August

August is here.

It's a bellwether month. Did you have a good summer? If not, and it's August, it's practically too late. School for the kids starts in three weeks. And for me, well, I get another two weeks beyond that, but then I'm in the teacher's chair. It's a virtual chair, yes, but nonetheless I'll be in charge. A weird feeling, that.

I am now certified to teach online at BYU-Idaho. That means I can navigate around their online learning software, make a podcast and perhaps respond to student queries in a way that won't make them sic their bishop on me. Though the training is done, it's going to be weird interacting with students as a teacher. Part of me wonders if I'm up to this, and then another part of me reminds the first part that, well, you may as well give it a shot else you'll never know whether you're up to it or not. And given that I teach a bunch of (really) rowdy Primary kids, how bad can a bunch of college freshmen be? Well, probably worse, but at least I don't technically have to be in the same physical room with them. The temptation to thump skulls and kick rumps will be significantly diminished. I hope.

Also coming this month: A job interview in Logan, Utah. That'll take place this week. I have to go, in person, and give a ten-minute presentation on why I think I'm a good fit for the position they're hoping to fill. I'll call them tomorrow for more information and to schedule a time and to find out if the first five minutes of the presentation can be from a mariachi band singing something along the lines of "Hire this guy, he's great, he's greeeeaaaaat!" And it's not that I'm disappointed with my current job -- it's just that I'm looking to the future. 2012 comes and the stimulus money dries up and the entire contract comes up for renewal, so anything could and likely will happen between now and then. They're already talking up layoffs and helping us find jobs in Scotland and such, and you know the help they'll offer will be along the lines of "Well, there's the unemployment office, so go get 'em, boys!"

Another bridge to cross when we come to it: There are a lot of houses for sale right now in Sugar City and they're just not selling. Nobody seems to want to buy houses right now, for some odd reason. Michelle has said that if I did get the job in Logan I could just take the camper down there and live out of it until we get affairs settled here, but, as I said before, that's a bridge we'll cross when we come to it. An interview doesn't mean a job offer is in the offing. And, as I've told her, it would have to be a pretty attractive offer to make the move attractive. Though there are benefits attached to that job. That would be sweet.

So August may change a little for us, as Isaac enters the first grade, or a lot, as maybe we look to relocate the entire family and all the possessions it took us thirteen years to shop for. If it comes to that, the only thing I can think of to say is: Massive garage sale.

Taming that Octopus, Part II

Oh how little we know.

Stayed up until 1:30 last night trying to get Michelle's computer -- any computer, in fact -- to recognize the new printer we got more than a month ago. It wasn't until today that I triumphed in getting the printer recognized. It's obvious I need to learn a bit more about home networking. It's also obvious I know more about home networking than I did 24 hours ago. So, progress was made.

Taming the Computer Octopus

Those of you familiar with computers will understand where I'm going here.

Michelle's mouse has been acting up. I cleaned it a few weeks ago, but that didn't do much for it. I think the switches in the guts of the mouse are worn out. So we went to Wal-Mart today to buy her a new mouse. We could get a cheapo mouse for $11, or a wireless one for $18. The wireless one caught Michelle's fancy, because her computer setup means her mouse is on a short lead. But it's easier said than done. Both the wired and wireless mice required a USB port. Given that she has an external hard drive and two printers connected to her computer, she doesn't have a USB port to spare. Well, she does, but then she couldn't connect her iPod Nano or iPod Touch to the computer.

So we got the wireless mouse. I told her I'd take one printer and move it to the kids' computer, thus freeing up a USB port on her computer.

Of course it's a lot more complicated than that. Moving the external hard drive cable from the front to the back (one of my goals in this recombobulation). Unfortunately, I also unplugged the second printer. Ordinarily that wouldn't be all that bad, but it's an old parallel-interface printer we have connected to the computer through a parallel-to-USB cable, and it's a bear to get reconnected and recognized by the computer. The software is a bit odd -- you have to run it twice in order for it to take. That took an hour.

Now I'm busy installing the four-in-one printer on the kids' computer. I'd rather retire the thing, but given that it's still got a good scanner on it, we can't yet. Hopefully it'll work on the kids' computer just fine. Then I have to figure out why the printer we've got connected to our router can't be seen on Michelle's computer. Always complications.

