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.

Are you playing with yours now?

There is a lot of concern over privacy issues. It seems that as technology becomes more advanced, the threat to privacy becomes greater. Rest assured that this will change in the future. Actually, it will change as a result of one of two possible paths.

The obvious reduction to the threat is the elimination of technology altogether. This would be some global catastrophe (whether man-made or not is moot). That's the boring, predictable, outcome. The one depicted in comic books and bad science fiction movies where haggard old men live in the ruins of once great cities (or under bridges) and guard the "sacred texts" which they have forgotten even how to read. Yawn.

The second path is actually pretty interesting because it seems almost counter-intuitive. Privacy concerns will be reduced as a result of all the access. To understand why, consider an analogy with memory. An important part of our ability to remember is that we can (and must) be able to forget. Actually, we forget way more than we will probably ever remember. This is a blessing. Imagine the alternative. Remembering, in excruciating detail, every piece of sensory input and random thought you've ever had. Imagine that the memory for all that is equally accessible. It would be nearly impossible to sift through memory to find some specific detail. In fact, you would only be adding to the problem because you would also have a memory of your search through memory to add to your memories every time you searched memory!

The technology for my prediction is mostly here already. One pesky little problem stands in the way of a revolution to humankind that will eclipse anything previously (except maybe language itself). The problem has to do with data storage. Once the introduction of very cheap and very vast data storage occurs, the world will change forever.

The invention of all time will make a great deal of current technology obsolete. This invention is simply called, the pder ("pee-der"). It is an acronym of course, which stands for, "Personal Digital Event Recorder." Doesn't really sound like much for what it is, though. Very humble. But here is how it works.

You will carry around a device (on or around your head, like a hat, or headphones at first, but eventually all sorts of variations will emerge). This device records everything. It records everything in high-definition. It also both receives from and sends to other pders.

Everything is recorded everywhere. Not only that, but you can get special devices to interact more effectively with the data collected from your (or another's) pder. For example, the pder-box. Imagine simply receiving a transmission (not for free of course) from the museum. The pder-box generates a virtual image of whatever artifact you want to examine. This image is complete and highly defined. Zoom in to examine every tiny brushstroke of any painting. Rotate and examine ancient sculptures. In some cases, the data may be dense enough to literally turn your pder-box into a macro-micro scope.

Because of the transmission capability, imagine going to see a play. There is no longer a bad seat in the house. You drop down the pder-vision glasses and get a 3D projection of whatever other pder transmission you prefer. For a fee, you can have a front-row seat. Turn your head and the image shifts to match. You will forget you are wearing someone else's eyes.

There will be so much information being transmitted across so many pders that it would be almost impossible to target any one pder with precision. Not that you will have assured privacy, but with so many "channels" to pick from, there won't be many eyes on you.

Of course you can turn on/off the transmit feature of your pder. But, what if you forget? What if you get home and decide to get busy doing something. . . private? Yes, there is a chance someone might be "visiting" you if you are still transmitting. Fear not, though! You simply install a home pder-defeater! Industrial strength versions will certainly be installed in some areas in public as well as paid arenas. After all, you don't want people getting free pay-per-pder!

The commercial opportunities are virtually limitless here. Most electronic entertainment venues as well as communication devices will become pder-compatible. That is to say, cell phones and TVs will become obsolete. Your personal pder will double as your cell phone and TV will be sent to your pder-box. You can go to the theater or concert, etc. but stay home. You will be able to subscribe to all sorts of educational and entertainment delivery systems. Imagine a pder attached to a robot designed to explore the depths of the ocean; search and rescue operations; rove the moon and planets, etc.

Although the technology will have some clunky aspects at first, these problems will be "solved" in good time (workarounds will be developed and sold). The biggest problem will be to develop an efficient search and retrieval tool given the density of information stored.

Someday, then, either we will all be playing with our pders, or, just looking at the pretty pictures in the musty old books under a partially collapsed bridge outside a radioactive city.

The annoyance of bad feet.

Am I annoying? Well, yeah, I guess I can be. I try not to be; and sometimes it can be a real struggle to hold back.

When I was in high school, I ran cross-country track my last two years. Probably at my best, I was only mediocre. After school, I tried to keep up the running because I actually really enjoyed it. There were days when I felt as though I could just keep running forever without getting tired.

The summer after graduation, I was running along the road about 2-3 miles from home when my left knee SUDDENLY (and I mean that literally – there was no warning) felt as though someone was trying to pop it off with an invisible screwdriver.

This effectively ended my running days.

For a while, I tried various tricks. Extra stretching; creams; very tight ace bandage wraps; cutting back on my running; sneaking to a doctor to get an orthotic (specially fitted support insert) for my shoe which I got into trouble for when my parents got THAT bill!

The ace bandage wrap worked the best but it was unreliable because it wouldn’t always stay wrapped. My last run was pretty much a race in which the bandage loosened up and my kneecap wouldn’t let me do more than hobble to the ambulance tracking the last runners.

Particularly annoying were the old guys running past me with their encouraging “Walk it out, kid!” as if I was simply out of breath. They meant well, I guess. But boy did I hate them.

Over the years, I’ve tried working back into running. Never works. After about a mile and a half, I can feel the knee starting to pop. Even the other knee has started acting up. This can be a problem even if I walk too much. No doubt the extra poundage wrapped around my mid-section isn’t helping.

The desire to run is never far from my thoughts, so imagine my hopefulness at hearing a commercial about this place; let’s call it “Great Foot” so I don’t maybe get anyone in trouble. All I had to do was find one of their many stores, stop in without even setting up an appointment, and have a custom analysis of my feet (for free!) followed by a custom selected orthotic support (which of course would not be free)!

Here’s a portion of a press release: “By taking each customer through a personal biomechanical balancing and foot-printing process, arch supports and cushions are custom-fitted to ensure ultimate comfort.”

Wow, huh?!

So, I entered the store and was immediately greeted by, oh, let’s call her Francis.

I have purchased supports from Walmart in the past, but they didn’t do much to help my running. So I was probably starting off a bit skeptical. Nonetheless, I really WANTED to believe that this could work. I would love to run again.

Right away I got the sales pitch (see summarized version above in the press release quote). Then Francis did an amazing demonstration! She had me hold my fists out, one above the other in front of my bellybutton (it’s an innie, so it didn’t get in the way), then she pushed down on them and I lost my balance. She then had me put my hands behind me, did the same push down and I started to fall over backwards.

Yikes! Apparently my feet were a real mess! It was amazing I was able to stay upright! She clearly demonstrated to me that my footing was not stable. This was certainly alarming.

Next, she pulled out this cool platform thingy with paper in it. I was to walk on it once for each foot so that it could create an ink footprint. Cool! Here’s my right foot (I messed up and had to re-do it, so this was my bad step which Francis let me keep).



With all my “data” (that would include verbal information, the footprints, plus the miserably failed balance test), Francis went into the back of the store to figure out the best type of support for my particular foot problems. As she was gone, I started to worry that they wouldn’t be able to find something to fit my particular foot needs. Maybe I would have to place the order and they would send out to the main facility to custom fabricate orthotics to meet my unique arch support system needs. I was getting more and more worried the longer she was gone. I didn’t want to have to come back a week later, I wanted better support NOW!

