How do you FIX something like THIS?!

So here I find myself. Ending the much-too-short break between semesters. Rushing to put together the new and improved versions of classes (plus figure out how best to revive a really old one).

Dear Diary,

How are you? I am fine (-ish). Last semester was pretty disappointing (lame) for various reasons. I really really really really really hope that this coming one will be better. It is the SPRING semester and warmer weather is thereby implied. Days are already getting longer and surely those swirls of powdery cold dust will evaporate by morning's light! Or, maybe by next day's morning light? Please?

There must be something in me that is similar to the loss of pain memory that mothers experience after each birth. Ask them within the last few minutes (or hours) of labor, and you will likely hear, "No f%&*ing way will I ever do THAT again!" But after some time passes, they forget the pain (having survived it) and start planning for the next brat-poop.

Lately, each semester seems to end similarly with me having strong negative feelings. So much effort put into the classes, so little apparent gain. Why bother? Then a mere few days passes when the "ideas" start trickling in again... "Maybe if I were to do this next time?" Or, "I should try saying this next time..." And I start getting all geared up for another mother-load of classes. Until by the first quarter of the semester I realize I am doing it again. Teaching is a cruel bitch of a task-master for me. Or maybe I am just a masochist? Or maybe both?

Anyway - here I am, complaining about the end of a break when I still have more than 10 days of it left! I guess that's because I feel that I have so much to do before then. And my motivation? Hmm, that must be around here somewhere... Let's see... where did I leave that?

Good Riddance to 2009!

Not the best of years. Glad to see it go, but I will miss what it takes with it. Unfortunately, I half expect that 2010 might hold additional losses.

My sister wrote a wonderful obituary for my father. Here it is for posterity:

---

Wed, Dec 02 2009

Gene V. Paul
PLAISTOW, N.H. — Gene Vincent Paul, adoring husband of Jacquelyn (Hill) (Miller) Paul, dedicated father of Dr. Stephen T. Paul, Pittsburgh, and Jennifer J. (Paul) Perreault, and doting grandfather of Gabrielle J. and Derrek G. Perreault, all of Danville, N.H., died peacefully Sunday night, Nov. 29, 2009 in the comfort of his home with his loving wife by his side.


Gene, longtime resident of Plaistow, and formerly of Newton, was born in Haverhill on March 6, 1941 to the late Clarence V. and Jane H. (Fyfe) Paul. Gene attended Haverhill Public Schools and graduated from Haverhill Trade School. Gene was a proud Mason affiliated with Star of Bethlehem AF&AM, Wakefield, who at one time served as a police officer with the Haverhill Auxiliary Police and the Plaistow Police Department. Prior to developing heart and lung disease, Gene was employed for several years as Lieutenant of Security at Raytheon in West Andover.

Gene, known for his kindness, generosity and storytelling, enjoyed researching his family genealogy, bowling with his league at Academy Lanes in Bradford, fishing with and caring for his grandchildren, watching westerns, crime dramas, and programs about the spirit world. Preferring to listen to country and spiritual music, Gene was an avid collector of Native American decor and memorabilia. Prior to his declining health, Gene enjoyed traveling to Nova Scotia to visit his uncle, and to Pittsburgh to visit his son and daughter-in-law. Gene's greatest joy in the past two years was spending quality time with his wife, Jackie.

In addition to his parents, Gene was predeceased by his first wife of 39 years, Sarah (Sally) A. (Tenney) Paul; and brother, David Paul. Survivors include sisters, Claire (Paul) Hutchinson, Plaistow; Audrey (Paul) McGowen, Dover; and Mary Ellen (Paul) Petit and her husband, Paul, Merrimac; brothers, Redmond (Reggie) Paul and his wife, Sandra, Haverhill; and Donald Paul and his wife, Linda, North Carolina. Additional survivors include daughter-in-law, Cynthia (Kecy) Paul, Pittsburgh; son-in-law, Gary Perreault, Danville; stepchildren, Michael Miller, Exeter, and Terrie (Miller) Clarke and her husband, Leo, Groveland; step-grandchildren, Dr. Lia (Clarke) Sprague and her husband, Matthew, Fremont; Pamela Clarke and Amy Clarke of Groveland; step-great-grandchildren, Kagen Clarke, Groveland, Landon Sprague and Aislinn Sprague, Fremont. Gene also leaves several nieces, nephews, cousins, and dear and devoted friends, including Tom and Ann Hansen, Newton; Ray and Rose Guilmet, Salem; and Sandra and Walter Brown, Haverhill; as well as all of his caring friends in his bowling league.

