I was asked to help one of the bigger cheeses with his presentation on the current economic turmoil ramifications for higher education. I've enjoyed working with him in the past because he freely admit his limited understanding of technology, but he knows what he wants, has a decent feel for what technology can do, and has an excellent sense of organization. By this last I mean that he'll find references and statistics and knows how to arrange them in the presentation. I do the dog work, make a few stylistic suggestions which are usually taken, and, in this case, had two slides I suggested included in the presentation. We used PowerPoint in the past and this was no different except we used a newer version.
As deadlines approaches there are always modifications, but these never even rise to the level of an imposition: moving a few slides around or maybe deleting or adding a few slides a day or two before the actual presentation. Anyone in a similar position will recognize this as nothing unusual or onerous. What was gruesome was the videos.
Jumping to the chase: the presentation worked flawlessly on multiple laptops and desktops whether run from hard drive, CD or USB key. On his Lenovo X61 notebook videos froze. Because we weren't as sharp as we should have been and because of certain initial problems with the videos we didn't realize that the problem was the notebook not the videos. We tried to contact the conference's technical contact because it wasn't clear from their instructions whether presentations had to be run on their equipment or whether we'd be allowed to use our own. Could the presentation be on a CD or USB key? Our preference would have been to FedEx a CD with the presentation to someone at the conference who would let us know if there were any problems, but the conference's technical contact didn't get back to us until the day before the conference.
(Because of an ugly incident at a conference we hosted many years ago we've been exceptionally sensitive about these things. People who indicate that they don't need anything special don't realize that their standard company issued PC includes a special sauce.)
Something no one anticipated sucked several other members of my department into the project. In desperation some proposed converting the whole presentation to Flash.
My throw-in-the-towel solution was to send him to the conference with the old laptop they had around his office (the same laptop I used to develop the presentation) and his X61 which he used for business. When I say old I mean a laptop with no Windows key on the keyboard, a Y key which is askew, and a defective left Ctrl key. (The right Ctrl key works.) My guy's attitude is great: if he won't be embarrassed during the presentation he's satisfied. (They may kick sand in his face because he's schlepping an old laptop, but as long as the presentation doesn't blow up he'll be satisfied.) The conference organizers might not have liked it, but it was unlikely that they'd tell the keynote speaker that he couldn't use his own laptop.
That said, he knew humor was needed to leaven the steady drumbeat of grim economic news. Video clips seemed the most natural.The first was a clip from Horsefeathers, the Marx Brothers' farce, where Groucho deciding that it is too expensive to maintain both the college and the football team decides to tear down the college. Where will the student's sleep? "They'll sleep where they always sleep: in the classroom." (Always mindful of running afoul of the DMCA (Digital Millennium Copyright Act) the Horsefeathers clip came from a VHS tape.)
Then there was a scene from Damn Yankees. He wanted to introduce the clip by saying "Nobody likes times like these, except..." and then the clip of Appplegate (the Devil) singing about the "Good Old Days". (The clip included scenes of people jumping from windows on Wall Street. )
What we all felt would be a natural conclusion was a clip with Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland saying "Hey kids! Let's put on a show!" A quick web search turned up an einsiders.com review indicated that it was in Girl Crazy in which Rooney and Garland put on a show to save Cody College. As fast as you could whip out a credit card the box set was ordered on a Friday and delivered to me on Monday. (I did say the presentation was for someone at the top.)
After watching over 6 hours of the dynamic duo (Babes in Arms, Babes on Broadway, and Strike Up the Band in addition to the aforementioned Girl Crazy), I stand before you to say that "Hey kids! Let's put on a show!" may join the ranks of "Play it again Sam" or "Alas poor Yorick. I knew him well." - lines which everyone remembers, but were never said. The line may exist in an Andy Hardy film, but not in the versions of the films in the boxed set. (What did you do today? I watched 4 Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland films to find 5 seconds of non-existent dialogue. Three other people scanned the films looking for the line.)
We tried to cobble three snippets from Girl Crazy) to show a radio news flash of the legislature's intention of closing Cody College due to a lack of enrollment, Mickey and Judy suggesting to the dean that they put the college on the map with a rodeo show, and the scene where they dump a sackful of applications on the dean's desk as Judy triumphantly exclaims "The governor can't close the school now!" Our ability to extract a clip from DVD to QuickTime worked fine. Editing the QuickTime clip worked fine. The conversion to WMV format not so fine. We lost or gained fractional parts. In the end we never got a usable clip from the boxed set. (I now have the background, but not the nerve to apply for a grant for Mickey Rooney-Judy Garland studies.)
Friday, April 03, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
TheGreat Train Robbery
When I spotted the book at a garage sale I remembered the movie with Sean Connery, Donald Sutherland, and Leslie-Ann Down was a good historical drama/thriller (a "ripping tale") and thought, why not?
The novel reminded me of a Mark Twain story, the title of which now eludes me, and John Fowles' The French Lieutenant's Woman. Twain interspersed statistics, the effect not unlike the cinematic effect of a voice over describing a city with the subsequent action reflecting the facts. The French Lieutenant's Woman provided Fowles ample opportunities to discourse on Victorian era sociology. (I'm a sucker for this stuff: I have fond memories of a classic sociology study Family and Kinship in East London")
Part of the enjoyment of The Great Train robbery stemmed from deciphering period criminal slang. In one section, ostensibly quoting from the trial transcript one of the thieves explains, "... he plays like a flimp or a dub buzzer, or a mutcher, no interest or importance, and this because he don' want the skipper to granny that a bone lay is afoot." (p 104) and then the theif is perplexed when the judge asks the thief to explain his explanation. (I thought that a judge who dealt with criminals would have mastered the argot, but then this is a novel and the passage is amusing.)
I was struck by one curious difference between the movie and the book: the novel made repeated reference to the mastermind's red beard, but this was not significant enough to have Sean Connery's beard dyed red for the movie.
The novel reminded me of a Mark Twain story, the title of which now eludes me, and John Fowles' The French Lieutenant's Woman. Twain interspersed statistics, the effect not unlike the cinematic effect of a voice over describing a city with the subsequent action reflecting the facts. The French Lieutenant's Woman provided Fowles ample opportunities to discourse on Victorian era sociology. (I'm a sucker for this stuff: I have fond memories of a classic sociology study Family and Kinship in East London")
Part of the enjoyment of The Great Train robbery stemmed from deciphering period criminal slang. In one section, ostensibly quoting from the trial transcript one of the thieves explains, "... he plays like a flimp or a dub buzzer, or a mutcher, no interest or importance, and this because he don' want the skipper to granny that a bone lay is afoot." (p 104) and then the theif is perplexed when the judge asks the thief to explain his explanation. (I thought that a judge who dealt with criminals would have mastered the argot, but then this is a novel and the passage is amusing.)
I was struck by one curious difference between the movie and the book: the novel made repeated reference to the mastermind's red beard, but this was not significant enough to have Sean Connery's beard dyed red for the movie.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Boots Of Spanish Leather/Suze Rotolo
I heard her girlish voice introduce EmilyLou Harris on a YouTube video, but couldn't remember Nanci Griffith's name. In these times, I search the Internet to fill gaps in my memory. Remembering one of her albums was titled, "Other Voices, Other Rooms" I was off to the races. The track listing led me to a discussion of Bob Dylan's "Boots Of Spanish Leather".
There I learned the meaning behind a song I've known most of my life. Well, yes, I see now that the initial verses alternate between characters and the last three stanzas belong to the lover left behind. And knowing something about Suze Rotolo made it that much more poignant and embarrassing to see how much I missed.
(Aficionados of the era knew that it was Suze, a red diaper baby, who introduced Dylan to William Blake, Bertolt Brecht Arthur Rimbaud and certainly sparked his social conscience. Dylan obsessives know there is an instrumental named for her, Suze (The Cough Song). Suze's name pops up in David Massengill's concerts. I first heard her voice when she was interviewed on WNYC when she was interviewed about her memoir, "A Freewheelin' Time: A Memoir of Greenwich Village in the Sixties". In an interview on WFUV's Words and Music from Studio A Steve Earle commented that he spends a lot of time turning German tourists in the right direction when they try to have their picture taken in the same spot as the cover for “The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan” album.)
There I learned the meaning behind a song I've known most of my life. Well, yes, I see now that the initial verses alternate between characters and the last three stanzas belong to the lover left behind. And knowing something about Suze Rotolo made it that much more poignant and embarrassing to see how much I missed.
(Aficionados of the era knew that it was Suze, a red diaper baby, who introduced Dylan to William Blake, Bertolt Brecht Arthur Rimbaud and certainly sparked his social conscience. Dylan obsessives know there is an instrumental named for her, Suze (The Cough Song). Suze's name pops up in David Massengill's concerts. I first heard her voice when she was interviewed on WNYC when she was interviewed about her memoir, "A Freewheelin' Time: A Memoir of Greenwich Village in the Sixties". In an interview on WFUV's Words and Music from Studio A Steve Earle commented that he spends a lot of time turning German tourists in the right direction when they try to have their picture taken in the same spot as the cover for “The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan” album.)
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Hey Bob-a-Ree-Bob
A name popped into my head a few days ago and I turned to the web to look for information about Bob, a musician I hadn't seen for many years. When I'd first met him almost two decades ago he'd been married multiple times and was renting a room from a friend. He was separating or had just been divorced again and, as a result of multiple alimony payments, always short of cash.
He said that he'd meet woman who seemed fine, but after marrying them, they turned into castrating bitches. I repeated his comment to my mother, who replied, "Maybe he's comfortable with that type."
After Bob told my friend that he felt that every date should have a real possibility of the two of them ending up in bed together, my friend, who was in her 80's, dubbed him "Hey Bob-a-Ree-Bob". I don't claim to understand why, but the term seemed appropriate.
When I last saw Bob, perhaps in the early 90's, he was getting getting married again. My friend, who'd gotten the blow-by-blow account of the courtship told me that as the nuptials got closer both Bob and Betsy, his intended, admitted to being older than they originally claimed. At the time I was surprised that I wasn't surprised or even cynical about it. Bob must have been in his early or mid 50's and Betsy in her 40's.
Betsy was a computer programmer and was teaching Bob about programming. (I remember Bob being enthusing about using fractals in programming.)
It turned out he had a web site. He'd had a stroke in 1999. As part of his recovery he worked on web pages, picking the letters out one at a time, which show the effects of the aphasia:
He said that he'd meet woman who seemed fine, but after marrying them, they turned into castrating bitches. I repeated his comment to my mother, who replied, "Maybe he's comfortable with that type."
After Bob told my friend that he felt that every date should have a real possibility of the two of them ending up in bed together, my friend, who was in her 80's, dubbed him "Hey Bob-a-Ree-Bob". I don't claim to understand why, but the term seemed appropriate.
When I last saw Bob, perhaps in the early 90's, he was getting getting married again. My friend, who'd gotten the blow-by-blow account of the courtship told me that as the nuptials got closer both Bob and Betsy, his intended, admitted to being older than they originally claimed. At the time I was surprised that I wasn't surprised or even cynical about it. Bob must have been in his early or mid 50's and Betsy in her 40's.
Betsy was a computer programmer and was teaching Bob about programming. (I remember Bob being enthusing about using fractals in programming.)
It turned out he had a web site. He'd had a stroke in 1999. As part of his recovery he worked on web pages, picking the letters out one at a time, which show the effects of the aphasia:
and posted pictures of his notebooks to show how his handwriting was affected.
The web site has a script which makes each page appear to be updated when viewed. Broken links made it clear that the site wasn't being maintained.
I sent him a "hi-how-are-you" note, which bounced back the next day.
More searching and I found a Requiem announcement that he'd died in 2006. The same page also listed "Michael L. Brecker - Saxophone".
Rest in peace Bob.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Gas at $1.91
Yesterday I saw regular gas for $1.91 at the Citgo station on Hempstead Turnpike in Hempstead, NY. Wow! To think that a few months ago a good price was a little over $4.
An image flashed through my mind of me standing under the price sign with a newspaper in the same fashion as a kidnap victim holding up the front page of a paper to demonstrate proof of life.
An image flashed through my mind of me standing under the price sign with a newspaper in the same fashion as a kidnap victim holding up the front page of a paper to demonstrate proof of life.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The (Financial) Sky Is Falling
Today started with a segment of Brian Lehrer's talk show with Michael Oxley of Sarbanes-Oxley fame. A long time conservative Congressman (R-OH 4th) and now Vice Chairman of NASDAQ, Oxley pointed out that changes in banking regulations his Financial Services Committee proposed passed the House, but died in the Senate with White House opposition in 2005. Those regulations would probably have prevented a good portion of this situation by increasing transparency and documentation. Can you say "Liar Loan"?).
Listening to NPR and Market Place today I was struck by the wide spectrum of the opposition to the Bank Bailout ("Cash for Trash"). One southern Congressman made this point about the unspecified portions of the bailout: the motives of people in the administration who may be responsible for devising the minutia in the agreement cannot be known. What assurance did the taxpayer have that the people in the administration who were responsible for hammering out the details will not be exploiting them by returning to Wall Street after the next election?
Listening to NPR and Market Place today I was struck by the wide spectrum of the opposition to the Bank Bailout ("Cash for Trash"). One southern Congressman made this point about the unspecified portions of the bailout: the motives of people in the administration who may be responsible for devising the minutia in the agreement cannot be known. What assurance did the taxpayer have that the people in the administration who were responsible for hammering out the details will not be exploiting them by returning to Wall Street after the next election?
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Caught Peeing at the Crime Scene
I was taking a wiz at the urinal closest to an open window overlooking the forensics lab's crime scene when one of the students, pointing to the bathroom window said, "Hey, there's an open window there."
The lab assistant, spotting me, said, "And there he is." I waved with my free hand, wondered if this was similar to the Paris pissoirs: guys relieving themselves while people looked down from their offices.
There was a difference: I was above rather than below the crowd. In the time I had to reflect, I wondered whether I should wave? If so, with one hand or two? What was the proper look to have on one's face while relieving oneself? Impassive? Joyful? Relieved? Studious? (Will a survey reveal a gender-based difference in responses?)
The lab assistant, spotting me, said, "And there he is." I waved with my free hand, wondered if this was similar to the Paris pissoirs: guys relieving themselves while people looked down from their offices.
There was a difference: I was above rather than below the crowd. In the time I had to reflect, I wondered whether I should wave? If so, with one hand or two? What was the proper look to have on one's face while relieving oneself? Impassive? Joyful? Relieved? Studious? (Will a survey reveal a gender-based difference in responses?)
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Emanuel Haldeman-Julius - "The Henry Ford of Literature"
This blurb was irresistible: "He was the 'Henry Ford of Literature,' a 'Voltaire from Kansas,' and 'the Barnum of Books.' The greatest American publishing genius you never heard of." I followed the link from Arts & Letters Daily (September 3, 2008) to Rolf Potts article in the September issue of The Believer.