Imagine my relief when Francis came back with a handful of plastic baggies each containing different types of supports! She smiled and it was clear to me that she was able to cobble together a solution to my problems.

In my relief, I related to Francis my visit to the clinic when I was a teenager. The excruciating wait resulting from having had a model of my foot constructed and then the almost two months before the doctors were able to create my custom orthotic!

Francis smiled wider because she too knows what a wonderful futuristic world we live in today! Where even custom eye-glasses can be cut and fitted to our heads in less than an hour! What a beautiful day this was turning out to be! I hummed a bit as Francis tore each individually wrapped orthotic out of its sterile packaging, then took my sneakers and ripped out the old sole cushions. I wouldn’t be needing those any more!

Actually, Francis was talking through this, and it was only just starting to penetrate what she was saying. Let me summarize the most important point: These inserts cost $285 dollars.

As Francis started pressing the $upport$ into their new homes, I couldn’t help but to wonder as to what specific foot support my particular case warranted the $285 price tag. I examined the crumpled little baggie that had contained my left support. I was prepared to have to memorize had a unique designator label like XKZ-26-L-RW2-64C. Fortunately, it was easy to memorize. The code printed on the baggie was only a few letters long. The code was “LARGE”.

Hmmm. Maybe you are wondering if perhaps it was “XKZ-26-L-RW2-64C – LARGE”? No, it was simply, “LARGE” on the wrapper.

Fine. Whatever. The $285 cost at least got me to thinking that maybe they would still be better than the ones I got at Walmart. (Coincidently, the code on the ones I got from Walmart were the same as the ones at Great Foot: “LARGE”.)

Francis gave me my shoes and had me put them on. Time for a re-visit of the balancing test. With my hands in front again, Francis was unable to tip me over (she even gave a little grunt of effort so that I knew she was really trying to tip my balance). Even with my hands behind my back, she was unable to tip me over (she did the little “effort-grunt” again, by the way). I was standing on a bedrock of arch supports.

Here is where I began to struggle with the annoying part of me. Even my wife could see my struggle. Both asked what was the matter (with that tone in their voices that made me think they believed I was late for an appointment in the bathroom).

I said, “Nothing” but my wife wouldn’t let it alone (another reason why I love her). So I suggested that perhaps this “balance test” was biased. That is, maybe the salesperson was helping me with the outcomes of each test. Francis was clearly shocked at the idea. This made me feel bad for seeming to doubt her. She had been very nice and helpful. I quickly explained that I didn’t think it was deliberate! This sort of thing happens all the time in research, which is why the good researchers use blind (or “double-blind”) procedures. Unconscious bias can affect test outcomes.

Wanting to end the matter, I again tried to pass it off as a side-effect of my being an idiot. However, the damage had been done. I had thrown down a gauntlet and Francis was ready to do battle. She insisted on the blind test. So, ok. I told her we would do two tests - one with and one without the supports, only she would not know when they were in or not for the balancing tests. For the first test, I decided to leave them in.

After a while of feeling guilty for being annoying, we called Francis back in and I stood up for the test. With hands in front, she pushed (no effort grunt) and I started to tip over. This was NOT what I wanted. Although, I was skeptical about the demonstration, I would have been glad to spend the money on supports if it meant I might be able to run again. This little tip instantly crushed my dreams. Francis, on the other hand, smiled and said, “I think I know that the supports are out of your shoes!”

We did the behind-my-back test and I tipped over even quicker. With obvious confidence in the test, Francis stated that I was NOT wearing the supports.

Now, I was feeling pretty bad already now that I had lost faith in the supports. I wasn’t looking forward to being a real ass and showing her that I still had them on. She was really shocked to see them in my shoes. Right away, she proposed the hypothesis that I must not have had them in correctly. If they are out of position by even the littlest smidge, they are apparently worthless.

Well, if that were true, they were REALLY not going to be very helpful. They had felt ok in my shoes, and if I can’t tell whether they are fitting correctly or not, why buy them? I decided to terminate the study (no second test) to avoid further turmoil. We left with the, “We should really check with the doctor first to see if our insurance might be useful” excuse.

I’d like to think that maybe Francis has been given some food for thought regarding the validity of her test, but I’m skeptical. She was pretty quick to come up with an excuse to protect her belief in the validity of the test. So, I imagine her using the same routine on her customers still. Only I doubt that she would allow anyone to test her again.

Sometimes being annoying can save you money and might even be educational to others (if they are open-minded enough to learn from it). But, it's still annoying to have the foot problem.

The MONTY PAUL Dilemma: How to get a free "six-pack" of Dr. Paul's favorite beer

Exhibit A

On Tuesday, April 15, 2008 I attended a lecture by Arie Maharshak that presented some research he had done with David Pundak. There were three things that got my mind whirring (my wife would say it was “clanking”). First, and among other things, Arie reviewed the Monty Hall dilemma, which I will describe in a moment. Second, how well attended the presentation was by faculty and administrators, including our president! And finally, the conspicuous absence of students.

There are approximately 4500 students at Robert Morris University. None of which found the time to attend the Rooney Scholar lecture. By the way, there was a fantastic spread of delicious snacks, all free for the gobbling, but no students. Why? I have a few thoughts, but first, the Monty Hall dilemma.

There are lots of website discussions and simulations about this puzzle on the web, so I invite the reader to go find some and play around if you do not believe (or understand) my telling. Essentially, it goes like this: Imagine three doors, each leading to a free prize. However, only one prize behind one of the three doors is worthwhile (e.g., a six-pack of Dr. Paul’s favorite beer). The other two doors each hide something worthless (e.g., empty bottles of Dr. Paul’s favorite beer). You get to pick one of the doors. Let’s say you select door number three. Now, before that door is opened, I show you that behind door number one, there is a worthless prize (empty bottle). Now, here is the puzzle: If you like, you may switch your choice to door number two, or you can keep your original door number three. Is it a good idea to switch, a bad idea to switch, or does it matter?

The answer is that you should switch. Door number two is twice as likely to hide the prize than door number three.

All this writing is making me thirsty. There is now only five bottles left of Dr. Paul’s six-pack of favorite beer. Sorry.

Exhibit B

Over the years, I have asked students to write little papers for class. Unfortunately, it seems that the educational value of this sort of assignment has diminished. Instead of doing what I’d hoped; actually putting some thought into the paper topic, students have turned the assignments into scavenger hunts. They pop onto the internet, locate a search engine, type in a few key words, skim some resulting pages for choice paragraphs or sentences to cut and paste into “their” paper. Of course, I do not mean to lump all students into this characterization. So, those of you reading this who actually follow through as intended, nice job!

To combat this plagiaristic trend, I have modified my paper assignments so that they require only self-reflection, personal opinion, and/or basic brainpower. Despite that, I still get scavenger hunt students who turn in papers plagiarized from the internet. Some students, if they cannot find information about the topic on the internet, simply give up! All that they needed to do was spend the same amount of time they wasted searching the internet just thinking about the topic. However, because the internet knew nothing about the topic, neither did the student.

Hm! I see that I’ve downed another bottle and I don’t even recall opening that second one! Ok, a four-pack is better than nothing, right?

