November 12, 2004
infinity
Mathematicians of the "Analyst" flavor have an unruly infatuation with infinity. I've been forced to spend a great deal of time dealing with this concept and I've not had it satisfactorily explianed.
Analysts believe in the idea wholeheartedly, so much so that they feel the need to divide infinity into two different types: Countably Infinite and Uncountably Infinite.
Look here "Infinite"
Infinite, in essence, means not countable, but we still have countably infinite integers but uncountably many "real" numbers. Everything seems to be defined circularly so that in order to understand how you get to infiinity you have to already believe in infinity.
Real mathematicians disagree. The guy who came up with this idea drove himself insane and died. Now that's passion.
Posted by james at 11:19 AM | Comments (0)
October 12, 2004
Titlequest
I am not a mathematician.
I find math excruciating.
I don't see what anyone finds interesting about it. Everyone acknowledges its usefulness, but nobody seems to derive any real pleasure from it.
Math is not objective. Math is a way for intellectual narcissists to claim superiority over others. "Oh yeah, I might be ugly, socially inept, and unqualified to do anything that might actually be useful in the world, but *I* know how to do a Lebesgue Integral and I can (and do) recite the Cauchy-Schwartz inequality in my sleep. Yup, that's right. I AM SMARTER THAN YOU."
Smarter in what way? Some mathematicians feel (that's right, feel) that their's is the only discipline that "discovers" things that exist independent of the human mind. They think that somehow their version of mathematics is universal and Aliens across the galaxy will "do math" the same way.
There is no reason to think that Aliens would do math our way. They are just as likely to have independently developed Cuneiform.
Now that I've vented, I can get to the real issue. They *are* smarter than me. Every day I go to class. Every day I don't know what they are talking about. I don't mean they lose me in the minutia, I really haven't a clue what they say after "Good afternoon."
At the end of each lecture, I leave class thoroughly demoralized and wondering how I could ever have purported to actually be *good* at this stuff.
Then I remember that I am convinced that math is arbitrary and not nearly as cool as people assert it to be. I can then shift my pondering to the issue of *why* I would ever purport to be good at it.
So that's it. I'm not, never have been, and never will be a mathematician.
What, then, am I exactly? I'm no longer a soldier (I wasn't good at that either), I'm not an athlete, I'm not an activist, I'm not a musician, and I'm not really even a student anymore.
What it is inside me that so desperately needs to have a title? I find myself searching for that label and all I can find is "unemployed bum who's is about to be an unemployed bum-parent.
This is not satisfactory.
So I begin the quest for my new title. I'll keep you updated.
Posted by james at 06:36 PM | Comments (0)
June 05, 2004
Yellowdog
Dear Dog-Loving Mother,
Please allow me the time to express my sincerest apologies to you and your family. Since my dog bit your daughter only a couple of hours ago I’ve not been able to remove from my mind the image of your daughter stoically fighting back her tears. She is obviously a strong, assertive young lady who is full of light and curiosity. I hope that she does not become fearful of or apprehensive about dogs in general for dogs are usually not nearly as problematic as owners. As you pointed out, dogs are not are often not as predictable as we would like. This is usually what makes them so interesting to have around, but I really regret instances like tonight’s. The note below is for her; please forgive me for having not asked her name and thank you for your kindness and understanding.
To the amazingly strong young woman I met tonight,
I have two dogs in my family. Sometimes people ask me, “what kind of dogs are those?” Usually I say to them “Black and Yellow,” because they are both mutts. My wife and I don’t have any human children but we like to think that the puppies are our children. We try very hard to take really good care of them and teach them how we think they should behave. But no matter how person-like they seem, they are not people and they don’t always act like we want them to. Yellow-Dog has never been mean to anyone before and I wish I could explain why he was tonight. By now, he probably doesn’t even remember what happened. I hope in the future you will still love dogs and want to pet them because dogs don’t want to be mean, sometimes they just can’t help it. I promise that my wife and I will work really hard to try to teach both of the dogs to be nice to neighbors and I am really really really really really sorry about what happened.
