Author: admin

I’ve started reading Cory Doctorow’s novel Little Brother, and so far I’m loving it. It’s aimed for a teen readership, and it pulls no punches. We’re treated to issues of government abuse of power, the individual versus the state, and personal empowerment through mastery of high technology. One thing that I am finding remarkable about it is the way that Doctorow weaves in accurate tidbits of high technology, tossed off in the casually breezy voice of his teenage protagonist. Here, for example, is a perfect explanation of Bayesian statistics:

“Thomas Bayes was an 18th century British mathematician that no one cared about until a couple hundred years after he died, when computer scientists realized that his technique for statistically analyzing mountains of data would be super-useful for the modern world’s info-Himalayas.

Here’s some of how Bayesian stats work. Say you’ve got a bunch of spam. You take every word that’s in the spam and count how many times it appears. This is called a “word frequency histogram” and it tells you what the probability is that any bag of words is likely to be spam. Now, take a ton of email that’s not spam — in the biz, they call that “ham” — and do the same.

Wait until a new email arrives and count the words that appear in it. Then use the word-frequency histogram in the candidate message to calculate the probability that it belongs in the “spam” pile or the “ham” pile. If it turns out to be spam, you adjust the “spam” histogram accordingly. There are lots of ways to refine the technique — looking at words in pairs, throwing away old data — but this is how it works at core. It’s one of those great, simple ideas that seems obvious after you hear about it.

It’s got lots of applications — you can ask a computer to count the lines in a picture and see if it’s more like a “dog” line-frequency histogram or a “cat” line-frequency histogram. It can find porn, bank fraud, and flamewars. Useful stuff.”

    – Cory Doctorow, Little Brother

Isn’t that simply lovely?

I suppose I was being heavy-handed in yesterday’s post, but perhaps heavy hearts call for heavy hands. The positive way to say it is this: As soon as I went to the Page to contribute to the Obama Campaign, typed in my credit card number and sent off my $2300, it was as though a great weight had been lifted.

This way, should I wake up on November 5 to find (shudder) that the country has voted for four more years of this nonsense, I’ll know it won’t be because I couldn’t spare a little travel money for some kid volunteering to get the vote out in Ohio.

On the other hand, perhaps the world has bigger fish to fry (no, that “fish” reference was not a secret way of insulting John McCain). A friend sent around an email the other day pointing out that the universe had not, after all, fallen into a black hole when the CERN Large Hadron Collider went into operation near Geneva.

Trying to be objective about the whole thing, I chimed in with the following:

I would just like to add, for the record, that operation of the new Large Hadron Collider has not, as some have feared, induced the formation of a black hole, thereby swallowing up our solar system together with everything in it.

Of course I could be wrong. Since yesterday we might actually all be living in a Bose-Einstein Condensate, caught for the rest of our subjective lives between two successive moments in the “real” universe that surrounds the recent local region of collapse, reduced forever to the lowest quantum state of our external potential, only manifested on a macroscopic scale.

But this may always have been true anyway…

In response, several friends sent fun and exquisitely learned emails, in which they discussed the apparent impossibility of knowing for certain whether the universe you experience is real or merely an illusion.

But the link that somebody eventually sent around took first honors, hands down, for its sheer awesome coolness.

For obvious reasons, given what date it is, today I spent a lot of time thinking about the country I live in, a country I love quite dearly. And I realized that we are on the threshold to one of two very different futures. I thought about the people I care for, and I realized that each of us does have the power to make a difference.

If you live in a place like New York it might not seem as though much is happening – you don’t get any sense of where the candidates are spending their money. Obviously they aren’t spending it in New York, since the electoral vote here is already a foregone conclusion.

No, the money is all going, in various proportions, to the swing states: Colorado, Florida, Indiana, Michigan, Missouri, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Mexico, North Carolina, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Virginia and Wisconsin. If you live in one of those states you are being inundated by campaign advertising.

The ability of each candidate to win each of those states is limited by his ability to get the word out – door-to-door canvassing, leaflets, TV ads, print ads, and so forth. All of which takes money.

If you are reading this blog, you probably favor Obama in November. You are saying no to another “hundred years” in Iraq, no to criminalizing the fourteen year old rape victim who isn’t ready to be a mom, no to bringing this beautiful nation a heartbeat away from becoming a theocracy.

