I wonder if the Joslyn would do this . . .

While visiting the lovely folks at my neurology clinic (routine checkup, mom; no problems), I noticed an advertisement across the street. I guess cemeteries have to advertise like everyone else, but it still made me laugh. I wonder if they say "Would you like to save 10% on that burial plot by applying for an Evergreen Cemetery Visa card?"

And the fire department showed up across the street from work again yesterday. I wonder if the genius with the bong set the alarm off again. I bet the firemen are tired of showing up for false alarms. All the built-up adrenaline, rushing inside with prybars and fireaxes, only to casually walk back out two minutes later and chat with someone on the sidewalk about her dog until the inspector says they can leave.

Not that I wish her ill, of course. But she'd be happier with me.

Really.

What is reality?

Certainly something far too complex to sum up in a blog entry, but I was ruminating on it today after rewatching Identity (which I'm going to spoil, in case you haven't seen it) last night and reading an article on string theory in Discover today. These obviously aren't directly related (one is a fictional movie centering around mental illness and the other is a nonfictional accounting of the most current description of our universe), but in both cases they deal with the concept of reality being something other than what you can see. It's a classic case of the "brain in a vat" idea, which considers that, since what we perceive as "reality" is an interpretation of the sensory input directed to our brains, it's entirely possible for that input to be faked or misinterpreted so that what we see as reality is an illusion (The Matrix is the most popular pop culture reference to this).

In Identity (I warned you that I'm going to spoil it . . .), the main characters, portrayed as people stuck at a motel during a heavy rain storm, turn out to be the personalities constructed by a person suffering from dissociative identity disorder. The characters each believe they are real people and have complete histories and distinct personalities and goals, but are in fact constructs. When one of the personalities is informed by a psychiatrist that everything he believes is false and that he has not led the life he remembers, he at first acts with disbelief and then anger, as any of us would if we suddenly woke up in the body of a stranger and were told that everything we've experienced up to this point was a fantasy constructed by the stranger. It raises questions about whether the created personality is "real," whether we, if in that situation, could handle that knowledge and return to the fantasy world and whether our perception of ourselves would change if we knew ourselves to be an illusion. Are we really ourselves, or are we the personalities of a single individual? Are we the avatars in a massive Sims-like video game, interpreting our controllers' commands as our own free will? Are we snippets of code in some advanced computer simulation, programmed by scientists to think of ourselves as sentient and human as part of an experiment? Are we the dream of a slumbering consciousness, waiting to wink out of existence when our host awakens? And if any of these are true, how would we know? And would we want to know?

String theory assumes that what we see is real, of course. But it also postulates that what we don't see is just as real. More particularly, that our knowledge of the universe is so small as to be laughable, that the three spatial dimensions we perceive are only a subset of the 10 that exist, that the majority of our universe is made up of dark matter and dark energy that we can't see, only infer, and that our universe, as grand as it is, is just one of an infinite number floating in an 11-dimensional ocean. It faces a dilemma similar to the brain in a vat: we can infer much of the theory from pure mathematics, but very little of it can be experimentally determined. The scale on which much of string theory works (we're talking billionths the size of atoms) is so small that it's impossible to "see" (if only because we see by bouncing photons off an object) and nearly impossible to detect, and we lack the technology to test the parts of the theories that deal with higher dimensions. Not only that, but we lack the mental facilities to visualize the parts that deal with higher dimensions. We interpret reality through three spatial dimensions; asking us to visualize four spatial dimensions loses everyone but those mentally brilliant or mentally insane, and 10 is simply out of the question. What is clear is that "reality" as most people think of it is radically different from what it is, and we're only seeing a very small piece of it.

These are topics that actually excite me. I spent 40 minutes online tonight, hopping from article to article in Wikipedia exploring concepts of quantum mechanics, starting with the Casimir Effect, then jumping to quantum foam, zero-point energy and wave-particle duality before ending up with quantum entanglement. Who needs breasts when you have the fabric of reality to entertain you? ;)

Labels: quantum mechanics, science

I finally pulled a couple of pictures off of it (just 'cause Cris asked nicely).

I discovered a present next to my car (actually nestled comfortably against a tire as though carefully placed there) when I was leaving one night last week. Is anyone missing a size 4 toddler shoe? Either it fell out of the car next to me or my mom is hinting about grandkids again. ;) I put a notice on the bulletin board, but no one has claimed it yet.

