jlarchiblog

Best CAPTCHA I've ever seen.

2012-01-20T21:52:00.005-07:00

Props to Physical Review D.

Unusual Optimism

2011-06-29T17:45:00.003-06:00

I'm feeling pretty optimistic today--weirdly so.

To completely fix the dents in my car would be >$1k, yet my default thought was "how great that my dents are sufficiently minor that the inconvenience of just living with them doesn't even come close to being a $1000 detriment to my life."

To get a sort of half-repair done on the huge one (they'll pound it out, but not refinish it) will cost $200. Whenever something costs $200, I compare it to my most recent, indulgent $200 purchase (my Kindle (with 3G, without ads)).

Yet, I found it just as easy to think, "How great that my favorite device can be purchased for less than the cost of a crummy-looking dent repair!" as it was to think "what a shame that I have to spend as much as I spent on my favorite device on a crummy-looking dent repair"

Perhaps it's the nice weather.

Unusual Optimism

2011-06-29T17:45:00.000-06:00

I'm feeling pretty optimistic today--weirdly so.

To get a sort of half-repair done on the huge one will cost $200, yet my thought was "That's the cost of one Kindle (with 3G, no ads). How great that my favorite device can be purchased for less than the cost of a crummy-looking dent repair!"

It's going to be a long time before I can talk about cricket and not sound like an idiot

2011-02-27T12:38:00.004-07:00

Here's a paragraph I read here:

Such was the clarity of Strauss's strokeplay and the passivity of India's attack, at 280 for 2 in the 43rd over, England were cruising towards an extraordinary triumph. However a late intervention, sparked by a reverse-swinging Zaheer Khan, left them clawing for breath as a silenced Chinnaswamy stadium rediscovered its roar, and when the requirement shot up beyond two runs a ball, there seemed no way back into the contest. However, a ballsy volley of sixes from England's lower order hauled them back from the brink, and with two runs needed from the final delivery of the match, Graeme Swann drilled Munaf Patel to cover to salvage a share of the spoils.

Going in I thought that just knowing that cricket involved bats and wickets would be enough to follow the story. After reading this paragraph six times and still being confused (and wondering if perhaps the author was putting up nonsense that sounded like he was talking about a sport), I think I'm going to bone up on my cricket vocabulary (still, I like the writing overall--it's kind of colorful or whatever).

I'm in this show!

2010-12-02T17:57:00.002-07:00

Visit us! Buy tickets! Like us on facebook for a discount on tickets.

Here is the link.

Here it is again if you missed it.

Blogging

2010-11-13T01:32:00.003-07:00

Right now I have the most recent post in the world.

I was just looking at my girlfriend's blog. It makes me smile: I saw the links on the side and I was curious if she had ever linked to my blog (as you dedicated readers know, this blog goes dormant for months at a time). I made the cut despite my paucity of posts! Of course, the link to my blog is titled "was once my fhe group brother," which is both completely accurate and hilariously out of date. (We've been dating steadily for more than 7 months now; we haven't been in the same FHE group for more than 15 months).

I like it, though. It reminds me of one of my favorite narratives. I mean, it's kind of exciting to think that what started as a casual acquaintanceship has grown into a relationship that's pretty intimate, unique, and important to me. With the benefit of hindsight, our early, casual interactions I've seen (imposed?) new significance in (on?) our early interactions.

I love to imagine what it would have been like to write a note to my past self explaining my eventual future with this girl. You know? Like, the day that I met her and was trying to remember her name, it would have been cool to have a little foreshadowing--to know that this girl would become a real, close friend and a serious girlfriend of mine--to know that it's very important to remember this girl's name because she'll pop up in the story later. The other characters can be killed off or forgotten or whatever, but the story won't make sense if you forget this particular girl.

(Come to think of it, a note from my future self explaining my future with her from where I am right now would also be helpful.)

Of course, there's always a bit of foreshadowing--every interaction is a little step either closer or farther apart. But still--the sort of perfect information that would allow you to know instantly whom you can forget the instant you meet them and which people will end up being really important to you seems like it would come in handy . . . either that or would just result in my coming on way too strong to a girl I've just met ("Hi, I'm James. Nice to meet you, especially since we'll get married eventually according to a note I received from the future. Well, if you thought this whole note-from-the-future thing was weird, I'm sure your future self who is married to my future self would not have let me go back in time and deliver this note. I'll see you later.")

ITEM! Now I realize that I should make sure to link to her blog. I do so, but note that I almost never update this blog, so perhaps I can be forgiven for not linking to her sooner and more prominently.

Provo River Parkway trail

2010-03-06T18:46:00.004-07:00

The Provo River Parkway Trail is awesome! It just barely occurred to me today that I can easily jog on it because it passes less than a half mile from my house. It just barely occurred to me this week that jogging on roads with cars is gross because it smells like exhaust.

Do you recall Ethan Hawke's character in Gattaca who "never saved anything for the swim back?" As I went, I kept thinking of that great line and how I was going to apply that same sentiment and allocate all my energy towards getting far away from my house. It's a hard ideal to live because not thinking about the way back is a great way to blow the better part of your morning on a ridiculously long jog. I confess I saved something for the jog back, but not nearly as much as I should have saved. My jog was really more like two different jogs with a little break in between--one jog to get down the trail, a sizable break where I walked around and looked for a bathroom (with limited success--I found some, but they were locked for the season) and then another jog to get back.

Based on my anecdotal (and therefore meaningless) experience today, I feel like the camaraderie is better between joggers on trails than it is between joggers on streets. Many of the joggers today waved to me or made eye contact. I think I was reasonably friendly, too, though I confess that I frequently experience a strong urge to yell to the other joggers that if they had as much heart as I do, they would have become professional runners by now. This is widely considered poor trail etiquette. No one likes to share the trail with a pompous liar, no matter how much he overstates the innate athleticism of other joggers or how silly he looks.

(I note that I always feel like I look silly when I jog. I really enjoy feeling that I don't have to worry about how I look, but I struggle to escape the sense that something about my outfit--which includes a gaiter, a headband, old-style over-ear headphones, gloves, shirts, shorts and gallons of sweat--combined with my physique somehow makes it obvious that I am ridiculous in some profound, fundamental way).

Here's a map of half of my jog. I took exactly the same route back. I don't claim it was too out of hand in absolute terms as far as distances go, but it is the farthest I've ever gone in one session and it did take about twice as much time as I meant to spend (I include the slow wandering near that skate park at the end as part of the time, but not part of the map).

I watched Twilight.

2009-12-10T13:04:00.003-07:00

More thoughts on our trip:

I watched Twilight (the first one). [SPOILER ALERT] I think it was ok. It was entertaining. I know that the movie is old and many people have mocked it. A few points I found:

1. One time I had this great sandwich. I wouldn't say we were in
love, but if I had tried to kiss it without biting it, I think that
might have been really hard for me. Also, watching the sandwich grow
old while I aged only negligibly would've been a real struggle for me (for one thing it cost like $6). So, yeah, I feel like I can totally relate to e cullen's
plight. He made it look easy.

2. I feel like if e cullen ever does bite and kill Ella, they could maybe
adapt "[S]he lives in you" from the Lion King broadway show just to
make e cullen not feel so bad--you are what you eat, right?

3. The romance seemed contrived. I mean, sure, e cullen is good-looking and talented
in some sense, but considering that he doesn't pay attention to Ella, that he is weird in a lot of BAD ways and that he's not really funny or anything, I feel like her feelings are unreasonably strong and that they appear essentially ex nihilo.

This is actually reassuring to me:

a. If romantic interest were strictly the result of rational calculation, rejection would be a much stronger indictment of your quality and value as a person (especially if you were attracted to the other person precisely because of the accuracy of their calculations and analysis).

b. Perhaps this will work out in my favor at some point (e.g. people will be like, "There's no reason a girl of that caliber should have fallen for you," and I'll be like, "Shut up! Love makes no sense!").

(Many aspects of life that seem arbitrary, irrational or "unfair" in some way tend to be unfair in my favor.)

4. I was hoping "you're my own personal brand of heroine" would be
more punny--like since Ella is the heroine of the only story that e
cullen has ever appeared in, maybe e cullen could've been breaking the fourth
wall a little bit? It wasn't clear to me that he meant it like that,
though.

Other, less-useful puns like this that I've found:

"You're my own personal brand of miner character" (said to a
miner who doesn't have many lines?)

"You're my own personal brand of sage" (said to a plant that
also fits the wise-old-man archetype--maybe plant is a pun, too.
Like, a politician takes a question from someone and he says "You're
my own personal brand of sage" to the questioner, and everyone thinks
he's complimenting the unconventional wisdom of the question-asker, but really he's
acknowledging that the questioner was prepped beforehand by the
politician's staff).

Dang. These are hard to think of.

5. I hoped I'd relate to James (the bad vampire) more since we
share a name, but I just couldn't. I mean, it's fine to love the
chase, but at some point doesn't he realize that there are like 100
million people between the Olympic Peninsula and Phoenix that he could
be eating? I mean, if that particular teenage girl wasn't the main character of the movie, I don't think she'd be a particularly compelling or challenging target. For one thing, she turns out to be
unbelievably gullible.

