem, several times) the terrific bureaucracy before something as trivial as a traffic citation, and have listened to accounts of countless others who have been troubled, abused, or even wrongly arrested by this system.

Two studies that helped shape my view of the justice system are the 20/20 investigation into two similar cases before the same Texas judge with remarkable results, and the film documentary Capturing the Friedmans.

The upset woman in the courtroom almost had it: Justice is not right.

I’m miffed that so many of my university friends bailed after graduation without a farewell. It is remarkable to see the number of people who left as soon as they possibly could - they didn’t even go to a graduation party! Alas, I have decided to stick around an extra semester for research, and I am afraid I am going to find myself socially surrounded by freshmen.

High school - as much as I thoroughly hated it - at least offered closure when, on the last day of class, students gathered in the football field to sign yearbooks, throw water balloons, and lovingly claim “best friends forever, we’ll never loose touch”. Half the time people lied when saying that, but I suppose it was still a polite thing to say; far more so than “well, you have been a casual acquaintance, and as a creature of habit I appreciate your familiarity and façade.”

I cannot believe that I alone am experiencing this. Do any of you share the experience of one day waking up and realizing your college buddies packed up and left without a trace?

As an IT Analyst specializing in Knowledge Management, I am responsible for deploying technologies such as wikis, blogs, vlogs, newsfeeds (RSS), and social networking. My job role entails persuading teams to adapt to new trends in order to benefit from the compelling gains these technologies offer.

“Wait…” one may ask, “does that not make you a hypocrite? Aside from trying to get dates on Facebook, what Web 2.0 technologies do you personally use?”

That’s a good question. Basically, I am not that self important. Teams need these tools to collaborate, but individuals are a different story. However, I am not usually one to “knock it before trying it”. And seeing as blogs kill far fewer brain cells than other idle tasks, I figure I will give it a try.

And on that note, here is my ranking of Web 2.0 technologies in order of the user’s self-importance:

1. Wiki - If your romantic interest reveals he or she has a wiki, run. The wiki is either maintained by ex-lovers or the person is ridiculously complicated. See the wiki entry Oedipus complex.
2. Vlog - Are you really that beautiful and interesting?
3. Blog - Are you really that interesting?
4. Social Networking - Are those photos of you holding an alcoholic beverage really that interesting?
5. RSS - Knowing when your friends hook up: valuable. Knowing when they break up: priceless.

So, I’m blogging. [Insert energizing foreshadow here.]