There's a good article in the New Yorker about the complexities of solving global warming. Turns out it's not just a matter of switching to CFL bulbs or joining the food co-op...
The New Yorker and the New York Times both have pieces on a new book by Dan Ariely, called Predictably Irrational. I've only read the articles and not the actual book, but it sounds like he's done some really interesting work on behavioral economics and our inability to choose what's best for us. Check it out if you're interested.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Counting the Colors till Friday
I've been reading Oliver Sacks' Musicophilia lately and, while I still intend to write about it when I finally finish it, his chapter on synesthesia stopped me in my tracks.
To a composer named Michael Torke, each musical key has it's own discrete, unique color. D Major is blue. G Minor is ochre or gamboge, whatever that means. (Apparently it's yellow.) D Minor is flint or graphite. F Minor is an earthy, ashy color.
Another unnamed musician actually experiences tastes corresponding to musical intervals.
Now, I've thought that we can never really know what is going on inside another person's head at least since I was sitting in John Searle's Philosophy of Mind lectures back at Berkeley. And the reason I say I can't know what's in anyone else's head is the simple fact that I have no direct access to their brain states. You can tell me what you are thinking/feeling, and I can compare that to my own experiences, but that's it. It's understanding through analogy.
Without direct access, though, I can never know for certain that another mind actually exists. This is where we get to the wonderful idea of a philosophical zombie. (That's right. You probably thought we philosophers just sat around, staring at our hands and trying to define happiness. Nope. We have zombies.) Rather than eating brains and walking funny, though, a p-zombie acts exactly like a normal person, except there is no corresponding brain state behind their actions. Hit your p-zombie boyfriend with your car and he will say 'ouch.' Show a p-zombie the new study proving Derek Jeter is a terrible shortstop, and he'll seem outraged. (Our p-zombie is a Yankee fan. Let's call him Vinnie.) But there is no consciousness underlying either reaction. And, as an outside observer, I would be unable to tell the difference between Vinnie the p-zombie and a normal human being (although the Yankees thing might give it away).
I spent a lot of time in college defending this position. It's tough to convince people you're having a conversation with that you are under no obligation to concede the ontological status of their very consciousness. I admit it's philosophically ugly, and that it seems like the sort of thing you'd only come up with after a few too many bong loads. But now you're going to tell me that E Flat has a color? That a tritone tastes like disgust? (How great is it that something can taste like disgust? I say very.) With such phenomenal differences in our perception of the supposedly material world (I think we can all agree that this is great. Rawr.), how can I possibly pretend to know what any one else is thinking? For that matter, how can I know that anyone else actually is thinking?
I'm not saying other minds don't exist. (Although some people do.) In fact, I'd prefer it if the people around me are not p-zombies or figments of my imagination. I think it's an ultimately unanswerable question, though, whether or not there are other minds out there. I'll never have direct access to another person's consciousness, so I'll never be able to say for sure that such a consciousness exists. But I suppose I should act as if it does, just in case.
BRRRAAAAAAIIIINNNSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!
To a composer named Michael Torke, each musical key has it's own discrete, unique color. D Major is blue. G Minor is ochre or gamboge, whatever that means. (Apparently it's yellow.) D Minor is flint or graphite. F Minor is an earthy, ashy color.
Another unnamed musician actually experiences tastes corresponding to musical intervals.
- Minor second = sour
- Major second = bitter
- Minor third = salty
- Major third = sweet
- Fourth = mown grass
- Tritone = disgust
- Fifth = pure water
- Minor sixth = cream
- Major sixth = low-fat cream
- Minor seventh = bitter
- Major seventh = sour
- Octave = no taste
Now, I've thought that we can never really know what is going on inside another person's head at least since I was sitting in John Searle's Philosophy of Mind lectures back at Berkeley. And the reason I say I can't know what's in anyone else's head is the simple fact that I have no direct access to their brain states. You can tell me what you are thinking/feeling, and I can compare that to my own experiences, but that's it. It's understanding through analogy.