ARRANGEMENTS: Relatives and friends are respectfully invited to his funeral Saturday, Dec. 5, at 11 a.m. at the H.L. Farmer & Sons Funeral Home, 106 Summer St., Haverhill. Calling hours are from 5 to 8 p.m. on Friday, Dec. 4, 2009. Burial will be private at the convience of the family. The family respectfully requests that flowers be omitted in consideration of making a donation in Gene's memory to The American Heart Association (www.americanheart.org), The American Lung Association (www.lungusa.org), The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society (www.leukemia.org), local fire emergency rescue departments in Plaistow, Newton, Hampstead, or Danville, N.H., or to the charity of one's choice. Condolences to his family may be made at www.farmerfuneralhomes.com.

---

Mixed Messages

I have been reading two very interesting books. I recommend BOTH very much. They are both very easy to read and contain very interesting material that applies to a very wide range of psychological fields; especially cognitive psychology. (I could not think of a way to fit "very" in any more times than that without becoming less artful.)

Here is the information for both books (note that the hardcover of "Brain Rules" includes a DVD, but the less expensive soft-cover edition only supplies links to on-line videos; no DVD):

1. Medina, J. (2008). Brain Rules: 12 Principles for Surviving and Thriving at Work, Home, and School. Seattle, WA: Pear Press.
2. Lilienfeld, S. O., Lynn, S. J., Ruscio, J., & Beyerstein, B. L. (2010). 50 Great Myths of Popular Psychology: Shattering Widespread Misconceptions about Human Behavior. Wiley-Blackwell.

My problem has to do with what is widely known as the "Ten Percent Myth" regarding human mental potential. I would be surprised if you hadn't heard about it already. It goes something like, "Humans only use ten percent of their brains. Imagine what we could do if we could harness the power of the remaining 90 percent?!"

When this myth comes up in class, I have always used the ladder analogy as a means of explaining why it is a misleading claim. Imagine you had a ladder with ten rungs on it. You place this ladder against your house to clean the gutters. You climb the ladder and start to work. As it turns out, you are only standing on one rung. Does that mean you are using only ten percent of the ladder? Can you see any benefit to more actively using all of the other rungs for gutter-cleaning? No, and no.

In the "50 myths" book mentioned above, the authors start with this very myth (which they refer to as the "most people only use ten percent of their brain power" myth). Unfortunately, it seems that in their discussion, they (actually, the section is written by Beyerstein, I believe, who passed away before the book was published) have slightly altered my sense of what the myth seems to suggest. Basically, they have interpreted the claim to mean that humans only use ten percent of their brain. This is quickly and clearly revealed to be a silly claim. If it were true that we really only used ten percent of our brains, then that makes 90 percent of our brains nothing more than gooey insulation! Taking an ice-pick (or whatever) to our brains would only cause us harm 10 percent of the time! Clearly not true. It seems like any little brain damage we incur results in hefty mental and/or behavioral fines!

While the Beyerstein approach to attacking the myth is a good one, it attacks a pretty limited interpretation of the claim. My interpretation of the claim is that we are never able to use more than 10-percent of our brain at any given time. Hence, this seems more closely aligned with the way the authors titled the claim themselves (i.e., "brain power" rather than just "brains").

My first argument against this variation of the claim is based on the "how long is a piece of string" analogy. In other words, how can we know what ten percent of the brain is when it comes to processing capacity?! Perhaps based on electrical activity? Imagine what your brain would be like if ALL neurons fired at the same time, and all the time?! Isn't that pretty much a grand description of a grand-daddy of grand mal epileptic seizures? Well zero-percent seems easy enough to measure (DEAD!), but since we can't really know what would really represent 100 percent FUNCTIONAL capacity, how can we know that we are using only 10 percent?! See the problem? It pretty much demonstrates that the claim is just grabbing some arbitrary percentage number out of someone's arbitrary butt-hole.