Sincerely,
Jamesy
Posted by james at 10:02 PM | Comments (0)
February 19, 2004
FUBARChi
Three nights ago I had a dream. Jake Weaver, my old friend and acupuncturist, John Aguilar, my new friend and acupuncturist, several faceless people and I were all sitting around a large elliptical conference table. Jake was obviously making the decisions and was vehemently arguing with John. “…Four-needle technique, damn it, that’s all you are allowed to use.”
“But Jacob, the four-needle technique is the most limited of all the TCM techniques and only minimally useful for anything.”
“Yes John, I know, but that is the only thing that’s acceptable and we’ll be sued if we use any of the other ones.”
John traversed through several shades of red and looked around the table, head leaned forward. He took a breath to say something and all that came out of his mouth was the beeping of my alarm clock.
The next day I went to see John for a treatment. After his usual progression through strange questions designed to troubleshoot the chi-flow like “What color is your urine” and “do you have any floaters in your eyes” he asked, “Any interesting dreams?” Up to that point I’d forgotten about the conference table dream. I described it to him, which caused a laugh because the four-needle technique is, apparently, very limited. I’m not sure if the question about the dreams is part of his diagnosis technique or simply a curiosity leftover from John’s days as a psychology student.
The next day while at work I received a phone call from my old friend Jake, whom I hadn’t heard from in years. He invited me over to his new place for a beer and we watched The Musketeer which we frequently interrupted the in the name of nostalgia. He also found my dream story amusing.
My chi-flow is still fubar and I still have no idea what the four-needle technique is.
Posted by james at 09:18 PM | Comments (0)
November 10, 2003
Autopsy
Another hundred words...
Her dyed red hair cast a colored glow on her white lab coat as she began the autopsy. She stepped on the pedal activating the tape recorder.
“October 29, 2003.
23 year old male. DOA—motorcycle crash—no helmet.
Severe facial lacerations.
Open fracture, left humerus.
Shattered left elbow.
4mm puncture through scrotum and into right inner thigh.
Left foot, tibia, fibula & femur crushed.
Opening abdominal cavity:
Holy shit! Cancerous tissue on both lungs, the liver, and the pancreas.
Hey John, check this out.”
Doctor Lewis stepped up to the table, “Wow. He’d have died anyway—three months, tops.”
Posted by james at 10:39 PM | Comments (1)
September 23, 2003
For Muriel, About Math
For Muriel, About Math.
In a note responding to the previous diary entry, my dear friend Muriel asked me why there is a “ones” place on the left side of the decimal and no corresponding “oneths” place on the right side. This is an interesting question that I myself have often pondered.
The idea of “place value,” as far as we know, was first used by the Babylonians many, many moons ago. Previous cultures used notation more like Roman numerals with different symbols standing for 100’s, 10’s, etc. The place value system, though, allowed people to calculate rapidly without nearly as much training as, say, a Roman scribe (if you don’t believe me try calculating MCMVII * MLCXXVI rapidly, chop chop!).
All place value systems of representing quantities operate basically the same way. There is a small set of symbols which represent a certain number quantities—for us, there are ten {0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9}, for the Babylonians there were sixty, for computers there are two {0,1}. The number of symbols used is called the “base” of the number system. Humans now typically use “base 10,” or decimal numbers and computers use “base 2,” or binary numbers.
“Place value” means that the position of these symbols relative to the other ones and the “radix point” (it is only a “decimal point” if you’re using the “decimal system”) indicates what actual quantity is represented. The number 13, for example, means 1 ten plus 3 ones. Similarly, the number 1024 means 1 thousand + 0 hundreds +2 tens + 4 ones. The way mathematicians think of this is that each place in the number has a corresponding multiplier, which is a power of 10.
Take the number 2135, for example. We can think of this as 2 thousand + 1 hundred + 3 tens plus 5 ones. “Two thousands” is the same as 2*10^3 (10*10*10=1000); 1 hundred is the same as 1*10^2; 3 tens is the same as 3*10^1 and 5 ones is the same as 5*10^0 (any number raised to the zero power equals one). Notice that our decimal system, that is our “base 10” system, has everything multiplying by a power of 10. This patter continues onto the right side of the decimal point as well. For example,
237.9 = 2*10^2 + 3*10^1 + 7*10^0 + 9*10^(-1)
You may be asking yourself what the hell ten to the negative one means. Negative exponent usually means one divided by whatever the same number would be with a positive exponent. For example
2^3 = 2*2*2 = 8
2^(-3)= 1/ (2*2*2) = 1/8, or one eighth.