Without direct access, though, I can never know for certain that another mind actually exists. This is where we get to the wonderful idea of a philosophical zombie. (That's right. You probably thought we philosophers just sat around, staring at our hands and trying to define happiness. Nope. We have zombies.) Rather than eating brains and walking funny, though, a p-zombie acts exactly like a normal person, except there is no corresponding brain state behind their actions. Hit your p-zombie boyfriend with your car and he will say 'ouch.' Show a p-zombie the new study proving Derek Jeter is a terrible shortstop, and he'll seem outraged. (Our p-zombie is a Yankee fan. Let's call him Vinnie.) But there is no consciousness underlying either reaction. And, as an outside observer, I would be unable to tell the difference between Vinnie the p-zombie and a normal human being (although the Yankees thing might give it away).
I spent a lot of time in college defending this position. It's tough to convince people you're having a conversation with that you are under no obligation to concede the ontological status of their very consciousness. I admit it's philosophically ugly, and that it seems like the sort of thing you'd only come up with after a few too many bong loads. But now you're going to tell me that E Flat has a color? That a tritone tastes like disgust? (How great is it that something can taste like disgust? I say very.) With such phenomenal differences in our perception of the supposedly material world (I think we can all agree that this is great. Rawr.), how can I possibly pretend to know what any one else is thinking? For that matter, how can I know that anyone else actually is thinking?
I'm not saying other minds don't exist. (Although some people do.) In fact, I'd prefer it if the people around me are not p-zombies or figments of my imagination. I think it's an ultimately unanswerable question, though, whether or not there are other minds out there. I'll never have direct access to another person's consciousness, so I'll never be able to say for sure that such a consciousness exists. But I suppose I should act as if it does, just in case.
BRRRAAAAAAIIIINNNSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!
Just a Little off the Top 02/25/2008
I'm going to try and start adding a link dump feature around here on a fairly regular basis, so y'all can see what I'm looking at. It's a pretty lame month for sports, though, so for now I just want to point you to a piece on firejoemorgan.com:
Man I can't wait for my copy of Baseball Prospectus to arrive...
That's all for now. Real post coming soon, promise.
I Just Made A Man Invent The Derogatory Term "VORPies."
Man I can't wait for my copy of Baseball Prospectus to arrive...
That's all for now. Real post coming soon, promise.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Some Overdue Love for the Golden Bears
I've harped on Cal's men's basketball team a few times (5-7 in the Pac-10, 14-9 overall, with a losing record against ranked teams), so I'd like to take a second to give some much deserved love:
The women's team is #9 in the country, at 13-1 in conference and 22-3 overall.
I'll be honest: I never went to a women's basketball game while I was at Berkeley. I'm not even sure they played Haas Pavilion. But they'd better now.
Well done, ladies. This is bear territory.
The women's team is #9 in the country, at 13-1 in conference and 22-3 overall.
I'll be honest: I never went to a women's basketball game while I was at Berkeley. I'm not even sure they played Haas Pavilion. But they'd better now.
Well done, ladies. This is bear territory.
One Quick Thing about College Basketball
The Memphis Tigers are currently #1 in both the coaches' and AP polls, 10-0 in conference and 24-0 overall.
They will not reach the Final Four. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if they don't even reach the Elite Eight. When you're filling out your bracket, Memphis has to be the first number 1 seed you eliminate.
What sort of crazy, Bill Jamesean statistical analysis did I use to reach this conclusion? You might want to sit down. You might even want to take notes. It's that complicated:
The Memphis Tigers can not shoot free throws.
And I don't mean they're just mediocre; they're terrible. I wouldn't bet 5 dollars on them making any given one.
The team is shooting 58.4% from the charity stripe. Fifty eight. The number one free throw shooting team, the mighty Gauchos of UC Santa Barbara, are shooting 78.4%. There are a few schools tied for 100th in free throw shooting - powerhouses like Coppin State, Akron and a few others. Memphis' 58.4% is good for 338th place in Division 1 basketball. That is not a typo.
I'm not going to harp on this. I don't even follow much college basketball until the tournament starts in March. But my god. Don't say you haven't been warned. The Memphis Tigers are going to shoot themselves right out of the Final Four. The 1976 Hoosiers can rest easy, and join with the '72 Dolphins in their feelings of superiorty to us defeated mortals.