Exhibit A

One of the points of Arie’s talk was that students (people, really) tended to rely on naïve intuition to understand the world. Or, put another way, we tend to be lazy thinkers who prefer to derive speedy answers to questions rather than try to think through them using scientific reasoning.

This is, of course, an over-simplification of Dr. Maharshak’s talk. However, in that, there is another point to be made: We prefer over-simplification to complex answers. The trend and general advice is to try to present “sound bite” education. Keep the students’ attention! Entertain! Keep It Simple Stupid! I’ve had students who defended their poor grades by explaining that the class was too “boring” for them to do well in.

As it turned out, though, as much of the attention was focused on student thinking (or lack thereof) I was a bit surprised when the president of the university made a comment. He was referring to a semi-popular book (Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking by Malcolm Gladwell), in which it appears that intuitive thinking among those with plenty of life -or business- experience is actually pretty good. This point was reinforced by an administrator from the nursing program who claimed that research has shown that seasoned doctors are able to intuit diagnoses with great accuracy (i.e., the “educated guess” effect).

So, what was the point of these comments? To me, they seemed to defend the use of intuition. Or, at least attempt to put “intuition” into a more favorable light by indicating that, under the right conditions, a “lazy” (my bias) approach to thinking might actually be ok.

An obvious fallacy here, and one that seems to illustrate the trouble educators have in trying to bring critical thinking to the masses, is that there is no guideline for when a person has enough experience and knowledge to be able to justify an intuitive approach to thinking. Any defense of lazy thinking reinforces the whole line of thinkers, from novice to experienced, to simply rely on their gut. Lazy thinking wins again!

To make matters worse, because of other biases in thinking (such as the confirmation bias), people are much less likely to seek out anything but confirmatory evidence for their beliefs. They will even go so far as to ignore, outright reject, reinterpret, or even overlook evidence that conflicts with their view.

So, when a seasoned doctor uses intuition to make a diagnosis, or a cigar-saturated CEO makes an important business decision, they may be much less willing to consider additional sources of evidence… especially evidence that might be contrary to their gut reasoning.

People should always strive to make use of the best information available. Sometimes the best we have is intuition. In which case, gamble with the experts. However, unless time is critical, it is rare that intuition is the best information from which to work. So, beware the person who contrives to waste time so that intuition is the only viable option left!

So, how to get my beers? Learn and practice systematic thinking strategies. Familiarize yourself with the “scientific method” and challenge your thinking. It’s better to point to the data as an excuse for failure than everyone pointing at you and your stupid gut. So, to start, work out an explanation for my variation to the Monty Hall puzzle described below. With my apologies to the scavengers, I’ve done my best to come up with a variation that is NOT to be found elsewhere on the web. Please think about it.

I just burped. That bottle went down too fast! There’s not a lot of things more gross than a beer burp. Clearly I cannot give away three beers. That would be an odd number. So, let’s just make it two bottles, ok?

Exhibit C: The Monty Paul Dilemma

Imagine four doors (A, B, C, D). Each door hides a prize. Only one prize is worthwhile (beer). The other doors hide crappy prizes (empty bottles).

You now select a door, let’s go with “D”.

Before I open the door, I show you that door “B” had an empty bottle behind it.

This means that three doors remain (A, C, and your choice: D).

Question: Is it worth your while to switch (i.e., pick either Door-A or Door-C), is it a bad idea to switch (i.e., you should keep Door-D), or does it matter?

Ultimately, it isn't a matter of having to learn anything new so much as making a choice to try. Reason it out. List what you know, list what you don't know but could learn, and list the stuff that is irrelevant but distracting. Those last few items are your gut talking. Ignore the gut, at least for now.

I have one bottle of my favorite beer left! I promise I will not drink it. In fact, I will keep it chilled in my little office refrigerator until someone comes to claim the prize with a correct answer (with defense) to this dilemma.

Professor Holds Students Hostage: Forces Class Participation

Authorities were notified Wednesday that Professor P., a faculty member in the psychology department at a small private university in Pennsylvania, actually attempted to force his students to participate in class activities. Some witnesses reported that Dr. P. even attempted to get some students to answer a question out loud during lecture.

“I wasn’t really scared,” stated Melissa T., a student of Dr. P’s, “That is, not until he tried to make eye contact with me after asking a question about the chapter we were supposed to have read. Then things really started to get out of control. It was like he expected us to have really read it!”

Other victims from the class reported similar odd behaviors from Dr. P. as the early calm of class quickly turned into the ugly hostage crisis.

“I paid a lot of money for this course,” said Scott M. “If I want to talk to my friend about alcohol and sports during class, that’s my right! I’ll pay better attention as soon as the class gets interesting. As I see it, there’s no point in learning something if it isn’t interesting.” Other victims of Dr. P.’s class agreed.

“What’s the big deal if I’m texting my friends during class?” asked James D. “That’s no reason for the professor to pick on me! He should just mind his own business during class and try not to bother the students while he’s lecturing.”

Probably the most stunning report from among the hostages came from Jocelyn G. who was in the room almost by mistake. Apparently, a “friend” had tricked her into taking Dr. P. “It was, like, the worst experience of my life!” Jocelyn explained. “College isn’t about students talking to professors; it’s about the professors talking to the students! Dr. P. was acting all like, ‘you guys need to put some effort into learning this material’ but it’s like he’s the one getting paid to teach us! The whole idea of tuition is that the students are paying the professors to teach. I wouldn’t hire a car mechanic and then expect to fix the car myself!”

Many of the hostage victims reported similar views, but what may be the saddest tale came from poor Nicole A. who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. “Normally, like, I skip this class, but, like, today my dorm room was just too cold to sleep in, so, like, I decided to see if I could take a nap during the lecture. I’ve done it, like, many times before, so I never suspected that the day would turn out this way! There wasn’t more than fifteen minutes of good nap time the whole fifty minutes we were in there!”

Fortunately, students were able to “talk Dr. P. down” at about 1:49pm after a heroic attempt was made to locate a copy of the course syllabus. The hostages were able to remind Dr. P. that he had office hours starting at 2:00pm.

Campus authorities finally caught up to Dr. P. in his office a few hours later. They were relieved to find that he was alone. The fear had been that students seeking extra help outside of class might have been in danger of being required to think while in Dr. P.’s office. However, the security team had no reason to worry. As usual, Dr. P. was left alone the entire one hundred and fifty minutes of his scheduled office hours. Police report that when they asked Dr. P. why he was still in his office even after his official office hours had elapsed, he naively replied, “In case students need help, but couldn’t make my posted hours.”

Professor B., who has an office next to Dr. P., provided this insightful comment regarding the possible cause of Dr. P's breakdown: "He was probably unable to accept the paradox that most students today don't come to college to learn. They come here to get their degrees."

Calls to Dr. P. for his side of this bizarre story were not made. Although his contact information is on the course syllabus. The only student who had kept a copy of the syllabus had to drive home early because her roommate’s grandmother had a sick neighbor.

The boy who cried "Small aquatic bird of the Anatidae family!” (instead of “Duck!”)

Ok, I just figured out that I fell for an internet hoax. Damn! I hate that I did that. At least it wasn’t the one where I send thousands of dollars to Nigeria, or that one where I cash checks for people. Actually, it’s just the one where I thought I could turn Mountain Dew into glow-in-the-dark juice. No real harm done to my wallet, just some loss of self-respect.