(I'm trying to imagine how he would have boasted to his vampire buddies if he had been successful:

"My plan was to call her and say 'Come to the dance studio without your bodyguards so I can kill you' and she was like 'Ok' and then I killed her when she got to the dance studio!"

"Good kill! You da man, James!"

"And the best part is that some vampire I had just met was really mad about it!--I hate people I've met only briefly!"

"Oh yeah! Recent acquaintances are such jerks!")

Thoughts on my trip part 2

2009-12-06T21:57:00.004-07:00

The trip was great:

We played Loaded Questions. My favorite response came from my mother to a question about what she'd name a song about her true love. She put:

A guitar, a wit and a lot of crazy dreams.

This was hard to guess because I thought that this was one of those jokes where it sounds like you're gonna put a swear word to make it rhyme, but then you don't (read it like "A guitar, a wit and a lot of crazy . . .uh . . . dreams"). Of course, this didn't even occur to my mother (whom I can't even recall ever having sworn). If it had been my turn to guess, I'd have missed it for sure.

Loaded questions also lets one appreciate (read: be jealous of) the wit and intelligence of my 10-year-old sister. When asked with whom she'd like to have a photograph she responds "Well, not with any celebrities or family members because I already have so many of those. . . Ha Ha." When asked to name her autobiography, she puts "[insert my name here]: Shocking a panicked nation." During a game of loaded questions years ago, when asked what she'd say on her last day on the air at a radio station she put "I'm not wearing pants." I don't think I was writing stuff like that when I was 10 (or even now sometimes).

Same thing with the little facts she knows. During a discussion of political offices, she cites Jesse Ventura as an example of a governor. I didn't hear about Jesse Ventura until I was 15 (when he was elected governor of Minnesota, naturally. . . ha ha). Still, it's a little intimidating when the same small pieces of political trivia that I know (and on which I can barely elaborate--I mean, governor, Navy SEAL, wrestler--that's basically EVERYTHING I know about Ventura) are shared by my sister who was an infant when he was elected (though, I don't think she was able to elaborate past governor--so maybe I haven't entirely wasted the 15 year head start I have on her).

My sleeping arrangements were odd, but comfortable enough: Instead of a sheet, I had a table cloth. Instead of a blanket I had a towel. I mean, it was by far the biggest towel I've ever seen--big enough to be a blanket, I guess. Still, it is not often that there are no extra blankets, but there are extra 5'x7' towels handy.

The only thing I can really complain about (I'm not complaining, I'm just saying if I were to complain, this would top the list) is that the air mattress slowly deflated during the night until my butt sank and I was more sitting than lying. It eventually becomes so uncomfortable that it would wake me up and I'd let most of the rest of the air out so I could support my body on the floor. This happened twice. It wasn't too bad: At the beginning of the night and at the end after I released the air, it was perfectly comfortable.

I thought of a great, mildly-inspiring metaphor:

If you want to go through a door, but you can't figure out how to unlock it, just start walking forward. You might find out that you were RoboCop all along and that you never needed to unlock the door in the first place.

First ever speeding ticket.

2009-11-30T15:09:00.001-07:00

Thoughts on my recent trip:

My brother, his fiance and I road-tripped to Arizona to visit our extended family (happily, our immediate family, of which I am immensely fond, was also visiting our extended family at the same time).

We rented a 2009 Toyota Corolla and it was awesome! If nothing else, I am now reassured that I am not very spoiled when it comes to cars. Since the 1996 Intrepid that I normally drive is getting pretty decrepit, I feel like I spent a lot of time thinking things like "hey, the windshield wipers stop moving when I turn them off . . . splendid!" I have nothing but praise for the heat, the air conditioning, the hazard lights, the radio, the door locks, the windshield sprayers--it was pretty luxurious (all of those things are pretty flaky or completely non-functional on the Intrepid). The Intrepid also got me used to feeling like I was about to die when I got up to about 60 mph. In this car I felt safe at much higher speeds.

The cop said he had me going 92 mph in a 75 mph zone.

But it was hard to avoid! Normally, I'd just set the cruise control to 9 over the limit and go, but this car didn't have cruise control (weirdly). The visibility and road conditions were so good, I'd just start going and think "this feels like the right speed" and I'd look down and my speedometer would read 95 mph.

At one point, I was already going like 97 mph and I pushed it to 102 mph as an homage to my parents (this was a personal driving speed record for me).

(My parents took a roadtrip to Arizona before they started dating. Apparently my father tried to demonstrate to my mother that his car could travel 100 mph. It couldn't. The car broke down immediately and they were stranded in the desert for several hours.)

I found this great Honda minivan that was steadily speeding about the same amount as I meant to and I made him my pace-buddy (i.e. I followed him and let him determine our speed). I figured the cops couldn't catch us both for speeding. I never found out if the cops could catch us both for speeding because before we saw any cops, I decided that I had outgrown him and that we needed to part ways.

I may have been a little lonely (my car was quiet and my brother and his fiance were asleep) because passing my old pace-buddy was sad for me. I guess I hadn't realized how attached I was. If I had to pick a soundtrack, I'd pick "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" by Greenday for this part. It had been a great half-hour of highway driving, but like Icarus, I was giddy and over-confident.

Also, I didn't want him to think I had a crush on him.

The highway seemed a little more crowded as we approached Beaver, UT. I was going faster than almost everyone. I thought maybe I was just discovering that I was born with a gift for driving fast that others just don't have. I was never ashamed to be above-average in other regards, so I started to wonder if maybe it would be a shame--a waste even--for an exceptionally fast driver like me to slow down just to avoid attracting attention.

(I think the "gift" here might just be a lack of regard for the law, and an inadequate appreciation of one's own mortality, but anything that helps you get to your destination earlier is a gift in my book).

When I saw the cops pull out, my heart sank. I prayed that they weren't going to get me. I pulled into the right lane and slowed down a lot to act like I had been going a reasonable speed the whole time. They didn't fall for it.

They were nice enough, I guess. Normally, I resent the police a lot, but this interaction reminded me of the Looney Tunes Ralph and Sam. I think I may have even thanked them.

$165 is the fine. It doesn't seem bad until I think of $165 things that I would like to buy, but haven't because they're too expensive.

Things in my head that made me laugh out loud recently

2009-10-19T20:47:00.009-06:00

Some things are really funny to me. I worry they're not interesting to others (or too crude), so I have tucked them out of the way here on my blog:

A dream I had:

I was protecting some servers from hackers. Looking back with my conscious mind, my approach was a little bit elaborate: I intentionally left a series of clues for the hackers to find. The clues suggested that the only way to compromise my data security was to travel to a particular place and hang out for a while.

The place where I lured them had wooden benches sort of like a sauna except without the steam. I explained to someone that it's important that the hackers be relaxed. After playing some relaxing music, the hacker was lying on the bench with one foot up and one on the ground--just where I wanted him.

One of the wooden slats had been secretly rigged with pneumatics. When I gave the word, the slat flew up and hit the hacker in the crotch. I recall explaining to someone that the system was designed to hit him really, really hard.

I'm not sure why I didn't kill the hacker, or prosecute him, or do something else that would prevent him from stealing my data. I suspect it had something to do with the pure pleasure of interrupting his malicious, little siesta that way. If only more of our enemies were so gullible.

Vanity wins

2008-06-22T12:24:00.003-06:00

We all know that it's frustrating to think of the perfect thing to say after it's too late to say it. I also think it's frustrating to think of something pretty witty and say it to a small audience in a situation that isn't relatable to the typical person (and therefore not suitable for a stand-up comedy act).

Thus, I hereby expose my entire readership to these under-exposed witticisms that I came up with. These conversations actually happened (though they may be paraphrased) and my responses I actually said:

Scene: Physics professor has taken a box labeled "Lab Snacks" (one of our suppliers occasionally throws in a snack with our equipment orders) and put a few electronic parts in it. ROHS compliant (ROHS=Restriction of Hazardous Substances) is a designation given to electronics parts if they contain sufficiently low levels of lead and other dangerous substances.

Professor: Here are some snacks.
Archiblog: Oh good, I'm hungry.
Professor: Actually, it's just that power supply I have to mount!
Archiblog: That doesn't look appetizing at all. . .unless those components are ROHS compliant.
All (except guy who didn't know what ROHS was): ha ha ha.

Scene: Friends are discussing ways to complete a CS minor.

Gabep: So, should I take a class that's really easy and teaches you how to surf the web and stuff or a class that actually makes you work?
Archiblog: Well, considering that in my daily life I surf the web a lot more than I work. . .
All: ha ha ha.

Open-Mic Night II

2008-05-22T15:40:00.000-06:00

The competition really intimidated me. One guy had a real hook instead of one of his hands--a real hook! He made a call-back to the questionnaire question (obviously, the right answer was hook because there are so many great hook jokes)! That hook gave him so much material, it didn't seem fair--kind of like that olympic runner whose bionic, er, artificial legs give him an unfair advantage. If having fake legs helps you run, having one hand is a huge advantage in comedy (the logical extension of this is that Darth Vader could probably really knock 'em dead if he tried--maybe those guys he chokes are really dying of laughter that is so intense that they can't breathe or make noise or act like they're having fun).