They will not reach the Final Four. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if they don't even reach the Elite Eight. When you're filling out your bracket, Memphis has to be the first number 1 seed you eliminate.
What sort of crazy, Bill Jamesean statistical analysis did I use to reach this conclusion? You might want to sit down. You might even want to take notes. It's that complicated:
The Memphis Tigers can not shoot free throws.
And I don't mean they're just mediocre; they're terrible. I wouldn't bet 5 dollars on them making any given one.
The team is shooting 58.4% from the charity stripe. Fifty eight. The number one free throw shooting team, the mighty Gauchos of UC Santa Barbara, are shooting 78.4%. There are a few schools tied for 100th in free throw shooting - powerhouses like Coppin State, Akron and a few others. Memphis' 58.4% is good for 338th place in Division 1 basketball. That is not a typo.
I'm not going to harp on this. I don't even follow much college basketball until the tournament starts in March. But my god. Don't say you haven't been warned. The Memphis Tigers are going to shoot themselves right out of the Final Four. The 1976 Hoosiers can rest easy, and join with the '72 Dolphins in their feelings of superiorty to us defeated mortals.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Cormac McCarthy: Mash Up Artist
Fair warning: There are some spoilers here, but all the books have been out for a while, so deal.
One night, Cormac McCarthy was sitting in his dorm room at the University of Great American Novelists, working his way through a bottle of whisky. He stared at the computer screen, swore at the endlessly blinking cursor. Smoke from a mostly forgotten cigarette curled up past his face, and he waved it idly away.
This is ridiculous, he thought. Or maybe he muttered it. The pressure was definitely starting to get to him.
I wrote All the Pretty Horses. No Country for Old Men. I won the National Book Award! But he couldn't get any words on to the page, and hadn't in weeks. The whisky was beginning to take hold.
What I should do, he muttered or thought, is redo On the Road as if it were written by Ernest Hemingway. A new perspective. Toughen that beatnik drivel up. People will appreciate how originally I've combined two previously existing, seemingly unrelated things.
The pages flew by as McCarthy's whisky-wobbled fingers struck at the keys with a newfound sense of purpose. Carefree cross country jaunts in search of kicks in post war America became a perilous journey in a post Apocalyptic future to horrible to even contemplate, let alone survive.
The characters were easy to transition. Sal Paradise, Kerouac's stand-in/narrator, knows the only people he's interested in are The mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a common place thing, but burn burn burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars. The only person who matters for this new, unnamed narrator is his son, God's own firedrake, tending to the fire whose sparks rushed upward and died in the starless dark. Not all dying words are true and this blessing is no less real for being shorn of its ground. And we have no time for Roman candles, no sir. No time for metaphor, either.
Rather than discussing the limits of human potential and the wonders of existence on a mad-dash car ride along the eastern seaboard, repeatedly curse the futility and wretchedness of a world where the sky is full of ash and civilization has disintegrated. Think of the hopeless, stoic perseverance of The Old Man and the Sea, only if the ocean were poison and all the fish were dead.
And in the end, instead of having the protagonists simply drift apart and outgrow one another with the passage of time, let's kill off the narrator and leave the child to fend for himself amongst a band of unknown survivors who may or may not be carrying the fire themselves (Damnit, one metaphor slipped through. But that's the only one.). Robert Jordan (For Whom the Bell Tolls) would be proud.
And you know what, Cormac? So would the kids on collegehumor.com. Congratulations - you've successfully juxtaposed two completely different things, like this Bear Grylls mash-up, Man vs. Girls Gone Wild. (Note: You probably shouldn't watch this at work. Or if you have an IQ over 80.) I can't wait to see Veggietales characters dialouge spliced into the No Country trailer.
*****************
In all seriousness, The Road is a great book, and just incredibly written. McCarthy paints an intimate portrait of a father-son relationship, and describes about as beautiful an ash-strewn apocalyptic wasteland as could ever exist.
I preferred No Country for Old Men, mainly because I was more able to relate to the characters in it. I may still be stuck in the concrete jungle Bob Marley sings about, but the thing hasn't burnt down yet. I'm not contending with deranged, cannibalistic mobs (although some days on the subway it can feel like it). So there you go.