If that is the case, and unless you are poor, if you haven’t already given the maximum of $2300 to the Obama campaign, shame on you. We’re talking thirteen swing states and less than two months to go. Your money is the only money available to pay for winning the raging battle in those states.

Ask yourself this: if McCain wins in November, what is that $2300 going to be worth to you? Do you really think it will continue to matter how much money you have in the bank, after four more years of Bush-style government? When the child of one of your friends dies in combat in yet another ill-conceived war? When those dollars themselves have become even more devalued through incompetent fiscal management driven by ideology?

I know quite a few of you personally, and yes, I’m thinking of you. Go to http://www.barackobama.com, put in your credit card number, and give them the damned $2300 already. It might very well be the soundest investment you will make in a very long time.

We were meeting today with some researchers who look at ways to help older people avoid falling. Most of us are too young to fully appreciate what a serious danger falling is to anyone over eighty years old. It’s a double whammy: Your balance and muscles are not what they used to be, and also your bones are much more fragile. So not only is it harder to keep from falling, it’s also far more dangerous if you do.

These researchers were meeting with us because we have some cool new technologies in our lab that should be able to help in two ways: (i) making it feasible to provide computer-controlled devices that give people continuous feedback to help them keep their balance, and (ii) helping to train people, if they do start going over, how to fall in a way that’s least likely to break something.

At one point one of the researchers explained how difficult it is to train older people what to do, should they find themselves starting to fall. She explained: “The danger is that it’s all happening too fast, and they can’t react quickly enough.” We were all somewhat at a loss, realizing that the thing we were up against here was gravity itself. It’s hard to combat the forces of nature.

Then, all at once, I had an epiphany. Politely I cleared my throat, and when I had the attention of everyone I solemnly proclaimed: “Retirement colonies on the Moon.”

The room exploded in laughter, although afterward I could tell that some people were thinking about it.

But of course I didn’t really mean it – it was one of those things that pops into your head that you just know will get a good laugh. I mean, would you have had the will power to hold back a thought like that?

On a technical level the idea works: With only 1/6g of gravitational force pulling down on your body, you would indeed find it easier to remain upright. And if you did fall over, you’d have six times as long to figure out how to react properly. So yes, lives would be saved.

But of course, from the point of view of anyone over eighty, there is one large flaw in the plan that seriously diminishes its appeal.

Think about it: If your kids and grandkids don’t visit you now…

Have you ever found that you were out of sorts,
Feeling, with a particular keenness,
That sense of alienation, that sense
Of the space between you
And the human race?

And just at the moment when you thought
That all is empty
The phone rang, and sure enough
You heard the one voice
That you were hoping to hear.

And you both felt a giddy excitement
Because, it seems,
The feeling was quite
Quite
Mutual.

And no matter what you talked about
(and it doesn’t matter what you talked about)
The topic of conversation was really about
The way you both felt, at that moment
When the conversation began.

Have you ever found that?

Today I managed
To write one perfect haiku
(It wasn’t this one)

I could write some more
But none of them would capture
That sublime moment

When I felt the Muse,
Looking over my shoulder,
And words wrote themselves

I shall not tell you
What, in a moment of grace,
I was moved to write

But I will say this:
Sometimes love is just knowing
The right thing to say

It’s strange what lasts and what doesn’t. Today my friend Vivian and I went to Astroland at Coney Island, on its very last day of existence – ever. Astroland opened in 1962, with a flourish and a strong dose of forward-looking optimism. Its futuristic theme rode the high that the nation was feeling during those heady early years of the Space Age.

Over the years Astroland lost most of its lustre, and pretty much any sense of optimism or wonder. As often happens, its futuristic logo came to represent an opposite idea: A moment stuck in the past, caught in amber like Buck Roger’s 1936 Art Deco spaceship.

But the main attraction of Astroland today was not Astroland, but rather the Cyclone. To merely call the Cyclone a rollercoaster would be to demean it. It is, in a sense, the Ur-rollercoaster. Built in 1927, it quickly established itself as a work of genius – an amazing contraption of rattling wooden slats and impossible curves that was built for one purpose only: To create the ultimate fusion of fun and fear – a perfect product of the Freudian age.

