Google just released a new index, and the BAB is entry number 10. That's right. I'm at the bottom of the first page.
As Cartman once said, "Who wants to touch me?"
Take a little of whatever you want. Try not to sneeze into the chick peas.
I don't like to travel. I know that makes me a deviant: "Travel" is supposed to be preceded by "Favorite hobbies" or "I simply love to" or something like that. I think the problem is that I'm simply not very good at it.
I blame it on my poor sense of direction. I'm the kind of person who, after going to a meeting in an unfamiliar part of campus, will come out of the room and not know if the elevators are to the left or right. I have to make a mental note that the gas station is on the left side of the road so that I'll remember to turn right when I come back out. I've walked from the Park Street T stop to Government Center like 6 times, but I couldn't do it right now if I were being chased by wolves. It's really pathetic.
I can't blame my genes or my parenting. My dad loves nothing more than pull out an atlas and start hypothesizing about how one would get from point A to B. My sister, Emily, can get off the New York subway at a completely unfamiliar location and, by smelling the wind or something, immediately set off in the right direction. I tried to get to Yankee Stadium from Manhattan and ended up in Brooklyn. Or the Bronx. One of those. See? I can't even remember.
The upshot is that, for me, every act of transportation is like travelling for the average person. I get that little thrill of venturing into the unknown when I have to find the Financial Aid office. I feel like I've survived a tough journey if I manage to take the T to Chinatown and back. And every time I go anywhere in East Cambridge, I feel like it's the first time I've ever been there.
My directional dysfunction also screws up my sense of how far things are. I mean, If it takes an hour for me to find the RMV in Roslindale and it takes me an hour to fly from Boston to DC, then those trips are roughly equivalent in my mind. I sit down, put on a seat belt, get up an hour later, and I'm there. For all I know, they could be the same distance from my house.
So it's a double edged sword that I'm in the middle of a travelling marathon. Last weekend, Montreal. This weekend, New York. Next weekend, Baltimore. Then, after a week off, I'm going to Reno, then another week off, then LA. Most people would revel in the idea of seeing so much of our country in a short time span. Me, I'm excited to see the airport.
This article, about a potential "terrorism futures market," once again proves that satire is dead. Even the Onion couldn't make up something so bizarre. The prospect of betting on terrorist acts seems to be the ultimate combination of greed and malice.
And yet ... I have to admit that, as a scientist, I'm intrigued. Let's ignore the ethical issues for just one second. My understanding is that the futures market works as an information gathering tool. If those who plan to perform terrible acts tell someone about their plans, they are creating information that, in the right hands, could foil that plan and prevent the terrible act. Those who have this information are potential informants. The futures tool, then, provides these potential informants with an incentive and mechanism for sharing their information and creating the warning. It seems like a stretch, but this system, in conjunction with other systems, could help save lives.
Of course, this explanation sounds sketchy. Would real terrorist informants bet on this market, even if they knew the information was being used by the U.S. Government? Would the aggregate betting information actually be of any use? Wouldn't the noise swamp the system? But these are technical questions: will the tool work? They're different from ethical questions: should we use this tool? I'm troubled when these things are mixed up, as Sen. Byron Dorgan (D-ND) seems to have, calling it "useless, offensive, and 'unbelievably stupid.'" While it may be offensive, that doesn't mean it's useless or stupid.
But is it offensive? Is this any worse than paying criminal informants for tips about ongoing crime? The prospect of uninvolved parties betting on terrorist acts adds a macabre twist, but it still sort of boils down to a money-for-information trade, doesn't it? And while it seems offensive, I'm sure organ transplants seemed gross and offensive at some point. But they save lives, and if this can do the same, shouldn't we swallow our offense?
Update: The New York Times makes the same mistake. They dismiss the technology out of hand as "insensitive" and "ridiculous" and make some blanket claims about "futures don't always work." Has anyone actually read the research?
Last Update: This NYT article says exactly what I'm saying, but with more evidence and an "of course, it's probably a bad idea" front. Even if it's a bad idea, the point remains: experimental ideas, even if distasteful, are sometimes necessary. I'm finished with this post now (Thursday, July 31).
They were showing movies at the Undisclosed Location, and I saw "Pirates of the Carribean." It was super -- Depp's Jack Sparrow was a Val-Kilmer-in-Tombstone kind of accomplishment.. But the skeleton pirate crew was a little scary.
Now, I should admit right here that I'm a total wuss. A complete jessie. Nancy boy. The skeleton pirates in this movie weren't that scary visually, but they were a really scary concept. Which is what bugs me. So, in an effort to counteract my irrational fear of things like skeleton pirates, I've compiled a list of real scary things and fake scary things. I've also put them in order of scariness. Feel free to add your own ...
1. Immortal Crew of Skeleton Pirates, Pirates of the Carribean (Not Real). Basically, you can't stop them, they'll hack and stab until you're dead, and they appear to be really dirty and smelly.
2. Prostate Cancer, Your Perineal Area (Real). Similar to the pirates, but in disease form. One in seven guys gets it, and the treatment causes your dick to go limp. A close call with the pirates, but I don't think you can get cancer when all your flesh is eaten away.