And one from the last time I babysat. That's actually very therapeutic.

Labels: twins

I have a secret. I have an English degree, but I don't know the names for all the mechanics of English usage. (Okay, actually it's not that big of a secret, but it's something that rarely comes up - "How's your pasta? Oh, by the way, I don't know what a split infinitive is.") It only came up today because I spent 10 minutes going through English usage Web sites looking for the actual name for a specific usage error so I could make sure the attorney knew the sentence I marked was actually wrong and not just not to my taste. I eventually found that it was a dangling participle, although it took 6 search strings to find it.

It seems odd that someone with an English degree knows less about English usage terminology than high school English students, but in reality I've never had to learn them. Or rather, I've had to learn them well enough to pass the tests, and then I've forgotten them again because I don't have any use for them. I learned English intuitively, mostly by complete immersion in the written language starting when I was 4. By the time I was required to learn what a "restrictive clause" was, I could already use it properly; I just didn't know what it was called.

This was most clearly illustrated in an English class I took my last semester of my senior year in college. I was 3 English credits short to graduate and the *only* English class being offered that I hadn't taken was one from the teaching program on high school English (outside of my program, but it counted as English credits). It was such a lovely semester (he says with sarcasm). The professor and I were something less than best friends, due mostly to a difference in philosophy: She felt that teaching English was best served by learning and reinforcing the rules (and diagramming! Gah!). I felt that teaching English was best served by immersion and example (through lots and lots of reading), and the earlier the better (I gave her my honest opinion that high school English classes are largely irrelevant in much the way that high school Spanish classes are; the language pathways have already formed and it's extremely difficult to change them). It devolved into a passive-aggressive relationship; she didn't really want me in the class because I was a challenge to her teaching method. I was always polite and quiet, but it was clear that I was learning the material for only as long as it took to pass the tests.

This would often materialize as little dialogues in the class between the two of us while everyone else sat and listened. She would start a textbook problem, then ask me (as the "outside opinion") how I would handle it if I wasn't constrained by the rules of the problem (my usual reply was something to the effect of "I can't think of a real world case where I would encounter this problem; the sentence needs to be rewritten from scratch instead of trying to force this meaning out of it"). You can imagine how well that went over. The incident that turned the class against me occurred when the textbook presented us with a list of ten sentences and instructed us to combine sentences 1 and 2, 3 and 4, etc., to make 5 compound sentences. At the end of the exercise, the professor idly wondered if it was possible to combine all 10 and said she'd have to write the authors of the textbook to ask. When she moved on to the next problem, I, being bored out of my mind, went ahead and combined all 10. Then I made the mistake of handing it to her on my way out of the class (not in a smart ass "look what I can do" way but more of a "I thought you might enjoy this" way). I'll be damned if she didn't transfer it to an overhead and make us *diagram* it the next class period (after making sure everyone knew that I wrote it). Let me tell you, nothing fosters hatred amongst classmates like making them diagram a paragraph-long, compound/complex sentence. It made for a very long semester.

I honestly don't know if the way I learned English is a better way (or even if it would work for everyone; it's possible that my knack for reading gave me an edge that other people don't have or that I just have a skill for intuitively grasping language); I do know that the people who went into my high school English classes with good English skills left with good English skills, and those who came in with poor skills left with poor skills, so I still believe that the traditional method of teaching it is lacking.

And enough with the diagramming.

From the Public Pulse today:

"Atheists Beware - Atheists like Ron Larsen of Plattsmouth, Neb., and Michael Newdow of Sacramento, Calif., do certainly put their eternity eggs in one basket. A little caution might be in order."

-Bob Zabawa, Omaha

I found this comment almost amusing in its irony. Mr. Zabawa, if I'm understanding him correctly, is putting forth the familiar "if you don't believe, you're going to Hell" argument, also known as the "Argument from Intimidation," which is more succinctly put forth in Pascal's Wager. This idea posits that it is in the interest of nonbelievers to believe because if we're wrong, the results for us are, to say the least, really, really bad.