The article described the Little Blue Book publishing phenomenon, a publishing venture in Girard, Kansas which sold vast quantities of cheap paper back books often with intellectual content. Potts contention was that the venture was done in by a combination of Federal harrassment (the publisher, a socialist at heart had antagonized J. Edgar Hoover who sicked the IRS on the publisher), red-baiting, and television. Quite an interesting read.
The article described the Little Blue Book publishing phenomenon, a publishing venture in Girard, Kansas which sold vast quantities of cheap paper back books often with intellectual content. Potts contention was that the venture was done in by a combination of Federal harrassment (the publisher, a socialist at heart had antagonized J. Edgar Hoover who sicked the IRS on the publisher), red-baiting, and television. Quite an interesting read.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
"The problem will be deviated"
If asked, I would include myself with the language curmudgeons. I grumble about the term "repurpose" to mean "use for another purpose", "impact" instead of "affect", etc. Will posterity understand terms? I suspect that those who still read will regard these terms as turn of the century oddities.
What leads me here is a search of IBM's web site for a problem with Sonic's RecordNow! software. Although the operating system (WinXP) shows both a DVD and a CD drive, the RecordNow! software can't find either drive. The usual culprit in situtations like this is a driver problem. A search of IBM's knowlege base turned up plenty of links for ThinkCentres and IntelliStation E's, but I was using an IntelliStation M. I finally spotted a promising link, but after reading I wasn't quite sure.
What does "deviated" mean in this context?
I despair.
What leads me here is a search of IBM's web site for a problem with Sonic's RecordNow! software. Although the operating system (WinXP) shows both a DVD and a CD drive, the RecordNow! software can't find either drive. The usual culprit in situtations like this is a driver problem. A search of IBM's knowlege base turned up plenty of links for ThinkCentres and IntelliStation E's, but I was using an IntelliStation M. I finally spotted a promising link, but after reading I wasn't quite sure.
What does "deviated" mean in this context?
Sonic upgrade page - IBM IntelliStation M Pro (9229), Z Pro (9228) ... Install the upgrade pack when you encounter the following problem: When installing CATIA V5R16 SP2 under the presence of Sonic DLA in the system, installer will fail to read the CD. Use the upgrade pack to upgrade Sonic DLA and the problem will be deviated. |
I despair.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Menu Cowardice
There, on the back page, was Friendlys' "Over 60 Menu". I didn't have the courage to order.
But You're an Engineer!
The other day EGGDEW, a long time faculty member asked me about recycling his old computer (EGGDEW is his username. Some in the Systems Group dread his calls because the problems won't be solved by a standard fix. But I digress.)
It was unfortunate that he asked me then because just two weeks earlier two towns held their electronic recycling days. His PC still had its original install of Windows 95. EGGDEW said he was concerned about possibly revealing confidential information.
"Not a problem" I said. Just pullout the hard drive."
"I wouldn't even know what it looks like."
"But you're an engineer!" I sputtered. I couldn't believe that EGGDEW, a guy who installed his own Unix workstation, who has his own personal MATLAB license, who uses computers to analyze NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) Doppler radar didn't know what his hard drive looked like.
I was and remained stunned.
It was unfortunate that he asked me then because just two weeks earlier two towns held their electronic recycling days. His PC still had its original install of Windows 95. EGGDEW said he was concerned about possibly revealing confidential information.
"Not a problem" I said. Just pullout the hard drive."
"I wouldn't even know what it looks like."
"But you're an engineer!" I sputtered. I couldn't believe that EGGDEW, a guy who installed his own Unix workstation, who has his own personal MATLAB license, who uses computers to analyze NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) Doppler radar didn't know what his hard drive looked like.
I was and remained stunned.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Someone Stole My Kickboard
I've been known to be absent minded, leaving things and then wasting time hunting for them later. This was not one of those times.
The only difference from last night's swim and my usual routine was that I sat on the can before I showered. (I realize that this falls under the TMI (Too Much Information) heading but...) It meant that my kickboard was left unattended while I attended to a call of nature. But why would anyone take my kickboard?
As you can see nobody else would not be able to use the kickboard at my pool - it's so recognizable. I looked around the locker room, I had a friend look for it out in the car. She even checked the Ladies bathroom. Maybe I'd handed it to her and she'd left it in the bathroom. Nope. The kickboard was nowhere to be found.
I borrowed a board from the pool and during my swim tried to think the situation through. Maybe I'd put the kickboard on top of the lockers. I hadn't looked there, but that would be so out of character. I just couldn't come up with any explanation other than the kickboard had been stolen.
As I was showering after my swim it suddenly hit me, maybe someone had thought the kickboard had been discarded and threw it away completing some previously unrecognized cycle of nature.
At this point it might be pertinent to explain that I'd pulled the missing kickboard from one of the pool's trash cans a year or so before. (I have no pride.) I intended to use it as a backup when my old blue kickboard eventually wore away. You see the old blue one served me well for a number of years before starting a slow disintegration. Each semester I thought I could get another semester out of the blue one before I would need a replacement kickboard. My friend actually bought me a yellow kickboard to have on hand when the blue one couldn't be used any more. I actually got two years out of the blue kickboard before I - this is hard to explain - misplaced it.
I'm sure the blue kickboard is resting comfortably under something I own. One day it will see the light of day and give me another semester or two of service. Be that as it may, sometime between the time my friend bought me a kickboard and I misplaced the blue one I pulled the missing yellow kickboard out of the trash.
As I left the pool to shower I mentioned to the other guy in the locker room that it seemed someone had taken my kickboard. "Y'mean the one with the broken handle?" "Yeah. I can't believe it."
While showering it hit me, "Hey! Maybe someone threw it out." I looked in two of the trash cans in the locker, but it wasn't there. The guy in locker yelled, "You're right! It's here." My kickboard was in the third garbage can in the locker.
So this tale of high drama ends with a guy reunited with his kickboard, faith in the foodness of others restored, and a moral tale about the unexpected consequences of the urge for cleanliness laid out for all to see.
The only difference from last night's swim and my usual routine was that I sat on the can before I showered. (I realize that this falls under the TMI (Too Much Information) heading but...) It meant that my kickboard was left unattended while I attended to a call of nature. But why would anyone take my kickboard?
As you can see nobody else would not be able to use the kickboard at my pool - it's so recognizable. I looked around the locker room, I had a friend look for it out in the car. She even checked the Ladies bathroom. Maybe I'd handed it to her and she'd left it in the bathroom. Nope. The kickboard was nowhere to be found.
I borrowed a board from the pool and during my swim tried to think the situation through. Maybe I'd put the kickboard on top of the lockers. I hadn't looked there, but that would be so out of character. I just couldn't come up with any explanation other than the kickboard had been stolen.
As I was showering after my swim it suddenly hit me, maybe someone had thought the kickboard had been discarded and threw it away completing some previously unrecognized cycle of nature.
At this point it might be pertinent to explain that I'd pulled the missing kickboard from one of the pool's trash cans a year or so before. (I have no pride.) I intended to use it as a backup when my old blue kickboard eventually wore away. You see the old blue one served me well for a number of years before starting a slow disintegration. Each semester I thought I could get another semester out of the blue one before I would need a replacement kickboard. My friend actually bought me a yellow kickboard to have on hand when the blue one couldn't be used any more. I actually got two years out of the blue kickboard before I - this is hard to explain - misplaced it.
I'm sure the blue kickboard is resting comfortably under something I own. One day it will see the light of day and give me another semester or two of service. Be that as it may, sometime between the time my friend bought me a kickboard and I misplaced the blue one I pulled the missing yellow kickboard out of the trash.
As I left the pool to shower I mentioned to the other guy in the locker room that it seemed someone had taken my kickboard. "Y'mean the one with the broken handle?" "Yeah. I can't believe it."
While showering it hit me, "Hey! Maybe someone threw it out." I looked in two of the trash cans in the locker, but it wasn't there. The guy in locker yelled, "You're right! It's here." My kickboard was in the third garbage can in the locker.
So this tale of high drama ends with a guy reunited with his kickboard, faith in the foodness of others restored, and a moral tale about the unexpected consequences of the urge for cleanliness laid out for all to see.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
My Pusher Calls
So there I was at work when a co-worker says the phone call is for me. I didn't place the name at first - it's been over 6 months since we spoke. It was my old CD pusher, Mike.
Mike recounted the last half year: he use to send out a weekly e-mail of used CDs he'd picked up from libraries, garage sales, store closings, etc. The lists were enhanced with his commentary. (Mike is especially knowledgeable about jazz.) Being one of his regulars had certain benefits: Mike knew what I might like, knew that I only bought CDs with the original artwork and inserts, he'd look out for stuff I wanted, and he'd take back stuff which didn't work on my Aiwa. (There were CDs which played fine on Mike's players and computers, but my Aiwa's 20 year old system is showing it's age.)
When Mike found that the response to his e-mail list was falling off he decided to go the eBay/Amazon route. His jazz stuff is selling, but the city-folk music isn't. ("City folk" is one of those descriptions which seems immediately obvious to those who recognize it and a non sequitur to those who don't. As I understand it the term characterizes the music of WFUV (Fordham University), WMVY (Martha's Vineyard) on the east coast: hip, urban, but with roots in folk music. I yield to any authoritative definition.)
In this age of the virtual experience I suggested something classic: what about going to his house and pawing through his CDs? He like the idea. Over the next few weeks or so he'll stack them up and I'll be taking a look and listen. All the money I didn't spend when he stopped his e-mailing may get spent. (I think of music as a kinder gentler drug. It keeps on giving until you lose your hearing late in life.)
Mike recounted the last half year: he use to send out a weekly e-mail of used CDs he'd picked up from libraries, garage sales, store closings, etc. The lists were enhanced with his commentary. (Mike is especially knowledgeable about jazz.) Being one of his regulars had certain benefits: Mike knew what I might like, knew that I only bought CDs with the original artwork and inserts, he'd look out for stuff I wanted, and he'd take back stuff which didn't work on my Aiwa. (There were CDs which played fine on Mike's players and computers, but my Aiwa's 20 year old system is showing it's age.)
When Mike found that the response to his e-mail list was falling off he decided to go the eBay/Amazon route. His jazz stuff is selling, but the city-folk music isn't. ("City folk" is one of those descriptions which seems immediately obvious to those who recognize it and a non sequitur to those who don't. As I understand it the term characterizes the music of WFUV (Fordham University), WMVY (Martha's Vineyard) on the east coast: hip, urban, but with roots in folk music. I yield to any authoritative definition.)
In this age of the virtual experience I suggested something classic: what about going to his house and pawing through his CDs? He like the idea. Over the next few weeks or so he'll stack them up and I'll be taking a look and listen. All the money I didn't spend when he stopped his e-mailing may get spent. (I think of music as a kinder gentler drug. It keeps on giving until you lose your hearing late in life.)
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Back to My Music
It just dawned on my that in the last few weeks, as I worked on a program with a drop dead date, that I'd started to listen to CDs in almost the same way that I listened to record albums when I was a senior in college.
In those days we usually listened to the entire side of a record. (I can't remember if anyone had a record changer so they could listen to multiple sides without getting up.) In those days I was the only guy in a house with 8 or 9 other guys who did not have a turntable. It was more a matter of me feeling impoverished, rather than real impoverishment or an matter of self-denial. But, be that as it may, my time in that house had an accompanying soundtrack of Jimi Hendix, Cream, David Blue, Tim Buckley, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Jim Kweskin Jug Band, Koerner, Ray, and Glover, and the Doors. To this day, when I hear a song from those albums I find myself anticipating the next track.
Those of us from that era seem to have listened to album the same way. The very first time the album was played we sat on the floor, back to the bed, transfixed by the liner notes. And the album played over and over again the tunes impressed into our brains. If the liner notes had the lyrics we remembered them from simple repetition. (Without the liner notes, "A girl with kaleidescope eyes" became "A girl with colitis goes by", "'Scuse me while I kiss the sky" was sung as "'Scuse me while I kiss this guy", and "She's a must to avoid" got an unanticipated frisson as "She's a muscular boy.")
Now I have an old Aiwa boom box with a CD player. Sometimes I have to prop the boom box at an angle for some of the CDs to start to play, but once the CD starts I can lower the box and listen to the whole CD. And then start it up again and listen again. (It just occurred to me that I could press the repeat button.)
Occasionally I have to turn off the music so I can determine if a σ is the standard deviation for a population or a sample, but now the music has become the soundtrack to the program I'm writing.
Over the course of a few weeks I've played, Uakti's "Aguas da Amazonia" (music by Philip Glass), Paul Simon's "Graceland", John William's "The Ultimate Guitar Collection", Rosanne Cash's "Black Cadillac, the Dixie Chicks "Wide Open Spaces", and I'm now listening to David Berkeley's "After the Wrecking Ships".
Every once and a while I throw in Ottmar Liebert & Luna Negra's "Viva!".
Some years ago I bought a Richard Thompson CD and was not impressed by what I heard. I listened to it as background music. I gave the CD another listen to confirm my opinion, but for some reason I decided to read the insert as I listened and my opinion changed. The very dull lightning flash: it's words AND music. It was something I'd managed to overlook in the need to actually get something done.
Perhaps it's something to look forward to in retirement.
In those days we usually listened to the entire side of a record. (I can't remember if anyone had a record changer so they could listen to multiple sides without getting up.) In those days I was the only guy in a house with 8 or 9 other guys who did not have a turntable. It was more a matter of me feeling impoverished, rather than real impoverishment or an matter of self-denial. But, be that as it may, my time in that house had an accompanying soundtrack of Jimi Hendix, Cream, David Blue, Tim Buckley, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Jim Kweskin Jug Band, Koerner, Ray, and Glover, and the Doors. To this day, when I hear a song from those albums I find myself anticipating the next track.
Those of us from that era seem to have listened to album the same way. The very first time the album was played we sat on the floor, back to the bed, transfixed by the liner notes. And the album played over and over again the tunes impressed into our brains. If the liner notes had the lyrics we remembered them from simple repetition. (Without the liner notes, "A girl with kaleidescope eyes" became "A girl with colitis goes by", "'Scuse me while I kiss the sky" was sung as "'Scuse me while I kiss this guy", and "She's a must to avoid" got an unanticipated frisson as "She's a muscular boy.")
Now I have an old Aiwa boom box with a CD player. Sometimes I have to prop the boom box at an angle for some of the CDs to start to play, but once the CD starts I can lower the box and listen to the whole CD. And then start it up again and listen again. (It just occurred to me that I could press the repeat button.)
Occasionally I have to turn off the music so I can determine if a σ is the standard deviation for a population or a sample, but now the music has become the soundtrack to the program I'm writing.
Over the course of a few weeks I've played, Uakti's "Aguas da Amazonia" (music by Philip Glass), Paul Simon's "Graceland", John William's "The Ultimate Guitar Collection", Rosanne Cash's "Black Cadillac, the Dixie Chicks "Wide Open Spaces", and I'm now listening to David Berkeley's "After the Wrecking Ships".
