Derelict of the Year 1997
Winner
Congratulations to Dave Ropp.
Nominations
- Greg Eyink: A Circle K Junkie.
- George Fennemore: Long Distance Derelict.
- Louis Skaggs: The Mystery Machine Man.
- Titus Dorstenstein: The Boy Who Cried “Police”
- Dave Ropp: Need I say more? I don't think so.
- Julie Tarr: Left of Left
- Titus F. Dorstenstein: I Have a Dream
- Scott Beaver: Carnivores, Beware!
- Dave Levermore: A Derelict of Old
- Greg Eyink: The Snoozing Connoisseur
- Julie Tarr: How Does Your Garden Grow?
Greg Eyink: A Circle K Junkie.
Many in our department may only identify Greg Eyink as “that quirky turbulence guy with a crazy sleeping schedule”. After seeing the whole person, though, one soon realizes that Greg embodies the spirit of many personalities of American culture, thereby enriching our department. Here are a few examples.
1. Like Popeye, Greg seems to derive his superhuman mathematical strength from a single food source; not spinach, but anything that is sold at Circle K. He is now such a regular that he gets free tea refills, although you wouldn't know it looking at his large collection of Circle K styrofoam cups on his desk. Concerned about this questionable diet, his sister sent him a tea maker last Christmas. It sits in his office, still unopened.
2. Like Abe Lincoln, Greg believes in the basic goodness and honesty of everyone, even the suspicious looking thug behind him in the checkout line of Fry's. “Shouldn't judge a person by their looks,” Greg said to himself as he set his wallet on the counter. seconds later the wallet was in the hands of said thug, who dashed out of Fry's and into a car waiting outside. Greg wasn't completely wrong, though, as his driver's license was eventually mailed back to his mother's home in Ohio.
3. Like Smith-Barney, Greg earns his money, the old-fashioned way, and for a while deposited it by hand, the old-fashioned way. Or actually, he DIDN'T deposit it, claiming to never have time, and soon enough he had a large wad of checks, which he inadvertently left in the computer room one day. After anxious calls to university and state officials, the checks were returned, with the returner warning that next time the checks might not be returned.
4. Like John D. Rockefeller, Greg is known for his philanthropy, particularly to students who find mistakes in his lecture notes, to whom he will give quarters. However, Greg was soon short of quarters to pay the parking meters. No matter; the parking fines he incurred could be conveniently paid with check or money order.
George Fennemore: Long Distance Derelict.
Like all true champions, George Fennemore has never stopped striving to be the best. In 1992 he achieved the highest honor in dereliction: The Art Fortgang Award. However, he has continued, quietly, to strive toward excellence. This year he has returned from retirement to once again challenge all opponents, this time all the way from Colorado. Nobody has ever been a repeat winner, nor has any alumni won the fabled award, yet this brave man has returned to recapture his beloved Art Fortgang Trophy!
The first skill George has improved upon is his hiking. Known for his unique ability to stumble over even the smallest stone, he magnified this skill one warm March afternoon in Boulder, Colorado. Reaching a small cave overlooking his new hometown, he must have felt too proud that he had yet to fall; for as soon as he turned to take in the view, he stumbled backward (over the treacherous, fine dust of the cave floor) and landed ever so gently on his back side.
Additionally, Dr. Fennemore has improved the one skill that virtually every derelict has in common--driving. Not only has George been required to drive a large rental truck to Nevada twice for his new company, but he actually made it once without crashing! Now, perhaps it was unwise to send someone who had been living in Tucson for the last five years into a mountain snowstorm with dangerous traffic signs taunting him from the side of the road, but the least he could have done was to get the insurance for the rental truck. Needless to say, he became angry with one of the devilish signs and ran it over, obliterating it and the fender of the rental truck.
Finally, George has added an entire new level to the art of dereliction. There, sitting on his resume somewhere between his extensive experience as an environmental consultant and his published work. There, in the “honors” section of his resume lies the true meaning of a derelict. There, for all the clients of his company to see (and they do) lies “1992: Winner of the Art Fortgang Memorial Award”.
Louis Skaggs: The Mystery Machine Man.
(Read to Scooby Doo theme song)
Skaggie, Skaggie Lou where are you,
We don't have the vaguest clue, now.