There was also a half-black, half-white guy there. He was hilarious. How is a white guy like me supposed to compete with a fellow who has the entire world of awkward race-relations from which to harvest his jokes? Another guy looked just like the guy on the Verizon commercials. I concede that all of the aforementioned were talented. Other people had other great material. I suppose in a sense every comic has his own unique set of jokes that he can pull off because of who he is. I found myself secretly hoping that someone would bomb before I had to go on. I nearly left and nearly didn't come back (though I was closer to leaving than not coming back. . .since you have to leave before you don't come back, I guess).

My set went pretty well. Early on I got a big laugh with clapping (well, I could hear clapping in the low-fi recording I made), which is a big prize for a comic. My pacing was ok (I talked a little too fast and said a few too many words, but not by much on either count). I forgot which jokes I would do and skipped a bunch, but since I had intended to do 3 minutes and I used up 2.5, I think I was ok (perhaps it was an impeccable timing instinct that made me leave the stage 30 seconds before time?). I got some other decent-sized laughs (some of which I'd tentatively characterize as "big").

The toughest thing was that the jokes that I thought were really funny I either forgot to say or they didn't go over as well with the crowd as I thought. The premise that got the best reception I thought was so corny that it almost seemed Vaudevillian ("I've been told I have a face that only a mother could love. . .which is a real shame since I'm only interested in women who don't already have kids. . ." etc.).

Overall I think it was good and worthwhile. I hope the club bigwigs agree.

Open-Mic Night

2008-05-22T01:51:00.004-06:00

So tonight I took the plunge and performed my first-ever original, 2.5 minute stand-up comedy routine. It went well. A couple things:

I read a book on stand-up comedy and the author practically guaranteed that many in the audience at my first open-mic night would be drunk. I know we were on BYU campus, but there wasn't even anyone who appeared a little disoriented (except me).

They gave those of us who wanted to join the club a questionnaire. I think my answers were pretty good. I got my name, email address, etc. right. They asked with what artificial object we'd replace our hand if we lost it in a garbage disposal accident. I wasn't sure if this was a serious test, or a test of our funniness, so I put that I'd attach one of those soap-dispensing sponges with handles until I got to the hospital. That was good because if that answer's not funny/clever/resourceful enough, then the reader will probably think that once I get to the hospital, I'll pick something really funny/clever/resourceful (a rubber chicken? a gun? a hook? a U.S. savings bond? a name tag? Al Gore? there is no right answer! (though in real life, hook is a common one)).

They asked us to draw a shape that represented us. I drew a fetus (which I still am in the world of stand-up comedy--not least because I almost turned out to be as wimpy as a fetus after seeing some of the other comics (see next entry)). They asked why we were interested in stand-up and I said to improve circulation and posture, though that might have been the anxiety-induced, self-diagnosed tachycardia talking.

Stay tuned next time for the rest of the story. . .

j. larry. a.

Elementary school voting

2008-05-22T01:24:00.000-06:00

I hate to be cynical, but I recall in elementary school having to vote in mock elections so that we could practice being good citizens. You know, I think our voting then was a lot like how we vote nowadays: then, as now, we were ill-informed, we voted predictably based on demographic lines and our votes didn't count for much.

Salud!

2008-04-29T14:55:00.002-06:00

When you sneeze and someone says "bless you," do you ever feel bad if you have to sneeze again? Almost as if you were taking advantage of their willingness to say "bless you?" How I hate to impose on strangers even if my poor head is about to explode. Maybe people say "bless you" as a way to guilt you into not sneezing anymore.

To a bystander

2008-03-12T13:44:00.002-06:00

The other day I was walking to my car and I realize I might have given someone the wrong impression. As I walked, said bystander may have heard, "Dang it! This American life is over."

I would like to clear this up right now.

There is no cause for alarm. No American life that I am aware of had recently terminated. What I actually said would better be transcribed as "Dang it! 'This American Life' is over." I'm an Ira Glass fan, you see.

Two-hand touch

2008-03-12T13:13:00.003-06:00

When I was a kid, I played touch football with some guys at church once. I remember they said that you had to touch with both hands below the waist for it to count as a tackle.

Child safety programs at school had successfully instilled in me an irrational fear of being touched below the waist, but this was not my entire objection.

Instead, I reasoned that it seemed counter-intuitive to insist that the touch be only below the waist while other sports, like boxing, look very unfavorably on contact below the waist. Imagine a match where every punch had to land below the other guy's waist. Certainly, that type of trauma has its own intrinsic comic value, but I predict any such rule would be unpopular among boxers.

Maybe it would attract different kinds of boxers. All the would-be boxer-intellectuals who shied away from pro boxing for fear of chronic brain-damage may finally get their chance (assuming they have unnaturally high tolerances for pain).

On feeling like a criminal.

2008-03-09T19:06:00.000-06:00

I think that the ability to seem innocent is probably a great asset to criminals, but if criminals start to monopolize innocent-looking behavior, what behaviors will be left for the billions of innocent people in the world?

Two examples:

My apartment building is quite symmetrical. About three times per week, I mistakenly walk into this other apartment that's across the way from mine. This is usually a short visit, consisting of my looking around, looking confused and then looking to go to my regular apartment. The other week, however, they sent an email to the campus community about a burglar who matches my height and build who goes into unlocked apartments during the day and steals things. I just hope that no one confuses me with my evil doppelganger.

Example 2:

The other day I went to pick up my little brother at his work in Springville (the actual place shall remain nameless so as not to help criminals). It was late and my phone had died. Having no way to get a hold of him, I knocked on the door and the security guard let me in.

I explained my predicament. He asked if I had my brother's number, which I stored only in my dead phone.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket to look for my brother's number and lost control of the phone. After a bit of bumbling, the phone flew off my fingertips and under a chair. I was embarrassed at my clumsiness, but as I crawled under the chair to get the phone I felt something entirely distinct: guilt. It occurred to me that this normal-looking behavior was exactly the sort of thing a criminal would do.

Wasn't it a little too convenient that my phone had died, thereby necessitating my after-hours entrance into the building? Isn't it a little suspicious that my brother needs picking-up long after the building has closed at a time when virtually no one is working? Why hadn't I been able to name the division he works in or give any other information besides my brother's name to demonstrate that he really works there? Doesn't it seem a little implausible that the phone that is too dead to make a phone call somehow might have enough juice to find his phone number? Didn't the way I juggled my phone before dropping it seem a little bit choreographed? Wasn't it a little weird that to retrieve my phone, I had to crawl on my hands and knees? Isn't this exactly the sort of thing a criminal would do if he were trying to distract the guard from his watch? Couldn't this be a ruse to allow me to retrieve a weapon of some sort?

I started to feel like maybe the guard was beginning to suspect something. Heck, I was beginning to suspect something.

I tried to find the number in the phone, but it died each time before I could get it. The guard apparently did not have access to some kind of corporate directory (the sort of fact that any competent criminal's pre-crime research would have easily revealed). It looked like the only way to get a hold of my brother was to walk through the dark, mostly-empty building looking for him.

The guard said he'd go with me and we could look for my brother. I couldn't believe it. The guard obviously didn't suspect a thing. He was believing my string of unlikely coincidences just like he would fall for the ruse of an actual criminal. This made me feel more guilty. Not only was I suspiciously innocent, disorganized and clueless, but if I were malicious, I'd be good at it.

We walked and after a few seconds the guard was away from his post and (probably) out of range of any security cameras. "If I were a criminal, I'd be thinking, 'I've got him just where I want him,'" I thought. I knew this was exactly the part where a criminal could pull out a gun or something.

I started making a conscious effort not to do anything suspicious. This was a maddening proposition. Do I stay right near the guard or do I wander a bit so as to cover more ground and demonstrate that I consider myself beyond suspicion? What are they protecting in here and how do I act like I'm not trying to steal it? What kinds of assaults would the guard be vulnerable to and how can I make sure not to look like I'm about to attempt any of them?

We finally found my brother. His existence validated all my claims (I knew that only a criminal with much more sophistication than I had would've planted an inside man like that). In my mind, I was exonerated.

Criminals have ruined some of our best benign behaviors. Can you bring a violin case to a speakeasy without arousing suspicions? Can you dump a bag that's about the size and shape of a human body into the East River without looking bad? Can you offer someone "protection" in exchange for money without giving the wrong impression? What about boarding a plane while Muslim, requesting seat belt extenders, and sitting in a seat that's not your assigned seat?

P. S. I suppose I should thank that guy whoever he is for trusting me. It made my life easier and I suppose I was worthy of his trust.

I beat the system

2008-03-06T17:49:00.002-07:00

You may notice that my most recent blog post was posted in the future. I started writing it in February, but didn't finish it and post it until today. I finally posted it, it posted it on the date when I started jotting down my ideas, not the day when I actually made the post public. I noticed that I could change the post date to any date, even a date in the future. So, I hope that my post on Feeling like a Criminal doesn't look anachronistic by the time the real March 9, 2008 rolls around.

On Asking Permission

2008-03-06T12:01:00.003-07:00

Kids try a lot of different techniques to finagle permission from their parents. One ruse I tried was to ask each parent individually and then go with the answer I liked best. This did not work even once. In fact, this was the surest way to get a negative response from both--as soon as they got to collude, they would immediately agree to whichever answer was less desirable to me.