Every once and a while I throw in Ottmar Liebert & Luna Negra's "Viva!".
Some years ago I bought a Richard Thompson CD and was not impressed by what I heard. I listened to it as background music. I gave the CD another listen to confirm my opinion, but for some reason I decided to read the insert as I listened and my opinion changed. The very dull lightning flash: it's words AND music. It was something I'd managed to overlook in the need to actually get something done.
Perhaps it's something to look forward to in retirement.
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Sunday, June 01, 2008
Have You Ever Exposed Yourself to a Child?
Nope, but it was close. I'm one of the people who get to the pool in the last hour. If I show up before 10 PM all the attendants quickly check the clocks. There are a few other late nighters. If we don't know each others names, we are nodding acquaintances.
About a month or two ago there was someone I don't believe I'd ever seen before: a father with his little girl. The kid seemed to be having a great time riding her father's back like a whale rider.
Because it takes me a long time to shower and dress I leave the pool a few minutes before they blow the everybody-out-of-the-water whistle. I was toweling myself off when I heard an exceptionally high pitched voice in the locker room. The title of this post flashed across my mind.
Children under 5 are allowed in either locker room when accompanied by an adult. I imagined being asked about this at, say a Senate hearing: "Well, I didn't really expose myself to the little girl, she just walked into..." or "You see children under 5 when accompanied by an adult are allowed ... "
I gave up, dressed quickly and managed to leave without seeing either of them.
About a month or two ago there was someone I don't believe I'd ever seen before: a father with his little girl. The kid seemed to be having a great time riding her father's back like a whale rider.
Because it takes me a long time to shower and dress I leave the pool a few minutes before they blow the everybody-out-of-the-water whistle. I was toweling myself off when I heard an exceptionally high pitched voice in the locker room. The title of this post flashed across my mind.
Children under 5 are allowed in either locker room when accompanied by an adult. I imagined being asked about this at, say a Senate hearing: "Well, I didn't really expose myself to the little girl, she just walked into..." or "You see children under 5 when accompanied by an adult are allowed ... "
I gave up, dressed quickly and managed to leave without seeing either of them.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Stealing Shampoo By Accident
About two weeks ago I noticed a half-filled bottle of shampoo in the shower at the pool about a quarter to 11 PM. I was the last one at the pool. My finely honed sleuthing skills reasoned that the shampoo probably belonged to the guy who left as I arrived. Because the swim staff seems to throw stuff out stuff like shampoo rather than put it in the lost and found, I thought I'd take the shampoo and bring it back to the pool and give the shampoo to the guy the next time we met.
When I got home I remembered that the guy I intended to give the shampoo to makes a point of NOT showering at the pool. Duh. Another example of collateral damage from my sleep deficit.
I finally saw the guy tonight and explained the situation. Did he want the shampoo? Nah, you keep it. Sigh. My intentions were noble. Maybe I'll get off with a judicial reprimand.
When I got home I remembered that the guy I intended to give the shampoo to makes a point of NOT showering at the pool. Duh. Another example of collateral damage from my sleep deficit.
I finally saw the guy tonight and explained the situation. Did he want the shampoo? Nah, you keep it. Sigh. My intentions were noble. Maybe I'll get off with a judicial reprimand.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
I Cut My Father's Nails
My parents have long maintained that getting old is not for sissies. My father has stated several times that he's no longer getting old, he's there. He's old.
As they've gotten older my parents have made their accommodations to their diminishing strength through planning. They minimizing the number of times they use the stairs, wait for me to come over rather than chance climbing up a latter to change a bulb, etc.
After triple coronary bypass surgery my father suffered some problems which led to a loss of feeling in his right hand. One of the results was that just yesterday he asked me to cut his nails. The nails on his right hand were nicely trimmed, but because he couldn't trust his right hand to do the job the nails on his left hand were long.
My father had must have thought about it for a while before coming to the conclusion that he had to ask for assistance. It was an awkward experience on my part. I didn't think I'd nip his finger, but I couldn't feel where the clippers were. I had a new respect for manicurists and nail technicians. It might have appeared comical. I'd position the clipper, then move my head around to see if the clipper was going to nip his skin before actually clipping his nails.
I wonder why he doesn't use a nail file, but then maybe it's also a problem with gripping.
As they've gotten older my parents have made their accommodations to their diminishing strength through planning. They minimizing the number of times they use the stairs, wait for me to come over rather than chance climbing up a latter to change a bulb, etc.
After triple coronary bypass surgery my father suffered some problems which led to a loss of feeling in his right hand. One of the results was that just yesterday he asked me to cut his nails. The nails on his right hand were nicely trimmed, but because he couldn't trust his right hand to do the job the nails on his left hand were long.
My father had must have thought about it for a while before coming to the conclusion that he had to ask for assistance. It was an awkward experience on my part. I didn't think I'd nip his finger, but I couldn't feel where the clippers were. I had a new respect for manicurists and nail technicians. It might have appeared comical. I'd position the clipper, then move my head around to see if the clipper was going to nip his skin before actually clipping his nails.
I wonder why he doesn't use a nail file, but then maybe it's also a problem with gripping.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Ten Most Wanted
The Director told all the staffers to make a promotional piece/advertisement for themselves. For many years I'd thought that my department should have made trading cards made for the staff or the student assistants.
I tried to make a trading card, but, in my sleep deficit induced dehabilitation, I'd never be able to do a reasonable job with Illustrator or PhotoShop. I settled for imitating a wanted poster.
The first poster I used for a model was a US Postal Inspection Service poster for Sy Hien Nguyen. Nguyen ran a multi-million dollar identity theft ring along with bad check and credit card fraud. The wanted poster is interesting for two reasons:
I looked for an FBI poster in the hope that it might be different. Surprise - it was. The very first FBI poster I found was Usama Bin Laden's. The FBI poster uses serifed fonts one of which looks like Times New Roman. I don't know why design people despise Times New Roman, but if it is good enough for the FBI I wasn't going to quibble. Using only MS Word 2003 and PhotoFiltre (a freeware graphics program to resize images and adjust the color) I knocked out the poster. In this poster also the blue colors are different, with the top banner being lighter (0:0:205 or #0000CC) than the color of the text (0:0:255 or #0000FF).
The scary part was looking at pictures of myself: I looked haggard. (Note to self: get some sleep.) Can someone tell me why haggard in black and white is less upsetting than haggard in color? The best I could do for humor was to describe my eyes as "Penetrating, but kind" and for "Scars and marks" enter "Displayed on request." I listed the charges against me as providing solutions and sound advice. (It was late and the muse had already left to get a beauty rest.)
The next day, the boss said she like it. Mine was different. That seems appropriate. We never got around to discussing the advertisements. Somehow that too seems appropriate. We're scheduled to go over them again at the next staff meeting. (Given that my department is supposed to be a technology department I would have thought that we should have posted the adverts to a web page to save paper, but nobody asked me. As it is other staffers cranked off a lot of colored printing.)
(Maybe I can use the extra time to make a trading card for myself. What I'd really like to do is make something with a foldout. Many from my background will cite Jethro Tull's Stand-Up album as cool, if only for the pop-up of the band when the album gatefold opened.)
Just today the head of a different department sent an e-mail with the words "Promotion" and "permanently" in the subject line. I got a sinking feeling that the poster was going into my employee file.
What a relief to find that message concerned Adobe software licensing.
I tried to make a trading card, but, in my sleep deficit induced dehabilitation, I'd never be able to do a reasonable job with Illustrator or PhotoShop. I settled for imitating a wanted poster.
The first poster I used for a model was a US Postal Inspection Service poster for Sy Hien Nguyen. Nguyen ran a multi-million dollar identity theft ring along with bad check and credit card fraud. The wanted poster is interesting for two reasons:
- The two bands of blue are slightly different shades (0:0:153 or #000099) for the reward band and slightly darker for the bottom band (1:1:154 or #01019A).
- None of the sans serif fonts seemed to match the lowercase "n" the poster's fonts.
I looked for an FBI poster in the hope that it might be different. Surprise - it was. The very first FBI poster I found was Usama Bin Laden's. The FBI poster uses serifed fonts one of which looks like Times New Roman. I don't know why design people despise Times New Roman, but if it is good enough for the FBI I wasn't going to quibble. Using only MS Word 2003 and PhotoFiltre (a freeware graphics program to resize images and adjust the color) I knocked out the poster. In this poster also the blue colors are different, with the top banner being lighter (0:0:205 or #0000CC) than the color of the text (0:0:255 or #0000FF).
The scary part was looking at pictures of myself: I looked haggard. (Note to self: get some sleep.) Can someone tell me why haggard in black and white is less upsetting than haggard in color? The best I could do for humor was to describe my eyes as "Penetrating, but kind" and for "Scars and marks" enter "Displayed on request." I listed the charges against me as providing solutions and sound advice. (It was late and the muse had already left to get a beauty rest.)
The next day, the boss said she like it. Mine was different. That seems appropriate. We never got around to discussing the advertisements. Somehow that too seems appropriate. We're scheduled to go over them again at the next staff meeting. (Given that my department is supposed to be a technology department I would have thought that we should have posted the adverts to a web page to save paper, but nobody asked me. As it is other staffers cranked off a lot of colored printing.)
(Maybe I can use the extra time to make a trading card for myself. What I'd really like to do is make something with a foldout. Many from my background will cite Jethro Tull's Stand-Up album as cool, if only for the pop-up of the band when the album gatefold opened.)
Just today the head of a different department sent an e-mail with the words "Promotion" and "permanently" in the subject line. I got a sinking feeling that the poster was going into my employee file.
What a relief to find that message concerned Adobe software licensing.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Sleepless in PA/Sex Scandal
I had to go for training in rural PA this week. There were better times for training, but intervening events intervened. (I was intending to write that "The turn of events turned into this", but considering that this is dairy country and "turning" connotes souring I'll leave it as a parenthetical phrase.) I left NY very late on Sunday, survived two near collisions (the first the fault of the other guy, the other mine) to arrive at my motel about 2:30 AM.
On 4 hours sleep I staggered over to the training site. (I was smart enough to have booked a motel within walking distance of the training site - the only plus I'll give myself for this excursion.) I was surprised to find that the training I'd signed up for was not the one I expected, but what the heck, I could put it to good use anyway. (I have the feeling that I'm an observer in my own life. Hmmm I wonder what I'm going to do next. Thought balloons would be helpful, but there's no guarantee that I'd do what I think I'd do.)
Back at the motel, I couldn't find an NPR station. I was too tired to get the shakes. (It's an extension of my family's joke that my father gets withdrawal symptoms if he's without the NY Times too long.)
As a poor substitute I watched TV - a rare and mystifying event. The camera work confuses me. Why the cuts? If the producers want to show something why not run continuous footage with voice over commentary? The flashy graphics seem to be a keeping-up-with-the-Jones phenomenon. So it was on TV that I learned that Elliot Spitzer, an ostensibly respectable guy, former US attorney with a well deserved reputation for prosecuting despicable Wall Street types, now Governor of the great state of New York, was caught in a prostitution sting. Say what?
Now I'm willing to be as venial as the next guy (if it doesn't take too much effort), but I was naive enough to believe that politicians these days care too much about their ambition to do something as incredibly stupid as get involved in something like this. People delight in pointing out that I clearly overlooked the obvious: many successful people believe they can play by a different set of rules without paying the consequences. I'm so lacking in self confidence that I'm absolutely certain that any misstep I make would be caught on video cameras with unimpeachable witnesses providing color commentary.
So again I don't understand. Spitzer is the bleeping governor. Was the lack of judgment due to something less obvious than hubris? Is this a Wilbur Mills/Tidal Basin Bombshell event? (Wilbur Mills, a Congressional representative from Arkansas was chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee in the 1960's and acknowledged as one of the most powerful men in Washington, fell from grace after a series of events involving a stripper and alcoholism.) I add this only because I can testify to how impaired judgment can be by things as mundane as a sleep deficit.
So we bid tearful farewell to Elliot's national political ambitions and turn to the best Unreality Show in the World: the US presidential contest.
On 4 hours sleep I staggered over to the training site. (I was smart enough to have booked a motel within walking distance of the training site - the only plus I'll give myself for this excursion.) I was surprised to find that the training I'd signed up for was not the one I expected, but what the heck, I could put it to good use anyway. (I have the feeling that I'm an observer in my own life. Hmmm I wonder what I'm going to do next. Thought balloons would be helpful, but there's no guarantee that I'd do what I think I'd do.)
Back at the motel, I couldn't find an NPR station. I was too tired to get the shakes. (It's an extension of my family's joke that my father gets withdrawal symptoms if he's without the NY Times too long.)
As a poor substitute I watched TV - a rare and mystifying event. The camera work confuses me. Why the cuts? If the producers want to show something why not run continuous footage with voice over commentary? The flashy graphics seem to be a keeping-up-with-the-Jones phenomenon. So it was on TV that I learned that Elliot Spitzer, an ostensibly respectable guy, former US attorney with a well deserved reputation for prosecuting despicable Wall Street types, now Governor of the great state of New York, was caught in a prostitution sting. Say what?
Now I'm willing to be as venial as the next guy (if it doesn't take too much effort), but I was naive enough to believe that politicians these days care too much about their ambition to do something as incredibly stupid as get involved in something like this. People delight in pointing out that I clearly overlooked the obvious: many successful people believe they can play by a different set of rules without paying the consequences. I'm so lacking in self confidence that I'm absolutely certain that any misstep I make would be caught on video cameras with unimpeachable witnesses providing color commentary.
So again I don't understand. Spitzer is the bleeping governor. Was the lack of judgment due to something less obvious than hubris? Is this a Wilbur Mills/Tidal Basin Bombshell event? (Wilbur Mills, a Congressional representative from Arkansas was chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee in the 1960's and acknowledged as one of the most powerful men in Washington, fell from grace after a series of events involving a stripper and alcoholism.) I add this only because I can testify to how impaired judgment can be by things as mundane as a sleep deficit.
So we bid tearful farewell to Elliot's national political ambitions and turn to the best Unreality Show in the World: the US presidential contest.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Sweet Old World/Emmylou Harris
She said, "I've got the lyrics from one of your damn whiny woman singers stuck in my head:
Together with another one
Didn't you think anyone loved you?
See what you lost when you left this world.
"It's Lucinda William's song, 'Sweet Old World' sung by Emmylou Harris on her 'Wrecking Ball' album." I said. (I didn't add that Emmylou doesn't qualify as one of the whiny woman singers whose voices twist my heart, but that's another story or that I was surprised that I could identify the lyrics provenance like the old days. In the old days I might have been able to supply the track listing.)
This post is to document the fact that my memory sometimes works and gives me a chance to say that Emmylou Harris deserves her accolades and respect.
Together with another one
Didn't you think anyone loved you?
See what you lost when you left this world.