BUT NOW comes the mixed message.

In Medina's "Brain Rules" book, a portion of my world-view was bitch-slapped by the claim that, "In fact, the human brain cannot simultaneously activate more than 2 percent of its neurons at any one time. More than this, and the glucose supply becomes so quickly exhausted that you will faint." (page 20).

Wow!

Ok, so does that mean that the ten percent myth is wrong because it is really the case that humans can only use TWO percent of their brain at any given time?!

FNA!

NOW it makes me wonder if thinking (brain power) really couldn't be improved by somehow finding a way to artificially increase the blood flow and glucose supply to our skulls!

Would an increase in glucose supply capable of supporting a mere FOUR percent of my brain at any given time DOUBLE my thinking ability?!

I'm going to have to see about getting some clarification here. PLEASE, in the mean time, if anyone out there has some clarifying insight into this… let me know!

Crossing the line

Being a guy married to the same woman for 20+ years would NOT make one an expert in women. However, you'd think it might make a person an expert in that woman. It does not. Rather, it is a constant learning process. Nonetheless, here is a lesson learned that should generalize.

Today I made the interesting observation regarding two argument scenarios. They are similar, but results are not. Scenario one: I tell my wife she is wrong about something and she knows she is right. Scenario two: I tell my wife she is wrong about something and she knows she is wrong, It may seem counter-intuitive (to me alone, perhaps) but scenario one is far better for the relationship than scenario two.

This shouldn't be a surprise to anyone willing to take the other's perspective. I know how much I hate it when my wife (hell, ANYONE) tells me I am wrong and I suddenly realize that they are correct that I am wrong. That really sucks. So the observation isn't so much about women, but about arguments.

The most important concept in research?

This is going to start boring, but I need to build the foundation so you understand why I bring up blackouts, violent rage, drug-use and whatnot.

Another semester ends. Hallelujah! Now my mind can rest for a bit. However, I cannot help but start thinking about next semester already. I will be teaching research methods. As the number of Applied Psychology majors increases, so does the demand for the class. This is both a good and a bad thing. Good is boring though, so I will skip that for why it's bad.

BAD, because this class isn't as effective as numbers increase. Individual attention is really important and students tend to need a lot of it in this class. It requires a more disciplined way of thinking than is typical. In fact, I've had students complain to me later that the way they view the world isn't the same anymore. (It's a joy to hear them add, "But I wouldn't want to go back to my old way of thinking.")

A big deal in the class is when I get to the "most important concept in research" lecture. The answer is "CONTROL!" The methods class is really important to me because I think it contains some of the most valuable learning lessons in college. But maybe I also have a bias…

There were two "incidents" that happened when I was a kid. The first was in kindergarten. (Yes, I was really that young once.) The second was when I was maybe a year or two older. Together they made me afraid of myself. One event was scary, the other was the eye-opener.

The first "incident" occurred when I was waiting in line with the other students to be led out to the waiting vehicles to go home for the day. I had a really really bad crush on a girl who was in line just ahead of me. I probably arranged myself to be there so I could look at her. She had no idea in the world that I even existed. By the way, that's my whole "mating dance" or, as I call it, the Three 'L' approach: I like; I look (not a pervert); I leave. Being way too shy to even talk to her or in any way indicate my interest, I was just waiting for her to read my mind or something. Ok, anyway, "the incident" was that this other little boy (let's call him "Rat-bastard") also apparently liked her, plus Prick-turd (or whatever his name was) seemed very willing to cross the line and even TALK to her! To make things worse, she TALKED BACK to Dinkus (or whatever his name was)! Seeing them carry on like that enraged me! I wasn't mad at her (oddly) but way mad at Fart-face (or whatever his name was). Literally, the next thing I knew, I was sitting on Zit-head (or whatever his name was) and looking at my hand and there was a drop of blood on my fingernail (I must have accidentally scratched the bastard).