3. The Terminator, The Terminator (Not Real). Again, like the pirates, but in robot form. I don't believe that he smells as bad, but he get points off for 1, not technically being indestructible, and 2, being a robot, which simply doesn't scare me.
4. The Scream Guy, Scream movies (Not Real). Something about that guy's mask is really scary. Also, he stabbed some dude through a restroom stall.
5. Ray Lewis, Baltimore Ravens (Real). Also has a scary face. Probably stabbed someone. Slightly below Mr. Scream due to a separated shoulder, which will impede his stabbing ability.
6. Mike Tyson, Boxing Lunatic (Real). The punching was pretty scary, but the punchy-bitey combo is even scarier. If he had a knife, he would probably jump past Lewis and Mr. Scream.
7. The Rip Tide in Cancun, Mexico (Real). I went there when I was a little kid, and I would have been pulled out to sea were it not for my dad saving me with some strong swimming. It comes in at number seven because I would probably prefer to float out to sea if Tyson, Lewis, Scream, Prostate Cancer or the Skeleton Pirates were waiting on the beach.
8. Joe Pesci, Casino (Not Real). Remember the part where he kills that guy with a pen? Scary. But I'm not sure he could out-stab Lewis, and I think Tyson could knock him out. He's far too squat to have any chance against the Tide. Also loses points for probably being too slow to catch me if I ran.
9. Matt with a Pitchfork Wrapped in Barbed Wire, InspirationStrikes (Not Yet Real). "Because you can swing it or stab with it. Plus, if someone tries to grab it, their hands get all chopped up." I remain unconvinced that he could take Tyson or Lewis, and I don't think he could use it to fight the Rip Tide. Flip a coin in a fight between him and Pesci. Anyone else, he's got my vote.
10. This Guy Who Broke In to the Frat House One Night Right Outside My Door, But Left Before Doing Anything, Boston (Veracity Unconfirmed). I was too busy shitting the bed to get up and find out if he was real. He gets tenth place out of speculation, but I think he should probably be higher.
Honorable Mentions: The girl from The Ring, getting my sleeve caught in the lathe, my 18.03 final, heights.
Just finished a first draft of my PhD thesis proposal.
I'll be the first to admit that it's not great writing -- I save that for the blog, baby -- but it's okay. I made sure that every third paragraph contained a point, and when those points are transformed slightly and linked together, they form an idea. Or maybe they form Voltron. I can't totally remember.
Anyway, its best feature is that it's done. This means that the department chair will stop sending me letters in the mail like
Dear Bryan,
Our records indicate you should have your thesis proposal done by now. If you believe this to be in error, don't hesitate to contact one of my several horribly mean secretaries to beg for an appointment that you would never in a million years ever get me to attend. You are also welcome to send me email that I won't even think about reading, let alone replying to.
You also need to complete the final qualifying exam. The process for scheduling and completing this exam are written on a piece of paper I ate several years ago, so you should guess how to go about it (proving that this process in NP-complete is part of the exam). This should be completed by the end of your next term. If you cannot complete this, or any other requirement, the first runner up will be awarded your tiara.
Also, shorts make your ass look dumpy.
Very Truly Yours,
Dr. Horrendous
Department Chair
which should make life a little less depressing. Despite my dumpy ass.
And with that, I'm off to an Undisclosed Location. I'll tell Dick that you all said hi.
WARNING: for the non-sporting among you, this is a post entirely about football. It's mainly for me, so I won't be the least bit offended if you skip it.
I was reading the sports pages this morning when I was knocked over by a wave of nostalgia. The problem was that I wasn't looking. Who expects the last paragraph of a training camp summary to pack such a punch?
But it did. I'm reading the last section of the daily training camp summary for the Cleveland Browns, and I was suddenly 10 years old again. I absolutely loved football. Not playing, as I was scrawny and slow and, ok, kind of a nancy-boy. But I loved watching the Cleveland Browns. We got a newspaper called "Browns News Illustrated," which I would first read cover-to-cover, and then take out the "centerfold" picture (a player) (fully clothed) a tape it up on my closet door. I remember watching a game with my 70-something year old grandmother ... who was every bit as interested and invested as I was. I remember having a Browns sweatshirt which I would wear on Monday if they won that Sunday, and not wear if they didn't. I remember taping the team schedule to the side of the entertainment center, and carefully writing the result and score (W, 20-17) after each game. I remember sitting on the left, in the back seat, pulling into the garage when we all heard the firing of Marty Schottenheimer on the radio after the '88 season.
And the endless string of players. I remember Mike Junkin, who was perpetually poised for a "breakout year" and perpetually disappointed. I remember reading an interview with the immortal SS Thane Gash in which he was quoted, "I like my name. I mean, how many guys do you know named 'Thane'?" I remember going to training camp and getting wristbands from the immortal DT Sam Clancy. I remember getting an autograph -- AN AUTOGRAPH! -- from the immortal WR J. J. Birden, who was cut only weeks later. I remember asking my parents if the immortal NT Bob Golic could pick up the truly immortal QB Bernie Kosar (I'm still waiting for an answer). I remember going to a Browns-Eagles game which would feature 4 sacks by the immortal DE Ray Buchannan, who would go on to have 2 more sacks over the rest of his timeless career. I remember the year the truly immortal Bernie Kosar went down in the first game, due to a dirty tackle by forgettable LB Mark Gastineau, and we were treated to a parade of strange, new, immortal, quarterbacks: Gary Danielson (out the very next week), Mike Paegel (out a few weeks later), and Don Strock (had to tape the plays to his arm).