"It's Lucinda William's song, 'Sweet Old World' sung by Emmylou Harris on her 'Wrecking Ball' album." I said. (I didn't add that Emmylou doesn't qualify as one of the whiny woman singers whose voices twist my heart, but that's another story or that I was surprised that I could identify the lyrics provenance like the old days. In the old days I might have been able to supply the track listing.)
This post is to document the fact that my memory sometimes works and gives me a chance to say that Emmylou Harris deserves her accolades and respect.
Friday, December 28, 2007
"Freedom for Wife Killer"
In 1976 Charles Friedgood was convicted of killing his wife with an overdose of Demerol. The NY Times had recent interviews with Charles Friedgood (Relationship With His Children, Remorse and Dying in Prison and His Crimes). Friedgood, suffering from his third bout with cancer, was the oldest prisoner in the NY state prison system.
Now among the trivia I seem to remember about the case was that after injecting his wife multiple times to kill her he spent the night turning her body to alter the lividity (change in coloration due to blood settling) to make the time of death seem later.
The other trivia associated with the case involve his signing his wife's death certificate, quickly burying her out of state, and being arrested at the airport with $500,000 in a bag as he was on his way to Denmark to join his long term mistress with the two children he'd fathered. A real sweetheart.
My reading of the excerpts of the interviews is that he still hasn't admitted his crime. I'm a retrograde type who thinks that a reasonable sentence for premeditated murder is a bullet to the back of the head. (In contrast to the method used in China I don't believe that the family of the criminal should pay for the bullet. I think that we the people should be willing to cover the cost. Lawyers will explain that all premeditated murders are not the same. Mental state, intent, intellectual capacity, etc. are all important before the law, but, me? I don't give a rip. If someone could ask me if the person who killed me should be shot in the head, I'd prefer something more painful and brutal, but then I'm not likely to be asked or my wishes heeded. So if it comes to it, after relations and friends have had their say, please refer this column to the jury.)
Not being in the People's Democratic Republic, the NY prison system had to decide what to do with an old guy with terminal cancer sporting a colostomy bag. The result seems to be to foist him into the VA system so the rest of the country is helping to foot the bill until he dies.
A few years ago, Amy Fisher (the "Long Island Lolita") wrote a column in the predecessor to the Long Island Press about an elderly man who probably chose an abortive career as a bank robber. (I could not find the column. If someone does, I'd appreciate the link because Amy Fisher's columns were usually well written and heartfelt.) In Fisher's analysis, he realized that he had no real prospects after being suckered out of his money by a younger woman. An unsuccessful life of crime would open prison doors and guaranteed medical care.
It's an option more of us might need to consider.
Now among the trivia I seem to remember about the case was that after injecting his wife multiple times to kill her he spent the night turning her body to alter the lividity (change in coloration due to blood settling) to make the time of death seem later.
The other trivia associated with the case involve his signing his wife's death certificate, quickly burying her out of state, and being arrested at the airport with $500,000 in a bag as he was on his way to Denmark to join his long term mistress with the two children he'd fathered. A real sweetheart.
My reading of the excerpts of the interviews is that he still hasn't admitted his crime. I'm a retrograde type who thinks that a reasonable sentence for premeditated murder is a bullet to the back of the head. (In contrast to the method used in China I don't believe that the family of the criminal should pay for the bullet. I think that we the people should be willing to cover the cost. Lawyers will explain that all premeditated murders are not the same. Mental state, intent, intellectual capacity, etc. are all important before the law, but, me? I don't give a rip. If someone could ask me if the person who killed me should be shot in the head, I'd prefer something more painful and brutal, but then I'm not likely to be asked or my wishes heeded. So if it comes to it, after relations and friends have had their say, please refer this column to the jury.)
Not being in the People's Democratic Republic, the NY prison system had to decide what to do with an old guy with terminal cancer sporting a colostomy bag. The result seems to be to foist him into the VA system so the rest of the country is helping to foot the bill until he dies.
A few years ago, Amy Fisher (the "Long Island Lolita") wrote a column in the predecessor to the Long Island Press about an elderly man who probably chose an abortive career as a bank robber. (I could not find the column. If someone does, I'd appreciate the link because Amy Fisher's columns were usually well written and heartfelt.) In Fisher's analysis, he realized that he had no real prospects after being suckered out of his money by a younger woman. An unsuccessful life of crime would open prison doors and guaranteed medical care.
It's an option more of us might need to consider.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
A Phenomenon: The Winning Applicant
For two months now my department has been looking for "instructional technologists". I haven't looked at the ad for the job description, but my feeling was that the motley crew which comprises the department would know what we wanted when we saw it.
Yesterday we saw her.
The director had not yet arrived when I got there. The several there (attendance wasn't mandatory) were discussing a distance learning program. The head of the team on which the successful applicant would be working, finally said, "We might as well get started."
In my expected role of the go-for-the-jugular (lite) I said, "Ok, let's get her!" Not a flinch. Just a smile. And great posture.
(My tone made it clear that I wasn't serious. However, everyone but the applicant knew I'd been warned by the director that if I sandbagged another applicant I might lose my interviewing privileges. On the web I'd discovered a a previous candidate's poorly designed PowerPoint presentation. During the interview I asked that candidate to comment on the merits of her presentation. She was obviously startled, but in my estimation, she not only showed animation for the first time in the interview, but also demonstrated really good analytic skills.
My co-workers have never seen me really go for the jugular. Honestly, though, as savage as I was in my prime, I was only a pale imitation of my role models. But I stray.)
Back to the matters at hand: after the interview each of us said that we'd decided within minutes that the job was her's to lose. She had me by mentioning NPR, Mark Morris, and her mimicking students who wanted to learn more about math. Some were enchanted by a small spontaneous psychodrama wherein she worked her magic on a grumpy prof (played by the guy who would be her team leader). Some were enamored by her ability to express herself openly, honestly, and clearly.
When later we described the interview to those who weren't there, we each in our own way said, you should have been there. It was a great experience. This was indeed a rare thing.
The next day, the director called an assembly of the multitude to review the applicants and decide which could be eliminated, which should be offered positions, and which were told that we were still making a decision.
Because I would have to leave early I said: "Emily. Rah! Rah! Rah!"
The director looked around the table. All those who'd been at Emily's interview nodded in agreement. Now we have to hope she'll take the job. (One of her uncles works for the department. We wondered if we could get more like her from the family tree.)
Yesterday we saw her.
The director had not yet arrived when I got there. The several there (attendance wasn't mandatory) were discussing a distance learning program. The head of the team on which the successful applicant would be working, finally said, "We might as well get started."
In my expected role of the go-for-the-jugular (lite) I said, "Ok, let's get her!" Not a flinch. Just a smile. And great posture.
(My tone made it clear that I wasn't serious. However, everyone but the applicant knew I'd been warned by the director that if I sandbagged another applicant I might lose my interviewing privileges. On the web I'd discovered a a previous candidate's poorly designed PowerPoint presentation. During the interview I asked that candidate to comment on the merits of her presentation. She was obviously startled, but in my estimation, she not only showed animation for the first time in the interview, but also demonstrated really good analytic skills.
My co-workers have never seen me really go for the jugular. Honestly, though, as savage as I was in my prime, I was only a pale imitation of my role models. But I stray.)
Back to the matters at hand: after the interview each of us said that we'd decided within minutes that the job was her's to lose. She had me by mentioning NPR, Mark Morris, and her mimicking students who wanted to learn more about math. Some were enchanted by a small spontaneous psychodrama wherein she worked her magic on a grumpy prof (played by the guy who would be her team leader). Some were enamored by her ability to express herself openly, honestly, and clearly.
When later we described the interview to those who weren't there, we each in our own way said, you should have been there. It was a great experience. This was indeed a rare thing.
The next day, the director called an assembly of the multitude to review the applicants and decide which could be eliminated, which should be offered positions, and which were told that we were still making a decision.
Because I would have to leave early I said: "Emily. Rah! Rah! Rah!"
The director looked around the table. All those who'd been at Emily's interview nodded in agreement. Now we have to hope she'll take the job. (One of her uncles works for the department. We wondered if we could get more like her from the family tree.)
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Coca-Cola's Friends
The computer tech commentators are falling all over themselves trying to predict the ramifications on the digital ecology/economy of Microsoft's $240 million equity stake in Facebook. Does this portend ill for Google? A looming threat to eBay?
I don't pretend to know. (I care, but only in the distant way that both these companies are held by mutual funds on which my retirement depends.) It's abundantly clear to me that I'm way behind even the social derriere-garde (no iPod, no cell phone, unable to identify most of the people on the cover of People magazine, etc.). However, there is something that doesn't change much with time: people.
For all the exposure to the new and modern there is that perverse human streak. Case in point: a ZDnet newsletter on November 8 had screen shots of Coca-Cola's Facebook page. (Link was valid when created.)
I think the ZDnet's intended their readers to ponder the consequences of ads appearing on Coca-Cola's Facebook pages. I on the other hand, was attracted to the comments of one "Sarah Yousgren (Rancho Bernardo High School)" (I may have the name wrong, because I'm reading from the screen shot) who ended her post with "coke is the best i don't care if it will make me fat and dead".
The best and brightest advertising minds may not be able to compete with the insouciance of youth.
I don't pretend to know. (I care, but only in the distant way that both these companies are held by mutual funds on which my retirement depends.) It's abundantly clear to me that I'm way behind even the social derriere-garde (no iPod, no cell phone, unable to identify most of the people on the cover of People magazine, etc.). However, there is something that doesn't change much with time: people.
For all the exposure to the new and modern there is that perverse human streak. Case in point: a ZDnet newsletter on November 8 had screen shots of Coca-Cola's Facebook page. (Link was valid when created.)
I think the ZDnet's intended their readers to ponder the consequences of ads appearing on Coca-Cola's Facebook pages. I on the other hand, was attracted to the comments of one "Sarah Yousgren (Rancho Bernardo High School)" (I may have the name wrong, because I'm reading from the screen shot) who ended her post with "coke is the best i don't care if it will make me fat and dead".
The best and brightest advertising minds may not be able to compete with the insouciance of youth.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
An Unexpected Consequence of Porn?
Sometimes I click on a link and realize how out of touch I am. Case in point:
In the Self article, "Surgery where?", the author, Jennifer Wolff, speculates on an unexpected result of the availability of porn: "Hoping to pump up their sex life, women are having cosmetic surgery on their most private parts." With the ability to now compare their own "nether lips"* with those on view on the web, some women look to plastic surgery to improve their intimate appearance.
The article also discusses conditions where surgery is warranted because some women are in constant discomfort or experience pain during intercourse.
With increasing frequency, I find myself saying to myself, "Who knew?"
* I thought the term came from "Lady Chatterly's Lover", but it apparently goes way, way back to Chaucer.
In the Self article, "Surgery where?", the author, Jennifer Wolff, speculates on an unexpected result of the availability of porn: "Hoping to pump up their sex life, women are having cosmetic surgery on their most private parts." With the ability to now compare their own "nether lips"* with those on view on the web, some women look to plastic surgery to improve their intimate appearance.
The article also discusses conditions where surgery is warranted because some women are in constant discomfort or experience pain during intercourse.
With increasing frequency, I find myself saying to myself, "Who knew?"
* I thought the term came from "Lady Chatterly's Lover", but it apparently goes way, way back to Chaucer.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Colon Cleansing, Ben Stein, & Selecting a Candidate Quiz
I get occasional forwarded e-mail from Harry Cobb, not his real name, but his e-mail persona. We are not very well aligned politically.
About a month ago I receiving both an e-mail from him containing spurious historical rebuttals to objections to Bush's war in Iraq and an offer to flush excess pounds from my colon. (Separate messages, but the pairing was fortuitous.)
How people know more about my colon than I do continues to mystify me, but their message turned out to be just what I needed, although not as they anticipated: The colonic cleansing message proved to be the solution to the persistent problem of replying to Harry's unwanted e-mail.
Now, when Harry sends me a message, actually most of his e-mail is forwarded messages , that I find a waste of my time, I forward the colonic cleansing message to him as a response. I change the subject so it appears that I'm responding to his message he forwarded to me. Harry was a Psych major as an undergraduate so I expect that he'll recognize (and respond) to classical conditioning. (The not so subtle implication that he's a dog is also there, but then he knows I 'm fond of dogs.)
To induce Harry to read, and not automatically delete my e-mail, I try to respond to those worthy of response in a positive fashion. (Psychologist can now weigh in about how my message sending is not classical conditioning, and can send a mixed message. They are welcome to contact me. I'll give them Harry's e-mail account so they can validate their opinions.) All of which brings me to:
Ben Stein
I read Ben Stein on economics. His involvement with "Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed" is embarrassing to the point of being a failure of reason. Harry forwarded a CBS Sunday Morning Commentary: 12/18/2005 - Christmas by Ben Stein about religion which I felt glibly slid around school prayer, evolution, church state separation, etc. When I got to the part where Billy Graham's daughter explained why God let Katrina happen because among other things we don't have school prayer, I thought Ben Stein was being either extremely funny or in need of help. Being unable to help Ben Stein I opted instead to forward Harry the colonic cleansing missive.
Selecting a Candidate Quiz
On the other, hand, to give credit where credit is due, Harry sent me an 11 question Select a Candidate Quiz from radio station WQAD*. From my own experience I think the quiz is accurate. I was surprised to see that the score for my top two candidates was only near 60. (The value is dependent on the degree of importance selected for each response.)
I thanked Harry for the quiz, but, as is so typical of me, I couldn't resist chastising him for not citing the original quiz at Minesota Public Radio.
---------------
*I looked up WQAD and was surprised to have to dig around their web site a bit to determine that the Quad Cities are Davenport and Bettendorf in Iowa and Moline/East Moline and Rock Islands in Illinois.
About a month ago I receiving both an e-mail from him containing spurious historical rebuttals to objections to Bush's war in Iraq and an offer to flush excess pounds from my colon. (Separate messages, but the pairing was fortuitous.)
How people know more about my colon than I do continues to mystify me, but their message turned out to be just what I needed, although not as they anticipated: The colonic cleansing message proved to be the solution to the persistent problem of replying to Harry's unwanted e-mail.
Now, when Harry sends me a message, actually most of his e-mail is forwarded messages , that I find a waste of my time, I forward the colonic cleansing message to him as a response. I change the subject so it appears that I'm responding to his message he forwarded to me. Harry was a Psych major as an undergraduate so I expect that he'll recognize (and respond) to classical conditioning. (The not so subtle implication that he's a dog is also there, but then he knows I 'm fond of dogs.)
To induce Harry to read, and not automatically delete my e-mail, I try to respond to those worthy of response in a positive fashion. (Psychologist can now weigh in about how my message sending is not classical conditioning, and can send a mixed message. They are welcome to contact me. I'll give them Harry's e-mail account so they can validate their opinions.) All of which brings me to:
Ben Stein
I read Ben Stein on economics. His involvement with "Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed" is embarrassing to the point of being a failure of reason. Harry forwarded a CBS Sunday Morning Commentary: 12/18/2005 - Christmas by Ben Stein about religion which I felt glibly slid around school prayer, evolution, church state separation, etc. When I got to the part where Billy Graham's daughter explained why God let Katrina happen because among other things we don't have school prayer, I thought Ben Stein was being either extremely funny or in need of help. Being unable to help Ben Stein I opted instead to forward Harry the colonic cleansing missive.