This month’s blahg is about something that crossed my mind recently. I’ve been noticing a few things. For example, I was at an all-day faculty event that killed a Friday (so my class got cancelled which instantly put me behind by one day). Anyway, I was trying to tell someone about a gift idea and was almost immediately not taken seriously. At another meeting, I made a suggestion which was brought up later in the conversation and credited to someone else. But at the end of the meeting, I was teased for not having made any more contribution to the group than a joke or two.

Now, am I being a whiny-butt? No. In fact, it makes sense to me. Most of my interactions in these sorts of settings is driven by my insecurity. That is, I really don’t feel comfortable in groups and really hate having to talk. So, two things happen. One, I start feeling worse because I’m being so quiet, which makes me feel like I have to say SOMETHING – anything! Second, my coping mechanisms kick-in.

When I was in high school, I never EVER talked in class unless I was directly called on. My response to being called on was to turn bright red, slouch in my chair, look down, and mumble. Most of the time that got the heat off me. When I eventually got into graduate school (having done my best to navigate through college by taking classes that minimized any class presence) I found out that I’d have to give hour-long presentations to faculty and students. They were pretty awful. Find one of my graduate-student brothers or sisters and they’ll confirm that.

I needed a way to cope with the stress and I quickly learned (through observation – I wasn’t the only person who dreaded these presentations) that being uncomfortable in front of people only made a presenter look worse! So, from then on, 98 percent of my attention was directed toward NOT appearing nervous. What is the opposite of nervous? Well, you might think “calmness” but I wasn’t able to pull that off. Instead, I noticed that people who were calm tended to feel comfortable joking around. When people in the audience laughed, you could see that everyone was everyone’s friend. That helped reduce anxiety! So, over time, I worked at using some of that 98 percent to find humor; get the audience “on my side” in a way. That was over 15 years ago. So, now I can use more than 2 percent of my energy to focus on content (probably close to 60 percent).

Now, do I think that I am funny? Not so much. Actually, most of the jokes I make nowadays are to make ME laugh (if others laugh, great). To be honest, I think my sister has a way better sense of humor than I do. She can make any story hilarious if she wants to. She could be making more money as a humorist than a teacher.

OK, so back to ME.

Do I really really really care if I’m taken seriously or not? Maybe a little. Can I change my department meeting persona to one of less humor? Yeah. Probably. Will I? No. Why? Those things are too boring and of too little real substance and rarely important at all. Plus, I still get nervous talking in groups. What would my coping strategy be? (A) Turning bright red, slouching in my chair, looking down, and mumbling. Or (2) Finding something funny about the moment so the next moment is less painful? Yeah… sorry about that bump on the head… (Ok, that was a vague reference [“call-back”] to the blahg title. It made ME laugh, anyway…)

OBEY!

It’s the end of a year. Again. They keep coming (and ending). I suppose I shouldn’t complain, right? But… well, what’s up with this bald spot I’m growing? Oh, yeah, and that belly that’s getting bigger… AND, since we’re on the topic of complaints, why is the distance I need to see things clearly starting to change too?

I’ve noticed that in the past six-or-so years, I was getting pretty nostalgic. My thoughts would often wander back to my younger days. (See my June 2007 entry, for example!) I’d start to play that, “what if” game where I try to imagine “what if” I’d made different decisions in my life. For instance, what if I’d accepted that faculty position right out of graduate school. I’d probably still be living in Charleston! What students would I have bored with my lectures? I’d probably have been a full professor for years by now! What friends would I have had? Would the weather have ruined my house? You get the idea.

These past few months, though, I’ve not been so reminiscent. Maybe because I had my worst semester EVER. Or, maybe I (finally) got bored with that going-nowhere game. I’m looking more toward the future for now.

But, enough of this “dear diary” dribble!

I’ve been getting swept up by my “psychology of belief” interests lately. This coming semester I’ll be teaching a course on this topic (I’ve been toiling away making dowsing rods for my students to use – and keep – to illustrate aspects of belief formation). It’s been two years since the last time I started this course. I got REALLY burned out on the topic AND the apparent futility of it all.

It’s fascinating to see how cleverly people hold on to stupid beliefs, inconsistent beliefs, clearly-wrong beliefs, and bad beliefs. Hell, people are even pretty good at exchanging perfectly good beliefs for terrible beliefs if the idiotic beliefs are presented just the right way!

It burns me out to see how easily human thinking careens out of control (yes, even my OWN thinking – I’m not trying to climb any damn pedestals).

Imagine being a driving instructor. You tell the new student to turn left at the next intersection. “Watch out for that truck!” The student turns and avoids the truck. “OK, go straight through the next light and then take the right turn at the stop sign, but watch out for that bus!” The student seems to follow all your instructions just fine. Eventually, you end up back at the driving school. “Watch out for that motorcycle!” They watch out and park just fine. Yippie, a new driver!

After they pocket their shiny new license, you watch them drive away – and immediately crash into oncoming traffic. How depressing.

Anyway… maybe this semester will be different? Maybe this time I will do something right and actually reach a few more?

Dulcet drips of tenacious time

The year’s end draws closer and I missed my second chance to get a photo of the banner that was hung in Coraopolis this month. It was there last year (for the first time, I think), but I missed that photo-op as well. The Pittsburgh Veterans take a trip to the WWII memorial in DC close to veteran’s day. A very nice idea. The slogan, however, leaves something to be desired in my book.

Here are two links about the “project”:

(1) Pittsburgh WWII Veterans Memorial Trip homepage

(2) Post-Gazette Article from last year

It’s bad enough that I ruminate so much about mortality as it is. I can only imagine what it will be like when I hit my 80’s (assuming I get that far). In fact, I don’t even like those life insurance commercials that try to guilt me into buying or upping my insurance as soon as possible so that my loved ones will enjoy greater comfort once I’m gone! There’s too much of a sense of URGENCY to those commercials. It takes me back to when I was a kid and I thought people in the TV could see me, or knew about me. Remember the birthday list on Romper Room!? Well, when I see that guy dressed in his ready-to-go-to-my-funeral-suit telling me that I could go AT ANY TIME, my paranoia thoughts start churning, “Is he talking to ME? Does he know something I should know?” You get the idea.

So, to think that someday someone might start a slogan to get ME to do something or see something or go somewhere or whatever, (BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE!) makes me a bit uncomfortable. That sounds like a fun bus-trip, for sure. Every time I’d look up at the guy in the seat next to mine, I’d wonder, “Hey, that guy looks pretty old; wonder how much longer he’s got?” Of course, that guy’s looking my way and is probably thinking very similar thoughts about my raggedy face.

My neighbor is a WWII veteran (Leo). He loves to tell his war stories. He jumped out of airplanes as a member of the 101^st Airborne. Also known as the “Screaming Eagles”. Leo loves to tell his war stories, and Leo was well decorated. In addition to his love of telling war stories, he has a Screaming Eagles baseball cap and it’s decorated with miniatures of his medals (including the Purple Heart). He loves to tell his war stories. Whenever he is in public, the cap goes with him. You can rest assured, Leo will be telling some war stories. I’ve never seen him wear the cap and be ignored. There’s always someone who comments on it, or, thanks him for his service. And Leo is ready with stories to tell. Leo really loves to tell his war stories.