So, if asking both parents leads to an almost-certain negative response, is there some converse principle that leads to a positive one? Sure. If you want to guarantee a positive answer, ask neither.

An Unfortunate Circumstance

2008-03-06T11:34:00.001-07:00

Hell is having to eat from vending machines and only having $10 bills.

Compulsive blog-checking, bad timing

2008-02-18T22:18:00.002-07:00

I confess: I often find myself so desperate for a mindless way to waste my time that I frequently check the livebookmark I have to my own blog as if something new to read would appear. What disappointment! Everything that's posted I've already read and I never find a post that I didn't see coming for weeks in advance. Oh well.

Speaking of compulsive time-wasting, I just had one of the best or worst Presidents' days ever. I sat down to eat lunch and watched part of A&E's CSI: Miami marathon. After an unusually long lunch (let's just say that if you were a typical hourly worker who takes 1/2 hour for lunch, it would take you 12 workdays to tally up as much lunchtime as I had just today), I watched Horatio Kane solve between 12 and 20 murders. Considering that Miami only has about 54 murders a year, I suppose that just with just four or five days like this per year, Mr. Kane can realistically solve all the murders within his jurisdiction. This probably explains why he operates outside his jurisdiction so much. Over the course of the day, I saw him thwart a terrorist attack, conduct an investigation in New York City and solve a crime that was committed in Iraq. When asked how he gets authority to investigate these crimes, it's always because the people in charge of these places just sort-of give him the authority.

Granted, a lot of it does sort-of have to do with his job, but all these exotic places he goes (not to mention beautiful Miami) make the episodes difficult for me to turn away from. In addition to his far-reaching investigative skills, he also managed to prosecute a city-councilwoman's husband and successfully investigate a murder where all the prime suspects were members of his investigative team.

Here are some bad strategies for stopping watching CSI:Miami marathons:

1. Tell yourself that you'll stop at the end of this episode, but then decide to "just watch the beginning part of this next episode where they show the crime." It never works. You won't be able to stop wondering who committed the crime and what crazy details will be revealed until they've already got the show going. It is equally unsatisfying to stop in the middle of an episode or even at the end of an episode.

Well, actually that's it. That's my terrible strategy.

A Helpful Explanation

2008-02-14T22:05:00.002-07:00

Found on the back of a power strip I bought:

"With use of electronic equipment in almost all facets of life, even momentary outages and power quality problems can adversely affect customers at home and work."

-Electric Power Research Institute

I'm not sure what sort of research these guys did to back this up, but I consider myself warned.

I'm also pretty sure that my power strip does nothing to prevent outages.

Think you're safe at home? You're not. What about at work? You're not safe if you use electricity. Think there's some other facet of life where a momentary outage or power quality problem won't possibly adversely affect you? Think again--especially if that facet of your life involves the use of electronic equipment.

I almost wonder if they could generalize this idea to things besides electricity:

Maybe, "If you depend on X and X fails, you could be adversely affected."

Library Bias

2008-02-13T22:53:00.002-07:00

I was in the library the other day looking at a display that was ostensibly about the design of campus. Take a look at the statistics I gathered:

5 panels talk about different buildings around campus (the BYA building, Maeser Bldg, plans in general and the JFS family living center).

8 panels and one 2-sided banner are dedicated to the library.

These panels assert that they are depicting the "library as heart" and that "[no building], I believe, is as important as the library" and that ". . .a library is the heart and substance of a university."

I think that maybe they should have put a panel that says "full disclosure: the designer of this exhibit works for the library).

On Strategies for Winning the Super Bowl

2008-02-13T22:32:00.002-07:00

The other day I was pretty stressed about a physics test I was going to have. Everything about it looked bad: it was timed, closed-book and the problems seemed difficult.

Well, after a long day of taking a long time to finish a problem set that I thought would be about like the test, I stopped to watch Conan O'Brien.

His guest was Michael Strahan of the NY Giants. O'Brien mentioned how intimidating it must have been to play an undefeated team like the Patriots (full disclosure: I wanted the Pats to win). He asked about Strahan's strategy. Strahan said that the team just went out there to "have fun" and that this enabled them not to get psyched out.

Wow. So, to beat a team that is heavily favored and widely regarded as the best football franchise of the decade, a team that is famous for making very few errors and consistently scoring, all Strahan had to do was have fun at them.

It sounded too good to be true, but I bought it and applied it to my own life. Since actually learning the material for my test seemed out of the question at that point, I decided to go with the strategy of going out there and having fun.

It wasn't easy; I had to repeat it to myself many times before the test.

But, do you know what? It worked.

At least, I think it did.

On Imitation

2008-02-13T22:16:00.005-07:00

So, I was reading in the Science Times section of the New York Times about how people who subtly imitate one another end up liking one another better. I decided that I would try it.

Experience 1: success

I was walking near the library between classes. There were hundreds of people in view. One guy turned his head to my right. I recalled the article I'd read and, hoping to form a bond with him, waited about 2 seconds and then turned my head to the right. By the time I looked back he was out of view (and I'd forgotten what he looked like), but I figure we formed some kind of deep bond.

Experience 2: less success

I walked a little further and saw someone with a look on their face that seemed to express cold and a little bit of ill will. I waited 2 seconds and then imitated them. They were already gone by the time I made my look, so I don't know if they appreciated my imitation of them. The next person I saw had the same look on their face. I was feeling quite confident, and continued with that look on my face.

Experience 3: failure

I saw a girl on her cell phone and wanted to stop and pull mine out too. I thought this might seem a little contrived and so chickened out.

Experience 4: success more or less

I was in the library and thought I needed to pay a fine. I tried to imitate the girl at the counter. She said there was no fine. I did not believe her. She insisted and I stopped trying to persuade her.

Experience 5: success

I got some CDs from the library. I don't know how much I imitated the attendant, but I felt pretty giddy after checking out more of Herbie Hancock's discography than I could ever possibly learn to appreciate (at no cost to me, suckers!). I'm not sure if I was really doing a good job of imitating, but for some reason I felt like I was some kind of smooth operator because I felt like I had somehow charmed the attendant at the music library into retrieving the CDs with the desired call number (which is actually her main job).

Experience 6: success

I was walking across the street and a car that was trying to stop for me skidded right in front of where I was walking. The driver looked at me with a big smile on his face. I smiled too. We were both obviously amused by something that, if it had happened 4 seconds later would have killed me. I felt a bond with him.

So, there you go.

The Library Giveth and the Library Taketh Away

2008-02-13T21:44:00.003-07:00

I used to think I knew how to be a cheapskate. In a class of 20+ people I was the only one at the beginning of the semester to rent his textbook from the library at the unbelievably low rate of 2 visits to the library web page per month.

The Library, however, reminded of the great power she wields over her patrons (and possibly the reason other people do not so readily submit to her influence) a few weeks later when she recalled my book.

Apparently some other patron had been deemed more in need of the book than I and, having already used it for more than a month, I was informed both by email and a regular letter written on bright green paper that I needed to return the book or face a steep penalty.

The whole prospect seemed pretty dubious. Who could possibly want this book more than I do? How do I know they still need it and didn't just go and buy it somewhere? Why didn't they recall the other copy that was due about the same time as mine?

I visited the library to ask. I asked half in earnest and half hoping to elicit some bit of information that I could use to track down the would-be library patron and break his library card!

The Library is caring. She does not reveal that kind of information about her patrons.

Well, I relented and gave the book back. I was sad, but only for a little bit.

You see, I've found a new mistress: the bookstore! Though certainly more expensive up front, the bookstore doesn't care what I do with my book.

I found a book that was obviously new except for a minor tear on the first page that was repaired. I got it for the used price.

As I walked home, I couldn't stop looking at my new book. It was the same book I'd already had from the library and a book that I would never have bought if it weren't for this class, but just knowing that this book was mine, that it would accompany for as long as I kept track of it filled me with inexplicable joy. It was a mixture between the satisfaction of having indulged in a slightly luxurious purchase (I can't buy many things for $95 without running out of money) and having a new friend. I inhaled the exquisite aroma of its never-before-read pages. I held it in my hands, trying to grasp just exactly what its dimensions are. I put my hand across its cover and imagined testifying in court after being sworn in by putting my hand on such a very attractive book.* I even imagined myself reading the book and went so far as to pretend to read it.

In the end, I was happy. Maybe that's what the Library wanted all along.

*Note: The author does not mean to suggest that the book is of more value than scripture. Its exposition of Maxwell's equations, however, is based on some of the most certain and best-tested science in existence (at least on the scales we usually talk about). We must overlook Griffiths' apparent abuse of the notion of hidden momentum.

More on failure

2008-01-27T23:36:00.000-07:00

I watched a show on trans-orbital lobotomy and Dr. Freeman, the man who worked most of his career to pioneer/popularize it.

The show disturbed me for 3 reasons:

1. There were pictures of people with metal spikes in their eyes who were having the procedure.

2. Anything that screws up the brain makes me nervous.

3. People who get them and their family members didn't always get the chance to give permission.

4. The procedure fell out of favor with the larger medical community in almost all cases and Dr. Freeman spent the last years of his life searching out his old patients and trying to see how they did. I don't know how I would react if, during my lifetime, all my work was rejected. It would make me really sad. I would not have the courage to abandon my life's work in the face of compelling evidence that my well-intentioned work was actually quite deleterious. That I lack this courage makes me worried about if I'll ever attempt anything of import.