In many ways, the 10 year old boy lives on. I was right back there this past Christmas when the Browns, through an improbable string of events, made the playoffs. Just like '87, '89, and '92, it was going to be myself, Mom, and Dad watching a big game all together. The game was a roller-coaster, with the Browns taking a late lead. "Don't get excited, they'll break your heart," dad said. I chided him for his negativity. Of course, the Browns choked, let the hated Steelers score the final touchdown, and, indeed, my heart was broken. I still have much to learn.
All this is has caused me to realize that the Browns, for better or wose, are a part of my culture. I valued them growing up by watching my parents. I gradually took on the rituals as my own. I experienced several rites of passage, and I now consider myself a full owner of the beliefs and sacraments. And you can bet your ass that little Bryan Jr. is going to root for the orange helmets as well. I can just see myself telling him, as the Browns take a late lead in the 2017 playoffs, "Don't get excited, son ..."
From: Boss
To: Bryan
Subject: Surprise
Bryan, I know that we haven't met in three months and haven't had a group meeting since May, but I suspect you were planning a trip to Montreal this weekend. So I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to ruin everything by announcing, 3 days ahead of time, that we're having a group meeting on Friday. Afternoon. Not over until 4:30p so that you'd have to drive through the heart of rush hour to see your girlfriend.
Ha ha ha ha,
--Your boss
From: A friend
To: Bryan, 2 other friends
Subject: Thanks
Fellows, Thanks for taking on this really big favor for me. Attached is a spreadsheet that enlarges the size of the favor by a factor of three.
Ha ha ha ha,
--Friend
From: Microsoft
To: Everyone, everywhere
Subject: Oops
Everyone: Sorry about this, but we've left yet another security hole which you must fix immediately. This scare will be so big, in fact, that it's going to cause your local college I/T department to start cracking down on "renegade" operating systems like Windows 98. This will cause you to have to spend a few days updating software on machines that were working just fine to start with. The irony, of course, is that these updates will only make you more vulnerable to attack, as everyone tries to hack XP boxes these days.
Ha ha ha ha,
--Bill Gates
Remember that bunker that we hit right at the very start of the Iraqi war? On the first day? We thought we might have killed Saddam with our very first attack?
We didn't kill him because he wasn't there. In fact, there wasn't even a bunker there. There "may have been leaders in the area." Really. Read all about it here.
Just thought you should know.
I read this story, linked from Lessig's Blog, about John Gilmore's "battle" with British Airways.
In a nutshell, Gilmore wore a button that said, "Suspected Terrorist" (as a political statement) on a BA flight. A flight attendant noticed the button during taxi and alerted the captain. The captain stopped the plane, came to the cabin, and said that he didn't feel comfortable flying the plane with someone wearing that button. Gilmore refused to take it off, and so they took him back to the airport.
I'm a liberal, but even I can't get behind this kind of stunt. I generally support Gilmore and the EFF (heck, I had an internship in the EFF building once), but this kind of behavior is misguided and ugly.
At its heart, this is a classic case of someone who's completely out of touch with normal people. Gilmore is a minor celebrity among his little community, but he forgot that, on the plane, he's just some guy wearing a button that says, "Suspected Terrorist." Sure, I recognize that Gilmore is trying to make a political statement by using an incendiary phrase on a button. And you can argue all day long about the context of the phrase and how it cleverly exposes government hypocrisy by making itself true simply by wearing it. I get the joke. Very clever.
But the pilot didn't get it. Maybe he doesn't read newspapers. Maybe he's not a member of the ACLU. Maybe he's more concerned about the idea that his airplane could be turned into a weapon. Maybe he was having a skittery day and simply didn't want to take off with some weirdo wearing a button that says "Suspected Terrorist." I don't know, and it doesn't really matter. He saw someone wearing a strange and vaguely threatening button, and he didn't feel comfortable. And he shouldn't have to feel uncomfortable flying his plane just because he didn't get the joke.
And as I read the comments by the lemmings that read Lessig's blog, I got angry. They all thoughtlessly defended Gilmore and put down anyone who disagreed. Like one anonymous commenter, who wrote the following:
To the confused people who think, wrongly, that Gilmore was claiming to be a terrorist:
His button said "suspected terrorist." Note that first word. He's claiming, accurately, that other people *suspect* him, *incorrectly*, of being a terrorist.
It's intellectual snobbery, and it's disappointing. Just because you're smart doesn't mean you're always right.
Saturday was one of the most amazing trips to a baseball game I've ever experienced. And it had nothing to do with baseball.
I should admit up front that I saw the Sox play the Jays in the bleachers at Fenway with 40 high school girls. My officemate, Jessica, is a tutor for an MIT summer camp that teaches math and computers to high school girls. They were taking a trip to see a Sox game, and Jessica invited me along.