Skaggie, Skaggie Lou where are you,
116 students need some help from you now.
Come on Skaggie Lou, we saw you
Pretending you've got some moves now.
You're not fooling me, cause I can see
The way you make Marlene's rage shake and shiver.
You know we've got a crowd to please
So Skaggie Lou be ready for your act
Don't hold back!!!!
Skaggie Lou if you come through,
You're gonna get yourself a Skaggie snack.
Skaggie, Skaggie Lou where are you,
We've got a car for you now.
If we can count on you, Skaggie Lou,
I know we'll find the Sun Server.
Skaggie, Skaggie Lou where are you,
Are you gonna teach your class now?
Skaggie, Skaggie Lou where are you,
Are you gonna take a class now?
Skaggie, Skaggie Lou we've got a prize for you, now.
Titus Dorsenstein: The Boy Who Cried “Police”
Once upon a time, there lived a boy named Titus. Titus wasn't normal. I mean for one thing, he pronounced his name “TEE-tus”...what's up with that? Anyway, even though there was only one computer in his office for ALL his office-mates, Titus left himself logged on for a MONTH, sometimes leaving signs saying “do not log me off”. Well, they didn't log him off, but they were certainly TICKED off, so one day one of office mates moved all his files into his mail folder.
When Titus couldn't find his files, he said to himself “this is all part of the conspiracy against me!!” So he went to Mr. Bob, who offered to help him, but said he'd have to wait. “NO!”, said Titus, “I want my files back NOW!!! You're part of the conspiracy against me TOO. If I don't get my files right away, I'm going to the POLICE!”
So, he went to Mr. Hermann's office. “I want to see Mr. Hermann NOW!!!” he demanded.
“I'm sorry, he's at lunch. He'll be back within the hour, though”, said Mr. Hermann's secretary.
“But I want to see him NOW!!!”, he said.
“But he's at lunch”, she said.
“Well...then I'm going to the POLICE!!! Mr. Hermann must be part of the conspiracy against me, too!”, he said. And sure enough, Titus went to the police as he had promised.
“Help! Police!”, he said, and he brought them all the way to the math building. When they got there, though, Mr. Bob told them that Titus's files were still there, they were just in his mail folder. All Titus had to do was wait until Mr. Bob had time to fix things for him.
“Well”, said the police to Titus, “this was a waste of our time, young man. Next time, we're not coming!”
“But they're out to get me!”, said Titus. But the police saw no evidence of this at all, and they left.
Poor Titus was even written up in “police beat” for his rather unorthodox attempt to enlist the aid of law-enforcement when none was necessary.
Then, a few weeks later, as Titus was quietly working by himself on his home page, THEY came to get him. You see, there really WAS a conspiracy against him, but Titus could never have guessed in a MILLION years who it really was. He couldn't even have guessed in a BILLION-ZILLION years who it was.
“Help! Police!”, he cried. But they said “oh, we're not wasting our time on HIM again.” So, the police stayed in their little building while THEY took Titus away. He was never found again. All that's left of him now are a pair of earphones with really big antennae.
Poor Titus.
THE END
Dave Ropp: Need I say more? I don't think so.
Well, for those of you who are not familiar with Disco Dave's antics I will name some of his more colorful adventures as evidence of dereliction.
He gets in free to dance clubs and is swarmed by scantily clad women in retro clothing because of his moves, and well you know what else... his afro. Well, he is also quite callipygous. This is not to say that he is not approached and french kissed by men who find his exotic mix of polyester and gold chains an arousing combination.
Why just recently, our geek by day / macho man by night, was in the channel 4 news broadcast as the news reporters were impressed with his dancing, and have I mentioned his hair?
Disco alone would be enough source of character to give Dave the derelict award, but Dave goes much further. In an accident, where his car flipped over, due to currently unknown circumstances, Dave proceeded to find pieces of his windshield in his hair. If it were anyone else, I'd be surprised...
Check out Dave's 1996 Nomination.