To plunge down the Cyclone’s merciless 60 degree slope is to experience that moment of disaster, just before the speeding train goes over the trestle, just before your falling body strikes the ground, to witness your feral mind’s terrible knowledge that in a moment you will no longer exist – and then to walk away, laughing, face red, newly appreciative of just how wonderful is that next breath of air.

Here is an image from when the Cyclone was new. Since then it has remained unchanged, even as the world has changed around it:

After 35 years of wildly successful operation, the Cyclone was rebranded, made part of Astroland, and has remained so for an additional 46 years, until today – and only until today. Tomorrow – by the time you read this – Astroland will be no more, lost in that place where they keep Frontierland, Palisades Park and other fabled childhood places destined to fade from the collective memory of humankind.

But the Cyclone will live on.

Mere fantasies of the future like Astroland can fail, and be swept away by a real estate developer’s grasping hand. But such a fate will not befall the Cyclone, for the community realizes that it is a sacred thing. The Cyclone is no mere gimmick, no empty promise of the future, but a valuable instrument – a gift from long ago. Each time we ride it we are reminded, in a way we cannot ignore, of the preciousness of our lives.

Earlier today a friend said, somewhat jokingly, that Sean Penn’s best performance was as Jeff Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, which got me thinking about Ray Walston, who played his history teacher, nemesis, and in an odd way his truest friend, Mr. Hand. When Ray Walston passed away in 2001 he had been most recently known for having starred as judge Henry Bone in the TV series Picket Fences. But when he passed away, some young colleagues of mine sent out a tribute email saying “Goodbye Mr. Hand”.

I was indignant, and was fully planning to send a rebuttal email. Now don’t get me wrong – Fast Times at Ridgemont High was a fine film, and the interplay between Spicoli and Mr. Hand was the best thing about it.

Well, except of course for a certain short scene involving Phoebe Cates, which was in a category all by itself. As some may recall, in about five brilliant seconds of screen time Ms. Cates managed to grab the collective American male libido by the short hairs, lift it high into the air, slam it effortlessly against the nearest wall, and leave it cowering and sobbing in abject wonder and gratitude. The American male libido was never again the same. I know mine wasn’t.

But I digress…

My issue was that if you were going to honor Ray Walston for greatness in something before Picket Fences, Mr. Hand was not the role to choose. I guess I was feeling protective of Mr. Walston, and resentful that these young whippersnappers were ignoring the true genius of the man, by ignoring the role that had originally catupulted him to television superstardom.

I speak of course of Martin the Martian, in My Favorite Martian. This show, which my brother and I slavishly watched in re-runs, was the perfect kid-friendly science fiction show – the TV equivalent of all those boxes of junk sci-fi paperbacks that my uncle Lou used to bring us, which we would avidly devour as soon as we got our hands on them. To a small kid, Martin was the fun and romance of all those stories brought to vivid life – an actual Martian who lived in the garage behind your house, with a real flying saucer and everything. Watching the show when I was little, I always found myself half expecting to see that flying saucer turn up in my parents garage. And Ray Walston was the living embodiment of those sublime expectations.

Full of righteous indignation, I mentioned to my mother that I planned to defend the honor or Ray Walston by sending out this corrective email. “Ray Walston?” she asked, a strange smile playing on her face. “You mean the guy who played the Devil in Damn Yankees in the 1950’s? I love him!”

And that’s when I realized that my younger colleagues’ Ray Walston, the man whom they had claimed was not Judge Bone but Mr. Hand, the man whom I had thought was actually my Ray Walston, was also just as much my Mom’s Ray Walston. For half a century he had been creating a succession of indelible characters, and at least four distinct generations of audiences had fallen in love with different personalities that the same man had brought to life, each generation believing that Ray Walson belonged to them alone, that they were the unique audience for his genius.

But of course his true genius was precisely this: That he could create such great romance, time after time, in a serial monogomy of fictional fantasies that stretched over fifty years. All at once I realized the majesty of the man’s achievement, and I was humbled.

I never sent the email.

Walking around Manhattan earlier this evening, watching people hanging out and enjoying a Friday night on the town, I was struck by a particular paradox of human existence: On the one hand we are all so completely connected with each other – we quite literally give meaning to each others’ existence. All of the people I saw out on the street were focused upon each other, watching each others’ facial expressions and body language, not just communicating but performing the act of being themselves – or the version of themselves that they were bringing to this particular social situation.