I'd recommend either book, though, and you can't go wrong either way. And if I ever find my way back to the library, I might just start in on the Border Trilogy as well...Not that I don't have enough to read already.
Enjoy.
One night, Cormac McCarthy was sitting in his dorm room at the University of Great American Novelists, working his way through a bottle of whisky. He stared at the computer screen, swore at the endlessly blinking cursor. Smoke from a mostly forgotten cigarette curled up past his face, and he waved it idly away.
This is ridiculous, he thought. Or maybe he muttered it. The pressure was definitely starting to get to him.
I wrote All the Pretty Horses. No Country for Old Men. I won the National Book Award! But he couldn't get any words on to the page, and hadn't in weeks. The whisky was beginning to take hold.
What I should do, he muttered or thought, is redo On the Road as if it were written by Ernest Hemingway. A new perspective. Toughen that beatnik drivel up. People will appreciate how originally I've combined two previously existing, seemingly unrelated things.
The pages flew by as McCarthy's whisky-wobbled fingers struck at the keys with a newfound sense of purpose. Carefree cross country jaunts in search of kicks in post war America became a perilous journey in a post Apocalyptic future to horrible to even contemplate, let alone survive.
The characters were easy to transition. Sal Paradise, Kerouac's stand-in/narrator, knows the only people he's interested in are The mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a common place thing, but burn burn burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars. The only person who matters for this new, unnamed narrator is his son, God's own firedrake, tending to the fire whose sparks rushed upward and died in the starless dark. Not all dying words are true and this blessing is no less real for being shorn of its ground. And we have no time for Roman candles, no sir. No time for metaphor, either.
Rather than discussing the limits of human potential and the wonders of existence on a mad-dash car ride along the eastern seaboard, repeatedly curse the futility and wretchedness of a world where the sky is full of ash and civilization has disintegrated. Think of the hopeless, stoic perseverance of The Old Man and the Sea, only if the ocean were poison and all the fish were dead.
And in the end, instead of having the protagonists simply drift apart and outgrow one another with the passage of time, let's kill off the narrator and leave the child to fend for himself amongst a band of unknown survivors who may or may not be carrying the fire themselves (Damnit, one metaphor slipped through. But that's the only one.). Robert Jordan (For Whom the Bell Tolls) would be proud.
And you know what, Cormac? So would the kids on collegehumor.com. Congratulations - you've successfully juxtaposed two completely different things, like this Bear Grylls mash-up, Man vs. Girls Gone Wild. (Note: You probably shouldn't watch this at work. Or if you have an IQ over 80.) I can't wait to see Veggietales characters dialouge spliced into the No Country trailer.
*****************
In all seriousness, The Road is a great book, and just incredibly written. McCarthy paints an intimate portrait of a father-son relationship, and describes about as beautiful an ash-strewn apocalyptic wasteland as could ever exist.
I preferred No Country for Old Men, mainly because I was more able to relate to the characters in it. I may still be stuck in the concrete jungle Bob Marley sings about, but the thing hasn't burnt down yet. I'm not contending with deranged, cannibalistic mobs (although some days on the subway it can feel like it). So there you go.
I'd recommend either book, though, and you can't go wrong either way. And if I ever find my way back to the library, I might just start in on the Border Trilogy as well...Not that I don't have enough to read already.
Enjoy.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Kevin Hart: Evil Genius?
As a (sometimes) proud Cal alum, I haven't decided yet how to feel about the whole Kevin Hart signing day fiasco. Those of you unfamiliar with the saga can find links to all the deadspin posts on the wonderful Mr. Ufford's With Leather. For fans of the Worldwide Leader, Gene Wojciechowski has a pretty thorough article as well.
Honestly, my first reaction was frustration with the Cal program. The team just finished an epic, embarrassing collapse of a season that makes the 2007 Mets look like strong finishers. A 5-0 start followed by a single win in 7 games when the wheels came suddenly, horribly off against Oregon State. A win in the Bell Helicopter Armed Services Bowl against an Air Force team that doesn't even run the triple option anymore. I don't know if it's as bad as the Tom Holmoe years, but it's close.