All this because the switches in Michelle's mouse pooped out.

Update 1: Also caved in and connected the kids' computer to our home network. They're at the age when they'd be interested in using the Internet anyway, and besides, we wanted virus protection on the computer as well. It's obviously been a while since this computer was connected to the net, since I'm now busy churning through 77 Windows updates. Yikes.

Update 2: Got the kids' computer to recognize our new printer. Now have to go do the same thing on Michelle's computer.

Tonight's Nonsequitur

I don't know why, exactly, I find this so amusing. But it is.

The Ophelia Syndrome

The Fair Ophelia

I take this as a good sign. A sign that maybe I am still learning a thing or two.

Yesterday in the mail came a copy of “I Think,” the BYU-Idaho-prepared text for the foundations English class I’ll begin teaching in September. I brought it to work with me today, anxious to read the bits of wisdom I’m supposed to impart to my students.

Forty-two pages into it, I come out chagrined and ashamed. But hopeful, because though I see signs that, during my undergraduate work at the University of Idaho, I was, for the most part, the Ophelia that Thomas G. Plummer warns in his essay – and required reading for the course – “Diagnosing and Treating the Ophelia Syndrome,” I also see signs that maybe I’m getting past the point where I want everything spoon-fed to me, where I want to know the hoops to jump through rather than finding the hoops for myself.

Not too long ago, I lamented that the journalism professors at the University of Idaho didn’t teach me what I’d need to know in the real world, and that the journalism professionals I worked with figured I was on my own in finding things out. I see now that I was an Ophelia, someone who wants to be treated in ignorance by someone who is going to give me everything I need to succeed, with the only effort on my part being the ability to absorb information.

I’ve had a growing realization that this approach is why I washed out of journalism: laziness. It’s an ugly word when applied to oneself, but in this case it appears apt.

But I am moving on. I’m no smarter, but I believe I’m learning to think. As Plummer says:

To put it differently, surrender the need for absolute truth. The English poet John Keats wrote a landmark letter to his brothers, George and Thomas Keats, on December 22, 1817. It has become known as the letter on "Negative Capability." In part it reads,

...it struck me what quality went to form a Man [or Woman] of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.

I do not want to do Keats an injustice by oversimplifying a magnificent statement, but I believe he is saying essentially this: The world is a complex place, and absolute truth is elusive, indeed; the greatness in Shakespeare may be attributed to the fact that he didn't feel inclined to explain what he could not, but only to portray the human condition as he saw it.

This concept drives a stake into the heart of the notion that Polonius has the answers. Overcoming the Ophelia Syndrome, becoming an independent thinker, includes giving up romantic notions of the world as a place where everything can be explained. It includes giving up the need to be fooled into thinking that Polonius does indeed have the answers when he does not. I wish he did. I wish I did. I wish any or all of my colleagues did. We do not. We can only join with students and others in the pursuit of answers, and even then we must remain ultimately in some degree of uncertainty.

The corollary to this is that to treat the Ophelia Syndrome, one must develop a healthy distrust of authorities and experts. Experts disagree more often than they agree. Those who pose as authorities are as likely to be a Polonius trying to turn Ophelia into a baby as they are to have a real handle on what they are talking about. Is there a solution? I can think of two: First, for every important opinion you hear, get a second opinion. Second, in the words of the Lord in the 9th section of the Doctrine and Covenants, study it out in your own heart.

I wondered why, just after I signed the contract to teach this course, why I was doing it. I went over the reasons once again: A good resume-builder. A way to see if teaching is my thing as I contemplate pursuing a doctorate. A diversion from boredom.

No. I see a bit more clearly that the reason I’m doing this is to keep stimulating that intellectual curiosity, the desire for learning. I saw that a little bit earlier this year when I wrote “Through A Glass Darkly” as a series of blog posts. Now I’m starting on the second book in that series. Maybe it’ll go somewhere. Maybe it won’t. But at least I’m taking some creative risks to use my brain, to get me to thinking.