Selecting a Candidate Quiz
On the other, hand, to give credit where credit is due, Harry sent me an 11 question Select a Candidate Quiz from radio station WQAD*. From my own experience I think the quiz is accurate. I was surprised to see that the score for my top two candidates was only near 60. (The value is dependent on the degree of importance selected for each response.)
I thanked Harry for the quiz, but, as is so typical of me, I couldn't resist chastising him for not citing the original quiz at Minesota Public Radio.
---------------
*I looked up WQAD and was surprised to have to dig around their web site a bit to determine that the Quad Cities are Davenport and Bettendorf in Iowa and Moline/East Moline and Rock Islands in Illinois.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Hello Worlf!/Brainf*ck
Students are training for an upcoming ACM programming contest by tackling problems from previous contests. One of the examples from the November 2005 ACM Regional Collegiate Programming Contest at Kean University was the "ungodly creation of Urban Muller", a computer programming language which, in the interest of propriety, is usually written "brainf*ck".
<digression>
First programs written in a new programming language are often referred to as "Hello World" programs in honor of the first program in the classic book, "The C Programming Language" by Kernighan and Richie. Hello World programs display the words "Hello World!" on the screen or computer console.
All the problems in ACM competitions are formatted the same way and each problem contains sample inputs and the corresponding program outputs so competitors can verify that their programs are working correctly.
It's been a while since I programmed, but I tackled the brainf*ck problem with a classic "top down" approach using the C programming language. (C is usually not the programming language of choice because the language let's programmers do horrible things, often without even a warning. Of course that's the attraction of the language, but I'll limit my digression.) If I were more current I'd be using C++ or Java with object-oriented techniques, but C, with it's cavalier treatment of characters and integers actually was an advantage in writing this particular program. (y ='b' +2; is a perfectly legal statement in C.)
Using top down programming I started with the big picture and worked down toward the actual nitty-gritty of creating the guts of the program. I was surprised at how smoothly things went. Of course, I had advantages over those in the actual competition: I was using Microsoft's Visual Studio with it's exceptional debugger, help just the press of a function key away, and, of course, I wasn't under time pressure. (This endorsement of an older development system has not been influenced by Microsoft, Microsoft partners or affiliates, or Steve Ballmer's threat to sue my pants off if I did not endorse a Microsoft product.)
In actual competition students are using vi for editing, the man pages for help/reference, and dbx on Linux for debugging, all in all a much more difficult environment. (vi is a text editor best described as Trivial Pursuit, Keyboard edition.)
</digression>
To give you an idea of how weird brainf*ck appears, the following program prints out the Roman alphabet in capital letters:
Because of my approach, I wouldn't be able to see how the program displayed results until the whole program was written. (This is not technically true, but in the interest of blogging, please accept the statement as true.) So imagine my delight as I got to see the first output of:
Using the debugger to step through the program I got 'H' followed by 'e', then 'l', another 'l'. I was thrilled. Throwing caution to the wind, I let it rip and got:
Sigh. The other sample inputs worked fine though. I'll go back and see what I did wrong. It was so tantalizing to feel that the very first run through of program would work flawlessly.
I think I've taken my run-in with my fallibility in stride. I've started to refer to first programs as "Hello Worlf" programs.
<digression>
First programs written in a new programming language are often referred to as "Hello World" programs in honor of the first program in the classic book, "The C Programming Language" by Kernighan and Richie. Hello World programs display the words "Hello World!" on the screen or computer console.
All the problems in ACM competitions are formatted the same way and each problem contains sample inputs and the corresponding program outputs so competitors can verify that their programs are working correctly.
It's been a while since I programmed, but I tackled the brainf*ck problem with a classic "top down" approach using the C programming language. (C is usually not the programming language of choice because the language let's programmers do horrible things, often without even a warning. Of course that's the attraction of the language, but I'll limit my digression.) If I were more current I'd be using C++ or Java with object-oriented techniques, but C, with it's cavalier treatment of characters and integers actually was an advantage in writing this particular program. (y ='b' +2; is a perfectly legal statement in C.)
Using top down programming I started with the big picture and worked down toward the actual nitty-gritty of creating the guts of the program. I was surprised at how smoothly things went. Of course, I had advantages over those in the actual competition: I was using Microsoft's Visual Studio with it's exceptional debugger, help just the press of a function key away, and, of course, I wasn't under time pressure. (This endorsement of an older development system has not been influenced by Microsoft, Microsoft partners or affiliates, or Steve Ballmer's threat to sue my pants off if I did not endorse a Microsoft product.)
In actual competition students are using vi for editing, the man pages for help/reference, and dbx on Linux for debugging, all in all a much more difficult environment. (vi is a text editor best described as Trivial Pursuit, Keyboard edition.)
</digression>
To give you an idea of how weird brainf*ck appears, the following program prints out the Roman alphabet in capital letters:
+ + + + + +++++++++++++++++++++> ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +< [ >.+<- ] end |
Because of my approach, I wouldn't be able to see how the program displayed results until the whole program was written. (This is not technically true, but in the interest of blogging, please accept the statement as true.) So imagine my delight as I got to see the first output of:
<-]>.<+++++[>++++++<-]>-.+++++++.. +++.<++++++++[>>++++<<-]>>.<<++++[> ------<-]>.<++++[>++++++<-]>.+++. ------.—------.>+. end |
Using the debugger to step through the program I got 'H' followed by 'e', then 'l', another 'l'. I was thrilled. Throwing caution to the wind, I let it rip and got:
Hello Worlf!
Sigh. The other sample inputs worked fine though. I'll go back and see what I did wrong. It was so tantalizing to feel that the very first run through of program would work flawlessly.
I think I've taken my run-in with my fallibility in stride. I've started to refer to first programs as "Hello Worlf" programs.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Chatting with the Imam
I used to see the Imam on a regular basis a year or so ago. His main line of work is being a business prof, and in that capacity I'd help him out because he is not that adept with computers. Now that his classes use different software he doesn't require my assistance. Still, I liked to drop by for a chat.
Coming from Egypt, he recognizes and values what many native born Americans often take for granted: our attempts to follow our profession of equality and fairness under the law. He is as dismayed as anyone else at his co-religionists slaughtering each other in the Middle East.
He was happy to see me. And why not? I don't seem particularly arrogant or look down on people with less technological expertise. Any number of times I've said that much of what passes for technical expertise is transient knowledge, easily obviated by newer software or methods. The technical expertise is often just a tech edition of Trivial Pursuit.
Also, we just seem to get along
About a year ago, when it appeared that my position was in jeopardy he was one of the faculty who were prepared to go to the mat for me. I didn't fully realize it at the time, something that embarrasses me now, but now I get practically weepy remembering it. So when he asks, "How are things?" it is not a nicety - he's concerned.
I said it looks like I'm doing OK, how about you.
Not so well it turns out. He's not getting any younger and one friend, a friend since childhood recently "expired" in the hospital. We reflected on the term. It was as if his friend had lived too long. Another old friend had called him recently to inform the Imam that he had cancer which was now affecting his brain and the call would probably be his last.
I asked if, like some of his colleagues, he was going to take early retirement. He said no. He didn't have a talent like others who painted or played a musical instrument. He'd keep on teaching. (He's much more accepting than other professors whose chagrin at a decline in the quality of the students drove their acceptance of early retirement.)
With those portents of mortality, the Imam went out and bought a Mercedes SUV. Really? Yes, it's right over there. The tan one. I offered to scratch it for him so he wouldn't have to deal with the uncertainty of it getting scratched. He declined my offer. He said the Mercedes was a wonderful car. People treated him with more respect. The guys at the gas station now called him sir even though he doesn't spend any more money than before.
I told him about the time I was watching TV with my mother (always an experience) when I responded to an ad for a Porsche by saying, "I could never own a car like that." Quick to challenge my perceived inferiority complex, my mother shot back, "Why not?" Well mom, I'd worry about it getting scratched and, well it's a fine piece of machinery which deserves to be well taken care of - something which unfortunately isn't my style.
(I keep as a model of car ownership a wealthy distant relative who, along with his acquaintances of similar means, had a master mechanic on retainer. On one occasion, after brunch at my parent's house he discovered sap from a maple on his Porsche. He quickly came inside and called his mechanic to arrange for the car to be cleaned and re-waxed. This was in the days before cell phones.)
We parted. He to enjoy his SUV. Me to play with computers.
Coming from Egypt, he recognizes and values what many native born Americans often take for granted: our attempts to follow our profession of equality and fairness under the law. He is as dismayed as anyone else at his co-religionists slaughtering each other in the Middle East.
He was happy to see me. And why not? I don't seem particularly arrogant or look down on people with less technological expertise. Any number of times I've said that much of what passes for technical expertise is transient knowledge, easily obviated by newer software or methods. The technical expertise is often just a tech edition of Trivial Pursuit.
Also, we just seem to get along
About a year ago, when it appeared that my position was in jeopardy he was one of the faculty who were prepared to go to the mat for me. I didn't fully realize it at the time, something that embarrasses me now, but now I get practically weepy remembering it. So when he asks, "How are things?" it is not a nicety - he's concerned.
I said it looks like I'm doing OK, how about you.
Not so well it turns out. He's not getting any younger and one friend, a friend since childhood recently "expired" in the hospital. We reflected on the term. It was as if his friend had lived too long. Another old friend had called him recently to inform the Imam that he had cancer which was now affecting his brain and the call would probably be his last.
I asked if, like some of his colleagues, he was going to take early retirement. He said no. He didn't have a talent like others who painted or played a musical instrument. He'd keep on teaching. (He's much more accepting than other professors whose chagrin at a decline in the quality of the students drove their acceptance of early retirement.)
With those portents of mortality, the Imam went out and bought a Mercedes SUV. Really? Yes, it's right over there. The tan one. I offered to scratch it for him so he wouldn't have to deal with the uncertainty of it getting scratched. He declined my offer. He said the Mercedes was a wonderful car. People treated him with more respect. The guys at the gas station now called him sir even though he doesn't spend any more money than before.
I told him about the time I was watching TV with my mother (always an experience) when I responded to an ad for a Porsche by saying, "I could never own a car like that." Quick to challenge my perceived inferiority complex, my mother shot back, "Why not?" Well mom, I'd worry about it getting scratched and, well it's a fine piece of machinery which deserves to be well taken care of - something which unfortunately isn't my style.
(I keep as a model of car ownership a wealthy distant relative who, along with his acquaintances of similar means, had a master mechanic on retainer. On one occasion, after brunch at my parent's house he discovered sap from a maple on his Porsche. He quickly came inside and called his mechanic to arrange for the car to be cleaned and re-waxed. This was in the days before cell phones.)
We parted. He to enjoy his SUV. Me to play with computers.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
I Read and Weep
Reading the web pages of the faculty of the Genome Center of Wisconsin brought back a story from my childhood.
Not very long after my family moved to the suburbs my father asked painters for an estimate for painting his library. In most homes, the room would have been called "the office" rather than "the library". But because My father and his father-in-law (my grandfather), built book shelves along the inner wall of one room. Because my father was a chemist and, the bookcase was packed with books and Chemical Abstracts, the room was called "the library". (It is with some trepidation that I say "was". You can take a chemist out of the lab, but you can't always take the lab out of a chemist. The Chem Abstracts are long gone. A few months ago I helped him tie up and put all his back issues of Clinical Chemist out on the curb. There are plenty of books still, but bare spots on book shelves seem wrong to me.)
(This was way back in the 50's when individuals could afford their own subscription to Chemical Abstracts. I still remember the pale blue lettering on white covers and bindings. As an undergraduate I could not understand why the grad students gave me odd looks when I said that my father read Chemical Abstracts. Now I know that nobody actually "read" Chemical Abstracts the way someone might read a magazine. Someone looked at the abstract, which comprised one or two tightly written paragraphs summarizing an article, to see if the whole article was worth reading. I'm sure patent lawyers trawled the abstracts for actionable references.)
One of the painters who came over to estimate the job, took one look at the library and broke down crying. He'd always wanted to be a chemist but the Great Depression thwarted those dreams. And there in my house he'd found someone who'd somehow lived his dream.
(At this point I should say that my father's family was not wealthy, probably not even well off, but never in need during the Depression. My father's father was a plumber who spent the Depression installing indoor plumbing in Brooklyn. My mother's family, on the other hand, lost everything in the Crash. One of my mother's indelible memories is overhearing her parents deciding whether her father should take the last quarter to get to a job and buy lunch or whether he should walk to work and leave the quarter buy milk for the children. Theirs was not the life depicted in the screwball comedies of the era.)
The story of the painter is paired in my mind with a comment by Aaron Broder. (Aaron Broder was a very famous and successful malpractice lawyer.) He was on the back lawn of his house in Kings Point, NY looking out at the Long Island sound. It was a glorious day and there on the bay, in all it's glory, was the Merchant Marine Academy's sailing ship, a three-master. Broder said it took all his will to resist going out to the ship and begging them to take him wherever it was that they were going.
So, in reading the faculty research interests at the Genome Center I saw the curve of molecular biology investigation and felt the pull on my heart for research. Not the lure of fame, but being intimately a part, even if only a tiny part, of a grand quest of Knowledge. (Yes, "Knowledge" with a capital "K".)
It was Aseem Z Ansari's description of using "designer transcription regulators" which got me all weepy for biochemistry. Imagine synthesizing a molecule which will trick a cancerous cell to use it's own mechanisms to produce proteins which will cause the cell to differentiate (change) from a cancerous cell back to something like normal. This is a far cry and so much more elegant and radiation and chemotherapy which by comparison is of the "kill them all and let God sort them out" approach.
Sigh.
Not very long after my family moved to the suburbs my father asked painters for an estimate for painting his library. In most homes, the room would have been called "the office" rather than "the library". But because My father and his father-in-law (my grandfather), built book shelves along the inner wall of one room. Because my father was a chemist and, the bookcase was packed with books and Chemical Abstracts, the room was called "the library". (It is with some trepidation that I say "was". You can take a chemist out of the lab, but you can't always take the lab out of a chemist. The Chem Abstracts are long gone. A few months ago I helped him tie up and put all his back issues of Clinical Chemist out on the curb. There are plenty of books still, but bare spots on book shelves seem wrong to me.)
(This was way back in the 50's when individuals could afford their own subscription to Chemical Abstracts. I still remember the pale blue lettering on white covers and bindings. As an undergraduate I could not understand why the grad students gave me odd looks when I said that my father read Chemical Abstracts. Now I know that nobody actually "read" Chemical Abstracts the way someone might read a magazine. Someone looked at the abstract, which comprised one or two tightly written paragraphs summarizing an article, to see if the whole article was worth reading. I'm sure patent lawyers trawled the abstracts for actionable references.)