Leo lives right next door with his sister Anne, and they have become like family to us. It’s a nice feeling to see them there, and it’s a comfort to us that we can count on them to check in on our dogs if we need them to do so. I really think that Leo (and maybe his sister) would appreciate a trip to the memorial. We’ll have to set it up for them next year.

Before it’s too late.

Satanic Apples

Happy Halloween.

I’ve been very busy this month (and still am, frankly). But, I thought I’d take a few minutes to share a brief experience.

At the beginning of the month, I went to the John Edward presentation (or “event”) at the Sheraton Station Square in Pittsburgh.

Cost was around $200 per ticket.

He’s easy to listen to, and, I’d say that he has a nice sense of humor. Let’s just say he’s able to charm a crowd.

My father is very much “in to” the psychic scene (people such as John Edward, Rosemary Altea, etc.). We got him a ticket to the show (which is something he’s wanted for quite some time) and I got one for me, so he wouldn’t be there alone. Plus, I admit that I was interested to see how it worked.

We had a nice dinner before the show, then walked to the hotel where the seating would no-doubt be limited. There, we stood in line for about 45 minutes.

I’d wondered if he might have “plants” in the line trying to find information secretly to pass on to John before his show. There was a lone woman about in her late 30’s to early 40’s who stood behind my father and I. She was attentive and had her cell phone out frantically text-messaging while the three ladies behind her chatted about the tragedies they’ve endured in their lives. Loved ones lost, and so on.

“Ah-HA!” Was my thinking… I decided to stroll up and down the line to see if there were other “texters” who might be feeding info to the so-called psychic. There were maybe two others.

I decided to keep an eye on our texter and see where she sat, etc. I also wanted to follow the locations of the women we could all overhear talking about the dead relatives they were hoping to hear from. It would be interesting to see if they ended up as “targets” for Mr. Edward’s show.

We eventually got inside and sat knee-to-knee with other foolish-with-their-money folks. I lost track of our texter-lady… As I suspected might happen (but then later I saw that she’s sat a ways back behind us, oh well).

John showed up, to the obvious adoration of the many fans (mostly women, by the way). Probably there were 90 women for every five males in the audience. He never used any of the information I’d have guessed he’d use from secret text-messagers. So, probably there were none. I was just being super-suspicious.

Nonetheless, I was not impressed by his performance. It was all-to-clearly (to me) a cold-reading performance.

There were a lot of people there, and he would pick an area and “stab” with something like, “Is there someone here who has a father-figure who passed that missed a graduation?” He’d narrow to a small group and keep drilling for a hit. His approach is to ALWAYS try to make a “hit” in the sense that even if the person standing kept saying “no” he’d probe and push around until he could find some type of match. Occasionally to the delight of the audience.

In the above example, a small family stood and the younger adult male was answering “no” about his high school and college graduations. Dad made it to both. After a while of pushing, Edward finally got the guy to remember that, “Oh, wait, I got two degrees in college, and dad missed one of the ceremonies.”

OK, people, the hits are there if we can just open up to them.

Sure, that was a cool hit. But then later, a similar setup with a, “Your mother is saying something about New York?” Followed by nothing from the family. This went on and on, and even I could think of possible hits having to do with New York. Then out of desperation, a family member offered, “Well, sometimes when I drive to work, I think I go past a little restaurant called the New York Deli…?”

This was instantly taken as another one of those “Come on people, open up, the hits are there!” But really, despite the supportive laughter about another bone-head who can’t open up to the obvious hits, I wasn’t impressed by that one.

John is really slick in being able to tease out likely bits of general information, and the audience (or targets) embellish some details that can then be reworked into more specific-sounding hits. As another example, he picked a section and asked, “What’s the association with Gilligan’s Island?” It took a while, but someone was able to say that, in the country they are from, there is a little beach-island nearby that is called Gilligan’s Island, although she’d never been there. Again, I could probably have matched that also because my mother hated that show, even though we (my sister and I) watched it quite a bit growing up. I really think that would that have been close enough to match John’s probe.

My main sense, and what I did mostly, was watch people melt under the spotlight of having loved-ones let them know they are doing fine. Tears a-many were shed. Heads nodded at almost every morsel Edward blurbled out. It was a sort of rapture. It really made me sad.

If I wasn’t a pessimist before the show, I am certainly one now. The ease with which people seem to fall for this smoke paints a dim view of humanity’s future in my mind. Imagine taking the Jetson’s out of their cartoon and putting Fred and Wilma into it as replacements. We are a modern society with such superstitious and mystical beliefs being constantly recycled and perpetuated that I fear for humanity.

Actually, I fear for the world! Not because of what humans will do to it in their fiery spiral toward destiny, but because I doubt that we’ll be even good enough at doom to completely wipe ourselves out. The scourge will probably rise again to torture the planet and its non-human (and human) inhabitants some more.

Wow. How’s that for a downer of a blog-entry?

Techno-RANT!

WARNING: This blog-entry has displaced another blog-entry I’d planned to write. However, for the sake of the breakables around me during times of frustration such as this, it’s better I get the anger out of my system this way for now.

I am so alarmingly tired of the “technology experts” at my school.

Currently, once I press the power button to my work computer, it takes about an hour and fifteen minutes before it becomes as close to reasonable to use as it’s going to get. Sadly, that's NOT even an exaggeration. On the bright side, I’ve been promised a replacement computer. (But then again, I remember getting promised a pony when I was a kid.)

So, essentially, I cannot work effectively at school. But at least I have the equipment to work at home! All I need to do is access a program called Citrix and I can access what’s called my “H-Drive” at school (wasn’t there a bomb similarly named?). This H-Drive is where I diligently back-up my work every day in case my laptop dies (which it doesn’t have the decency to do; since laptop-death is pretty much the only way to get a replacement faster).

Oops, sorry Steve. The brilliant folks in IT (which I think is just the last two letters of their full acronym) have “upgraded” our access channels. NOW, the Citrix I used to use won’t allow me access to my H-Drive. In fact, now it only lets me use the school software from off-campus… of course, that means that I have to carry that stuff with me if I want to work on it away from school. See? That’s called “convenience” at my school!

So then, how do I access my H-Drive from home? The brilliant folks in IT have provided us a handy link on the web to a program called Netstorage. This program allows us to SEE what’s on our H-Drive, but that’s about it. The interface allows you to THINK that you can do stuff, but, like pressing the elevator key multiple times in succession, or, like moving the temperature dial up or down in a classroom, nothing really useful results.

All I can seem to download are files containing “links” to the information I want, except that the links do not really work. Of course, there is a trick where you can select multiple files to download, which then are packaged into a “zip-file” that is downloaded. This is particularly neat for Vista users who may run into trouble with zip-files, but ultimately there is little actual risk since the zip-file that is downloaded contains nothing anyway.

Before signing off, let me grudgingly apologize to the GOOD folks in the IT department who are subjected to the wrath of irate users (and abusers) when the decisions to make such brilliant changes to the system are out of their actual control. They do the best they can with what they have to work with (and in spite of their brilliant leaders who make such brilliant decisions).

