There once was an RPI prof,
whose tropes, they never fell off.
Halloran was the name,
Blarney, his game,
And—begorrah!—you know he could quaff!
My starkest grad-school memory was how badly I mangled the oral for my doctoral exam. The written exam itself was pretty competent, as I recall. The oral came the next morning.
But that night was the deciding game of Stanley Cup finals, featuring my home town Edmonton Oilers. No-one else in the entirety of Troy apparently had any interest in watching it, and we had no television. A friend let me use his apartment, to which I retired with the required beverages. The game was in the west, which meant a two-hour time lag. The Oilers won, so revelry was called for, with the required beverages, resulting in a rather late bedtime, and a blinding early morning headache.
I had not so much as glanced at my notes when I lurched into the exam room, probably still reeking of the celebration, and took my sheepish place at the table. It did not go well. After one tediously repetitive answer, I remember a benign smile from Michael, and the suggestion that “Surely there is some other rhetorical concept besides ethos that plays a role in scientific argumentation?” I have no idea how I responded, but it felt like “I give up. You got me. I have no idea what I am talking about. Shoot me now.”
I still credit my passing to the committee’s goodwill, and in Michael’s faith that there was something more to me than the incoherent slob sitting across from him. I’ve always been grateful for that faith and have tried to repay it.
Thanks for everything, Michael. Have a wonderful day; then do it again tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, …
I will be spending some of it reflecting on what you have meant to my career (everything; I would have chosen a much different path without your inspiration, and done it worse, without your guidance), and some of it quaffing the required beverages (in moderation).
Indira sends her best wishes.