SCANDAL!

2008-01-27T20:42:00.001-07:00

I went to a poetry reading. L. Gregerson was the name of the lady who came.

I had a physics class at the same hour as the reading and I had the distinct feeling that I was being unfaithful to physics. I can imagine the headlines in the tabloids: Archiblog snubs long-time interest, seen spending afternoon with other discipline.

The reading was truly excellent as far as I can tell, which to be perfectly honest isn't very far. When I listen to poetry, I have trouble parsing more than 5 or 6 words in a row. As the poet reads, I mostly think, "Ah, yes, those words in that order comprise a short phrase that could have some meaning." By the time this thought is done, though, I've missed several lines. It's almost like I'm just spot-checking each poem for syntactical errors.

I love the aura of the poetry reading. The poems are a sort of lyrical bath. I never absorb them, but I love how artsy I feel when I'm exposed to them. For a moment, I feel that my life is entirely cliche and that this lady, with her eloquent artsiness, has liberated me by endowing me with the vague aspiration not to be so cliche. It wears off, but I still like it.

The whole time I struggle with the urge to start writing "poetically" right then and there. Now, when I say "poetically," I mostly mean that when I think the words in my head, I imagine that I'm saying them with the sort of intonation a beatnik at a poetry jam would use. I also struggle with the uncontrollable urge to write "Hope. . . springs. . ." just like the guy in that Hyundai commercial did (you know: the one with the poetry slam).

I spend a lot of time looking at the people and trying to find evidence for many stereotypes I maintain for poetry enthusiasts. My stereotypes have mostly to do with personality. My evidence is gleaned entirely from their looks. It was quite easy to confirm all of my stereotypes.

I also spent some time trying to decide if I should have a crush on the English professor who introduced the poet. I didn't see a ring and she seems young. She is also well-spoken, educated and has a real job.

At the end, they gave us bagels and let us mingle with the poet. I'll confess: I was more excited to be able to tell my friends that I've eaten a bagel with cream cheese in the special collections section of the library (where normally no food is allowed) than I was to meet the poet (to whom I did not even speak).

Well,

So long for now,

archiblog

Failure and other thoughts from last Friday

2008-01-27T20:04:00.000-07:00

Item: I saw a headline in the NYT: "French Bank Says Rogue Trader Lost $7 Billion." When I saw it, a huge grin creeped across my face. I eagerly read both articles about the unfortunate escapades of Mr. Jerome Kerviel.

What induced my euphoria? I'm not sure. I think part of it is that failure on this scale is truly exceptional--so much that it is almost cartoonish. Imagine reading a list of the world's failures: students fail classes, CEOs post bad quarters, alcoholics relapse, I did not win an essay contest I entered and Jerome Kerviel single-handedly and (so far) inexplicably subverts every safeguard in place to make thousands of unauthorized, unprofitable trades, thereby losing more money than the entire GDP of Cambodia. Remember: this is just one guy in just one year!

If it doesn't inspire you that otherwise undistinguished people in free societies can fail so abjectly, I don't know what does.

WARNING: Posts that seem short are actually quite long.

2008-01-24T13:48:00.000-07:00

I just discovered that my last post (which I thought rather short) was really medium-length.

I was thinking the other day about roommates. There's a rumor that if one's roommate dies during the semester, one gets straight A's automatically. Needless to say, this has altered considerably my conception of the ideal roommate.

So, I guess this is a vindication for anyone whose ever been stiffed by a potential roommate because they do drugs, drive recklessly or are affiliated with a professional crime organization.

Hello World!

2008-01-24T13:28:00.000-07:00

I send all my readers my most cordial salutations.

They say the key to writing a well-read blog is to write often. I, obviously, subscribe to the theory that less is more. Actually I write today to say that I'm taking my blog offline.

Just kidding! As I was writing, I wanted to feel what it felt like to type that sentence--not much different than other sentences in case you're wondering.

The truth is I write for two reasons:

1. I very much dislike my last post and I'm a tinge embarrassed to direct people to it. It's kind of whiny and self-indulgent. It demonstrated excessive insecurity and was written way too late at night. It's not that it's immoral or insincere, it's just that it's a voice I don't usually use (or is it a voice the world's not ready to hear? no, I don't think so). It's still up, but anyway.

2. I am writing an essay for an essay contest. It doesn't have to be long, but I'm suffering from writer's block.

I know what you're thinking: "But Mr. Archiblog--isn't it ironic that you divert yourself from your inability to write by writing something?"

Yes, it is, but I'm sure you're all actually thinking: "Mr. Archiblog, why don't you just submit some playful banter about whatever comes into you're head. It's certainly good enough for the likes of me based on the fact that I'm reading this very paragraph this very instant."

Well, thanks.

Onto other news:

I found a place to live. What's that? You weren't even worried? Well, considering that I was barely worried myself until about a week after school started, I don't blame you. I did feel a little bit like the Palestinian people: displaced and perfectly willing to accept without hesitation offers that were available in the past, but are no longer possible.

I feel like I should post something and I can't wait to find out what

2007-12-28T00:05:00.001-07:00

Well, I've been reading my friends' blogs and enjoying them, so I figured I should update mine. Forgive me if this post is pure drivel, as the title suggests I'm not really sure where I'll go with this little burst of verbiage.

It is late and almost completely dark in this room. I feel like I should try to be funny, but I'd rather pity myself. No audience wants to read self-pity, so I'll try to spare you, but I might not.

So, comment readers. Do you ever feel like you should disappear? Do you ever want to fade into quiet obscurity? Pack your personality away like a carnie folding his tent? Do you ever fear that no one will ever love you honestly? That whatever success and acceptance you've achieved is an elaborate illusion that defies falsification? That a group can accept you but that a single person never could--as if acceptance was the result of some kind of herd mentality or as if your contribution to the sociality of a group is so peripheral that you would never form part of a couple, but could only make sense within the context of a huge group?

If you answered yes to any of these questions, you're not alone! At least one other person has answered yes to at least one of these questions.

I think part of it is that I found a niche of sorts within the social structure of the Jerusalem Center and now that niche is gone. My role within my family is becoming increasingly murky as I age and my social status during this next semester is also quite unclear. I'm sure I'll find something, but maybe that something is aloofness.

I sometimes imagine being entirely withdrawn. I love to think that whatever I would think in my solitude would be of such immense importance that interaction with other humans would be a burden worth avoiding. I love to think that I would have the emotional strength to alienate a lot of people and still be happy.

I don't believe this to be true, but everyone else had relationships to write about and I've only got prospects! Aloofness is a sure shot, dating someone depends on a lot of things that are mysterious to me. D*g!

Talents

2007-11-24T12:41:00.000-07:00

This is the full text of an essay read by the author of this blog at the BYU JC variety show on Friday, November 23, 2007. The text has undergone a few minor editions since then. It is intended to be read out loud by the author. MP3 available soon probably.