Now, for those who don't know, the bleachers at Fenway are downright Hobbesian. If you're in the right mood (read: drunk), they can be quite entertaining, but a normal human being finds the behavior shocking. A typical bleacher fan drinks 8-10 beers ($5 apiece), tosses a few profane and perhaps homophobic epithets onto the field, and gets tossed out when he takes off his shirt and starts inciting the crowd by shaking his fat, hairy, disgusting belly at them. This particular Saturday was exceptional on the drunken belligerance front because, on this day, the bleachers were also host to a bachelor party. Like a mosquito bite on a poison ivy rash, this was a bad situation amplified.
And I saw trouble barrelling down the highway when three Yankee fans took up residence right behind the bachelor party. You have to understand two things here. First, you simply don't wear a Yankees jersey into Fenway. It's like slapping Wyatt Earp in the face. It's like dating your buddy's ex. It's like climbing into the ring with Mike Tyson. You should just expect an ass-kicking. Second, fights are not only common in the bleachers, I've never been to a game in the bleachers and not seen one.
Nevertheless, I thought we were going to make it when we got to the middle of the eighth inning and Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" began to play on the PA. This always soothes the savage beast (I'm convinced that's why they play it), and the Yankee fans and the bachelor party-goers took a break form questioning each others' sexual preferences to sing along. But the game went into extra innings (thanks Nomar, Manny), and, sure enough, a fight broke out.
Then the amazing thing happened: the high school girls actually saved the day. One of them had brought her "help whistle" -- you know, like a typical referee's whistle, to be used in case of an emergency. As she saw the fight break out, got worried and, bless her sheltered little heart, blew the whistle as loud as she could.
Two things happened. First, the predominantly male crowd, including the fighters, did what you're supposed to do at a sporting event when a whistle blows: they stopped. Second, everyone, again including the fighters, died laughing at the fact that a 5'3" asian girl with a whistle and a scared-shitless look on her face had stopped a Yankees-Red Sox brawl. Even the cop who had come up the aisle to toss the fighters laughed. Everyone then sat back down and watched the end of the game.
Simply amazing. I've never seen anything like it before. I now intend to carry a whistle with me everywhere I go.
This column made me really sad. Whatever happened to all that talk about "supporting the troops"?
From tour of duty to deplorable deployment
7:00a: Awoke. Realized I was not at home. Sat bolt upright. Remembered that I'm housesitting. Lay bolt flat. Return to sleep.
7:12a: Awoke. Cat standing with back left foot directly on groin.
7:14a: Finish swearing. Return to sleep.
7:18a: Relent and give cat food so he will stop walking on my groin and meowing.
9:38a: Get up. Make bowl of cereal. Sit down in front of computer. Fire up IE. Commence scratching.
10:17a: Finish with Internet, scratching. Hear loud vehicles pass down below. Thought begins to rattle around brain.
10:20a: Begin brushing teeth. Thought continues to rattle around, Douglas-Adams-style.
10:21a: Thought finally connects to proper information. Friday. Loud vehicles. Street cleaning. My car. Towing. Fuck.
10:22a: Standing in street, in underwear and sandals, where car was parked previous night.
10:24a: Finish swearing. Return to house.
10:25a-11:49a: Locate police station, claim car, pay outrageous $100 towing fee, get lost on the way back home.
11:51a: Begin looking for place to complain about towing fee. Cat jumps on chair, steps on groin.
11:52a: Consider giving up on day entirely.
After watching ESPN's intersting Pete Rose On Trial ...
I'm convinced that lying is a big part of doing AI research.
I'm up to my neck in AI papers (and trying to write one myself), and I'm utterly conscious of the lies that are so common as to be completely unremarkable. I'll give you an example:
"System X models the diffusion of neurological chemicals across the brain" ... (several sections later) ... "The diffusion is modeled by an instantaneous gaussian that decays linearly over time."
Without getting too technical, I can tell you that this assertion is akin to saying, "I have a model of the pyramids" and then producing a blob of play-doh that's been pressed into the shape of a tetrahedron. The first statement is so expansive that it's borderline fiction. You see this all the time. A paper starts with, "A system for turning used tissues into gold has long been a dream of man ..." and then goes on to describe a backboard for your wastebasket that lets you play basketball with your used snotrags.
And, in fact, I've been advised to do this myself. I tried to present my system in a talk by saying, "I read a great deal of neurology and neuroanatomy papers, but ultimately, I created this system by guessing at some abstractions that might work." No. I say that, and I get, "You need to work on how you introduce your research." I'm supposed to make up some story about how I discovered some neurology detail that, when added to my system, will cause it to come to life and start cracking wise with Steve Guttenberg.
I realize that marketing yourself and your ideas is an important part of every field. But there are lines between marketing and false advertising, and, frankly, the whole field of AI has turned into a giant Bowflex commercial. As scientists, we need to dispense with the greased-up hardbodies and do a better job of telling the truth. Everyone needs to make clear what's new and what's recycled, what worked and what didn't, and what our sysems can and can't do.