I had no idea how I got to where I was. Totally a blank. But while I was wondering about that, little Piss-Pants was crying on the floor underneath me, while the love of my life was looking at me in horror and screaming, "You're crazy!" So much for that love story. At least she now knew that I existed. I guess. To make matters worse, my parents got a phone call from… not Doofus-boy's parents but from HER parents! Apparently, she was so upset that HER parents had to call my parents and rat me out. Very humiliating. Thank goodness the rest of my life would be free of embarrassment, drama, and pain.

Incident number 2, about the same time (actually a few years later), was that I was playing in my room and banged my head on the edge of the bed. It hurt so bad that I wished I knew some really good swear words other than "poop" or "kaka". My blood boiled ("Hulk no like pain") and my first thought was to go find my sister and hit her as though she were at fault for my boo-boo. Instantly, when I became aware of the stupidity of that line of reasoning my anger disappeared and I realized that I was being like my dad (or at least what I thought of was him back then).

My father worked two jobs and didn't really spend much time with us. When he got angry he would explode in rage. Really scary, but he never took it out on us physically - but things would get broken, thrown, smashed, stomped, etc. in the house when he was on his rampage. I didn't like it (nobody seemed to) and I really didn't want to be like that. SO I decided (with throbbing head) to try to NOT be that way.

It occurred to me recently, that ever since these little-kid incidents, I have tried to avoid any situation that would put me at risk of losing control. I never drink alcohol, have never done drugs, try not to make myself noticeable to others so they won't instigate a reaction, and so forth. If I have a task to accomplish, I hate relying on others because that means portions of MY task are no longer under MY control! Gosh! I live in fear that I might start sleepwalking some day! Yikes! Who knows what I might do!? That's my fear. Loss of control.

So, it is no wonder that I cherish this upcoming research methods class. The scientific method thrives on control. It's what I try to live by! CONTROL!

Oh, yeah! Also, just to give you a real glimpse of my juvenile mind! There was a phase I went through when I really believed that all a person needed to do was really focus and practice their psychic talents to get them to work. So the "talent" I was trying to develop was teleportation! Wouldn't that be cool! (There's even a great book about that: "Jumper" by Steven Gould - the movie sucked.) Anyway, I stopped trying to develop that skill all of a sudden when a thought occurred to me in the shower one day. I realized that such a skill could mean that I might teleport somewhere by accident. You know how sometimes you do something without thinking, well what if, while I was soaking wet in a pool (or in the shower) I thought about being at the north or south pole and suddenly teleported there?! I'd freeze to death in seconds! Or worse, imagine that you were in the middle of answering nature's call and BAM, you thought about being at the mall?! See? This would be a very dangerous or embarrassing loss of control.

So the reason I am not a super-hero teleporter today is because of my fear of losing CONTROL!

Body Language, or, Pagliacci's Lament

So . . . here I am. Actually, that's me on the left (age 5 or so), the "ghost" on the right is my sister (probably around age 3). Don't be fooled by the smiles on our faces, they masked a pathos beyond our years. Actually, I believe my sister expresses our feelings pretty well in her body language. You can see the fatalism symbolized in her sad little hands resting on her tiny lap.

I suppose it wasn't as bad as it could have been. We were dressed for a Halloween outing. Imagine if my mother liked dressing us up this way on other days.

Despite our deep yearning for real costumes (you know, those store-bought kinds with the plastic masks that instantly slicken and stick against the mouth and face with excited breath-moisture), they were years away when this photo was taken.

At this point, I have a terrible -shameful- secret to reveal. I was the type of kid who, when tired, hungry, insulted, or slighted by my mother, I would resort to outbursts of crying in the hopes of publicly humiliating her. Not dad, though. He would have had no problem publicly humiliating me with a spank-around-the posy. That's the one where he holds you by one hand, high over your head, while trying to swat your butt with the other. It looks a bit like an impromptu merry-go-round interpretive dance; spinning slowly in a circle while you try to run away from the spanking; jumping and leaping.

Because society tends not to tolerate displays of violence practiced on brat-children (except perhaps in private), mom had to find her own clever solution. Her approach was to take away what little remaining dignity and power a small crying child has in this situation.