Finally, although I hope it is redundant of me, I guess I should explain that when I used the word “brilliant” up above, I was using it in the same way I’d describe the thinking behind installing screen-doors on submarines. THAT kind of “brilliant”.

...and so it begins again...

The first week of classes has zipped by pretty fast for me. Maybe because I felt as though I was only just barely prepared for each class. Time really seems to fly when you feel like you don't have enough time to finish everything you want to finish.

Next week is a short week (Monday being a holiday). HOWEVER, as it turns out, my subjective feelings of short weeks depends on the way they are shortened: When Monday is dropped, the week seems LONGER than a regular week to me. BUT, when Friday is dropped, then it feels like a pretty short week.

I think the reason the Monday-off makes my week longer is because it screws me up. See if you can follow the "logic"...

Tuesday feels like Monday. But I have to keep telling myself, "No, Monday was yesterday, we are a day deeper into the week than you think!"

Wednesday feels like Tuesday, but not as much as Tuesday felt like Monday (I'm catching up, you see). Nonetheless, I still have to tell myself that, "No, Tuesday was yesterday, we are a day deeper into the week than you think!"

By Thursday, it actually feels like Thursday to me. BUT, that part of me that was trying to keep track starts in anyway with, "No, we had Monday off, so you are a day off. Thursday must have been yesterday, we are a day deeper into the week than you think! So it is really Friday"

But then there's STILL Friday waiting after Thursday. So, when I go to work on Friday, it feels like it should be Saturday because of the one-day-off logic. Therefore, I feel like I had to go an extra day which makes me feel like it was an extra-long week, even though it was short.

Don't even get me started on middle-of-the-week days-off! (That can end up feeling like TWO WHOLE WORK-WEEKS of work!)

Work-weeks should ONLY be shortened by taking off Fridays.

Portly Foreverglades

Summer is slipping too quickly through my fingers... So much to do, so little motivation, oh, yeah, and time... that too.

On the bright side, I am planning to go on a cruise in January!

For those who have never tasted the cruise, my advice is to not EVER go on a cruise. I haven’t looked it up yet, but I’m pretty sure that “CRUISE” is Italian (or Greek?) for “OCEAN-COCAINE”. The problem, though, is that I’ll have to fly to get to the port down in Ft. Lauderdale.

I’m really not afraid of flying, really; it’s just that I’m really just afraid of crashing, really.

What’s that? Statistically it is SAFER to fly than to drive the car? Really? Wow. Well, did you know that “statistically” it is safer to be driving (riding) in a car when the engine fails than it is to be flying when the engine fails? Also, since we’re on “statistics”, did you know that “statistically” more people die in hospitals than out of them. So, does that mean it’s “safer” to stay away from hospitals? Hmm, actually... maybe so:

Deaths in the U.S. as a result of preventable adverse medical events (i.e., doctor and nurse mistakes) EXCEED those of motor vehicle accidents AND breast cancer COMBINED? [Kohn, L. T., Corrigan, J. M., & Donaldson, M. S. (2000). To err is human: Building a safer healthcare system. Washington, DC: National Academy Press.]

Ok, that’s what you get for bringing up the “it’s safer to fly than it is to drive” crap.

Since I’m already on the subjects of death, I’ve been looking in the mirror lately and haven’t liked what I’ve been seeing. BUT, guess what I figured out?

Stop ffffffricking looking in the frickingggg mirror!

Since I’ve stopped looking at the (contrary) evidence, I’ve been feeling a lot younger, healthier, slimmer, and handsomer! I prefer it that way. Besides, if God had wanted us to be looking in mirrors, he’d have put eyes in the front of our heads and given people the smarts enough to invent mirrors to hang on walls in the places we live, and... oh... wait...

Ahhhhhh... frickkkkking God!

Change Strange

I stumbled across this website: http://www.snowcrest.net/fox/str.html and MAN did it bring back some memories AND remind me of how different the world has become since I was a tyke! Take a minute and check out the toy. Then come back.

I do not recall ever asking for this toy, it just showed up one christmas morning. My parents knew that I was a science fiction dork and they probably figured I'd like the toy. Chaa! Try LOVE it!

It had SOOOOO much additional potential as a toy. Now, there's NO WAY any kid could get a toy like this today. In fact, other than giving a child a blowtorch in their christmas stocking, no other toy would be as dangerous, either... but hey, I was a responsible (for the most part) child.

Basically (for those of you who decided to just keep reading even THOUGH you were told to take a look at the website above first), the toy was a single-burner electric stove. There was a plastic dome to "protect" youngsters from inadvertent fingerprint meltage. Not to worry, the dome of protection could be popped off without a fuss.

Now frankly, a single burner stove-top in the bedroom SHOULD be toy enough for ANY eight year old (or older) kid. BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE! There was a little crusher machine that, when you put stuff into it, you could... umm, CRUSH it! Just crank the crush-o-matic wheel and SPLOOSH, whatever was in the "danger chamber" (as I like to think of it) was squished!

Now, of course, some things that were DESIGNED to be used with the toy came with it. Little plastic dinosaurs that you were supposed to heat on the "burner" and then throw into the crusher and squish into flat little plastic squares. Later, putting the squares on the burner would allow them to spring back into their dino-shapes. Yeah, that WAS cool. But think of all the OTHER stuff in a little boy's bedroom that DIDN'T come with the toy... but that could still... interact with it!

I'm really tempted to try and recapture my youth by finding one on eBay... [sigh] Why couldn't my "mid-life crisis" be the one where I get the red convertible sports-car and the beautiful young model(s)? Oh... I remember... my wife would be the one to get the Strange Change machine and guess who'd be looking out of the "danger chamber"?

What did I see you eating under there?

There’s a new movie coming out that I fully expect I’ll hate. (Can you guess what it is?) Apparently, I’ve now pretty much aged myself out of the primary target demographic for movies. They mostly all suck. Of course, that’s probably always been true. But, what’s worse is that the number of sucky movies that I’m willing to see is getting smaller. Reminds me of when cable TV showed up. We went from four or five channels to over 100, but worthwhile (to me) programming all but vanished.

To be honest, the movie I’m looking forward to see can suck all it wants as long as the theme song is faithful to the original, except longer (not necessarily in terms of lyrics; maybe just the instrumentals).

FAT CHANCE!

It will probably be some kind of (in honor of the president) “C-grade” rap bastardization. Or, what I like to call, “Crap” for short.

On the bright side, summer has arrived to caress my face and shoulders with her loving touch. Pass the sunscreen!

Unfortunately, in looking into making plans to travel north to help my father pack up his house for a big move, I’ve ended up filling all my summer break with “things to do”. That makes me feel like summer’s almost over already! I can feel Fall Classes breathing down my neck and I still have 64 hours of teaching left to do before then! (Yes, I keep track of how many hours I have left to teach.)

I’m starting to hyperventilate.

So, here’s where I stand:

1) Summer is almost over already.
2) I can’t look forward to (and enjoy) movies anymore.
3) My blog has become a crazy-person’s rant-space.

What to do, what to do. . . Maybe I need a new philosophy? OK, I pick the “Philosophy of niece” which is summed up by her phrase (following a deep sigh): “What-ev.”