Of course, if you're an AI researcher visiting this site, I actually did have my robot tell me a joke the other day ...
Everyone always says, oooh, MIT, you must be so smart (or, in Boston, "smaht"), and I chuckle. In some ways, yes. In many ways, no.
We recently had a "lab merger" -- the MIT Laboratory for Computer Science (LCS) merged with the MIT Artificial Intelligence Laboratory (AI Lab). Most of this merger happened out of the view of little peon smart-asses like myself, with one notable exception. The new name.
First, there was an on-line billboard. Anyone -- students, staff, faculty -- could propose a name. The whole thing was supposed to have a "contest" feel to keep it light and happy. And I thought a few good names came out, like "The Googleheim." But, like so many other well-intentioned on-line forums, it quickly turned into the World Series of Pissing Contests.
It started when someone displayed a startling flash of innovation and suggested calling it the LCSAI ("licks-eye") lab. Then, someone (probably from AI) suggested we call it the AILCS ("ay-uhlks") lab. Then, someone (probably from LCS) suggested just calling the whole new lab LCS, since "AI is just a subfield of computer science." Several AI lab members then responded with creative and profane names that pointed out that AI does research and LCS does product development. And, before you could whip your slide rule out of its holster and start waving it in someone's face, the website was shut down.
Next, there was a decree. Someone high up (and I won't say who) proclaimed that the name would be "The New Lab" and further proclaimed that we would wait for a sponsor to come along and donate a bunch of money in return for the naming rights. That was, as another high-up anonymous source said to me, "the dumbest goddamn idea I have ever heard." There was nothing short of a faculty mutiny, and the idea that we might be called the "William H. Gates Lab for Computers" was, thankfully, discarded.
Finally, there was a faculty-only retreat. At the retreat, it was declared that everyone was going to hate the new name, so let's pick one that we all hate the least. In a close election, the new chosen name was "MIT Computer Science and Artificial Intelligence Laboratory" (CSAIL, or "see-sail"). And so csail.mit.edu blinked into existence. And that's what we're going to be called, and anyone who doesn't like it is welcome to go f^%$ themselves.
Epilogue: The new name was formally announced at a party with a cake, and on the cake was the big new lab name in all caps: CSAIL. And the new director, my thesis advisor, Rod, was in charge of the ceremonial first cut of the cake. So, with a great deal of pomp and circumstance, he drew a knife right down the middle of the dessert ... splitting the cake right between the CS and the AI of CSAIL.
It wasn't until I actually heard it that I remembered. It's funny how you can forget something really great, and when you remember it, it's like finding a stray $20 in the pocket of your other pants. That happened to me last night.
"Batting fifth and playing right field ... GARY SHEFFIELD!"
That's me. For a brief moment, I was Gary Sheffield.
The year was 1999. The All-Star Game was here in Boston, at historic Fenway Park. My connection was a girl named "BU Kim," (not BK Kim). I think she was named that because she went to BU and her name was Kim. Anyway, she knew someone who knew someone who was in charge of the prep day at Fenway.
Prep day is where all the technical folks, cameramen, sound guys, announcers, etc., get their collective act together. They make sure that, when the announcer says, "Batting fifth ..." that his mic is turned on, it's being broadcast to the stadium, the camera is pointed at the dugout, and so on. Of course, the players are way too important to actually participate in this exercise, so they need stand-ins. Someone to announce and point the camera at and so forth.
That turned out to be me. We showed up at Fenway one morning (work? what work?) and were led into the ballpark, through some tunnels, and out onto the field. The field! The grass at Fenway! It was as beautiful and perfect as you could imagine. Really. It's like they sewed each blade into the earth by hand. I'll never forget the nugget passed along to us from the ancient head groundskeeper: "Stay off the goddamned grass." So we ran around the warning track like 12-year-olds.
After a brief period of throwing myself up against the green monster, I was collected and brought into the actual visitor's dugout. The coordinator guy looked at us, dog-show style. He sized us up. Scratched his chin.
"You." He pointed at me. "You've got the right size and demeanor. You've got a glow about you. You're the one. You are the next Gary Sheffield."
Ok, ok ok. That's not actually how it happened.
"Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnine -- You guys are the starting lineup. Sit on the bench and run out when the announcer calls you." We all scrambled to get closer to the top. I was there! I was ready! As the first four guys were called, I contemplated what I was about to do. I was about to live out the ultimate American dream. I was going to run out of the dugout as a starter on the All-Star team. I barely had time to digest what was happening when my time had come.
"Batting fifth ..." I got up and took the dugout steps one at a time. Head down. Concentrating on my performance in the game. Gotta protect the honor of the NL. "... And playing right field ..." I looked up with a grim look on my face. The weight of celebrity hung heavy on my shoulders. I've been a clubhouse problem for many teams, probably because I had a screwed up childhood or something. But I'm a natural. Fast hands. A strong arm. A five-tool player. I belong here. " ... GARY! SHEF! FIEEEEEEEEELD!"