So yes, we are all deeply connected, that is clearly true, and yet the paradox is that this connection matters precisely because we are each so separate. Nobody can reach inside the mind of another. Outside of science fiction, there is no actual mind-reading. And if you think about it, the very fact that the fantasy of mind-reading is so prevalent in science fiction – given that the real thing does not in fact exist – suggests that we are deeply and emotionally engaged in this paradox of connection and separateness.

There is one person on this planet with whom I have regular extended conversations which can last for hours – we quite literally never run out of things to talk about. Movies, novels, songs, weddings we’ve been to, when and how relationships in our lives went wrong, which friends we can trust and which we cannot, or the best way to cook broccoli. It doesn’t seem to matter – whenever Sophie and I are together, our endless conversation continues, full of life, sometimes darting here and then there, but constantly moving, and always fascinating. And after all these years, this conversation we have is always thrilling to me, as we continually discover new topics to explore and old ones to revisit.

I find myself wondering whether it is the fact that we each start out trapped in our own minds that makes this connection so thrilling. Imagine, just for a moment, some alternate universe in which true mind-reading indeed existed. Sophie and I would have no need to explore the coastline of each other’s thoughts – and there would be no surprises. In such a world, the thrill of connection, at least as we now know it, would be gone. All of those hours and years of conversation would be as pointless as sitting in a room alone for years and talking to yourself.

I would argue that this is the glorious paradox which gives pleasure to our existence: Each of us, so very separate and unable to see directly inside the mind of another, must work to bridge that gulf – through conversation, art, poetry, even conflict. We need to struggle, to exert effort, to achieve that connection which makes life worth living.

And as soon as we make that effort, the moment we communicate to each other that our bond with them is worth struggling for, that is the moment when we create the very meaning that we are seeking.

“All children, except one, grow up … and thus it will go on, so long as children are gay and innocent and heartless.” – James M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Nobody thinks of themselves as evil. Except of course for Dr. Evil – the fiendishly brilliant and touchingly insecure nemesis of that man of international mystery, Austin Powers. But you could even argue that Dr. Evil doesn’t want to be “Evil” (he said, making quote marks in the air with his hands), but rather to be loved. And the only way he knows how to be loved is to have a brand name, an identity, a tag.

And who’s to say that his is a bad strategy? When you think back now on the Austin Powers films, who does your heart go out to? Surely not the eponymous hero. His desire to be loved is too diguised, too baroque. But Dr. Evil is pure naked emotional need. He will have our approval and our respect, even if he needs to destroy the entire planet to get it! Who amongst us does not recognize this need? To put it more plainly: Who amongst us has never been two and a half years old?

The strange (and, I admit, secretly entertaining) thing about the current presidential race is how both sides – not the candidates, who are never permitted to say this outright, but their supporters – categorize their opponents as evil. Or, should I say, Evil.

It is so incomprehensible to those on the right that anyone could embrace the philosophy espoused by the left – and vice versa – that each side looks at the other with gaping astonishment, wondering why on earth these people are spending all that effort and money to betray their country.

If you are a McCain supporter, you scratch your head and wonder whether people really want to lose the war in Iraq, just when victory is in our grasp, why people are so eager to turn their backs on the Alaska oil reserves, or whether liberal mothers actually want to murder their unborn children.

If you are an Obama supporter, you look at what the Republicans are saying, and you find yourself struck speechless. Secretly you wonder if they can actually mean such things, or whether it’s all some sort of elaborate act.

Obviously neither side is evil, and neither side hates America. We’re talking here about millions of people, Republicans and Democrats alike, who love their children, work for a living, care for elderly parents, contribute to community funds, and wish for tomorrow to dawn upon a better world.

And yet, here they are – both sides – glaring at each other, teeth bared, wondering how these others, these Pod People, managed to steal the souls of half the populace, and replace them with an evil thing of uncertain menace.

Seeing this spectacle, I am left wondering whether this is just the nature of human existence. Perhaps the middle is unstable. Perhaps human nature demands that we choose sides, that the reasonable citizen who tries to comprehend both narratives, like the character of Sidney Stratton in The Man in the White Suit, will be torn apart by the angry clawing hands of the adversarial hordes on either side.

And in the end nobody will understand what happened here, whatever the outcome, except for Dr. Evil and Peter Pan.