Similarly, 10^(-1) = 1/10 – one tenth and 10^(-3) = 1/(10^3) = 1/1000 or one “thousandth.”
So where is the “oneths” place? Well, if 10^(-3) is thousandths, 10^(-2) is hundredths, 10^(-1) is tenths, then “oneths,” if they existed, would have to be 10^(-0), right? What is negative zero, then? Negative zero is –1*0, which is zero. We already have a name for the 10^0 place, we call that the “ones” place.
I guess, then Muriel, that the reason that there isn’t a “oneths” place is because, unlike every other number, negative zero is the same as zero
I hope this is helpful without being too geeky,
-James
/\
P
Posted by james at 10:43 PM | Comments (0)
September 11, 2003
Plato
Plato was wrong. Don't ask him about it, though. He'll just tell you that he's merely a corporeal avatar reflecting universal wrongness and is therefore really not wrong, per se. He's just a shitty incantation of wrong--a copy of wrongness that is flawed and therefore must possess some non-wrongness (rightness?). Poor fellow, he can't even get being wrong right. I wonder if he inherited Socrates' lackeys, Glaucon and the rest, after the hemlock incident. I wonder if he made Aristotle do his photocopies and fetch his coffee when he was a TA. I wonder if togas are as comfortable as they look.
Posted by james at 08:57 PM | Comments (0)
July 27, 2003
Don Quixote
During a debate in my online literature class I was arguing that Don Quixote would seem much more heroic if the story were told from his point of view. To that end, I rewrote the famous "tilting at windmills scene" from his point of view. I though it was quite fun.
So there I was along with my trusty squire Sancho about to do battle with the thirty magical lawless giants who were terrorizing the land. One of them cast a spell on my squire, making him believe them to be something other than what they were, but my knightly senses showed me the truth. I took my lance in hand and charged he leader of the group, knowing that dispatching the leader would probably rouse the rest of the rabble. Upon seeing my gallant charge the fearful giant magically transformed himself into a huge whirling windmill, a brilliant defense I must admit, and unseated me from my faithful Rocinante. Managing to temporarily free himself from the giant's curse, Sancho, in the grand tradition of a knight-errant's squire assisted me to my feet that I might battle honorably. Alas, I'd scared the giants so thoroughly that they were literally petrified. I would have to meet them for battle another day...
Posted by james at 10:32 PM | Comments (0)
July 20, 2003
Mt Lincoln
/P>
Today I climbed Mt. Lincoln, the 267th highest peak in the world and 11th highest in the continental US. 14,286 feet (4354 m). Exactly three hours to the summit and 1:15 back to the car. It was good. Of course, we stumbled upon the hardest possible route and my legs feel like jello, but what the hell, that's what stories are made of.
On the way down I noticed a turn off that was familiar in Idaho Springs. I raked my memory to try to remember why. I almost wished I hadn't. I used that particular turnoff when I was hired by my late uncle Frank to gather large stones for "erosion control." Not much longer after that we passed the turnoff for St. Mary's Glacier. That's where Frank used to take me shooting as a kid when my "real" relatives couldn't or didn't.
As my good friend Jarrad pointed out, despite his last minute selfishness, Frank took better care of me in my youth than any blood relative and that is what I should remember him for. Slowly but surely, I am.
I heard more of what happened while I was visiting his family on Thursday. Some parts of the story don't jive and it's pretty clear that I'm not hearing the whole story (those damned critical thinking skills again) but I'm not sure that I want to. Whatever happened, it's over, and the details are, both legally and reasonably, none of my business.
The funeral is tomorrow, 1:00. I'm sure it'll be a hoot.
Posted by james at 07:02 PM | Comments (0)
July 17, 2003
Frank
I woke up grumpy today—annoyed at my job. I battered off to work anyway and after some harassment from a workmate realized I was complaining much more than usual. Were the complaints warranted? Not really, just griping.