I trotted from the top dugout step to the third base line as a half-hearted cheer rose from the pretend apathetic AL crowd. I waved appreciatively, but stayed serious as I tried to remain focused on the task at hand. I took my place in line, shook hands with a tremendously-slimmed-down Mark McGuire (who was hitting fourth), and gave the crowd one more strained smile.
And that's pretty much it. Sure it was short, and sure, it didn't really count for anything, and sure, reading this over, I sound like a complete lame-o. But it was really, really cool. Gary, if you're reading this, I'm available for more stand-in work if you need it.
I just want to say thanks to the New York Times Op-Ed page for making my last post look like a bunch of crap. Ok, I guess I care a little.
(Note: I did get one paragraph of vindication, from Nicholas Kristof:
Actually, I have to agree with Ms. Rice that the focus on that single sentence in the State of the Union address is a bit obsessive. It was only 16 words, attributed in a weaselly way that made it almost accurate, and as any journalist knows well, mistakes do get into print.)
I feel like I'm being duped. But not by Bush, for once. By someone, or something, bigger.
By now, you must have heard. Bush said, in the State of the Union, that Iraq tried to buy uranium from Africa. The intelligence source for that statement later said that he never said that, and, in fact, he's sure that the correct facts (that the Niger purchase was a complete falsehood) made it to "the appropriate officials within our government."
Predictably, the Bush administration is calling this a "bunch of bull", and telling us that we should all just "move on." Of course, when Clinton was in office, these same Republicans literally made a federal case out of whether it was misleading to say you "never had sex" with a woman who'd given you a hummer.
Look. The concept of little white lies, even from the POTUS, is not national news. Clinton wanted to cover up his affair to avoid being embarassed. So he said he didn't have sex with Lewinsky but didn't admit he'd gotten a blow job. Bush wanted to pump up the Iraqi threat to build support for a questionable war. So he, or someone in his administration, used a piece of intelligence that sounded good but was probably bullplop. Both of these things are unfortunate, but they're also human, understandable, and, in the grand scheme of things, excusable.
So Clinton told a half truth about his sex life. People lie about their sex lives every day, and the idea the the President would do so shouldn't shock anyone. So Bush told a half-truth to try to sell the war. Politicians spin borderline-fiction every day to sell their political agendas, and the idea that it happened with this war is entirely believable. When you get right down to it, the actual actions behind each of these scandals are reasonable. Phony bologna happens. Even when you're big and important.
What bothers me is the ridiculous level of energy spent trying to uncover these inconsequential lies. It's clear from the volume and position of the news stories that I should care very deeply about these issues. I need to have a strong opinion; saying "I don't care" doesn't seem to fit with the level of news coverage. Why the incongruity? I'm worried that it's because focusing on these minor issues allows you to easily point fingers and make bold statements.
A LIE WAS TOLD! HE'S DISHONEST! Suddenly we've elevated relatively trivial items to breaking-news status because we need to have these simple right-wrong morality plays. We appreciate a news story we can think about without needing any kind of background. We feel like we can hold an opinion without having to worry that someone will bring up an opposing fact that might change our minds. HE LIED! HE'S A LIAR. We can say "tut-tut" and shake our heads sadly at the Sad State of American Politics.
Meanwhile, complex issues that don't have a Villian get pushed down down down on the web page. How's it going in Iraq now? What's the state of corporate responsibility legislation? How have either of the Bush tax cuts affected the economy?
The answers are much more important about who knew what about which blow job or uranium purchase when. But try finding a story about them without using Google's news search. It's difficult, and that level of difficulty is a form of manipulation. I'm being duped, and I don't like it.
I ...
A bright, according to Dan Dennett, is someone who professes no belief in anything supernatural.
I would count myself as a bright, with the important caveat that I more firmly believe in the limited understanding of humans. I find absolute certainty about God's existence, yay or nay, to be wrongheaded and foolish. The only thing I'm certain of is my inability to be certain about anything. So I'm probably in some weak, namby-pamby, Presbyterian denomination of the new bright church. I'm a Lite-bright.
But I do firmly agree with Dennett's assertions about the marginalization of brights in the public forum. I cringe when I hear "May God continue to Bless America," and pretty much everything about Ashcroft makes me cry. I also think Dennett makes an important point about recognizing civic virtue over spiritual virtue -- my personal experience has led me to believe in a very low correlation between a profession of deep spiritual belief and a life that truly reflects the content of those beliefs.
Here's the problem, though. Of the many wonderful ideas in the Christian faith, tolerance (specifically, religious tolerance) is nowhere to be found. It's a Live and Let Die faith. Jesus said, "Go and make disciples of all nations" (Matt 28:19), because it's clear from the dogma that those who don't believe are going to hell. There are plenty of gray areas in Christianity, but this simply isn't one of them. When Jesus said "I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man comes to the father except through me" (John 14:6), he didn't leave a whole lot of room for spin.
Which creates a dilemma for the American Christian. To accept my (non-) beliefs as a bright (or Jew, or Hindu, or whatever), a Christian must also accept my eternal damnation. And that's simply not acceptable; both in the school-marm sense, you can't go around allowing people to go to hell, and in the dogmatic sense, Jesus told you to make others into believers. A request like Dennett's puts the Christian in an awkward position. The government (to say nothing of the current cultural climate) requires you to say, "Yes, it's ok for you to believe whatever you want to believe," when your faith says the exact opposite.