Discovering one's talents is like looking for gold coins in a sewer—if you find some it's well worth the effort, but once you've got the gold, you don't really tend to emphasize how you found it. Our fall starts, our early failures and the effort and time it takes to develop real talents often go unmentioned. This essay is dedicated to the notion that sometimes the process of discovering talents can be interesting, even compelling. So, with the following true stories from my life, I'd like to explain a couple of talents that I won't be performing tonight.
Soccer
Like any soccer team comprised entirely of seven-year-olds, my soccer team followed the ball around the field like a school of fish. My style of play was the exact antithesis of this. At the start of each half, I would trot out to my spot and stand there for the entire half. I alone was a pillar of enlightened soccer playing: the only child on the whole team to take the coaches' admonition to stay in your position so literally, so precisely, so narrowly that even the near proximity of the ball could not entice me to leave my spot.
One time, the ball was coming straight to me and I decided to produce some tension by spreading my legs apart only to close them at the last minute. Thus, I thought to stop the ball both stylishly and effectively. Seized by a vague, but inexplicable desire to imitate an evil cartoon butler, I planned to say something like “where do you think you're going?” or “Not so fast!” or “I have you now!” or “you’ll never get away from me!” The ball rolled between my legs several seconds before I got around to closing them. I was no soccer prodigy.
Spelling
After winning a spelling bee in 2nd grade, my career in competitive spelling looked promising. That is until, in a fifth grade spelling bee, I misspelled the word “monkeys.” Incidentally, that same day, I also discovered that I did not have a knack for losing graciously. I started to walk away as if I were about to leave school grounds. With tears streaming down my face, I muttered an angry diatribe against everything that came to mind. My plan was to elicit the sympathies of my mother and my teacher who would catch up with me and console me before I got too far. I would then resist but let them take me back; maybe they'd even give me a treat or something. They didn't. My mother saw right through my shenanigans and waited back at the school. I turned around and threw my arms into the air, desperately hoping to persuade someone to pursue me. I neared the sidewalk, realizing that I'd soon have to actually leave school property or bring the whole episode to a humiliating close. The gate that I neared was not just between the playground and the sidewalk. It stood between mere petulance and insubordination, between the safety of the school grounds and the danger of the streets, between a silly stunt and an inexcusable violation of school rules. I turned around. With no more tears and no more muttering, I walked back ashamed. I haven't spelled competitively since.
Bargaining
Sometimes we discover our deficiencies later in life. For example, bargaining is a skill I discovered I don't have just this semester. The now-well-known purchase of my ud in Egypt illustrates. The ud is an Eastern instrument that is the ancestor of the lute. After watching a merchant’s underwhelming demonstration of ud capabilities, I waited for the merchant to retrieve another ud from his stock. I needed to leave and I really didn’t want to buy a ud, but I was deathly afraid of doing anything that would bring my honor into question. So, upon the merchant’s return I hoped to end the negotiations like a man by politely asserting that I did not want to buy an ud. I wavered. I decided to end the negotiations using the slightly-less-manly method of saying that I didn’t have enough cash to make a good offer. He said he accepted Visa. Under duress, I settled for the even less manly technique of making a semi-reasonable offer that I thought he’d never accept. We left, thinking we were done, but as we walked away, he shouted to us that he accepted my offer. To my chagrin, I was now honor-bound to purchase the product—the imminent departure of our bus notwithstanding.
I soon discovered that “accepting Visa” in Egypt means that the merchant is willing to run with you to an ATM 3 blocks away. I dropped my things and ran on my recently-injured ankle with only the merchant whom I had never before met to accompany me. I retrieved the cash and ran back holding the money in plain view in my right hand. I was much slower than the merchant. My Visa card broke in half.
Now the proud owner of an ud, I looked at it closely for the first time. It was missing three strings and there was black gunk on the back of it. The decorative inlays were already falling out. I wondered if I could use such an ugly instrument. Using the ud never actually came up though. You see, just two days later at the Taba border crossing, my aspirations of learning the ud met an unceremonious end.
Things were going badly after the ud fell from the x-ray machine on the Egyptian side, which knocked loose more of the decorative inlays and cracked the back of it. My ud fared still worse at the Israeli bag-inspection station. I looked and the tuning pegs seemed to be less symmetrical than I had remembered. I looked again at the ud and realized that one of the tuning pegs had broken off. I attended to my other bags as they were inspected by Israeli border officers. I looked again at the ud and noticed that the entire pegbox of the ud was mounted at a suspiciously shallow angle—almost as if it were about to break. I looked for a fourth time at the ud. You take a look: maybe you'll notice the same thing I did. [hold up hopelessly dilapidated ud here]
If I ever become an accomplished ud player, it will not be with this ud. If I ever become an accomplished negotiator, this incident will not be on my resume.
But a failure to demonstrate natural ability early in life is hardly definitive. I recall an occasion when the State of Florida made elementary school kids submit a writing sample to be scored by some testing agency. My essay was about Christmas. It started with an inspiring and well-crafted paragraph on the importance of receiving gifts. The materialism of this first paragraph made me feel a little guilty, so I dutifully discussed the birth of Jesus in my second paragraph. Having assuaged my guilt and exhausted all of my ideas on the subject of the nativity, I unwittingly completed the chiastic pattern by further elaborating on the importance of receiving lots of gifts in my third paragraph. It was personal. It was sincere. It was both secular and spiritual. I thought it was good.
The reader who scored my essay, however, did not agree. Mine was one of the lowest scores in the class. I was deficient. I was a shame to school administrators and state governors. I was evidence that American schools were failing to educate their children. I was practically illiterate! I thought perhaps my fervent explanation of the religious aspects of Christmas had provoked some kind of religious discrimination from the grader. It hadn't. A cursory reading of the paper, however, readily reveals that what I thought was witty and articulate was a mash of mostly incoherent ramblings organized into three ugly, overlapping paragraphs, none of which served to support the vague assertions I made in my conclusion. Many sentence fragments.
The story does not end there. If you came today to watch me play soccer or spell or purchase a quality good at a reasonable price, I'm sorry to disappoint. But if you wanted to hear the reading of an original essay by a kid who only recently felt sufficiently confident to write for pleasure and share his work, well, you just saw it.

A Term Coining

2007-05-29T22:59:00.000-06:00

I just read an article in Time about the music industry. The part about how stolen music often foments the legitimate purchase of music really rang true to me. I believe now that music sharing regardless of its legality can play an important role in marketing music. I believe that current marketing methods will soon be obsolete.

I've come up with a great term for the phenomenon whereby something isn't marketed by traditional means, but relies on its own illegal distribution to generate buzz: black marketing.

James weighs in on the issues of the day

2007-03-22T10:12:00.000-06:00

I have no idea why the attorney firing is interesting to anyone. I did think, however, that I should weigh in based on my own examination of the original documents.

This is what I concluded: former Chief of Staff D. Kyle Sampson misspelled the word "indefinitely" (he wrote "indefinately") on the fourth line of the second paragraph of his 9 January 2006 email.

Don't believe me? See for yourself.

A Child's Eye View of Extreme Environmentalism in the 90s

2007-03-21T20:31:00.000-06:00

When I was a child in Florida, there was a tall, eucalyptus tree in our backyard. The trunk split into two limbs at a relatively low height, making it attractive for climbing. At the nook about 5 feet off the ground there was a small nail that protruded about half an inch.

During that period of my life someone told me about a group of environmentalist extremists that had implanted spikes into trees so that if a logger were to attempt to cut them down, his chainsaw blade would ricochet and kill him. It didn't take long for me to synthesize these two facts: we had been the victims of enviro-terrorists! I was mortified. It took only seconds to form a gruesome mental image of someone trying to cut the tree right down the middle of that nook and being killed by his own chainsaw.

It seemed so wrong, so cruel that some group of tree-huggers would be willing to inflict harm so indiscriminately in their attempt to preserve this single specimen of a non-native, not-timber-producing tree that wasn't a habitat to any sort of animal in our already-developed suburban neighborhood.

Years passed. Every time I would climb that tree, I would be extra careful not to get my clothes caught on that nail and think that perhaps this, too, figured into the plans of those wicked environmentalists. The nefarious motives of the people who put it there turned that little nail into a symbol of the perverse valuation of vegetation over human life.

Even after my mother disabused me of that idea by explaining that the previous residents of our house probably used the nail for a clothes line, the image of environmentalist wackos continued to be deeply embedded in my mind.

. . .

There was something in me that liked the notion of contradicting the liberal environmentalist orthodoxy no matter what it said. It gave me a sense of power to think that I alone among children was free of the paradigms with which adult institutions tried to imbue children. Mine was a world where Captain Planet was dismissed as leftist propaganda. I was most skeptical of what was taught in school or on public service announcements on TV. After a few years, I thought my propaganda-sense was getting pretty good.

So, naturally on the day Nickelodeon played a public service announcement endorsing water conservation via turning off the faucet when one brushes his teeth, I sensed that this ad might be some sort of environmentalist propaganda designed to prey upon weak-minded children. Now, I had always turned off the water while brushing my teeth because it had never occurred to me to leave the water on. Concluding that I should do the opposite of whatever it recommended, I resolved leave the water running the next time I brushed my teeth. I knew that I was only one child, but I hoped that in some small degree I could offset the conservation of my peers. Little did I know that one such peer lived in my very house.

. . .

As I brushed, my younger brother came in and turned off the water. I was peeved that my brother would side with the infomercial, but I turned the water back on soon enough. After he turned it off again, a confrontation was inevitable. Hoping to stand up for my new-found ideas, I opted for the ad hominem attack. I searched for the most pejorative, the most despicable and offensive thing I could say.

"Erik, you're an environmentalist!" I ejaculated.

He was stunned. My verbal dagger had found its tender target. In a flash his lower lip protruded; his eyes filled with tears. There emerged the hysterical cry of a deeply upset child. His cry was so loud that it obliterated any hope that there might have been of resolving the issue without our parents' assistance. He ran out of the bathroom to look for mother.

I had asserted my independence from the vapid group-think shoved down the throats of millions of children.

The next few seconds were eerily peaceful. In the distance, the sounds of his crying and looking for mother propagated clumsily through the walls of house and into the bathroom where it was just me, my running faucet and the ominous, almost palpable realization that a parental rebuke was now inevitable.

The door opened; the accusations had been made: I had called him an environmentalist.

What had I become? Had I been a victim of my own mindless contrarianism? Had my unyielding pride caused irreparable damage to my younger brother's environmentally conscious heart? By giving him the same label I gave to the people I thought had tried to kill us by putting that nail in our tree, had I inadvertently driven a far more pernicious wedge between my brother and I?

. . .

I don't remember exactly what happened after that. I am certain that it involved a forced apology.

Epilogue:

The author now lives in Provo, UT and writes occasional blog entries. His relationship with his brother has mended since that time and his views are more sophisticated.

Rejected?

2007-01-31T17:03:00.000-07:00

As a student of physics, I find myself relying on grants to fund my work. Understandably, receiving a rejection letter for a grant can make for a disappointing day.

Do you want to know what can really compensate for a rejection letter? Winning two lotteries! I did win, the emails came that same week. Why would I even need to get funding for my research when I can get money for nothing? I didn't even know I was eligible for the UK National Lottery, but that didn't stop me from winning. Ditto for the Netherlands-based STAATS LOTERIJ. Right there with my rejection letter were two acceptance letters. I don't need to spend hours writing about my work for a pittance, I can win much larger sums of money just by someone getting a hold of my email address. I am pretty sure that I am not obligated to use the prize money on just research, either.