Julie Tarr: Left of Left
As I emerged from the forest and into the world of humankind, I came upon a sign with arrows pointing in opposite directions. One said "Left" and pointed left, the other said "right" and pointed right. A man (who said his name was Clinton something-or-other) stood at the center of the sign and said,
"You must choose a direction and follow that path until you reach your proper place, the place of your true beliefs. But beware, should you venture too far in either direction, grave dangers await you. The safest thing is to stay here with me."
I thought about it. Somehow, I knew I would feel great unhappiness if I stayed there - I did not want to be a coward. I also felt very drawn to the "Left" path. "Perhaps", I thought, "my destiny lies at the end of this path." I began to walk down the path on the Left.
As I walked, I came upon many interesting people. First, I met a woman named Jane walking in the opposite direction (back toward the "Right" path) carrying a foam rubber tomahawk and making chopping motions. Then I came across a group of rather rough looking, overweight men drinking beer and wearing dirty billed caps. They said they were "teamsters", but they didn't seem like they took too kindly to strangers asking a lot of questions, so I didn't stick around to ask WHICH team.
As I kept going left, I started noticing a strange odor. It got gradually stronger as I approached a group of long-haired people wearing sandals and strange, loose clothing with flowers and psychedelic designs. They all seemed rather pleasant, and they had a van with the word "Love" painted on it. "How nice", I thought. One of them offered me a smoldering little white paper cylinder. I looked around...everyone was lying around doing nothing. I realized I wanted something more. "Look", I said, "I think I'm going to keep heading on down the road."
"Oh man," said a long-haired fellow, "don't go down there, man. I'm serious. It's DANGEROUS down there, man. Don't go unless you're sure you belong there."
Somehow, I felt that I should keep going, but their warnings had made me wary. I turned a corner and stopped dead in my tracks.
Standing before me was a woman with a crew-cut and a tattoo on her arm, leaning on a motor cycle. What scared me was the fact that she was carrying a large gun which she promptly pointed at my head. She said, "My name is Julie Tarr, and this is my domain. I'm afraid I need to ask you a few questions."
"o-o-kay," I said nervously.
"Should abortion be legal?" she asked. I was relieved.
"Of course", I said.
"Should women be allowed into the military?" she asked.
This was easy, as she was living proof of the answer to this question. "Definitely", I said.
"Should the overwhelming majority of the tax burden fall the rich?"
Again, I agreed. "Yes", I said.
I was beginning to calm down, to think that maybe I did belong here, when she asked, "Should Ronald Reagan, Rush Limbaugh, George Bush, Newt Gingrich and John you-know-who be taken out and SHOT?"
Once again answering honestly, I said "well...I certainly don't agree with their policies, but I don't really think they should be KILLED..."
She looked at me, and her eyes squinted. My blood turned to ice. "Oh, why didn't I LIE", I thought. I could feel the cold breath of Lady Death on my neck.
"I heard that ! Why is it LADY death! What, everything good has to be a MAN but everything bad is a WOMAN!?" This was bad, she was reading my thoughts.
"I- I'm sorry", I said "i-it's just something I picked up from a book or someth---"
"WHAT MAKES THE GRASS GROW ?!!", she yelled with such force that I fell backward, stunned. She repeated the question.
"I said... WHAT MAKES THE GRASS GROW ?!!"
I couldn't think, but I knew I'd better answer quickly.
"uh...er....L-Love??", I answered.
"WRONG!!! BLOOD!!! BLOOD MAKES THE GRASS GROW!"
"Please don't kill me, Ms. Tarr."
"and what KIND of blood ???!!!", she asked.
I knew what I had to say. "uhhh the blood of the "Right" people, er, you know, the people down the Right path, the "Right path" people?"
She immediately calmed down a little. "That's correct. Now, since you at least got THAT right, and since you've shown me the proper respect, I'll let you leave. But don't EVER come back here with a wrong answer AGAIN...GOT THAT?!!"
"Y-Yes. Thank you." I said, but I was already running. I ran past the hippies, I ran past the teamsters and ran past the academics and Ralph Nader and all the other people I had seen whom I haven't mentioned. I passed Jane the tomahawk lady. Finally, I got to the sign. There I turned away from the "Right" path (which I knew would be even scarier) and I ran back into the forest, there to live out my life with the squirrels and the beavers, away from the trouble of humanity.
Will I ever go back? No. Frankly, I'm scared.