The whole point of crying is to attack the person you are targeting. The attack is supposed to go one of two ways. One way is to make the adult feel terrible for having caused such a precious angel to cry; a universal success whenever blood is present. In the absence of blood, this technique only really works on strangers or relatives who don't know you so well. It will fail when used against parents. So, with parents, that only leaves the second attack strategy. In this case, crying only has a chance to work in very limited settings. Specifically, you need settings where it is really embarrassing to have a crying and screaming child present. Such as, church, supermarkets, check-out lines, airplanes, and so on. Basically, anyplace public that has lots of adults.

My clever mother found a way to defuse this second attack. Effectively. Permanently. This was the "Fat Man" or "Little Boy" of the parent-child war of the wills. She simply placed her hand over my mouth, then removed it; and . . . repeat. The effect is instantaneous. The most annoying sound in the world (crying brat) converted into a ridiculous bleat is enough to make the most stern bank manager you can imagine bust a gut. Playing the crying-child-bagpipe will stop a crying child from crying. The child sees his or her attack flipped judo-like back on them and turned into an entertainment for adults. Their only move is to retreat; withhold the entertainment by shutting down the crying so the adult cannot "play the pipes" any more.

So, that's my mother. How does this relate to the photo? Well, being a kid, one has very little power over the situation. Every Halloween I had a choice. I could either let my mother shove my head into a ridiculous pillowcase and go get free candy, or, I could stay home. You see my (our) choice above.

One consolation we had, though, was that we were allowed to pick out our own Halloween bags. Sadly, and despite our yearly optimism, they were never more than 10-15 percent filled by the end of the evening.

My Cat Thinks That I Am Mentally Retarded

Way back in August of 1996, we went to an animal shelter in Starkville Mississippi. The goal was to select a kitten to join our family (which was my wife, two dogs, and me at the time). The shelter was unimpressive and a bit run down. Probably true of any no-kill shelter trying to maintain a workable budget. Nonetheless, they had the usual assortment of puppies and kittens, cats and dogs. We had to shield our eyes from the sight of any puppy or dog as we were already at the limit there, and we wouldn't want to see any "must-haves" in that department.

There was a good-sized cage against the wall that had a BUNCH of kittens of every size and color. Some were sleeping head beneath haunch of others. There were some little gray, yellow, and white long-hair kittens trying to teach themselves hunting skills. Four kittens were sitting sphinx-style looking cool. One was (mostly) on a small ledge with head and paws hanging over the edges trying to look tough, and I think there was a little tiger-kitty in the back smoking.

Cute though they all may have been, there was only ONE kitten that was CLEARLY looking to get sprung. This was a yellow-and-white striped, big-eyed scrawny puff of a kitten. He was meowing like he knew us from somewhere and had jumped onto the front of the cage grabbing it with three paws so he could reeeeeach out with his front left paw at us and beg that we would PLEASE take him away! The desperation of his meows made it very clear to us that he already loved us and never wanted to be separated from us like this again. Very, very cute.

Ok, so we asked if we could hold the cute little tiger kitty please. Although I didn't notice it then, the workers seemed to fall over each other to get to the cage door and let this one out for adoption. Like a coat hung on the closet door, his little body swung out on the cage door he had been clinging to. To make things even cuter, he looked over his shoulder in surprise (now that I know him better, it was probably confusion) by the whole concept of what had happened. A moment ago, his prison was behind him. Now, behind him was freedom. It was his golden opportunity to escape, but, the wheels are a little slow in a kitten, so he was easily pried from the cage (still meowing, though - THAT never stopped).

We held him and he held us. (Still meowing.)

Hmm, noisy isn't he? Well, it must be that he's in kitty-jail. Once he gets a proper home, surely he'll simmer down.

As we were pondering this yellow and white striped mouth of a kitten, our eyes happened upon a medium sized all-black short hair cat hiding in the back of another cage. She was so timid and wide-eyed-silent that we couldn't resist the contrast with the little yellow fire-siren we were holding. Fools that we were (are?), we decided to adopt both.