Cal has enjoyed a strong running game over the past few years, with players like Justin Forsett and the incredibly gangter Marshawn Lynch running rampant out of the backfield. So when a 6'4, 305 pound 2-star recruit, holds a press conference in his hometown and proudly declares his intention to enroll at Berkeley, instead of Pac-10 rival Oregon, why, oh why would Coach Jeff Teford turn down the opportunity to secure a strong addition to the offensive line?
Well, it turns out he's not very good. I guess two stars (out of 5) at rivals.com doesn't mean nearly as much as two stars (out of 3) from Michelin. This also happens to be when the story gets interesting. When it came out that Cal (and, for that matter, anyone) had no interest whatsoever him, Hart initially claimed to have fallen victim to a shady recruiter named Kevin Riley.
Now, I know there are 300 million people in this country, but surely a recruiter just happening to have that name is at least a little coincidental. Cal football fans will remember Kevin Riley virtually single-handedly ruining the Golden Bear's shot at a number 1 ranking in the aforementioned Oregon State game. Remember, the very same day that LSU lost in triple OT to Kentucky? Yeah, so do I. Anyway, that was when alarm bells started clanging in my head.
It turned out in the end that Hart made everything up, getting caught in an elaborate story that went back weeks, if not months. And you can understand his desire to play D-1 football. Heck, I thought of myself as a pretty decent hockey player at one point. But what exactly did he think was going to happen? Sure, if he was a 4 star prospect, Tedford might have said 'Hey, we didn't think we had a shot at this kid, but if he wants to come here so bad, let's try to work something out.' After all, Cal's recruiting class didn't exactly set the world on fire. No top 150 recruits, and only 2 teams in the conference ranked worse. Then again, if the kid was a 4 star recruit, Cal probably would have recruited him.
It's going to be a long offseason, Bear fans. And I haven't even started on the basketball team yet (A lousy 5-5 in conference so far)...
Honestly, my first reaction was frustration with the Cal program. The team just finished an epic, embarrassing collapse of a season that makes the 2007 Mets look like strong finishers. A 5-0 start followed by a single win in 7 games when the wheels came suddenly, horribly off against Oregon State. A win in the Bell Helicopter Armed Services Bowl against an Air Force team that doesn't even run the triple option anymore. I don't know if it's as bad as the Tom Holmoe years, but it's close.
Cal has enjoyed a strong running game over the past few years, with players like Justin Forsett and the incredibly gangter Marshawn Lynch running rampant out of the backfield. So when a 6'4, 305 pound 2-star recruit, holds a press conference in his hometown and proudly declares his intention to enroll at Berkeley, instead of Pac-10 rival Oregon, why, oh why would Coach Jeff Teford turn down the opportunity to secure a strong addition to the offensive line?
Well, it turns out he's not very good. I guess two stars (out of 5) at rivals.com doesn't mean nearly as much as two stars (out of 3) from Michelin. This also happens to be when the story gets interesting. When it came out that Cal (and, for that matter, anyone) had no interest whatsoever him, Hart initially claimed to have fallen victim to a shady recruiter named Kevin Riley.
Now, I know there are 300 million people in this country, but surely a recruiter just happening to have that name is at least a little coincidental. Cal football fans will remember Kevin Riley virtually single-handedly ruining the Golden Bear's shot at a number 1 ranking in the aforementioned Oregon State game. Remember, the very same day that LSU lost in triple OT to Kentucky? Yeah, so do I. Anyway, that was when alarm bells started clanging in my head.
It turned out in the end that Hart made everything up, getting caught in an elaborate story that went back weeks, if not months. And you can understand his desire to play D-1 football. Heck, I thought of myself as a pretty decent hockey player at one point. But what exactly did he think was going to happen? Sure, if he was a 4 star prospect, Tedford might have said 'Hey, we didn't think we had a shot at this kid, but if he wants to come here so bad, let's try to work something out.' After all, Cal's recruiting class didn't exactly set the world on fire. No top 150 recruits, and only 2 teams in the conference ranked worse. Then again, if the kid was a 4 star recruit, Cal probably would have recruited him.
It's going to be a long offseason, Bear fans. And I haven't even started on the basketball team yet (A lousy 5-5 in conference so far)...