After lunch I’d managed to get my shit together and was enjoying the fact that there was some actual work to do. The hundred-plus heat doesn’t feel so bad when you’re distracted. At the end of the day my cell phone started vibrating.
“Hello.”
“Hey James, this is Jarrad.”
I had been sick the night before and Adrian had called to check on me but that wasn’t Jarrad’s M.O. I thought maybe he had my leftovers because I’d left the restaurant early. “What’s up, man?”
“You need to call your uncle Rick, something happened to Frank.”
“What do you mean, ‘something’?”
“I don’t know. Just call him. Call me if you need to talk.”
That last part is Jarrad-speak for “you’re about to get really bad news.” “Ok.”
I got a hold of Rick. His first words were “Are you sitting down?” Oh, shit.
By this time I’d already figured out that Frank, an adopted uncle of mine who’d been a friend of the family since before I was around, was seriously hurt or, more likely, dead. I thought he’d been in a motorcycle crash, or maybe had an accident at the airport where he works. Not so.
The cops had found his body decomposing at his barn in Straussbourg. He’d been dead for about five days, they said, baking in the heat. I pity whoever found him. His wife had filed for divorce and he couldn’t handle the idea so he shot himself—“blew his brains out” in the words of his widow. He had two kids. There is no excuse for that kind of selfishness. What a prick.
I’m going to visit his wife and daughter in a few minutes. What a prick.
Posted by james at 04:46 PM | Comments (0)
June 12, 2003
The Beautiful People
Last night I saw a young beautiful couple walking down Ralston Road. The woman, a petite blonde, was holding hands with a tall athletic man. In their free hands both were holding cell phones to their ears.
I wonder if they were talking to each other.
Posted by james at 09:14 AM | Comments (0)
June 11, 2003
Frying Nemo
I went last night with a few friends to watch the new animated suspense thriller "Finding Nemo." At a strangely appropriate time in the movie bright lights began to flash just outside the lower corners of the screen. For a short second I thought "wow, I've never seen special effects that weren't actually on the screen before." Just then the part of the brain that tells me when to stop suspending my disbelief finally spat a neural message reminding me that those lights look very much like--no--exactly like the lights on top of fire alarms. Just then the movie screen went black and the room was illuminated only by fire lights flashing once for every two seconds. I heard 42 versions of the same conversation run together.
"Is this a fire drill? "
"Are we supposed to leave?"
"What is this, elementary school?"
As the ever slow herd instinct kicked in we filed out of the theater; not by the fire exit, mind you, moving that direction causes immediate blindness from the alarm lights, no exited from the direction we entered. Outside were several fire trucks, the whole Arvada FD if I'm not mistaken, taking their sweet time entering the building. Apparently no danger. They announced that the theatre would be closed for the evening and handed out several rolls of yellow tickets which were supposed to let us in for a free show some other time.
I immediately cued in on the haphazard manner in which the tickets were being handed out and realized that I could set myself up for a summer of free movies with only a small white lie: "...that's right, there were 19 people in my party. Thank you." As I stepped off to get my free tickets I heard a voice whispering in my right ear telling me not to commit such a horrible crime. I looked to my right and saw a wispy ghost like fish floating over my shoulder. It was Nemo. Apparently Nemo had been scorched to death and God had assigned him to be my conscience. Going back to work is going to be rough with a prepubescent handicapped clownfish whispering in my ear. It should be an interesting challenge.
My friend Jenny, true to form, suggested we walk to the bar for some margaritas. They weren't very good.
Posted by james at 08:46 PM | Comments (0)
April 07, 2003
Her
I once knew a woman who, I think, is the only truly unique person in all of humanity. I was only fortunate enough to have her in my life for a few short weeks but in that time she left a mark that I hope will never go away. She’s the most artistic person I’ve ever met and she makes everyone around her happy. These days she molds a young mind, funneling her creative energy into him, and, I suspect, still makes all around her happy. I’ve heard through the grapevine that she’s preparing for college and I am happy for her. It seems a bit unfair, though, that she’ll have to pay for school, because I’m sure that she’ll bring much more to her classes than her classes will bring to her.