So to everyone who's ever rejected a grant request, take a lesson from the UK National Lottery and the STAATS LOTERIJ. Their grammar and spelling may be inexplicably atrocious, but they sure know how to make a guy's day.

Port Wine Stain or a Sad Day for America

2007-01-30T15:02:00.000-07:00

The other night as I socialized with some of my peers, I raised the question as to whether I or Mikhail Gorbachev was better looking. Their response was appalling.

It would have been understandable (though ego-shattering) if they had responded that there was no contest and that Gorbachev was clearly better-looking. Failing to note that Mr. Gorbachev and I share the same rare skin condition was also something that could be expected. Even though my choice of persons to whom to compare myself probably seemed a little bit non-sequitur to a person unfamiliar with port wine stains, I concede that port wine stains are uncommon and do not pose any serious threat to one's health and thus can't be expected to occupy much of a place within one's cognizance of problems in the world. Even if they couldn't really remember what Mr. Gorbachev looked like, I suppose it would have been alright.

But it wasn't this. You see, they didn't even know who Mr. Gorbachev was.

Songs with the F-word not in them and the Intentional fallacy

2007-01-27T15:42:00.000-07:00

So, I am not much of a fan of explicit music. I now have a quandary. In literary analysis, the technique of trying to analyze a work by interpreting the intentions of the author is considered bad form and bears the name "intentional fallacy." There is a song that I like, where it sounds like they are saying a curse word. Now, I've examined the lyrics and it is clear that there is no expletive there. But the question is, if that's what I hear, does it even matter what the singer was trying to put there? It is compounded now because, after listening to that part several times to see what the lyrics are, it is now very difficult to not hear the expletive. Have I now projected my own propensity to hear offensive lyrics onto what others interpret as a perfectly clean piece of music? What does this say about me? Worse, that's the only part of the song I can even remember.

So, if you hear me humming Float On by Modest Mouse, know that I am probably thinking a cuss word and wincing inside.

Here's a game you can't win:

2007-01-27T15:32:00.000-07:00

It's the game of not thinking about something. The other day I saw an ad for a certain beer. It was one of those viral deals where they had pretended to be apologizing for another ad. Intrigued, I googled their supposedly offensive ad and found myself in their trap! I was enraged! Because of their stupid stunt they had tricked me into thinking about their brand for several minutes! I found the ad on YouTube; I learned about their closed brewery in Latrobe, Pennsylvania; I read about their superior taste. I don't even drink beer.

The worst part of it all is that even when I was mad, I thought about how mad I was at their stupid brand. Unfortunately, because time in a person's head is like press (it's all good), there was no way to win. It's like a Chinese finger trap: the more you want to escape, the tighter it holds on to you. There is no way to get the time back. They beat me and, with every word I type, they win a little bit more. Curse you, beer company whose name I will not mention! May your marketing team launch a terrible ad campaign next time!

Curioser and curioser

2007-01-25T08:56:00.000-07:00

I was applying for an internship with the DOE and I came across the strangest question. Here is a screen shot. Naturally, my answer was no. But really, who would answer yes?

Don't follow the crowd

2007-01-24T22:46:00.000-07:00

Tonight as I walked from the Northern part of campus toward the Southern, I noticed what seemed to be a lot of people heading North. I thought they must be about to attend something cool and, instead of asking them where they were going, I followed them. Most of them dispersed and went toward the freshman dorms.

Never follow the crowd without asking them where they're headed.

A great title

2007-01-18T10:50:00.000-07:00

James Bond films often make plays on cliched phrases (Live and Let Die, Die Another Day, etc.). Bond is also known for being more promiscuous than the average Briton. Thus, I have come up with the perfect title for the next movie:

'Til Birth Do Us Part

Though I hate to be cynical or critical of my own suggestion for a title, I think it appropriate to comment that perhaps 'Til Conception Do Us Part might be a more accurate description of Mr. Bond's disposition when it comes to relationships with women.

Death

2007-01-18T10:38:00.000-07:00

I was thinking about planning my life and something occurred to me: I bet a lot of people fail to leave enough time to die. Think about it: dying can take more than an entire day. Imagine if you had planned to run some errands the day you die. I bet you wouldn't get any of them done. For example, if you were to die in a car accident, it could be hours before you're extracted from the rubble. You might then go to the hospital to die or maybe the coroner will arrive and declare you dead right there. In any case, by the time the coroner records your time of death, several unproductive hours could have passed--the last hours of your life (according to the time of death recorded by the coroner) will have been lost and your whole day will have been shot. Debilitating diseases are even more time-consuming. People are hospitalized for weeks, sometimes years, before their disease finally gets the best of them. I bet it's really hard to exercise, shop, do laundry, study, meet with friends, etc. while you're in a hospital being killed slowly by some infirmity. So, if you're appointment with death is only an hour long, you best leave some open time before death so you can make sure you don't have to change your plans while you languish and suffer before finally kicking the bucket.

Ducks

2007-01-18T10:33:00.000-07:00

The other night I saw some ducks in a mostly-frozen pond. There was only a little bit of space where they could swim. I thought they should've flown South or something, but apparently these ones had decided to settle right where they were. They looked cold and miserable, so I tried to help them. I started stepping on the ice with the intention of breaking it. I found that the only sections of ice that I could break were near the ducks' hole. They looked frightened when I started stepping on their ice to break it, but I think they were grateful. After a little bit I decided that stepping on ice with the intention of breaking it in sub-freezing temperatures might be dangerous, so I stopped.

Why 24 isn't based on my life.

2007-01-16T18:01:00.001-07:00

I like 24. Though comparing oneself to Jack Bauer may be risky, I admit that I tend to do it. I am not sure what it is that my day-to-day life lacks that makes it a bad script for an episode of 24, but if even one hour of Jack Bauer's doings were based on my life, it would probably end the career of all of the involved writers. Here is a pitch for an episode that is a completely accurate description of an hour of my life. Imagine a writer describing this to his colleagues as they work on the next episode of 24:

The following takes place between 12:30 pm and 1:30 pm:
So, we open with Jack Bauer realizing that the car he borrowed from his grandparents is too dirty to return and that he only has a few more hours before it has to be back. We cut to him driving to a car wash. At the Chevron station, the automatic car wash is closed because of weather. We show the side-story of his grandparents at the airport preparing to board their plane--Jack has to return the car before they come back. He goes to another car wash and, upon positioning the car to be washed, he realizes that he only has one dollar in his wallet. He jumps into the car and floors it around the block to go to the ATM at the 7-11 across the street. Cut to Jack's roommate who's waiting to follow Jack to his grandparents' house and then drive him back. His roommate is watching TV. We slow up the pace a bit, as Jack buys a donut with his recently acquired 20 dollar bill and begins to consume it (the donut, not the bill). Cut to the clock.

Jack jumps back in the car and--using those unstable camera shots to show commotion--he jumps out and runs to the change machine. He starts with the pink foamer and it looks like things are going to be alright, but wait! It's too cold. It looks like Jack's efforts may have amounted to little more than scrubbing the layer of ice outside the car, rather than clearing dirt and ice from the car itself. What's more the pink soap foam is freezing! Now Jack has a car that's not only dirty, but now has a layer of frozen pink soap on top of its layer of ice. Just when it looks like things aren't going to work, the timer starts beeping and there's only a minute left before the foam stops. Even worse, Jack forgot to put on his mittens and his hands are looking like they're going to get frostbite! Jack puts the foamer on the ground and the foamer starts making a mess all over his shoes, but he doesn't care. He has to get those mittens on. Just as he starts to insert his hand into the mitten, he sees that his hands are covered in pink foam. We show a quick shot of the door handle he had just foamed before opening the car door to get his mittens. After wiping them on his pants, he covers his hands, but the timer runs out and he has to shell out another $1.50. Jack's grandparents are now on the plane and settling in for a long ride. Jack sets the car wash to rinse mode this time and again the timer starts to look like it's running out. Jack's roommate changes the channel. Jack puts in more quarters, but there's still frozen, pink foam on the car. This time he's out of quarters. Fumbling with his mittens and the hose, we leave Jack and cut to the clock.

We come back and, after a quick trip to the change machine, Jack has to put another $1.50 in the machine to start it. It's looking like things are almost done when Jack notices that there's less than a minute left and that there's a big pocket of frozen pink foam that he hadn't rinsed. The tension builds as the ice that Jack is trying to remove from the car is replaced by the ice that he is creating by spraying the car with water in sub-freezing temperatures. Finally, Jack sees that he's out of time and goes to the vacuum. After a stranger accosts him and inquires as to Jack's estimation of the futility of his efforts, Jack inserts his $0.75 and starts to vacuum--but the vacuum isn't working. The possibility of losing his $0.75 motivates the added urgency with which Jack checks the hose for obstructions. He grabs the nearest object--a little pocket-tool-- and starts to jam it desperately into the opening of the vacuum hose. It looks like the hose is clogged with slush and mud--possibly the same thing that Jack was trying to vacuum up when the vacuum stopped working. Jack weakly attempts to remove the nozzle, but he's not strong enough. Realizing that he's about to lose his money, Jack vacuums up what he still can with the partially obstructed hose. The floor of the car is still dirty. Cut to the clock.