This is what the teachers in my graduate program were cultivating – they didn’t want to show us the hoops and have us jump through them; they wanted us to think. For the most part, I did that. Maybe that’s why taking these courses was exciting. They were hard work. They set me to thinking.

I think that’s what doing this “teaching thing” is going to do once again: Help me to become a better thinker, a better reasoner. The only way is up from here.

Grammar Nazi, Using Tack

Grammar Nazi here. It has been a while.

Today, we learn the difference between tact and tack. Once again, words related phonetically, but not by definition.

To tack – or to change course – has its roots in nautical usage. Tack, of course, is the rope used to anchor certain sails in place as the wind pushes on them. To change tack means to anchor the sail differently, to effect a change in direction. That change of direction, to sailors, is called tacking. Thus the word’s usage in common speech for a change of direction.

Tact is something completely different – and me being a Grammar Nazi, you might suspect I don’t possess it. Tact, per the American Heritage Dictionary, is “the ability to appreciate the delicacy of a situation and to do or say the kindest or most fitting thing.” An admirable quality to be sure. But not an admirable word to use when you mean you want to change the direction of a conversation.

Again, I have to blame phonetics. The final T in tact, is a soft T and thus, for some people, is lost, especially when people hear the word used rather than reading it. So to confuse tact with tack is easy to understand phonetically.

This is one of the reasons those detestable old English class vocabulary lists are so important. Yes, we can and should increase our vocabulary through the spoken word, but knowing how to spell the words we learn is as important as knowing how they’re said and what they mean, else we look like fools mixing words up. And yes, I did just end that sentence with a preposition. Notify Winston Churchill at once.

Paul Yarrow, News Raider

Oh, the cheekiness of the British.

Or at least of Paul Yarrow, 42, a self-confessed “unsightly” man who, this year alone, has managed to get himself into background shots of British TV news shows at least one hundred times, each time in a rumpled white turtleneck – a fashion no-no for tubbies like he and I – and wild, Art Garfunkel hair.

Why does he do it? He’s striking a blow, he says, for unsightly people everywhere.

Here’s what the Daily Mail got out of him:

His TV appearances are designed to strike a blow for the ordinary-looking man in the street.

There are too many beautiful people on television, he argues. The people who run television companies are happy to put blonde lovelies on air but seem curiously averse to filling the screen with balding fat men in wrinkled white sweaters.

And it has to change.

‘It’s a serious issue and I’m trying to make a statement: “Be who you are.” I’m just a common person in the street,’ says Yarrow.

‘People say we live in a fairer, more understanding society these days, but elderly and overweight people still get pushed aside. The camera crews try to move me out of the way but I’m a human being.’

‘I don’t do it to be funny. I’m quite a serious person really but I’m quite unsightly and that makes some people laugh.’

What I appreciate about Yarrow’s approach is that he’s not going for the cheap showiness. He keeps his props extremely low-key, though I’ve got to admit the little grocery trolley is pretty hilarious. He’s there just to be seen, and I love it.

I hope, however, that the stiffs in the news don’t try to shoo him away or call the police on him now that he’s garnered some international celebrity. Here’s a tip to the BBC, SkyNews, and others. This man could be a ratings gold mine for you. People all over the world will tune into your news (thank HEAVEN I can watch this stuff on the Internet now; finally finding some utility in watching the BBC news) so they can spot this guy. He could singlehandedly bring you all to the top of the 24-hour news heap.

And reporters – you could all consider him to be your Paul the Psychic Octopus. If he shows up in your news footage, you know it’s going to be a good story with a good, long shelf-life. So, talking heads, be kind to Mr. Yarrow.

And Mr. Yarrow, please continue striking blows for unsightly men. You are my hero.

Instant Experts, Circa 1968

I wrote earlier this week about David Pell's commentary at Gizmodo.com on the Five Most Endangered Words on the Internet, and chastised him a bit for suggesting that this phenomenon of comment now, think later, is boren of the Internet age.

I offer tonight a brief excerpt from Victor Lasky's book "It Didn't Start with Watergate," published in pre-Internet 1975, speaking on the phenomenon of instant analysis:

By the time Lyndon Johnson left office, his administration was under bitter attack by the media and its subsidiary organizations. Thus in 1968 the journalism society Sigma Delta Chi had this to day: "The Credibility Gap, which as reached awesome proportions under the Johnson Administration, continued to be a grave handicap. Secrecy, lies, half-truths, deception -- this was the daily fare."