Titus F. Dorstenstein: I Have a Dream
I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration of Dereliction in the history of the department.
One score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, became the first Derelict. This momentous decree came as a great beacon of hope to millions of grad student, who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity. But twenty years later, the graduate students are still not free. Twenty years later, the life of the grad student is still sadly crippled by the manacle of the core and the chains of the quals.
One man, Titus F. Dorstenstein, has taken it upon himself to do something about it. Those of us who are his friends and classmates already know his Dereliction has no bounds. This nomination is written for those of you who have not yet seen Titus's "I Have A Dream" homepage. To fully enumerate his deeds would require more fingers than any mathematician has; there is room only to relate one highlight. We all read the Wildcat Police Beat column to keep track of our students. But rarely do we ever have the opportunity to read about our colleagues...
It was a hot night in late April. To the West Comet Hale-Bopp was pulsing vibrations. To the East a full moon was rising. The sort of night on which anything could happen. The sort of night on which strange things would happen.
Titus hadn't logged out of his computer account since spring vacation. He was optimizing an NP hard problem the old fashioned way - by trying every possible solution. Somehow, on the fateful night, all of his files mysteriously moved from his home directory into his "Mail/" directory.
Upon discovering the damage, our Teutonic friend took immediate action:
First an email was sent to System. "Where are my research files? What have you done with them? Who gave you permission to delete them?" After some investigating System replied "In your Mail/ directory, probably right where you left them"
This answer was unacceptable to Titus. So after giving the matter some thought he concluded "Mein Landsmann Herman! He will help me deal with this conspiracy!" and headed on down to the Department Head's office. History does not record what the Great Mathematician was doing at this time. Perhaps he was in a THX theater enjoying the digital re-mastering of Star Wars classic "The Yoda Lattice" or at a cafe correcting typos in his analysis text. The point is, in our hero's moment of need, the Head wasn't there. So Titus spoke with the Head's pregnant secretary instead. She went into premature labor later that day, complaining of stress.
Having gotten no satisfaction from the Chair, Titus decided to seek help from the police. Donning his trademark Sony headphones, he headed on over to the UAPD and filed an official complaint. While the police were busy investigation this heinous crime, System was robbed.
It's a bit hazy what happened after this. Perhaps it is best to hand the story over to the Police Beat reporter: "He [Titus] said the matter was taken care of and he did not want to press charges".
If the Great Caper of the Missing Files is not enough to convince you that Titus deserves your vote for Derelict '97, let me remind you of Art Fortgang's wise words, "Go West, Young Derelict". Following in the Master's footsteps, Titus is fleeing the heat of a qualifying exam in Tucson for the comforts of the Promised Land. He will be in California next year, realizing his dreams.
Scott Beaver: Carnivores, Beware!
As many of you are no doubt aware, Scott is one of Tucson's more dedicated vegetarians, and an active member of the local vegetarian collective. Sometime last fall, the association managed to get a special guest into town - and a s pot on Public Access TV upon which to interview him. No one, of course, thought to interview any of the unfortunate vegetables, whom one might think would have very strong opinions on the practice of vegetarianism, however we digress. Scott, with his ch arismatic wit and overflowing personality, was considered a natural for the interviewers' job. Thoughts of television superstardom were so distracting for this paragon of vitality however, that a mere two days before his debut, during a particularly complicated series of breathing exercises, a pocket of air wound up behind his eye, causing a considerable swelling on one side of his face (medical experts are currently preparing grant applications for research into how on earth he could possibly manage this). Undaunted, our very own Larry King declares “The show must go on!”, and a few days later, to rave reviews (Actual conversation — “Did anyone else see Scott on TV last night?”, “No”), the interview aired on Access Tucson. If you do ever get to see this, note how Scott hardly ever turns fac e-on to the camera...
Scott's talents also extend to those of sporting endeavor. Few will forget his stunning breakaway in an intramural flag football game this year, where he skillfully weaved his way through opposition tacklers, and found himself abrup tly in the clear. Having left the competition struggling in his wake, our hero sprinted joyfully to the goal line (callously crushing to death dozens of innocent blades of grass in the process we might add), whereupon he spikes the ball in victory - two yards SHORT of the goal line. By pulling tragic disaster from the very jaws of triumph Scott achieved yet another great sporting moment in the glorious tradition of Math dept intramural teams.