Finally, the car looks alright and Jack has to make it back. He almost gets killed in traffic by an oncoming truck while trying to change lanes because he had deposited a thick film of ice on his rear-view mirrors. He looks for a parking space and finds one. He runs in and can't find his thank-you notes. The episode ends with Jack searching desperately for his thank-you notes while his roommate puts laundry in a basket. His grandparents are getting beverage service on the plane.

FBI's Most Wanted Person of the Year: You

2007-01-08T00:53:00.000-07:00

In 2006, the World Wide Web became a tool for bringing together the small contributions of millions of criminals and making them matter.

To be sure, there are individuals we could blame for the many painful and disturbing things that happened throughout the years. From mobsters to terrorist cells, it often seems that the history of egregious crimes reads like the biographies of infamous and terrible men. From Osama bin Laden to Al Capone, from James J. "Whitey" Bulger to Warren Jeffs, it seems that 80% of the crimes are committed by 20% of criminals.

But look at 2006 through a different lens and you'll see another story, one that isn't about crime syndicates or criminal masterminds. It's a story about community and collaboration on a scale never seen before. It's about the cosmic compendium of copyright violations that are YouTube and those elusive file-sharing programs. It's about the increasing prevalence of identity theft. It's about phishing and scams that originate from all over the world. It's about the sexual predators and stalkers that pervade social networking sites. It's about the many wresting power from the few and harming one another for nothing and how that will not only change the world, but also change the way the world changes.

And we weren't just victims, we also committed crimes. Like crazy. We scammed people on eBay and made up false and poorly-punctuated stories about Nigerians with inordinate amounts of money who inexplicably need a total stranger to transfer it to his account and retain an unusually large commission. We camcordered movies before their release dates and built tools to distribute unlicensed versions of software.

Who are these people? Seriously, who actually sits down after a long day at work and says, I'm not going to watch Lost tonight. I'm going to turn on my computer and attempt to acquire personal information about people by telling them they've won a British Lottery? I'm going to mash up someone's reputation with libelous, anonymous comments? I'm going to illegally redistribute pirated copies of software or movies or songs? Who has that time and that energy and that passion?

The answer is, you do. And for seizing the reins of the global criminal opportunities, for founding and framing the new digital crime structure, for beating the pros at their own game, the FBI's Most Wanted Person of the Year for 2006 is you.

Airlines and Expectations

2007-01-08T00:36:00.000-07:00

The long period during which airlines worked to lower our expectations may soon be coming to an end based on anecdotal evidence collected during the week of 1 Jan 07-7 Jan 07.

One consumer reports being delighted to find that the flight attendants gave him extra generous portions during the in-flight snack and beverage services. He reportedly received an entire can of cranapple juice without his even asking. "The guy next to me asked for the can and they must have thought it was me, so I guess that's why they did it," he says.

He was also "tickled pink" that during the second in-flight snack service his inquiry regarding the shortbread cookies followed by his request for peanuts resulted in his receiving not only peanuts, but also the shortbread cookie. "I didn't even want the cookie," he says, "but I was impressed that they gave it to me anyway just for my asking what it was. They also gave me three bags of peanuts, while I was expecting only one."

According to the consumer, he was so pleased with their service that he nearly went to Delta's website to leave positive feedback for that particular flight. "I was about to click on the 'contact us' link when I got distracted doing something else."

When asked if he planned to fly Delta airlines again, he admitted that he didn't have any concrete plans right now, but did indicate that he would ". . .definitely do it again. . ." if given the chance.

Cingular's fewest dropped calls: Is it ethical?

2007-01-08T00:21:00.000-07:00

Cingular advertises famously that it has the fewest dropped calls of any major carrier. Though I can't refute that, there is an issue that I believe needs to come to light.

What about those calls that technically aren't dropped, but during which the two participants aren't really communicating with one another?

Example:

caller 1: (hears that there's no more static) You still there? Hello? (Walks around, mutters a bit, continues in a louder voice) HELLO? (more frantically) HELLO? (looks at his phone).

caller 2: (at the same time) What was that? I can't hear you. Is it you or me?(walks around, looks at his phone, says things so that strangers who are eavesdropping won't think he's crazy, but will know that he is getting bad reception).

If dropping a call were likened to the death of a phone call, I think these calls are in the equivalent of a permanent vegetative state. They are no longer connecting people in any meaningful way and are being forcibly supported against the course of nature.

Is it humane to maintain these calls the way they do or (to use a euphemism) should they be put to sleep? It seems cruel to let a call languish like that just to keep the call mortality rate down. Hopefully together we can minimize the pain that these calls entail for everyone involved.

jlarchiblog

2007-01-08T00:19:00.000-07:00

Some of you may know me from my exploits in the J. L. Archiband. I now introduce you to the newest content to be created with the intention of expanding the J. L. Archibrand. Please, enjoy these ridiculous anecdotes and occasional nonsensical musings.

Life Lessons

2007-01-08T00:14:00.001-07:00

As I cleaned out my refrigerator, I found some leftover food my Grandmother had given me that had since gone bad in a Prego jar. My first impulse was to throw it away, but then I got to wondering if she had expected me to return the Prego jar.

Lesson 1:

Throw away the stupid Prego jar if this ever happens.

I checked to see if we had a garbage disposal. We have a switch and I flipped it to see if it ran.

Lesson 2:

That one of the switches near the sink doesn't turn on a light is not alone sufficient to conclude that you have a garbage disposal. Make sure to listen for a whirring or humming noise and check your drain for anything that remotely resembles a garbage disposal. If you are about to clog the drain with a jar of meat and beans, don't think you can skip these steps just because your penury of thought regarding the possible consequences of dumping the jar's contents into the sink without a garbage disposal has led you to conclude that it wouldn't matter much anyway. Do this process before you start to dump the jar, not after the meat and beans are already falling.

Once the former foodstuffs had found their way to the sink I tried to rinse it down. A reasonable observer will not be surprised to find that the drain was clogged.

Lesson 3:

Use that little strainer thing before you clog the sink and have to use a pitcher to scoop the water out.

When I realized it was hopeless, I decided to go to the grocery store to get some Drano.

Lesson 4:

All this over a Prego jar? If you're plan includes making a special trip to the grocery store and buying a bottle of Drano after clogging the sink, you should just buy a new bottle of Prego and dump it out. It is, after all, less expensive and less noxious than Drano.

The Drano wasn't working super well, but I did notice that the other sink did drain. Unfortunately, I couldn't get enough water to flow to be sure that the Drano was working. Seeing that the entire clog must have been in the first part of the drain, I took heart and started to poke at it with a knife.

Lesson 5:

If your knife is skinny enough to fall down the drain and you think "hey, wouldn't that be terrible if this knife fell out of my hands and down the drain," don't loosen your grip on the knife.

Once the knife was in the drain, I knew that what had been a minor problem (spoiled food in a disposable jar) had now escalated into a much larger (and more time-consuming problem (a knife, a bunch of drano and rancid food in a very inaccessible section of pipe).

I had earlier noticed that some of the pipe fittings were loose enough to be moved by hand. Oddly, after having fiddled with them before I had managed to tighten them to the point that they no longer felt like they were able to be loosened or tightened by hand.

I undid one and then the other and then redid the one so as not to make a huge mess.

Lesson 6:

Put something in place to catch the water/Drano mix that is going to spurt from the pipe as soon as you loosen it.

Lesson 7:

Don't splash Drano all over your new shirt.

I found a plastic bag and put it beneath the pipe.

Lesson 8:

The following are not very good for catching fluid while plumbing:
empty can of Drano (the opening is too small), grocery bag (they are leaky), Prego jar that you're trying to save (the opening is small and so is the carrying capacity).

Finally I was able to remove the knife and then, with quick bursts of water get the meat and beans to flow through the pipe and mostly into the Prego jar.

Lesson 9:

If you are using a Prego jar to catch the fluid from a drain and the jar gets full of water with chunks of meat and beans, don't think you can empty the jar into the sink you're working on or any other sink whose drain feeds into that same pipe. The toilet works well, but make sure to flush to destroy the evidence (although, what do we put in the toilet besides food after being chewed up and processed with chemicals?)

I then proceeded to rinse out the u-shaped piece of pipe I had removed.

Lesson 10:

When rinsing out a u-shaped pipe, be advised that the water might flow through the pipe and around the sink rather than into the sink, thereby making a huge, watery mess on your kitchen counter.

Lesson 11:

If you are making a huge, watery mess with your pipe, rationalize it by noting that the drain in the sink you are using is not properly attached and that the water that goes down the drain would just drench some Prego jar whose mouth isn't really big enough to catch all of the water, so it is probably better to get the water all over the counter top and microwave instead.

Finally I put it all together and I was done.

Lesson 12:

If you are going to go to heroic lengths to save a Prego jar, pack it carefully so you don't drop it on your way down the stairs.

Lesson 13:

To all my friends, if you ever need help with plumbing, you know on whom you can call: a plumber. Please, never try these things yourself, they'll ruin your day.