We got them home in good time because the meows from our little bundle of auditory joy sounded like an ambulance and all the traffic pulled over for us. (That was only a slight exaggeration, by the way.) Once released into the wilderness of our humble domicile, "Serena" (the quiet sweet noiseless little hushed black silent kitty) scurried to a hiding spot somewhere. Our motor-mouth kitty, on the other hand, immediately started checking out the new digs. He went from room to room, meowing continuously. After a few days, this constant noise concerned us enough to check with the vet. Apparently, he's just a "talker".

Living in Mississippi, we had a greater-than-usual potential for sudden and violent storms. So, the community had multiple tornado-sirens that were tested every week. This was scary when we first moved there because it sounded like an air-raid alarm but we didn't really know what it was. These alarms have an urgency to them that easily sounds like the alarm that people would chose to signal that the world was about to come to an end.

Based on our new kitten's vocalization talents, we decided to name him "Tornado-Siren" (my wife's idea, actually - but I think she was just joking at first). We call him "Tony" for short (if you want the long version, he'll yell it at you).

Tony's curiosity and timing have become legend in our house. Somehow, this one knows when there is a new or freshly opened container, box, bag, suitcase, toolbox, package, closet, drawer, window, or door (even if it is only open for three seconds). I haven't known what it is like to wear clothes that don't have hair on them for years. Little yellow hairs materialize INSIDE packages that have never even been OPENED yet! When I wake up in the morning, I have at least one kitty-hair in at least one of my nostrils, eyes, ears, or in my mouth.

Did I mention that Tony is a talker? It's been over ten years and he STILL has something to say about everything. He's always on the wrong side of any closed door. When it comes to a closing door, he rushes to get TO the door, but then dilly-dallies just at the edge (meowing, of course) so you don't know if he really wanted to go through or come out or whatever.

I've heard people say that, "Oh, I once had a cat that liked to talk. You get used to it, it's not that bad." But when they come to visit, they pull me aside to ask, "Is everything alright with your cat? He's been doing an awful lot of crying." Actually, because there's company, that tends to distract Tony and he's usually more quiet than normal. So all I can reply is, "Welcome to my world." NOBODY really understand the NOISE this cat puts out until they've lived with him for a week. You will NOT sleep well, I promise. We figure that Tony likes the sound of his own voice. That much is clear. But let me tell you why Tony must think I'm mentally deficient.

There are two things that Tony wants very badly. (1) Food with gravy. (2) To go outside. (Ok, three things, if you count hearing himself sing.) We can handle the diet part of his crying (sometimes we can distract him with some kitty-weed [aka catnip]). But the "outside" issue is not to be resolved. He is too stupid (my opinion, not my wife's) and submissive to last out there. He will NOT protect himself. The dogs have their way with him and he has lost tufts of fur and received little punctures but has NEVER hissed or scratched to defend himself. Occasionally, our neighbor (the little lady who you see in the Tweety-Bird cartoons) will leash him up and take him out for a walk. Otherwise, he's an indoor kitty for life. But I digress…

Tony will walk the house complaining that he isn't eating or isn't outside (even though nobody is around to listen). When he catches me in the kitchen, though, he punches up his meows. I know that he is saying, "Gravy! Gravy! Gravy!" Over and over. Now, in my example, I am just in there to do something else (not to feed the furball). His normal meow is set to "loud" as it is, BUT, if Tony catches my eye - if he SEES that I am looking at him, then he kicks things up to, "GRAVY, GRAVY, GRAVY!" To me, this is the stereotypical stupid American trick of talking to someone who doesn't speak the language. The trick is to simply say the same thing louder. In neither case, stupid-American or Tony, does the talker realize that they are not communicating. Instead, the failure to understand is put on the recipient of the message. So in Tony's mind, he cannot believe how stupid I am that I cannot understand the simple request for GRAVY! Or, if I'm by the entryway, why can't I understand "OUTSIDE!"?

Believe it or not, I haven't scratched the surface yet of how annoying the little guy is. If you corner me sometime and if you have a sympathetic enough face, you can probably get me to break down and give you all the horrible details of what it's like to live with Satan's cat. Please bring tissues and a lint-brush.