Dave Levermore: A Derelict of Old
An Ode to Dereliction
(should be read out loud)
Gather 'round ye seeking truth ...
Hear a tale that must be told
Of dereliction strong and bold!
Within Math's red brick walls there walks
A derelict from days of old.
He goes by the name of Dave Levermore
and he's known far and wide when he walks in the door.
There's few that would say you can't talk to the guy,
One thing's for sure, he's definitely not shy!
Now, the tale must go on, as has been foretold;
The acts of dereliction have yet to unfold:
A true derelict from the start,
He fixes his glasses with a paper clip part!
He pays all his bills, all at once, once a year,
And he breaks chairs he sits in, falling through on his rear!
As you walk through the door to his office, beware,
There's a mountain of paper! Paper here, paper there!
The mountain of paper is deep and in it lies buried
The PDE homeworks that were done all hurried.
Even the fire department has condemned that hell,
For if it caught fire, we would not do well!
Mathematically intense and amazingly bright,
This prof can actually be amusing, funny and light.
He's goofy and smart and he sure plays the part,
He's a derelict for sure; he's got it down to an art!
He may get real loud, you may have to shout,
He's a derelict that loves a mathematical bout!
In spite of all this, he cares quite a bit!
And he expects that the students should all know their sh_t!
Alas, the legend lives on in the lore,
The derelict should be Levermore!
Greg Eyink: The Snoozing Connoisseur
Learned Colleagues,
We consider it our bound duty to call to your attention the activities of one Gregory W Eyink, a derelict of the highest caliber, whose accomplishments have thus far escaped the notice of the judges presiding over this prestigious award.
Greg is certainly a man on a mission, several of them in fact. As any of his students can attest, Greg is in training to break the world record for the fastest fluid dynamics lecture ever, which explains the breakneck speed with which he, well, explains. Greg's sleeping patterns are also legendary, with the man purportedly only sleeping every other night in order to get more work done. This has unfortunately backfired on him at least twice this semester, with one senior faculty member, having left his teaching duties in Greg's capable hands while out of town for a few days, returned to discover that Greg had slept through one lecture, and produced some highly creative cartoons to explain why in the next.
Finally we must come to examine the well-trodden path that leads from the south entrance to the Math dept, across 6th St, and to the door of the local Circle K convenience store. It is no coincidence that the footsteps that have carved this path exactly fit Greg's shoe size. We will not dwell on Greg's seeming passion for Circle K's cuisine, the collection of 'Thirstbuster' cups in his office (three neat stacks reaching all the way to the ceiling) already confirm this. We should also note that ever since Greg was spotted in a local supermarket earlier this semester buying REAL food, senior faculty have been denying persistent rumors that they have been shorting Circle K stock before word gets around. A true connoisseur of fine food, Greg was also once confronted with the possibility of being stranded in France on an overseas trip. How would his gastronomic sensibilities cope? His quoted reply was, “McDonalds tastes the same wherever you go in the world”. How true...
We hope you now have come to recognize the derelict genius of this quiet achiever in our midst, and place his name on your ballot for 1997 Derelict of the Year.
Julie Tarr: How Does Your Garden Grow?
Brookey, Brookey: how does your garden grow?
With happy thoughts and sunshine and sweet smiles all in a row.
Julie, Julie: how does your garden grow?
With commie blood and Iraqi bones, with plenty of graves to hoe.
While some of us enjoy a life sheltered from unpleasant thoughts, Julie Tarr seems to enjoy, well, a different approach (in particular, this unsentimental outlook contrasts sharply with warm fuzzy world of Brooke McGuire, who happens to be Julie's officemate). Her experience in the military is evidenced by her haircut, measured in micrometers, and by her recitation of poetry such as, “What makes the grass grow? Blood makes the grass grow! What kind of blood? Commie blood! Commie blood!” We hear that she transferred from the army to the air force when the army refused to send her into combat. This aggressive style is also seen in her motorcycling. We hear (literally) that's she's gotten much use out of the horn on her bike. Take caution, Tucson--Julie's coming through!