Posted by james at 10:56 PM | Comments (0)
January 14, 2003
Cajunland Return
Well, I managed to make it back from Cajun country with only a minor hiccup that caused me to wander for two hours around the new super-ultra-mega mall smack between Dallas and Ft. Worth while my car was being repaired. It was quite disturbing overall, but there was an Indian (dots) woman selling something at a kiosk who had the most beautiful speaking voice I've ever heard. I made it back from Baton Rouge in 24 hours, 6 minutes and spent the entire next day coming down off the caffene high.
I had a couple weeks to relax and just in time for school to resume (after nine months being away) I had the joy of finding out that I'm on 28 hour recall status to go fight in a silly war in the middle east at "a classified location" that happens to be flat and brown (I saw unclassified pictures). I've yet to chat with any informed person that thinks this crap is necessary - sheesh! I was all good with the guy before he started spewing the "Axis of Evil" crap. Come the fuck on, man, for the love of Pete! I think I'll go back to voting exclusively for people I know will lose from now on.
To round off that mess I somehow got it into my head that class started today and not yesterday so I effectively ditched the first session of five of my classes. The Profs. that know me were scared that I was battling in the aforementioned war and the ones I didn't just think I'm a slacker now. Boy, doesn't James feel stupid [nod].
The class I had today was good, though. The teacher is a Priest of an as of yet unnamed religion (Not a Jesuit, though) and he's teaching a facinating class on Buddhism. He's apparently been teaching college for over 40 years and it shows in his crotchety nature and brilliant lecture style. That class should be great, I hope I can finish it.
Posted by james at 06:57 PM | Comments (0)
December 15, 2002
Scorchmobile
Today, while driving back from New Orleans, I saw an interesting and disturbing car accident. On the first bridge heading out of the city there was a car, the same model and color as mine, that had obviously been a recent victim to a serious fire. The tires were burned away, the hood had a giant hole actually burned through it, and there were carbon marks that looked like flames were coming out of the trunk. There was a police car parked behind it with its lights on and the cop was peering over the edge of the bridge, apparently something was down there too.
Much to the credit of the New Orleanians, there was almost no rubber necking and traffic sped by the scorch never dropping below 65. It made me wonder, though, if this sort of thing is a common occurence there. [Maybe they were worried that the cop did it and didn't want to find out for sure ;) ]
After seeing the autocorpse, I was reminded of my first motorcyle road trip ever, from Colorado Springs to Denver. Not more than a mile out of town an ambulance whizzed past like I was standing still. A couple miles later I saw a flaming motorcycle about 100 feet from the rider, whom the paramedics were attending to.
I never see shit like that when commuting around the city. Only when I'm about to have a nice long trip to contemplate it on do I ever see it.
Posted by james at 07:04 PM | Comments (0)
December 11, 2002
After, After.
After the smoke clears, after the accredidation board meetings, after the student evaluation reviews, after the lesson plan revisions, after the weaving of the curriculum mandates, after the standardized tests, after information regurgitation, after the analysis paralysis, after the hoop jumping dog and pony show, after the ink is dry on my diploma and my spiffy badge is pounded into my chest. After all that crap the only thing I'll know is that I don't know anything. But at least I came out of it with a car.
Posted by james at 09:53 PM | Comments (0)
November 12, 2002
New Orleans
The Queen laid her head on my left shoulder, barely awake, and I felt a wash of mild euphoria. The strong scent of whiskey flowed from her cup and filtered through her hair, picking up the slightest hint of organic shampoo before landing in their final resting places within my nose. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was move. I rolled my head from my left shoulder to my right and the odor gently shifted to fermented juniper berries and burning cloves. The music was techno. Just the right mix of relaxing and stimulating. It kept me awake but thoroughly melow. I allowed my head a slight rhythic bounce to match.
A young black man lounged on the floor front of me. He wore small square sunglasses pulled toward the end of his nose, a leather trenchcoat, and was smoking something, presumably tobacco, out of a large black hookah. A white man sat next to him, crosslegged, with the look of someone who recently discovered the meaning of life via hallucinagenic eyedrops. He was dressed normally, as were we, and looked as out of place as we did.