The refutations of this are well-documented, not the least of which are that it's intellectually dishonest to choose to believe in something because of the threat of punishment and that the threat of punishment from something in which you don't believe (relayed through a third party) just isn't very convincing (not to mention any omniscient being worth his/her/its salt should be able to tell when someone is believing "just to be safe"). A more appropriate criticism for Mr. Zabawa, though, is the irony of using the phrase "put[ting] their eternity eggs in one basket," because he's done the exact same thing. Unless he happens to be a polytheist and is worshipping many different religions (something which most religions specifically prohibit), he's making the assumption that his religion is true and trusting that he's not going to end up in some other religion's hell. He's not suggesting I spread my "eternity eggs" around to other baskets (as is the traditional moral of that story), but rather move all of them to the same basket that holds all of his.

I found this video (it's kind of big, sorry, but it's worth it) while watching silly videos on the Internet last night. I actually had to go find coworkers so I could show it to them.

Putting aside the silliness, though, the whole concept of translating kinetic motion directly into music is fascinating. This guy essentially uses a choreographed dance in order to produce an entirely different media. I can see people extending that "cross-discipline" idea, making systems that translate dance into fractal pictures or translating music into light. The possibilities are exciting. We're talking entirely new art forms.

I saw two entertainment articles today dwelling, with uncharacteristic geekiness, on important influences from my past.

First, because you simply can never have too much blue in your day, Paramount is making a 3D Smurfs movie. Now, before you go judging me too harshly for sitting transfixed in front of the television and watching every adventure of those little blue heroes when I was a kid, keep in mind that I *was* a kid. That might not excuse the crimes involved in watching Care Bears and My Little Pony, but the Smurfs certainly fall within the "acceptable" clause. Unfortunately, Lane is going to be 13 before it comes out, so I may have to pay some little kid to go with me so I can pretend I'm not the one who wants to see it.

Fast forward a few years in my childhood and you run into my Highlander addiction. So of course I also noticed today the announcement that the next Highlander movie (at this point simply "Highlander 5") is going forward, with Adrian Paul not only starring but also executive-producing. I regarded this with a sort of wary apprehension, as I imagine many Highlander fans will do, simply because, well, the Highlander movie franchise has had this sado-masochistic love/hate relationship with its fans. A quick recap. The first movie was great (kind of a sleeper hit). The second movie instills the same sort of instinctual revulsion among fans that rotting meat does to "normal" people (it was *that* bad). Most fans prefer to ignore the fact that it even exists. In the meantime, a different team started filming the series, which picks up from the first movie. Despite this, the movie producers made a third movie, which ignored the series entirely, and, although not the nuclear disaster of the second film, was still not good. Then the series ended (after 6 seasons), and their next great idea was to make a fourth movie which ignored the second and third movies and instead went from the first movie, through the series and into the new movie. It, too, was mediocre (it felt more like an extra-long series episode than a full movie). So Highlander fans have not been treated well when it comes to movies. On top of that, the rumors about the next movie that have circulated for a couple of years posit its name as "Highlander: The Source" and imply that we discover where the Immortals come from, something that has been an inviolate mystery since the first movie (and that will royally piss off legions of fans - kind of like the slap to the face that was midichlorians). There's also the concern that Christopher Lambert, the star of the first three movies, is already signed up for it. Now, don't get me wrong, I think the guy is great (he started it all, after all), but unfortunately, as great as he may be, he hasn't aged well (which creates something of a credibility problem when you're trying to portray a character who doesn't age). I wasn't the only person who thought that the producers should have hired Thomas Jane to play that part in the last movie (a virtual clone of Christopher Lambert as he looked 20 years ago during the first movie, unlike the way he looked in the last one). I guess we'll just wait and see if the bittersweet fan treatment continues.

Gather 'round the warm, electronic glow of the monitor, boys and girls, because someone has only had 2 hours of sleep and has just finished 2 hours of "Scrubs" episodes, thus completing the frightening-yet-entertaining (not unlike Johnny Depp or that feeling you get when your arm goes numb from sleeping on it) transformation into "Sarcastic Chatty Guy." Feel privileged that you're not witnessing this rare-but-well-documented psychosis in person, and remember to tip your server (what's an extra buck, ya' cheapskates).