Bad Days and Bad Ways

I’m not a big fan of Winter. Maybe the idea was good back when someone thought it up, “This will get people to appreciate Summer!” But, I don’t need it; I already and always appreciate Summer. Winter, to me, is a long five months (November through March). And don’t give me any of that solstice-equinox crap. Winter is when it’s COLD. I’m only allowed 365 days a year, and Winter takes about 150 days of them! So, that leaves me with a mere 215 (at best).

Why am I complaining when Spring is already here? Why complain when I can hear Summer upstairs dressing for breakfast? Because despite my love of Summer, I’m an idiot like the rest of you.

Winter days are strings of “bad days” in my book. Sure, not everything is bad every day, but overall, more bad than good. So, now that my so-called “good days” are coming, I will still be paying a “good day tax” which whittles into my remaining 215 days. The “good day tax” is paid on a random cycle. It is paid with bad days. Bad days can be bold, or worse, they can be sneaky.

Sneaky bad days are really betrayals because I usually cause the misery. They are sneaky because, like straws on the proverbial camel’s back, no single ingredient is enough to justify calling it a bad day. It happens out of accumulated irritating experiences. So you never know you’re having one until it’s too late. Below are just some of the ingredients to my sneaky bad days:

• A hangnail.
  
• Spontaneous public coughing spasms caused by breathing in my spit when I should have been swallowing it. Usually people make it worse by offering me something to drink when this happens.
  
• Driving past the exit I wanted and having to drive another 5 miles just to get to an exit that will let me drive 5 miles back to the one I missed.
  
• Losing my page because my finger slips or I drop the book.
  
• Just finishing getting dressed when I’m nearly late for something only to have the last button on my shirt just pop off.
  
• Blowing my nose but never being able to get the passages completely clear.
  
• When tipping a glass to drink the last bit and the ice at the bottom suddenly collapses (avalanches) down onto my entire face.
  
• Getting halfway through cooking a meal before finding out that an important ingredient (like chicken) I though was in the fridge, isn’t.
  
• Throwing trash at the waste basket only to have it catch an outside edge, or worse, bounce OUT.
  
• When the last tasty bite of a great meal or dessert falls off the fork and onto the floor.
  
• Forgetting to completely rinse off and finding that soapy patch when drying.
  
• Forgetting to completely dry off and getting that cold wet patch of shirt clinging to my back once I’m dressed.
  
• Pulling a hair out (from ANY-damn-where) by accident; caught in watch or eyeglasses.
  
• Being really tired but can’t sleep once in bed.
  
• Bending a fingernail back on itself.
  
• When my hand spasms for no apparent reason while drinking and I splash my own face (and/or shirt).
  
• Getting an eyelash floating around on my eyeball while I’m driving.
  
• Using scissors on some project, but halfway through I can’t find them any more because I somehow just hid them on myself.
  
• Feeling that I have an itch on my shoulder or back or arm... but not being able to find it.
  
• When the soap falls on the tub and it’s so thin that it won’t let me pick it up without squishing my fingernails into its sides.
  
• Sometimes, reaching to adjust my glasses, I accidentally poke myself in the nose (or eye).
  
• When I put something away before I’m done using it.
  
• Missing the light switch more than two times when I’m walking by and I have to actually walk back to the wall to turn it on/off.
  
• Get distracted when I walk into a room and forget the real reason I originally went in there. Then I have to come back again when I remember that I forgot.
  
• Parking on a slight hill so that the door slams into my back or my leg when I’m not looking.
  
• Reach up to my face to adjust my glasses only I’m not wearing them.

I think you get the idea.

Of Guilts and Fears

I have been feeling guilty about my blubber-ness. Guilt is not a very productive response. I find that it makes me hungry. Fortunately, I have discovered the REAL underlying problems. My weight isn’t really MY fault at all! The blame actually belongs (in alphabetical order) to: Asian Grill, Bahama Breeze, Bravos, Cadbury, Damons, Don Pablos, Jackson’s, Johnny Carino’s, Mmm Mmm Pizza, Olive Garden, Outback Steakhouse, Red Lobster, Sapporo, and the Sharp Edge Restaurant. The weight of guilt has FINALLY been shifted from my shoulders (to my gut).

Tomorrow is April Fool’s day. That’s no big deal when it happens on a weekend. However, what is a big deal is that I am going to be presenting awards to two students. This will take place in front of their families. If you haven’t been keeping up with my rapid-pace blog entries, then you don’t know how much I fear public speaking. It’s taken me about a decade to learn how to appear relaxed in front of a classroom full of students. When I see them on campus (or worse… OFF campus), I find myself feeling the way I did in junior high when I’d get tongue-tied if a pretty girl spoke to me (actually I still get this way).

I have been trying to stay awake until I can barely keep my eyes open so that when I hit the pillow, I go right to sleep before my mind can start thinking things like, “Steve… what are you going to say?” Or, “You know, you’ll be talking about these students in front of their FAMILIES… in front of their PARENTS. What will you look like if you stutter or say something IDIOTIC?” (By the way, the chances of my saying something idiotic are actually really high. KNOWING this doesn’t make it any easier to cope.) I am only allowed two minutes per student. So, knowing that I have a 2-minute limit will make me fearful of going over. THAT will make me probably try to rush through whatever I come up with. (T-minus 20 hours to come up with something.)

Last night I slept like a baby. That is, a baby with a tooth ache that’s also being bit by the jealous dog and has a toy under his back and an ear ache. Yeah. I slept like a baby. Maybe if I go find something to eat I’ll feel better.

Phabulously Phlavorful Flegm: The Conspiracy!

I thought I was doing well. I thought I was keeping my fingers out of my mouth, eyes, and nose (at least until after I washed them). I thought I was covering my mouth and holding my breath whenever a student snarkelflarted in my vicinity. Alas, no. Somewhere, somehow, from someone I was phlegmed.

The past week I went from breathing clearly to gurgling and wheezing out of 3/7 of the holes in my head.

If “they” can’t cure the cold, at least someone could come up with a way to make the disgusting parts more tolerable. A simple phlegm-flavoring shot, for example. Wouldn’t it be easy enough to find a way to inject (or swallow) a chemical into our system that would convert snot-flavored phlegm into, say, strawberry-flavored phlegm?

Frankly, I cannot believe that the technology isn’t already available. Somewhere, there’s a government or big-industry person walking around with a cold and periodically swallowing a backflow of booger-drainage that tastes as sweet as fresh picked strawberries; Or cherries; Or chocolate.

Why are they keeping this from the masses? Well THAT’S obvious! It’s for exactly the SAME damn reason that we don’t have “fart scenting patches” to stick on our skin somewhere. That’s right, “fart-scenters” convert the foul poopie flatulence smells we normally make into flower-fresh scents that would drive women crazy! OK, if you’re not the flowery type, how about other pleasant smells like chocolate chip cookie dough? Or pizza? You get the idea.

Yes, that’s two fantastic ideas in one blog entry. “Tasty-phlegms” and “Fart-scenters” should have been placed into widespread use years ago. Why haven’t they?