One of the painters who came over to estimate the job, took one look at the library and broke down crying. He'd always wanted to be a chemist but the Great Depression thwarted those dreams. And there in my house he'd found someone who'd somehow lived his dream.
(At this point I should say that my father's family was not wealthy, probably not even well off, but never in need during the Depression. My father's father was a plumber who spent the Depression installing indoor plumbing in Brooklyn. My mother's family, on the other hand, lost everything in the Crash. One of my mother's indelible memories is overhearing her parents deciding whether her father should take the last quarter to get to a job and buy lunch or whether he should walk to work and leave the quarter buy milk for the children. Theirs was not the life depicted in the screwball comedies of the era.)
The story of the painter is paired in my mind with a comment by Aaron Broder. (Aaron Broder was a very famous and successful malpractice lawyer.) He was on the back lawn of his house in Kings Point, NY looking out at the Long Island sound. It was a glorious day and there on the bay, in all it's glory, was the Merchant Marine Academy's sailing ship, a three-master. Broder said it took all his will to resist going out to the ship and begging them to take him wherever it was that they were going.
So, in reading the faculty research interests at the Genome Center I saw the curve of molecular biology investigation and felt the pull on my heart for research. Not the lure of fame, but being intimately a part, even if only a tiny part, of a grand quest of Knowledge. (Yes, "Knowledge" with a capital "K".)
It was Aseem Z Ansari's description of using "designer transcription regulators" which got me all weepy for biochemistry. Imagine synthesizing a molecule which will trick a cancerous cell to use it's own mechanisms to produce proteins which will cause the cell to differentiate (change) from a cancerous cell back to something like normal. This is a far cry and so much more elegant and radiation and chemotherapy which by comparison is of the "kill them all and let God sort them out" approach.
Sigh.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Thief Catcher
I was reading a Computerworld Shark Bait entry, "What is this orange stuff on my fingers" about a computer operator back in the day who was caught looking at confidential salary information from the data center director's desk. The person narrating the story was not the person who found the key, but someone who worked on the same shift who found that his hands were turning color, first orange and then purple.
"Ah-ha" I thought, "gentian violet." (You can take a chemist out of the lab, but you can't take the lab out of the chemist.) I thought I'd post a comment, but, being the wussy type, I wanted to check my facts first.
I remember a memoir by a pharmacist who suggested to a newspaper seller that he could catch the person who was stealing newspapers by sprinkling gentian violet on the to paper, but to only handout papers from below the top. A few days later the pharmacist forgetting his suggestion, paid for a paper, took one from the top, and, because his hands became stained, was accused of being the thief.
In the story the pharmacist referred to gentian violet (hexamethyl pararosaniline chloride) as "thief catcher". Searching on the web was an adventure. I couldn't find a good reference for "thief catcher", but eventually found several links to "Thief Detection Powder". From the descriptions, it appears that some of the powders are gentian violet. (There were others which did not produce a visible skin stain, but are related to a dye I used many years ago: fluorescein. The dye became visible under UV light.)
But, the web is a marvelous thing: in searching for "thief catcher" I stumbled across a description of the notorious housebreaker Jack Sheppard, whose jail breaking exploits could have served as inspiration for Mission Impossible or MacGyver exploits, and Jonathan Wild the King of Thieves or the First Criminal Underworld Boss.
It was in one of the links concerning "thief catcher" that I came across "Chartism", as in "Chartism came to permeate English political and cultural discourse during this period", the period being the 1830-1850, and knew that "chartism" would eventually be a term I'd be using to confuse a debate and add to the general impression that I know "all kinds of weird stuff".
It's what happens when wanders the web. Gotta love the web.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Guerrilla Marketing Condoms?
In the space of two weeks I've seen 4 different sealed condom packages in the University's parking lot. There were three Trojans (one white, one blue, and one red - a very patriotic color scheme) and one Durex (blue with white lettering).
I can understand that college age males (and the women who are their objects of desire) are the ideal target market, but I've enjoyed idly speculating whether what I've seen reflect
I can understand that college age males (and the women who are their objects of desire) are the ideal target market, but I've enjoyed idly speculating whether what I've seen reflect
- a successful guerrilla marketing campaign,
- the failure of the Bush administration's Abstinence Only campaign,
- a failed marketing campaign (students discarding samples),
- the aftermath of aftermath of an orgy which never made the papers, or
- something else (your suggestions welcome).
Friday, June 29, 2007
Network Computing Disappears From the Face of the Earth
Another of the trade rags I read is disappearing from print. This morning's e-mail carried Art Wittmann's "Strategy Session: Transformations" column with the following:
"We're saying goodbye to the standalone print version of Network Computing. But worry not--we're not going gently into that good night. ... Starting in July, Network Computing will be merging with its sister publication, InformationWeek."
It was not left unsaid that the unnamed people who produce the print version would be missed. Those of us who've suffered unemployment know the feeling in the pit of our stomach's when the bottom drops out of your world.
One of the visuals I expected to use in the next computer class I teach is to hold up a copy of InfoWorld's thick 20th anniversary edition and say, "And now it looks like this!" holding up my other hand with nothing in it. InfoWorld announced in April of 2007 that it "closed down its print edition and moved to a Web-only model." Many like myself, half-jokingly wondered what we would read in the loo, but behind it was the same sense of loss I feel when the exigencies of the march of time disrupt the quotidian.
I enjoy reading old magazines. Sometimes, they read much like science fiction and HP Lovecraft novels where an ill defined something looms behind the narrative. Anyone reading Time magazine in the 50's and 60's understood that the author's were writing in the looming shadow of world communism. Such understanding might not be apparent for a youngster reading the same article 40 or 50 years later. Those of you old enough to be able to be able to reread "The Worldly Philosophers by Robert Heilbroner 30 to 50 years later should be struck to see how the permanence of communism was taken for granted. So too in the trade press, stories' brief reference to IBM's industry hegemony/FUD (Fear Uncertainty and Doubt), Microsoft's Evil Empire, or the out-sized egos of Steve Jobs/Edward Esber Jr. (Ashton-Tate)/Philippe Kahn (Borland) provided only hints of the mind share these actually occupied.
It was only by reading a number of articles in different sources from the same time that I could get a feel or get a sense of the time. Whether it is true or not, I feel it is easier to read an old article in a magazine lying around, than to stumble across the same online. (My jaundiced attitude is conditioned by the inefficiencies of the search capabilities of Computerworld and Informationweek, but that's another story.)
So it is with a small sense of dread that Time marches on as I wonder what I was doing as it passes.
"We're saying goodbye to the standalone print version of Network Computing. But worry not--we're not going gently into that good night. ... Starting in July, Network Computing will be merging with its sister publication, InformationWeek."
It was not left unsaid that the unnamed people who produce the print version would be missed. Those of us who've suffered unemployment know the feeling in the pit of our stomach's when the bottom drops out of your world.
One of the visuals I expected to use in the next computer class I teach is to hold up a copy of InfoWorld's thick 20th anniversary edition and say, "And now it looks like this!" holding up my other hand with nothing in it. InfoWorld announced in April of 2007 that it "closed down its print edition and moved to a Web-only model." Many like myself, half-jokingly wondered what we would read in the loo, but behind it was the same sense of loss I feel when the exigencies of the march of time disrupt the quotidian.
I enjoy reading old magazines. Sometimes, they read much like science fiction and HP Lovecraft novels where an ill defined something looms behind the narrative. Anyone reading Time magazine in the 50's and 60's understood that the author's were writing in the looming shadow of world communism. Such understanding might not be apparent for a youngster reading the same article 40 or 50 years later. Those of you old enough to be able to be able to reread "The Worldly Philosophers by Robert Heilbroner 30 to 50 years later should be struck to see how the permanence of communism was taken for granted. So too in the trade press, stories' brief reference to IBM's industry hegemony/FUD (Fear Uncertainty and Doubt), Microsoft's Evil Empire, or the out-sized egos of Steve Jobs/Edward Esber Jr. (Ashton-Tate)/Philippe Kahn (Borland) provided only hints of the mind share these actually occupied.
It was only by reading a number of articles in different sources from the same time that I could get a feel or get a sense of the time. Whether it is true or not, I feel it is easier to read an old article in a magazine lying around, than to stumble across the same online. (My jaundiced attitude is conditioned by the inefficiencies of the search capabilities of Computerworld and Informationweek, but that's another story.)
So it is with a small sense of dread that Time marches on as I wonder what I was doing as it passes.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Paris Hilton: Stars are Blind
One of the computer trade rags I read had a link to photo widgets (slide.com). Among the choices for background music was a song by Paris Hilton ).
Her song was not my first choice, but after I listened to a few of the other songs I thought, oh what the heck, I might as well listen. I've wasted so much time in my life that a few minutes more won't do much to my credit worthiness or social standing. If and when the subject came up I would be on firm ground when I disparaged her singing.
Well, children, I was surprised. "Stars are Blind" is a catchy pop song. I let it repeat several times without embarrassment. There are many sarcastic things which can be said (my poor taste in music, the talent of music producers, etc.), but to my ears, "Stars are Blind" isn't worse than much of what I enjoyed in my teens.
As this is being written Paris Hilton is in jail. Juxtaposing her foray in the music business with her jail time I wondered if she would capitalize on her time in the slammer for a gangsta rap album.
Idle speculation as always.
Her song was not my first choice, but after I listened to a few of the other songs I thought, oh what the heck, I might as well listen. I've wasted so much time in my life that a few minutes more won't do much to my credit worthiness or social standing. If and when the subject came up I would be on firm ground when I disparaged her singing.
Well, children, I was surprised. "Stars are Blind" is a catchy pop song. I let it repeat several times without embarrassment. There are many sarcastic things which can be said (my poor taste in music, the talent of music producers, etc.), but to my ears, "Stars are Blind" isn't worse than much of what I enjoyed in my teens.
As this is being written Paris Hilton is in jail. Juxtaposing her foray in the music business with her jail time I wondered if she would capitalize on her time in the slammer for a gangsta rap album.
Idle speculation as always.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Officially Slowing Down
I'm usually the fastest walker around. It's something of a joke. My coworkers will say, we're going and then almost reflexively add, oh, he can catch up later.
I remember only one student walking faster than me. As fate would have it, a prof I knew who had studied walking was nearby. "Is that kid walking especially fast or is he doing something special, because he is pulling away from me and I'm walking at my usual (legendary) pace?", I asked.
The prof took a look, and said it was the student's beat, not the length of the pace.
This morning, however, as a student pulled ahead of me as I walked, I realized that I was walking slower. I could pick up the pace, but somehow, without my recognizing it, my standard pace had slowed down. Not a momentous shock, but another small loss on my march through time. Sigh.
I remember only one student walking faster than me. As fate would have it, a prof I knew who had studied walking was nearby. "Is that kid walking especially fast or is he doing something special, because he is pulling away from me and I'm walking at my usual (legendary) pace?", I asked.
The prof took a look, and said it was the student's beat, not the length of the pace.
This morning, however, as a student pulled ahead of me as I walked, I realized that I was walking slower. I could pick up the pace, but somehow, without my recognizing it, my standard pace had slowed down. Not a momentous shock, but another small loss on my march through time. Sigh.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
15 Minutes of Fame on the Installment Plan
Andy Warhol famously stated that everyone would be famous for 15 minutes. I'm doing it on the installment plan.
A few years ago I was interviewed as the "domain expert" for a Consumer Affairs TV show in NY. A viewer's father left her a JFK Memorial album as an heirloom and she wanted to know how much it was worth. In this neck of the woods you can find one or two JFK Memorial albums in any weekend round of garage sales so the record wasn't worth more than $1.
I count that as 1 minute of fame.
Just in time for Passover I got a minute of air time on the NYC public radio station discoursing on matzo balls. I'll call that another minute of fame.
The station had asked listeners to post comments about the perfect matzo ball recipe. My post described the years my mother and my aunts searched for the perfect recipe only to discover the perfect recipe on the side of the matzo meal box. The difference between perfect and what my mother made was not the ingredients, but whether the egg whites were separated and beaten and how the meal was mixed. This was information provided by my brother (to whom I defer in all things culinary).
Now perfect is in the eye of the beholder. Gourmet matzo balls, "perfect" matzo balls, are expected to be light with a uniform texture - something like quennels. In my estimation, quennels is divine food, but (also in my estimation) "real" matzo balls are rubbery in the center. Matzo balls with bounce is what I want to eat at seder. I don't want wimpy food. I want food that fights back.
I got an e-mail from the show's producer the next day and a few days later I was on the air reprising my post. I gave full credit to my brother for my purported expertise.
Thirteen more minutes of fame to go.
A few years ago I was interviewed as the "domain expert" for a Consumer Affairs TV show in NY. A viewer's father left her a JFK Memorial album as an heirloom and she wanted to know how much it was worth. In this neck of the woods you can find one or two JFK Memorial albums in any weekend round of garage sales so the record wasn't worth more than $1.
I count that as 1 minute of fame.
Just in time for Passover I got a minute of air time on the NYC public radio station discoursing on matzo balls. I'll call that another minute of fame.
The station had asked listeners to post comments about the perfect matzo ball recipe. My post described the years my mother and my aunts searched for the perfect recipe only to discover the perfect recipe on the side of the matzo meal box. The difference between perfect and what my mother made was not the ingredients, but whether the egg whites were separated and beaten and how the meal was mixed. This was information provided by my brother (to whom I defer in all things culinary).
Now perfect is in the eye of the beholder. Gourmet matzo balls, "perfect" matzo balls, are expected to be light with a uniform texture - something like quennels. In my estimation, quennels is divine food, but (also in my estimation) "real" matzo balls are rubbery in the center. Matzo balls with bounce is what I want to eat at seder. I don't want wimpy food. I want food that fights back.
I got an e-mail from the show's producer the next day and a few days later I was on the air reprising my post. I gave full credit to my brother for my purported expertise.
Thirteen more minutes of fame to go.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
House Concert with Pat Wictor and Iain Campbell Smith
I attended my first house concert on Saturday at the Song Box. It seemed a bit confusing at first. House concerts are supposed to be just as it sounds: a concert in someone's home, but "Song Box" sounded like a regular venue.
I first learned about house concerts on the late Dave Ray's web site. (It was only looking for his site again that I discovered that Dave Ray had died in November 28th, 2002. A radio interview with Koerner, Ray and Glover and an appreciation by Phil Heywood are available on line.) I was taken with Ray's practical instructions for arranging a house concert. He covered everything from the size of the room, types of chairs, what the performer needed (I recall that Dave wanted a piece of plywood to amplify his stomping), where to put food, etc.)