A stout woman with long black hair and long white fangs tended a bar-o-ten-stools to my right. Everyone had to drink, or had to leave. Near the entrance two men plaid chess. Nearest me a goth drag queen was getting obviously losing to an overweight cyber-dork wearing glasses thick enough to see the future. How could (s)he not see that coming?
So this is New Orleans
A thin black man in a blue sweat shirt approached us near the corner of the cemetary. He was as facinated with cemetaries as I was. He professed to us his great desire to not be entombed, but rather to be cremated. “What happens to the shell,” he said, “makes no difference to the Lord after your spirit has left.” He wore an ID badge printed with his picture and the word Geneva in a bright color along the bottom. A religious organization, or something mundane? We noticed that tombs sized for one occupant generally contained the names of several people separated by several decades. Did they reuse the precious tomb space?
So this is New Orleans
A provocativley dressed Eastern European woman fed the Conductor shots from test tubes. She put the bottoms of them in her mouth and poured them into his mouth without the use of hands, twice. The first shot, he said, was “koolaid,” the second was Jagermeister. He complained about his stomach hurting. The Shot Woman convinced The Flautist to drink a few shots. This time I got to be the feeder. The Queen took a picture. The shot woman then insisted that I engage with her in the same ritual. I refused. She wrapped her arm around my waist and pulled our pelvises close together. She swayed to-and-fro, sweetalking me while literally trying to pour a test tube down my throat. I had to physically push her away.
So this is New Orleans
The Queen attached a helium balloon to The Conductor’s chair. Her knot was bad. During the conversationt the balloon loosed itself and drifted quickly up, over a balcony, and straint into the ceiling fan of a dating couple. The woman found this quite funny, the man didn’t. The ceiling fan blades tangled the ballon’s string into a much better knot than the Queen could tie. The Queen told me of her dissertation. I wondered if what you call a royal Doctor. How about: Her Majesty, Queen So-and-so, soverign of England, Ireland, Scotland, and Naboo, Ph.D.? It seems sort of silly.
So this is New Orleans
A bright light from the dance floor flashed directly into my eyes causing immediate and extreme pain. The music resumed at a volume that thump-thump-thumped my head right back to fight-or-flight. Panic rose from my toes. It was time to leave, but there was a problem. The Flautist had disappeared onto the dance floor with a stranger and not told us where to find her. The Conductor made a lap or two around the floor trying to find her while the Queen stayed with me in a vain, though much appreciated attempt to quell my discomfort. I spotted the Flautist on the floor just befor the Conductor returned. He came back saying something to the Queen that I couldn’t hear over the music. I pointed him to the Flautist. He smiled and went after her. The Queen led me by the hand right out of the club and off Bourbon St. After that I felt better.
So this is New Orleans
The Conductor led us out of some random bar on to the street. We rounded a corner and saw a large crowd of people dressed up like crazy musicians. A sailor, an overgrown baby, a ghost. All carrying instruments. A revalation zapped through my mind: “Oh wait! Those are crazy musicians!” I should’ve know. They started playing some New Orleans jazz. They spontaniously started walking down the street and into the Quarter. The four of us followed. The precession stopped walking (but not playing) so some of the members could buy beer. The Queen grabbed me by the hand and before I could object was teaching me how to swing dance and telling me how much she enjoyed it. What was I to say? No?
We paraded all around the city. I saw the giant shadow of a saint, arms raised overhead, projected on the St. Louis Cathederal. I learned why you should use the women’s restroom if you acually need to pee while in a gay bar. I drank bottled water at the oldest building in the city. I saw a fountain that spewed both water and flames, I played on the monkey bars in a park covered in dyed green concrete, and I bought french fries from a man who’s whole body was covered in tatooed checkerboard. I ate street vendor gumbo, watched a breakdancing silver man, and saw otherwise civilized looking men urinating in the gutter of a busy street.
As usual, though, the most memorable piece of the story was the part where the Writer discovers, while absorbing the all the sensations of a second story goth bar, that he has a crush on the Queen and there is not thing in the world that he can do about it. He found comfort in the fact that, historically, all crushes have faded rapidly with time. Except one…
And that was New Orleans
Posted by james at 10:33 PM | Comments (0)