How do Christian politicians do it? How can you "respect church and state" when that institution is responsible for spiritual destruction? On some level, you can almost understand idiots like Bush and Santorum: what's the point of government if you can't save people from hell? Should we follow the Constitution or the Bible?
Life becomes difficult when you're so damn sure about everything, doesn't it? Rick, George: have you considered the virtues of Lite-brights?
Went for a long run accompanied by only the radio last night, and I suddenly realized that the universe was playing, for my benefit, a mix of the worst music ever recorded. Synchronized on like five different stations, too! All for me!
So, without further ado, I present a list of the top 5 bands I had to listen to while running yesterday that completely and irredeemably suck.
5. Boston. I hate to rip the homeboys, but they are terrible. You know that song they do? With the rawr-rawr guitars and the screechy yokel vocals? That one song? It sucks. And, surprise, it's all their songs.
4. Creed. This band makes me want to cry. With arms wide open.
3. Audioslave. Let's put aside the fact that this is, maybe, the worst band name ever. To me, listening to Audioslave is like watching someone do a puppet show with rabbit corpses. At first, it's kind of strange and you think, "Maybe they're trying to make some important point." Then you realize it's just some sick joke, and a little part inside of you dies. That's Audioslave. Tom Morello -- I will never forgive you for this, you cheap, ugly, sell-out ... let's move on.
2. Bon Jovi. He wrote that "Shot to the heart! ... " song and has basically re-written it a hundred times over. He was a recurring character on Ally McBeal, which would surely appear in a list of TV Shows that Suck. He only stays out of the top spot on the basis of two mitigating factors: one, his "Everyday" song was in Madden 2003, and so is dear to my heart. Two, he wrote the following lyrics, which demonstrate that he must have some idea how bad he is.
Now I can't sing a love song
Like the way it's meant to be
Well, I guess I'm not that good anymore
But baby, that's just me
1. Smashmouth. I don't believe that I need to explain anything here. I'll just say this: I will always believe that they wrote that "Hey now, you're an all star" song just to weasel themselves into playing at the 1999 All-Star game.
Every time you open a lad mag, you can read column-inch after column-inch about the greatness of boxer-brief underwear. It looks good! It feels comfortable! It's the perfect undergarment.
Here at BAB, we tested these claims out ourselves, and the results are negative. Let's review the two claims, in order.
1.) It looks good. Gene Siskle once said, "Two things are non-negotiable: what's funny and what's sexy." So while YOU may thing boxer-briefs look good, I must report that I do not. Oh, they look better than regular briefs -- no question. No one wants to see that high-theigh area around the package, and BB's have the courtesy to cover that up. However. Little cuffs around the legs? They're like 7th grade jeans that have been pegged, but waaaaay shorter. I don't know what the right underwear look is, but that ain't it.
2.) It's comfortable. Big N-O here. In fact, this is a distant-third finish, and I'll tell you why: bunching. Briefs are ugly and feel weird, but at least they don't bunch. Ever had a pair of boxers undergo a personality crisis and start thinking that they're a thong? I've had to put down a few perfectly good pairs in my time due to this incurable malady. Boxer-briefs all have it to a greater or lesser degree. It's the leg-cuffs again! They aren't tight enough to stay down, but they hold just tight enough to prevent them from falling back down if they do get bunched. GAAAAH!
I realize this post is going downhill fast, but to be honest I have to blame the underwear that's riding upjesuschrist i hate these stupidfauxshorts ...
This is guaranteed to suck 30 minutes out of your day.
My high score was 722.
Networking is the way to get jobs, right? Know someone who knows someone? Friend of a friend? Isn't that how this works?
I don't know, but I better figure it out. I got email from a Fraternity Guy (FG) saying that he has a friend who's looking for a job at MIT. I've never met this Friend-Of-a-Friend (FOF), but he writes to me, asking if he can get his "foot in the door" with this job at an entirely different part of MIT.
Now, I do know Someone in the Department (SD) where he wants to work, but it's not a close contact. I see him at weekly meetings of a committee, but it's not like I know if he has kids, or where his office is, or really anything about him. And he is in the same boat with me.
So here's the thing. I know FC pretty well -- we probably communicate once a month or so about fraternity stuff. But we don't have the kind of relationship where I could vouch for his friends. I have no idea what kind of company he keeps.
And this is my concern: I don't really know FOF from Adam. For all I know, he's an underwear-sniffing pinko. Am I expected to recommend FOF to SD for a job I know nothing about? What if I recommend him and he starts smelling everyone's drawers and handing out leaflets? Should FOF get a "leg up" based on the fact that he has a friend who knows me and I happen to serve on a committee with some guy? Shouldn't FOF just go through the regular channels at this point?
But I dunno -- maybe this IS how networking works. If someone with better professional sense wants to give me the what's-up here, I'm all ears.
So, I check my sitemeter, just to see how a lengthy layoff affects the traffic totals. And my visits and views are higher than ever. Because about 2/3rd of the traffic to my site is people searching for Bryan Adams. Which is, you know, flattering and all. I hope you've found what you're looking for.