The concert was announced at the Cliff Eberhardt concert in the Our Times Coffeehouse, at the Ethical Culture Society in Garden City. There was something almost furtive about the announcement - you had to call or send E-mail to get directions. I imagined that admission would require a secret knock on a door. (The web being a wonderful thing actually had an address listed, but I didn't think to look until later.) We were asked to bring something for a pot luck meal. I toyed with the idea of bringing a goat's head (appropriate for any number of satanic rites), but brought Chinese steamed buns instead.
As it turned out, the family room in the basement of the house had a raised platform at one end, great acoustics, and a sound board. When everyone but me sang along with Pat Wictor's first song I knew I was not among my peers. I guess half the people in the audience (about 3 dozen people) were singer-songwriters themselves.
The original idea was for the evening to be divided into two performances, Pat Wictor and Ian Campell Smith, an Australian folksinger/diplomat (there's a story there), but the two decided to perform together with a drummer.
More ...
I first learned about house concerts on the late Dave Ray's web site. (It was only looking for his site again that I discovered that Dave Ray had died in November 28th, 2002. A radio interview with Koerner, Ray and Glover and an appreciation by Phil Heywood are available on line.) I was taken with Ray's practical instructions for arranging a house concert. He covered everything from the size of the room, types of chairs, what the performer needed (I recall that Dave wanted a piece of plywood to amplify his stomping), where to put food, etc.)
The concert was announced at the Cliff Eberhardt concert in the Our Times Coffeehouse, at the Ethical Culture Society in Garden City. There was something almost furtive about the announcement - you had to call or send E-mail to get directions. I imagined that admission would require a secret knock on a door. (The web being a wonderful thing actually had an address listed, but I didn't think to look until later.) We were asked to bring something for a pot luck meal. I toyed with the idea of bringing a goat's head (appropriate for any number of satanic rites), but brought Chinese steamed buns instead.
As it turned out, the family room in the basement of the house had a raised platform at one end, great acoustics, and a sound board. When everyone but me sang along with Pat Wictor's first song I knew I was not among my peers. I guess half the people in the audience (about 3 dozen people) were singer-songwriters themselves.
The original idea was for the evening to be divided into two performances, Pat Wictor and Ian Campell Smith, an Australian folksinger/diplomat (there's a story there), but the two decided to perform together with a drummer.
More ...
Thanksgiving 2006
Thanksgiving is fairly low key family event at my parent's house. My brother comes out from the city with some provisions and cooks. I bring supplemental provisions and clean. Being that my brother has been a chef, owned his own restaurant, and worked at several high end restaurants people have expressed interest in what we actually eat. The menu (as typed by my father) is below:
The rolls were made by my father, the Pear and the Gooseberry-apple relishes were purchased at a greenmarket. Even though ice cream is on the menu, it wasn't served.
The apple pie was home made with my father supplying the bottom crust and my brother making the top crust. It was one of those things where my father made enough crust for a smaller pie, but as the apples were peeled, cored, and sliced it became apparent that momentous question of an open faced pie or a double crust pie would have to be made. The bakers (my father and brother) went into executive session and unanimously decided on the double crust.
The rolls were made by my father, the Pear and the Gooseberry-apple relishes were purchased at a greenmarket. Even though ice cream is on the menu, it wasn't served.
The apple pie was home made with my father supplying the bottom crust and my brother making the top crust. It was one of those things where my father made enough crust for a smaller pie, but as the apples were peeled, cored, and sliced it became apparent that momentous question of an open faced pie or a double crust pie would have to be made. The bakers (my father and brother) went into executive session and unanimously decided on the double crust.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Code Archeology
A few months ago I started on a project to create a program which will score Scantron-type bubble sheets.
Now we already have a program which does just that. The code, written in the FORTRAN 77 computer language, was written in the early 80's to be used on a Univac. I knew the young woman who wrote the code. Over the years I've made a few small changes as we switched from an Univac to an IBM mainframe and had to accommodate more sheets, but the code is pretty much untouched .
Now friends, FORTRAN, especially classical FORTRAN 77 code can be impenetrable because the variable names had to be 6 characters or less. (In programming, variables are like the unknowns in algebra.) If you've only got a few things to keep track of short names like x, y, and z are fine. Nowadays programmers prefer longer, descriptive variable names such as current_value, cronbach_alpha, and kertosis.
I'm a decent programmer. In theory all I needed to do was make some changes and recompile the code for a PC. That was theory. I didn't have a FORTRAN compiler, the code was mind-numbing, and because there were features which needed to be added I decided to write new rather than revise.
I hauled out an 8-year old C compiler and had a go. The usual statistical stuff was obvious: averages, means, and standard deviations. I had fun learning some statistics. (I now know that kertosis, despite its name, is not a dermatological condition, but is a measure of skewness , i.e. how much a bell shaped curve "leans". ) Things were going fine until I hit Cronbach's Alpha:
In the course of investigating I got to read Cronbach's reflections on the 5oth aniversary of proposing the calculation. (Being a true academic he acknowledged that his "alpha coefficient" was a generalization of a Kuder-Richardson formula as he recounted the intellectual wrangling over its significance and misuse.) Based on various references I thought I had coded the calculations correctly, but my calculations of the alpha codefficient didn't agree with the calculations of the current FORTRAN program.
If you look on the web for Cronbach's Alpha you'll find a ton of references. After some 200 links I didn't find any code. Most citations discussed the significance and how to interpret the results. Save for one link, each link I found for calculating the coefficient described how the calculation could be done by a statistical package (SPSS, SAS, MINITAB, Stata, R, etc.). The one link which seemed useful, http://www.geolog.com/msmnt/malpha.htm, worked through a problem. I based my code on the example.
I finally asked a few instructors for help. Next week I'll sit with a few and go over a sample calculation. Some are going to go deep in their own library to look for an early text which explained how to do the calculation. (It seems that in the early days of computing, extending into the 1980's many people had to code their own statistics or borrow from someone who had already written the code. Experienced coders and statisticians will surely be exasperated that I couldn't go from the description of the calculation to code or that I didn't have confidence in my own coding skills, but I digress.) One Psychology instructor gave me a name of a textbook he knew had a code sample.
Quick like a bunny I trotted over to the library only to find that three empty shelves between H62.N and H62.V. The book I wanted, "Design, Measurement, and Analysis"by Podhazur and Schmelkin (H62.P325) was missing from the library. I suspect a vast right wing consipracy or alien abduction, but again I digress.
As fate would have it on a near by shelf there was a book entitled "Fortran Programming for the Behavioral Sciences" by Veldman (H52.V4) published in 1967. Sure enough the book had code for the "alpha coefficient" and - what the bleep! - a flow chart and a sample code named "TESTAT". Neuron's fired! TESTAT is the name of a piece of code inside the current FORTRAN scoring program. And , well look at that, the code in Veldman's book was the same as the FORTRAN code in our scoring program.
Turning to the date due slip in the back of the book , I saw that the book had been taken out (and renewed) in 1983 and 1984. Code archeology indeed. Does it help? Stay tuned.
Now we already have a program which does just that. The code, written in the FORTRAN 77 computer language, was written in the early 80's to be used on a Univac. I knew the young woman who wrote the code. Over the years I've made a few small changes as we switched from an Univac to an IBM mainframe and had to accommodate more sheets, but the code is pretty much untouched .
Now friends, FORTRAN, especially classical FORTRAN 77 code can be impenetrable because the variable names had to be 6 characters or less. (In programming, variables are like the unknowns in algebra.) If you've only got a few things to keep track of short names like x, y, and z are fine. Nowadays programmers prefer longer, descriptive variable names such as current_value, cronbach_alpha, and kertosis.
I'm a decent programmer. In theory all I needed to do was make some changes and recompile the code for a PC. That was theory. I didn't have a FORTRAN compiler, the code was mind-numbing, and because there were features which needed to be added I decided to write new rather than revise.
I hauled out an 8-year old C compiler and had a go. The usual statistical stuff was obvious: averages, means, and standard deviations. I had fun learning some statistics. (I now know that kertosis, despite its name, is not a dermatological condition, but is a measure of skewness , i.e. how much a bell shaped curve "leans". ) Things were going fine until I hit Cronbach's Alpha:
If you look on the web for Cronbach's Alpha you'll find a ton of references. After some 200 links I didn't find any code. Most citations discussed the significance and how to interpret the results. Save for one link, each link I found for calculating the coefficient described how the calculation could be done by a statistical package (SPSS, SAS, MINITAB, Stata, R, etc.). The one link which seemed useful, http://www.geolog.com/msmnt/malpha.htm, worked through a problem. I based my code on the example.
I finally asked a few instructors for help. Next week I'll sit with a few and go over a sample calculation. Some are going to go deep in their own library to look for an early text which explained how to do the calculation. (It seems that in the early days of computing, extending into the 1980's many people had to code their own statistics or borrow from someone who had already written the code. Experienced coders and statisticians will surely be exasperated that I couldn't go from the description of the calculation to code or that I didn't have confidence in my own coding skills, but I digress.) One Psychology instructor gave me a name of a textbook he knew had a code sample.
Quick like a bunny I trotted over to the library only to find that three empty shelves between H62.N and H62.V. The book I wanted, "Design, Measurement, and Analysis"by Podhazur and Schmelkin (H62.P325) was missing from the library. I suspect a vast right wing consipracy or alien abduction, but again I digress.
As fate would have it on a near by shelf there was a book entitled "Fortran Programming for the Behavioral Sciences" by Veldman (H52.V4) published in 1967. Sure enough the book had code for the "alpha coefficient" and - what the bleep! - a flow chart and a sample code named "TESTAT". Neuron's fired! TESTAT is the name of a piece of code inside the current FORTRAN scoring program. And , well look at that, the code in Veldman's book was the same as the FORTRAN code in our scoring program.
Turning to the date due slip in the back of the book , I saw that the book had been taken out (and renewed) in 1983 and 1984. Code archeology indeed. Does it help? Stay tuned.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Ken Lay's Dead, but Janos Starker Lives
Ken Lay, the former Enron CEO died this morning in Colorado at the age of 64. I felt cheated. His estate is being sued for recovery of ill-gotten gains by the Security and Exchange Commission. There is as of this writing no word from the government about their attempt to recover funds (~$50M) and seize Lay Houston condo. I'd be interested in how former Enron employees are taking it. (Today, NPR interviewed an analyst who remembers principled people leaving Houston Natural Gas when Lay became CEO and wondered why it took so long for everyone else to see what type of person he was under the kindly exterior. Unfortunately I can't find the reference to insert a link.)
On a brighter note, it's cellist Janos Starker's 82nd birthday! In 2004 NPR stated that it took 33 pages to list all his recordings. (I've got only 3 of his recordings, but I've got a few years to pick up more. If you check eBay you will rarely find his recordings at a discount.)
I saw Starker in concert once in the 1970's when I was offered a free ticket. I didn't know who he was, but figured, what the heck, it's free and you never know. Boy did I luck out! (I've said lots of negative things about the guy who gave me the ticket, but always expressed my gratitude for introducing me to Starker's playing.)
Starker has been hailed as one of the 20th century's great cellists. He was known for his "patrician stage presence" (Wikipedia), but to my eyes he was concentrating on his music and was not going to be diverted. Given his usual stern demeanor, pictures of him smiling surprised me.
On a brighter note, it's cellist Janos Starker's 82nd birthday! In 2004 NPR stated that it took 33 pages to list all his recordings. (I've got only 3 of his recordings, but I've got a few years to pick up more. If you check eBay you will rarely find his recordings at a discount.)
I saw Starker in concert once in the 1970's when I was offered a free ticket. I didn't know who he was, but figured, what the heck, it's free and you never know. Boy did I luck out! (I've said lots of negative things about the guy who gave me the ticket, but always expressed my gratitude for introducing me to Starker's playing.)
Starker has been hailed as one of the 20th century's great cellists. He was known for his "patrician stage presence" (Wikipedia), but to my eyes he was concentrating on his music and was not going to be diverted. Given his usual stern demeanor, pictures of him smiling surprised me.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Gotta Love the Law
Today's Computerworld has an article headlined, "VA efforts to bolster laptop security stymied by lawsuits" which reports that 3 class-action lawsuits filed in the aftermath of the Veterans Administration's loss and subsequent recovery of a laptop with sensitive information on 26.5 million veterans has prevented the VA from altering their laptops. Updating antivirus tools and adding encryption can be considered evidence tampering.
Quoting from the article: Tim McLain, VA General Counsel said, "So until the courts rule on the issue, the VA's plans to implement new security measures on laptops are on hold. "It is a delay, not a moratorium."
One part of my brain is thinking, "OK, this makes sense - don't disturb the evidence" and another part of brain turns from what it was doing and says, "Are you nuts?!"
Well yes I am, but it looks as though I have company. (Unwritten rules require that posts dealing with the law quote Charles Dickens (Oliver Twist): ""If the law supposes that," said Mr. Bumble, "the law is an ass, a idiot." )
Quoting from the article: Tim McLain, VA General Counsel said, "So until the courts rule on the issue, the VA's plans to implement new security measures on laptops are on hold. "It is a delay, not a moratorium."
One part of my brain is thinking, "OK, this makes sense - don't disturb the evidence" and another part of brain turns from what it was doing and says, "Are you nuts?!"
Well yes I am, but it looks as though I have company. (Unwritten rules require that posts dealing with the law quote Charles Dickens (Oliver Twist): ""If the law supposes that," said Mr. Bumble, "the law is an ass, a idiot." )
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
A Unique Event
Last night I did something I'd never done before. I cannot recall anyone else doing it either. So you're thinking, hmmm, standing up in a hammock? Everyone's done that. This was 14% more unique than saddle sores on a turtle. <inane reference>(This imaginary colloquialism comes from a 70's Colt Malt Liquor radio commercial.)</inane reference>
I broke a toothbrush in my mouth as I was brushing my teeth. (Yeah, lots of people break toothbrushes trying to open paint cans, but claim that the toothbrush broke in their mouth because they don't want to be fined for using the wrong end of a toothbrush as a tool.)
The specifics (in case you want to try to replicate the feat): it was a fairly new Walgreens toothbrush and I was using Colgate toothpaste with calcium. I don't think it's important, but on the offchance that toothbrushes have circadian rhythms the time was about 1 AM daylight savings time.
"Fairly new" means that I'd only been using the toothbrush a few weeks, but it could have been years since I bought the toothbrush. (I tend to buy a few and forget them. Sometime later the packages rematerialize from under a stack of clothes, the back of dresser, or, hey, so that's where it's been hiding under/behind car seats, on top of bookcases, in an old suitcase, etc.)
I'm toying with the idea of sending the toothbrush to Walgreen's to see if they might want to replace the toothbrush. I don't think this is worth an entry in the Guiness Book of Records.
Photos to follow.
I broke a toothbrush in my mouth as I was brushing my teeth. (Yeah, lots of people break toothbrushes trying to open paint cans, but claim that the toothbrush broke in their mouth because they don't want to be fined for using the wrong end of a toothbrush as a tool.)
The specifics (in case you want to try to replicate the feat): it was a fairly new Walgreens toothbrush and I was using Colgate toothpaste with calcium. I don't think it's important, but on the offchance that toothbrushes have circadian rhythms the time was about 1 AM daylight savings time.