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
The real Super Bowl MVP: Sideburns!
02/05/2008
I was in Vermont a few weeks ago, over the recent three day weekend (Thanks, LBJ!). It was a great trip, full of maple-flavored foodstuffs, snowshoeing, beer, and more cheese than you can shake a stick at. If, you know, you're the sort of person who shakes sticks at inanimate foodstuffs. Anyway, it was such a good trip that I decided to do what any good Vermonter would: turn my too-lazy-to-shave stubble into an honest to god beard. It was thick. It was luxurious. It was red.
It was also terribly unlucky. The drive home took several hours than the drive there, even with (or maybe because of) the GPS. I couldn't land a new job, even after more interviews than I can remember. The beard got into an argument with a friend of mine. The Chargers stunk in the AFC title game. The missus had rug burn on her cheeks. I could go on. An ugly situation all around.
By Super Sunday, it was clear something had to be done. Drastic measures would be required. Boldly, I took my Mach 3 Super-duper Power Turbo Razor in hand. In a matter of minutes, the viking mane was transformed into gi-normous, California shaped sideburns (Ok, I'm homesick. Deal with it.). Thus reborn, I proudly put on my Repli-thentic (Whatever that means) 1990 red Joe Montana 49ers jersey and ventured out to watch the game somewhere in Morningside Heights, looking like Hugh Jackman's Wolverine (at least the facial hair).
By now, you all know what happened. The Patriots played like they had somewhere to be. David Tyree defied the laws of physics. Eli played like his older brother, and for once, I don't mean Cooper. The Giants won the freaking Super Bowl.
And I went 7-2 on my props, only missing on a shot in the dark highest scoring quarter bet and a Patriots-biased double result hedge.
So, you can have your trophy, Eli. You can have all the glory. But just consider: would you really have played the game of your young career if I hadn't done my best General Ambrose Burnside impression that very morning?
Sure, some of the kinks still need to be worked out. I haven't found a new job yet. But I haven't lost my current one, either, which is nice. The sideburns are on good terms with my friends. And Joe Montana is still the greatest quarterback of all time (for now).
But, still: All hail sideburns!
I was in Vermont a few weeks ago, over the recent three day weekend (Thanks, LBJ!). It was a great trip, full of maple-flavored foodstuffs, snowshoeing, beer, and more cheese than you can shake a stick at. If, you know, you're the sort of person who shakes sticks at inanimate foodstuffs. Anyway, it was such a good trip that I decided to do what any good Vermonter would: turn my too-lazy-to-shave stubble into an honest to god beard. It was thick. It was luxurious. It was red.
It was also terribly unlucky. The drive home took several hours than the drive there, even with (or maybe because of) the GPS. I couldn't land a new job, even after more interviews than I can remember. The beard got into an argument with a friend of mine. The Chargers stunk in the AFC title game. The missus had rug burn on her cheeks. I could go on. An ugly situation all around.
By Super Sunday, it was clear something had to be done. Drastic measures would be required. Boldly, I took my Mach 3 Super-duper Power Turbo Razor in hand. In a matter of minutes, the viking mane was transformed into gi-normous, California shaped sideburns (Ok, I'm homesick. Deal with it.). Thus reborn, I proudly put on my Repli-thentic (Whatever that means) 1990 red Joe Montana 49ers jersey and ventured out to watch the game somewhere in Morningside Heights, looking like Hugh Jackman's Wolverine (at least the facial hair).
By now, you all know what happened. The Patriots played like they had somewhere to be. David Tyree defied the laws of physics. Eli played like his older brother, and for once, I don't mean Cooper. The Giants won the freaking Super Bowl.
And I went 7-2 on my props, only missing on a shot in the dark highest scoring quarter bet and a Patriots-biased double result hedge.
So, you can have your trophy, Eli. You can have all the glory. But just consider: would you really have played the game of your young career if I hadn't done my best General Ambrose Burnside impression that very morning?
Sure, some of the kinks still need to be worked out. I haven't found a new job yet. But I haven't lost my current one, either, which is nice. The sideburns are on good terms with my friends. And Joe Montana is still the greatest quarterback of all time (for now).
But, still: All hail sideburns!
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