Consider: Imagine meeting your future in-laws (or fill in a suitable visitation scenario on your own) for the very first time. As you are walking into their house you catch that playful whiff of PIZZA! With delight, your eyes widen and a big saliva smile wraps around the words, “MMmmm, is that PIZZA I smell? I love pizza! If I was to be stranded on an island and could only have one thing to eat there for the rest of my life, pizza it would be!”

Here is where you notice that your future mother-in-law has started to blush and avoid eye-contact. There’s an uncomfortable silence filling air already thick with pizza-smells. It finally dawns on you that “someone” has been using the patch!

For the rest of your life, whenever you go into a pizza joint (or wherever there’s legitimate pizza going on) you’ll think back to how you almost got married and how good your almost-mother-in-law’s farts smelled. In fact, you’ll never be sure again if it’s really pizza that you’re smelling. Perhaps it might even happen that whenever you smell pizza, your lips will curl in disgust as you choke back a dry-heave.

Who’s going to allow THAT to happen to an American dining staple? Would you eat a cookie that smelled like poop? Well how about a chocolate-chip cookie that smelled exactly like a chocolate-chip cookie fart thanks to “Fart-scenters?”

So, the same would be true of “Phlegm-flavors.” Would you open a jar of phlegm and spread it on toast? No? OK, then how about a jar of strawberry jam that tastes like phlegm? No? How about strawberry jam that tasted exactly like strawberry jam that tasted like strawberry flavored phlegm? If you swallowed something that TASTED like strawberries, wouldn’t you wonder, “Hey, did I just swallow someone’s strawberry flavored phlegm instead of strawberry flavored strawberries?”

The food industries would oppose our flavoring and scenting of these nasty, disgusting excretions.

Besides, what would ever taste or smell good to us again if these phabulous products really did hit the shelves one day?

We should all just be thankful that our flegm and pharts have the phlavors and perphumes they have. Be thankful that the government suppresses some technologies for our own good.

Apologies to Eric and Julianne or RTFM

I’ve been doing a crappy job on my blog since November of 2006. What started in my head never made it to the blog. BEFORE my blog was started, I’d imagined all the sorts of amazing rants and profound blurbles I’d be writing about. Then, I found a host for my blog and set it up (as best as I could figure out... it promised me at the time that I could change the look of the page, but it was never clear to me how, so I just used a selectable format – which is fine).

After about ONE entry, I became really resentful with the idea that I’d have to keep up with my writing EVERY damn day. I consider myself to be a super-introvert. By that I mean that I’d prefer to be so by myself that I’m often not alone enough with my own thoughts. (I crowd myself?) So, writing my thoughts was like having to entertain myself as a guest, when I’d really rather just be left alone thank you.

ALSO, when I fantasized about writing a blog, part of that fantasy included the idea that thousands of people would read it and leave commen-ta-toes (as I say in class). I think I only ever got ONE comment from a passer-by who also had a blog. (Someone named “ice” which is a cool name, huh?)

Ahem, well, recently the blog hosting site changed (something) and I had to click on some buttons and enter some passwords (for some reason). As a result, I came across a note that said I had, like, 30-something comments to moderate. Huh? Ohhhh, well apparently all that time I was supposed to click on a link to check for comments left by others every so often. Once I approve them THEN they appear in the blog. The only reason Ice showed up was that Ice was a registered blog person. Everyone else (including stupid web-bot comments like “Hey drspeg, check out this cool site, it reminds me of your blog!” that I deleted) went into the awaiting moderation purgatory.

An old (let’s say WICKED old – yes, boy is HE old, like probably WAY older than ME now since I never aged over the past years) friend of mine [Eric] had left a message and his email address. OK, after a year apparently the people hosting his email realized how old he was and just cancelled his email address because it didn’t work when I finally discovered it and tried to send a message back. PMO.

ALSO, a previous student of mine [Julianne] who I’ve wondered about from time to time because she had apparently forgotten all about how critical to her past, current, and future successes I was; seeing as I was her favorite college teacher EVER, and all. (I don’t think that was very grammatical – especially for a college teacher.) Anyway, she dropped me a message bragging about all of the great things she’s done since she last had dinner at our house and NEGLECTED to put in two things: (1) thanks to me for her successes, and (2) a way to email her back – since I either lost her email, or, she never gave me her most recent email address.

So, here we are. Now I’ve wasted a blog entry on this sweet apology.

Ineligant Design

My reasoning (to reduce guilt) is that locking our kids in the house by themselves when we go out to the movies or to work or... oh, wait.. "kids" means our two dogs and our cat. Ahem, let me begin again.

My reasoning (to reduce guilt) is that locking our PETS in the house alone during our outings only means that they sleep on the blanket down cellar (where it is probably warmest) while we are away, rather than sleeping under foot while we are home. So, really, there's not much difference. They're just going to sleep and bark at noises wherever we are (home or away).

REALLY, my guilt is that we leave the radio on for them while we are gone. Because I think that they would rather hear voices (and music) than static, I've tried to find a station that remains stable while we are away. There have been many times when I've left a nice clear station going only to come home to a now static-laced channel.

As it turns out, the best (most stable) station I've found is a very anti-science station (some people would call it a religious station).

I cringe hearing the non-scientific arguments against evolution and pseudo-scientific arguments for intelligent design. Part of me worries that SOMEHOW the animals understand and that it would be driving them insane like it would me if I had to listen to that drivel all day. But they cannot... right? To them it's just non-sensical human vocalizations (hmm, I mean that literally for THEM - I understand the words, but it's still nonsense to me).

Last night, or I should say, this morning when I wasn't able to sleep (I'm getting the pre-semester jitters), I was mulling over one of the "arguments" in support of intelligent design and it occurred to me that it was such a perfect example of non-scientific reasoning. BUT, if you've read this far and HATE my bias, then you may be thinking at this point something like, "Well science isn't the ONLY way to think about things!" I'd agree. (Although as "flawed" as scientific reasoning might be, what is BETTER? I haven't heard of it yet.)

Rather than argue, I'll make a comparison:

(1) The argument I overheard had to do with the "obvious" complexity of some things (like eyes) and how "random chance" (a straw-man attack against evolution in and of itself) couldn't possibly account for it. Therefore its appearance MUST have been guided by some intelligent force.

(2) When I was a kid, my father once made a wager with me (the details of which I've forgotten). He took out a coin and, in my eagerness to win a simple 50-50 toss, I agreed to his terms whilst the coin spun in the air, "Heads I win, tails you lose!" Guess who won/lost...

Now, I hope you see that (2) isn't really fair. Then how does (1) = (2)? Think about it. If I were to accept the ID argument that complexity supports the idea of an intelligent guiding force, then what about the simple stuff? Can I hold that up and say, "Here's an example of where no intelligence was guiding?" Doubtful. ID arguments MUST hold that BOTH simple AND complex are the result of intelligent design. Otherwise they begin down the slippery slope of finding the dividing line between what makes something "simple" (or truly random) and what makes something "complex" (non-random). Heads they are right, tails everyone else is wrong.

The reason this argument is non-scientific is because it cannot be articulated in a way that would allow it to be potentially falsified. That is, it is untestable because no matter what evidence you hold up, it must still support the ID bias.

Maybe I should spend that can't-sleep time either finding a new radio station (static MIGHT be preferable) or sitting down with the kids and trying to de-program them.