Let's see, what's up first? New Stargate season premieres. If you don't care, skip ahead. (If you don't care and you're still reading this paragraph, you're just not very good at following instructions now, are you?) SG-1 . . . sucked. That's a pretty good summation. Half of the main cast from the previous 7 seasons shared a combined total of 6 minutes of screen time, but not to fear, in their stead we've managed to snag the main two characters from a well-reviewed but defunct scifi franchise and we'll just count on people liking both shows well enough that they'll accept the complete lack of chemistry between the respective casts because they're busy shouting "Oh my god! They're all together in *one show*!" This episode was largely pointless. Atlantis was better, but we'll see how the "reshuffle" of characters plays out. The episode summaries I've seen have not looked promising.

Moving on. I spent about 2 hours at work today; the last half hour was spent rewriting a single sentence in a speech 4 times (each rewrite greeted with "Oooo, that's much better" and then a round of questions from the attorney) before said attorney decided he liked the way he wrote it first best and thanked me for my time. I find it more of an amusing tale to tell around the campfires I share with my coworkers than any sort of annoyance because that's what they pay me to do, after all. Yay for anecdotes that are funnier for people who have gone through the same scenario, repeatedly. I know, I know, it's hard to convey such raw entertainment with the limited medium known collectively as "language."

Being up six hours earlier than normal confronts one with an unusual block of time, which might best be served doing things "constructive" (whatever that is). Instead, I took a walk down the main street of Benson (which for those unfamiliar with the orange-cone-riddled geography of Omaha is a town that was annexed and consumed, like some plump kiwi, by Omaha in the distant past but has remarkably maintained a sense of identity out of some stubborn pride; it also happens to be 6 blocks from my house, and the fact that I had to drive through it to find a gas station that had Coca-Cola Icees likely played some small part in my detour). I visited "Grampy's Curious Goods," which is heavy on the "curious" and light on the "goods." A man in blue coveralls I can only assume was "Grampy" regarded me with a "why are you here?" look as I entered the otherwise-vacant store, and he maintained his position directly in front of the door as he split his time between watching me and watching a baseball game on a small 80s-era tv set. I left empty-handed; although the NASCAR collection was impressive, and I now know where to go for all my 8-track-player and glass-fishbowl-that-goes-over-the-lightbulbs-in-the-ceiling needs, I spent the last 10 minutes wandering around hoping the guy would need to use the bathroom or something so I could leave without having to come up with some "Well, you've got some interesting stuff here but nothing I really need today" line when I asked him to move aside so I could leave.

Across the street was a used-book store that was doing almost as brisk a business as Grampy's. The store's entire population during my visit consisted of me and two employees that I can only assume were the married owners; they fought like a couple, anyway. The guy laid on a couch with his shoes off and passionately argued in broken English and scattered Russian phrases with the woman (who was admittedly quite patient) over whether U.S. or Russian history books are more accurate (from what little I overheard, I think the man's perspective was that all Russian history books are 100% accurate; I'm not sure if she was only half-listening or whether she'd long-ago broken down into a routine of patting his head like she would a child telling stories about the ghost he'd just seen in the attic). I walked the rest of the street more out of boredom than direction but everything else was closed (and I was so looking forward to visiting the exercise equipment store; darn).

Jennifer and I dared venture to the Old Market later in the afternoon (I'd make some cynical joke about it being busy that ends with "on a Saturday evening? No way!" but that's just simply too easy). There was swaggering and over- and under-dressment of various sorts (but no violinists, dammit) and a near-miss with a guy who apparently thought it was okay to go the wrong way for an entire block on a one-way street as long as you were doing it in reverse. And a juggler. But still no violinists (dammit). I did stop to borrow a pen from Jennifer so I could scribble down a license plate on a gas receipt; it was the first time I'd actually seen a Bible verse printed on a plate and I was curious enough to look it up (I'm actually *more* curious to know how many *other* people jot it down and look it up later - it seems an ineffective mode of communication, but then again I was considering "CTHULHU" for a plate, so maybe it's known to the target crowd). The referenced verse was Jeremiah 29:11 ("For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."), which is inspiring (if you're into that sort of thing). A nifty counter-plate would be Jeremiah 29:32 (just a few paragraphs down - "This is what the LORD says: I will surely punish Shemaiah the Nehelamite and his descendants because he has preached rebellion against me."), 'cause nothing says "divine justice" like punishing children for the sins of their ancestors. (At this point I've pissed off about half my audience, but I'm hoping they at least stick around for the punch and cake before burning me in effigy.)