"Fairly new" means that I'd only been using the toothbrush a few weeks, but it could have been years since I bought the toothbrush. (I tend to buy a few and forget them. Sometime later the packages rematerialize from under a stack of clothes, the back of dresser, or, hey, so that's where it's been hiding under/behind car seats, on top of bookcases, in an old suitcase, etc.)
I'm toying with the idea of sending the toothbrush to Walgreen's to see if they might want to replace the toothbrush. I don't think this is worth an entry in the Guiness Book of Records.
Photos to follow.
Friday, June 16, 2006
An Excursion to the Supermarket
Bloomsday. I went shopping for my parents. Deja vu all over again.
For many years I shopped for a friend. I think she was 70 when I started and over 90 when we parted ways. It took a few months for me to learn her preferences and for us to come to an agreement. Some items had to be specific. If she asked for the 22 oz. lemon-scented version, I never substituted. If that item wasn't available I didn't buy a substitute.
On the other hand "sherbet" was either raspberry or strawberry, the brand was immaterial. While she didn't express a preference in ice cream, it took a while for her to finally explain why she wasn't as thankful when I bought ice cream with fudge or nuts: she liked to put ice cream in her coffee. I purchased grated Parmesan cheese once. In her cosmos grated Parmesan cheese was an affront to god.
Looking at my parents' list I asked them for specs: brand, size, was substitution allowed, etc.
I digress to describe my supermarket shopping style. Except when I go shopping for myself I only go down certain aisles: pasta, bread, dairy, and the vegetable area. Unless someone asks me to pick up soda and chips I never go in that aisle. I can usually pick up what I need in a supermarket in 5-10 minutes because my shopping lists are almost always short.
Today was far different. It was more of a random walk.
Holding my parents list I found myself wandering through the housewares aisle several times looking for camphor balls. (There were none.) My mother wanted instant cocoa. (My throat constricts in a defensive reaction at the thought of it.) I scanned the shelves trying to match what I'd remembered in their kitchen with what was available on the shelves. Wandering down the housewares aisle I noted that the toilet bowl cleaner was sold out. (Was this significant? Would my stock broker devine a market shift from this observation?)
They wanted the store brand pancake syrup. Why? My brother had given them real maple syrup. Who can understand parents? I had neglected to ask them what size to get. My educational background makes me want to estimate the monthly usage and extend that to 6 months. The holistic/emotive side tried to conjure the image of the container in their kitchen. I couldn't recall a discussion of an imminent pancake syrup crisis. That meant that they probably hadn't reached the reorder point so they could make it through a few pancake breakfasts if I didn't buy anything. I got the middle size bottle because I could exchange it if the size was wrong.
Potatoes. Jeez! The last time I bought potatoes they were 30¢ a pound. Now the cheapest was 60¢ a pound! I've got a general concept of capitalism. A higher price is supposed to reflect higher demand or perhaps collusion among producers. Are potatoes suddenly the "in" food. Did I miss an article at the checkout counter? ("Potatoes Make You Bigger Where It Counts", "Potatoes - the Secret of Long Life", "The New Potato Diet - Lose 20 Pounds Over Night") Maybe it was a collusive effort to make potatoes seem more desirable. (These 60¢ a pound potatoes are so much better than those old 30¢ a pound potatoes.)
When I reported back that I couldn't find the mothballs my mother said that she hadn't been able to buy them for some time. (A friend eventually bought a box at National Wholesale Liquitators. This is a public service and unsolicited plug.)
For many years I shopped for a friend. I think she was 70 when I started and over 90 when we parted ways. It took a few months for me to learn her preferences and for us to come to an agreement. Some items had to be specific. If she asked for the 22 oz. lemon-scented version, I never substituted. If that item wasn't available I didn't buy a substitute.
On the other hand "sherbet" was either raspberry or strawberry, the brand was immaterial. While she didn't express a preference in ice cream, it took a while for her to finally explain why she wasn't as thankful when I bought ice cream with fudge or nuts: she liked to put ice cream in her coffee. I purchased grated Parmesan cheese once. In her cosmos grated Parmesan cheese was an affront to god.
Looking at my parents' list I asked them for specs: brand, size, was substitution allowed, etc.
I digress to describe my supermarket shopping style. Except when I go shopping for myself I only go down certain aisles: pasta, bread, dairy, and the vegetable area. Unless someone asks me to pick up soda and chips I never go in that aisle. I can usually pick up what I need in a supermarket in 5-10 minutes because my shopping lists are almost always short.
Today was far different. It was more of a random walk.
Holding my parents list I found myself wandering through the housewares aisle several times looking for camphor balls. (There were none.) My mother wanted instant cocoa. (My throat constricts in a defensive reaction at the thought of it.) I scanned the shelves trying to match what I'd remembered in their kitchen with what was available on the shelves. Wandering down the housewares aisle I noted that the toilet bowl cleaner was sold out. (Was this significant? Would my stock broker devine a market shift from this observation?)
They wanted the store brand pancake syrup. Why? My brother had given them real maple syrup. Who can understand parents? I had neglected to ask them what size to get. My educational background makes me want to estimate the monthly usage and extend that to 6 months. The holistic/emotive side tried to conjure the image of the container in their kitchen. I couldn't recall a discussion of an imminent pancake syrup crisis. That meant that they probably hadn't reached the reorder point so they could make it through a few pancake breakfasts if I didn't buy anything. I got the middle size bottle because I could exchange it if the size was wrong.
Potatoes. Jeez! The last time I bought potatoes they were 30¢ a pound. Now the cheapest was 60¢ a pound! I've got a general concept of capitalism. A higher price is supposed to reflect higher demand or perhaps collusion among producers. Are potatoes suddenly the "in" food. Did I miss an article at the checkout counter? ("Potatoes Make You Bigger Where It Counts", "Potatoes - the Secret of Long Life", "The New Potato Diet - Lose 20 Pounds Over Night") Maybe it was a collusive effort to make potatoes seem more desirable. (These 60¢ a pound potatoes are so much better than those old 30¢ a pound potatoes.)
When I reported back that I couldn't find the mothballs my mother said that she hadn't been able to buy them for some time. (A friend eventually bought a box at National Wholesale Liquitators. This is a public service and unsolicited plug.)
Friday, June 09, 2006
Contra-Contraception
After reading the May 7, 2006 NY Times article on the "Contra-Contraception" movement among conservatives circles and President Bush's failure to respond to the four letters Representative Carolyn Maloney of New York, sent to the president asking "Mr. President, do you support the right to use contraception?" I can only hope that the damage done to he United States by the Bush administration will be mitigated by the humor it will provide for future generations.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Career Suicide
I was trying to find the online version of an Infoworld "Off The Record" column ("Anonynmous Tales from the Front Lines") entitled "Recipe for Career Suicide". The story, describes how good programming practices got the anonymous narrator in trouble with the founder of his company. The founder and president wrote the original product code. At the time referred to in the story the president didn't realize that his own programming expertise was sadly out of date. The president reacted very badly when a client preferred the programmer's code to his.
If I had typed "Career Suicide" (with the quotes) into Infoworld's search engine, the first hit would have been the article I wanted and I wouldn't have been prompted to write this. Because I didn't include the quotes, the article I wanted didn't appear on the first page of links I was distracted by a link to eBay. EBay had auctions of recordings by a hardcore punk band named "Career Suicide", a T-shirt from their 2004 tour, and CDs with that title by Lennon Murphy.
By now we're accustomed to the inanities of automated procedures. Even so, I'll remember the page contained this link:
Looking for Career Suicide?
Find exactly what you want today.
I don't think I need help in this regard, thank you very much, but I'm saving the link just in case.
If I had typed "Career Suicide" (with the quotes) into Infoworld's search engine, the first hit would have been the article I wanted and I wouldn't have been prompted to write this. Because I didn't include the quotes, the article I wanted didn't appear on the first page of links I was distracted by a link to eBay. EBay had auctions of recordings by a hardcore punk band named "Career Suicide", a T-shirt from their 2004 tour, and CDs with that title by Lennon Murphy.
By now we're accustomed to the inanities of automated procedures. Even so, I'll remember the page contained this link:
Looking for Career Suicide?
Find exactly what you want today.
I don't think I need help in this regard, thank you very much, but I'm saving the link just in case.
 |  |  |
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
A Medical Excursion
While lifting an empty bookcase off my car <needless detail>in the pouring rain in the wee small hours of the morning</needless detail>, I felt a sharp pain in my right side about 5 inches below my arm pit. I'd never felt anything similar. Even with my limited knowledge of physiology I knew it wasn't a heart attack. It felt like something tore, but that was as far as my diagnosis went.
The most peculiar aspect of the injury was that that whatever it was didn't hurt when I haul the bookcase into the house. I just lifted the bookcase and sort of slid it along on some boards until I got the bookcase into the house.
Battling my usual inclination to ignore injuries, I didn't try to determine just how much pain I could take. I took it easy during the next few days. I was giving myself little gold stars for being so sensible as the ache decreased when the aching increased. Whether it was sit-ups or something else the ache grew to the point here I had to avoid letting my arm rest across my right side when I went to sleep.
Last night I lay back against the pillows before going to sleep. Remembering something I tried to sit up and couldn't - it hurt too much to sit up. (Well, I could sit up, but thought the most sensible thing was not to exacerbate what ever it was.)
Sitting up became a mechanical puzzle. My solution was to extend my legs off the bed and then slowly slide off. Gravity folded my torso forward.
Today I went to see the doctor. After noting the absence of hematomas and the localization of the sensitivity he opined that it was not a cracked rib, but most likely a problem with the cartilege - a fracture, tear, something. He estimated it would take 6-8 weeks to heal provided I didn't do anything stupid. The doctor gave me a hard, meaningful look when he said this to be sure I got the message. To be sure of his diagnosis he sent me for radiography.
Now friends, a few miles west of the "Miracle Mile", a toney shopping area in Manhassett, New York, there's "Medical Row" a half mile of medical specialists on Northern Boulevard in Great Neck. (Many people have heard the name, but did not realized that the Miracle Mile is an actual place, the Americana Manhasset Shopping Center. "Are you gonna cruise the Miracle Mile?" from "It's Still Rock and Roll To Me" - Billy Joel. There is a Miracle Mile in the Mid-Wilshire region of Los Angeles, California near the La Brea tar pits, but I digress.)
Because the radiology place was "just over there" (said the doctor's receptionist) I decided to walk. I don't mind driving, but I thought "over there" was the next building. Driving would mean crossing a solid double line on Northern Blvd where drivers get points taken off their licenses for every pedestrian they hit or driving on the sidewalk ("Brazilian driving"). (The points off rule was the result of the powerful auto body lobby. As I understand it, the number of points removed from someone's driving record is on a sliding scale related to the cost of the body work required to restore the car. Splatter someone with a Maserati or a Ferrari and the New York State Motor Vehicles Department will give you credits toward future points.)
The building turned out to be the very last building on Medical Row, not a long distance actually, but instructive: there was no entrance on Northern Boulevard. The building has no street entrance. Everyone has to enter through a door in the parking area at the back of the building.
Did I stumbled across a new architectural phenomenon or something well established but unbeknowst to me? Was the design to keep the riffraff out or, given the building's location, just obvious - who would walk to the building?
I enjoyed filling out the forms at the radiologists: there were three typographical errors on a single intake form. I asked if I could get a discount for spotting them, but as always, my proofreading skills proved a source of amusement, not profit. Getting up on the X-ray table was easy. Getting off required the same slithering technique I used to get out of bed.
The X-rays showed nothing, just as the doctor had expected. And I have avoided doing anything to injure whatever it is/was.
June 14, 2006 postscript: My side does not seem to ache and it seems that I should try to get back to the washboard abs (of my imaginary life).
The most peculiar aspect of the injury was that that whatever it was didn't hurt when I haul the bookcase into the house. I just lifted the bookcase and sort of slid it along on some boards until I got the bookcase into the house.
Battling my usual inclination to ignore injuries, I didn't try to determine just how much pain I could take. I took it easy during the next few days. I was giving myself little gold stars for being so sensible as the ache decreased when the aching increased. Whether it was sit-ups or something else the ache grew to the point here I had to avoid letting my arm rest across my right side when I went to sleep.
Last night I lay back against the pillows before going to sleep. Remembering something I tried to sit up and couldn't - it hurt too much to sit up. (Well, I could sit up, but thought the most sensible thing was not to exacerbate what ever it was.)
Sitting up became a mechanical puzzle. My solution was to extend my legs off the bed and then slowly slide off. Gravity folded my torso forward.
Today I went to see the doctor. After noting the absence of hematomas and the localization of the sensitivity he opined that it was not a cracked rib, but most likely a problem with the cartilege - a fracture, tear, something. He estimated it would take 6-8 weeks to heal provided I didn't do anything stupid. The doctor gave me a hard, meaningful look when he said this to be sure I got the message. To be sure of his diagnosis he sent me for radiography.
Now friends, a few miles west of the "Miracle Mile", a toney shopping area in Manhassett, New York, there's "Medical Row" a half mile of medical specialists on Northern Boulevard in Great Neck. (Many people have heard the name, but did not realized that the Miracle Mile is an actual place, the Americana Manhasset Shopping Center. "Are you gonna cruise the Miracle Mile?" from "It's Still Rock and Roll To Me" - Billy Joel. There is a Miracle Mile in the Mid-Wilshire region of Los Angeles, California near the La Brea tar pits, but I digress.)
Because the radiology place was "just over there" (said the doctor's receptionist) I decided to walk. I don't mind driving, but I thought "over there" was the next building. Driving would mean crossing a solid double line on Northern Blvd where drivers get points taken off their licenses for every pedestrian they hit or driving on the sidewalk ("Brazilian driving"). (The points off rule was the result of the powerful auto body lobby. As I understand it, the number of points removed from someone's driving record is on a sliding scale related to the cost of the body work required to restore the car. Splatter someone with a Maserati or a Ferrari and the New York State Motor Vehicles Department will give you credits toward future points.)
The building turned out to be the very last building on Medical Row, not a long distance actually, but instructive: there was no entrance on Northern Boulevard. The building has no street entrance. Everyone has to enter through a door in the parking area at the back of the building.
Did I stumbled across a new architectural phenomenon or something well established but unbeknowst to me? Was the design to keep the riffraff out or, given the building's location, just obvious - who would walk to the building?
I enjoyed filling out the forms at the radiologists: there were three typographical errors on a single intake form. I asked if I could get a discount for spotting them, but as always, my proofreading skills proved a source of amusement, not profit. Getting up on the X-ray table was easy. Getting off required the same slithering technique I used to get out of bed.
The X-rays showed nothing, just as the doctor had expected. And I have avoided doing anything to injure whatever it is/was.
June 14, 2006 postscript: My side does not seem to ache and it seems that I should try to get back to the washboard abs (of my imaginary life).
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