I do want to pass along a few notes to individual searchers.
I've been away from the blog because Sonia, my special little lady, came down from Montreal to visit. And, in her honor, I offer you the following Cosmo-style quiz:
Relationship Beach Quiz (for men)
1. You've planned a trip to the beach, but your girlfriend must first renew her license at the RMV. Because your sense of direction is slightly worse than that of shale, you turn a 15-minute car ride into a 40 minute ordeal requiring the consultation of a map in a city where you have lived for eight years. Does your girlfriend
a. Roll her eyes and sigh loudly
b. Exclaim, "You have the directional sense of shale!"
c. Stare out the window hoping to find a more capable boyfriend on the street
d. Help you wrestle with the map and proclaim the streets of your city hopelessly confusing
2. You finally arrive at the RMV which YOU selected on the basis of it being the "fastest." When you arrive, your girlfriend is subjected to rude RMV employees, a lengthy wait, and the explanation that her license can't be renewed because "the system is down." Does your girlfriend react by
a. Making sarcastic remarks and displaying a sullen attitude
b. Throwing a fit
c. Pointing out that the system would have been up if we hadn't gotten lost
d. Flashing a wink and a smile and convincing the little RMV boy that he should issue her a license anyway over the protests of his supervisor
3. You arrive at the beach and strip down to your bathing suits. You are roughly the same color as an 8.5x11 sheet of paper, only with more hair on your back. Your girlfriend
a. Tries to avoid looking directly at your body for fear of being blinded
b. Yells "CHEWBACCAAAAA! WHAT A WOOKIEEEEEEE!"
c. Starts scoping out a more promising companion
d. Lies to you about how great you look while making you the instant envy of everyone else on the beach by turning a $20 Marshall's bathing suit into a page out of Sports Illustrated
4. Needing some heavy objects to hold down the blanket on the beach, you choose the container of strawberries that your girlfriend has been waiting all day to eat. Unsurprisingly, sand blows into the container and all over the strawberries. Does she
a. Hold her head and wonder aloud at how you could be so stupid
b. Suggest that you only used the strawberries because your genitals wouldn't have been heavy enough
c. Start searching the beach for another guy with some edible fruit
d. Smile and say, "I wanted to eat the peaches anyway"
5. You're holding a styrofoam cooler in a stiff wind when, because of your fumbling, the lid blows off and starts tumbling down the beach. Your girlfriend
a. Looks at it helplessly
b. Says, "Way to go, dipshit. Now go get it."
c. Begins to weep softly
d. Scampers after it, going so far as to wade into the 50-degree water to get it back
6. When she returns the lid to you, you drop it. Again. And it blows all the way back into the 50-degree water. Again. She now
a. Smacks you right in your stupid mouth
b. Says, "If you think I'm chasing that thing again, you're nucking futs."
c. Weeps loudly, openly
d. Scampers after it again, and returns it to you without so much as a stern look
7. On the drive back, you pass gas in the air-conditioned car. Your eyes water from the smell. She
a. Throws herself from the moving car in disgust
b. Openly questions your worthiness of the title "man"
c. Starts looking for something sharp to jab into her veins
d. Politely makes no comment
8. After returning home on a day that could best be described as "unmitigated disaster," does she
a. Declare the end of your relationship and hitchhike to Canada
b. Say, "It's not me. It's you. You completely suck."
c. Collapse into a ball on the floor and wail, Kerrigan-style, "WHYYYY?"
d. Hug, kiss, and say, "I had the best day with you."
For every question you answered d., give yourself one point. For all the others, give yourself squat.
0-3: I think we've dated
4-7: Not bad, I can't blame you
8: You are the best girlfriend ever
I'm typing this, and I sincerely hope it says the right thing, because it's too small for me to see.
Why so small, you ask? I'll tell you. I got a brand new laptop, the Dell Inspiron 8500, and the resolution on my WUXGA+ monitor makes the words extremely wee. It also does other things, like compute at 2.4GHz, and remember 512MB of things without looking at the disk, and so forth. But right now, I'm focused (ha ha) on the 1920x1200 resolution that I can get on my letterboxed monitor.
Oh sure, I could turn up the DPI. Or drop the res. But I prefer to lean into my giant new monitor and squint. Why? Because I can. Also, I think it makes me look like Clint Eastwood. "Monitor, you've got a rendezvous with my ass." Oh yeah. That's the stuff.
But can I make one complaint about Windows? I'm using XP for the first time, and I'll be the first to admit, it's "cool," if your definition of cool requires every computer action to be animated and accompanied by a "schick!" sound.
But here's a "feature" which I desire desperately: the ability to move the applications in the task bar around without quitting them. Specifically, I like my Eudora to always be all the way on the left, next to the quick-launch toolbar. But if Eudra crashes and I have to restart, I also have to restart alllll my other windows to get it back to its preferred left-hand slot. I'd like to just be able to drag the Eudora task bar thingy all the way to the left.
That aside, this new computer completely rocks my face. I honestly have to ask myself one question: Do I feel lucky? Indeed I do.