We wandered down to the river to catch the tail-end of the blues festival (which I didn't even know was playing, although I had *some* inkling that something was going on after we passed a shirtless-and-less-than-sober guy who was trying, and failing, to dispose of a beer can while yelling "Rock and roll!" at the top of his voice). I didn't know a single song they played, but it was still interesting (made moreso by the comic utterings of the lead singer of the last band, who spoke in a sort of stream-of-consciousness between songs about his attraction to "long-legged, high-butted midwestern women" and his girlfriend's attraction to his "cookie dough"; define that euphemism with your own explanation of choice).

Then there were the "Scrubs" episodes. And half a pint of Edy's "Chocolate Truffle Explosion." And some laundry. And the realization that turning the filter from my air conditioner over after it's removed dumps all the dust on my bed. I think somewhere in there I was visited by a green Muppet, but whether it was Kermit or Yoda I can't say yet.

That concludes this episode of "Jay has not had enough sleep and thinks he's funnier than he really is." We hope you'll return for the next installment, "Jay learns that if you turn your refrigerator down too low, the eggs will freeze solid." Thank you and good night.

P.S. - I actually saw a catcall today. Either our society has progressed to the point where such barbaric displays are rare and ostracized, or I just don't get out enough, but I hadn't seen one in forever. And we're not talking a whistle. This guy actually got back *out* of his pickup as he was getting ready to leave the gas station in order to, well, I'm not sure "proposition" would be the right word, but it was certainly a neighbor a few houses up. Very charming. I think the woman's response included a two-word phrase that could, technically, be construed as an acceptance of said proposition, although I'm assuming she was using the more common vernacular that roughly translates as "Please, sir, would you refrain from such vulgar commentary on my anatomy and withdraw from the premises."

My brother dislocated his shoulder on Sunday while kneeboarding of all things (which I guess cut a camping trip slightly short). They had to put him under to relocate it and he's in a sling for the next two weeks. Worst of all: he pays his own medical insurance. Ouch.

I'd make fun of him for it but he doesn't read my Web log, so I sent him a card instead (note to self: buy some more "What the hell were you thinking?" get well soon cards).

. . . he said sarcastically.

It's been awhile since I've witnessed an actual incidence of open racism (the musings of certain members of my family notwithstanding). But now I can officially set the counter back to zero. While seated in the semi-comfortable chair at the salon to which I retire when my hair needs cutting, I heard one of the stylists call out a name, wait, repeat it, then shrug and go on to the next name. This in and of itself would not be notable, except that of the four stylists working, three were Caucasian women and one was an African-American man (who has cut my hair twice); guess which one called out the name (go ahead, I'll pause to wait). Twenty seconds after the stylist and his new client retired to one of the chairs, a Caucasian woman in her late thirties or early forties approached the counter and whispered to the stylist cutting my hair. What passed between them was heard only by the three of us, but it went something like this:

Woman (in a conspiratorial whisper): That was my name he just called.
Stylist: Oh, no problem. We'll just put you up next- . . .
Woman (interrupting and gesturing with her head at the man): Okay, but I don't want him to cut my hair.
Stylist: Um, okay, well, I guess I can take you next, then.
Woman: Great.

I guess the thing that most made me roll my eyes was the emphasis on "him." I'm just not acquainted (beyond movie exposure) to such obvious disdain for a person for such superficial reasons, so it catches me off guard. And makes me kind of sad.

Lane and I spent part of the day Monday at the zoo. Watching the cheetahs. Avoiding Komodo dragons. Feeding the koi. Contemplating life. Much fun was had.

Later I babysat while the rest of the family ventured out to light fireworks. Turns out Kyle likes me. Even if she has hiccups. And even if I put her down to go check on her sister. Alec, on the other hand, doesn't like me. She has some sort of sixth sense that says "Let's start wailing 10 seconds after Lisa leaves." This was about as happy as I could make her.

They're cute when they're together, though.

Labels: twins

I should talk my brother into making me some of these. 'Cause of, you know, werewolves, and, things. Yeah.