In turn there were those who felt that the press had its own credibility problems. Douglas Cater, special assistant to President Johnson, suggested that too often newsmen presumed an expertise they quite obviously didn't have.

"I'm concerned about the little demigods of TV who make an instant analysis of complicated events," said Cater. "There should be bounds on what TV men do, so much of which is delivered with flippant abandon."

It's a familiar criticism, as Pell says. The mainstream media sees this attitude -- with some justification -- in the blogosphere. It's a criticism they ought to be careful in making, since it's obviously a criticism that can be leveled at themselves quite easily, with some justification.

It's a common aphorism in most journalism circles that a journalist is an "instant expert." It's a cute thing to tell journalism students and rookie reporters, but it can also be a dangerous thing. I know I fell for it often enough -- not our of laziness, but out of sheer exasperation in trying to become an expert in something in a day or less, given the common deadlines we're given to work with. I note that the reporters and writers I enjoy the most aren't instant experts -- they're the ones who have toiled for years to understand their subject matter, and thus can write and speak on it authoritatively through their hard work, not through j-school bravado alone. If I learned anything in my short journalism career, it's that there is only a small leap of difference between an instant expert and an instant asshole. I'm intensely gratified that there exist areas of knowledge in which I can safely say I am somewhat well informed. I'm far from being an expert in anything.

It's as true in journalism as it is true in the blogosphere that there are many out there who babble on with the air of authority without really having the knowledge to back it up. It's equally as true in journalism and the blogosphere that here are many out there that know from whence they speak. The babbling jerks in the blogosphere may be part of the sphere as a whole, but they do not define the sphere. As Uncle Jay would say, "those who think they do ought to be embarrassed."

Fossil Music: Harry Nilsson

This is one of those songs you recognize instantly, whether you like it or not:

Again, i have to wonder why the songs I heard in childhood are the ones that I recall with the most fondness, and why they seem to be embedded in my mind. Just hearing the opening strains of this one sets the entire song playing in my brain. Especially the part where he's singing like Charlie Brown's teacher.

Never knew it was Nilsson singing. I wasn't all that into knowing who was singing, just that they were singing.

He also covered that hit from Casablanca, "As Time Goes By." He does an excellent job.

Though Louis Armstrong is the one most associated with this song, I have to say that despite his ownership and despite Nilsson's good cover, this song, in my mind, will always belong to Dooley Wilson. Don't be deceived by the erroneous label on thsi next video. It may say Armstrong, but it's all Wilson. This I did not know: Wilson was a drummer, not a pianist, but nonetheless he pretended to lay the piano in 1942's "Casablanca."

Matt Ridley: Genome

So, what are you?

A complicated biological machine beset by innate programming and external conditions bent both on keeping you alive and eventually killing you?

Or are you the creation of a supreme being, both soul and body, possessed of a free will?

And though Matt Ridley, in his 2000 book “Genome: The Autobiography of A Species in 23 Chapters,” leans to the left in this equation, he still writes an incredibly balanced and above all scientific book about the human genome, what we know about it, how we think it works and how we misunderstand the science that’s delving into figuring out how that double helix of DNA can turn two germ cells into a complicated biological masterpiece.

Ridley, in the footnotes to his book, acknowledges that it was, at its printing, already out of date. Ten years further along, of course, it is certainly even more out of date. But what’s not out of date in this wonderful book is the critical approach Ridley takes to this science. And it’s not critical in any political way, but critical in a scientific way. He reminds the reader constantly that what is known about the human genome is small compared to what is not known, that cause does not necessarily mean effect, that a firm belief in genetic determinism is just as foolish on the left as is a firm belief in free will is on the right. More importantly, he reminds us all that what we have, as far as genetics goes, is some knowledge bolstered by a lot of unsupported belief.

Here’s an example:

We instinctively assume that bodily biochemistry is cause whereas behavior is effect, an assumption we have taken to a ridiculous extent in considering the impact of genes upon our lives. If genes are involved in behavior then it is they that are the cause and they that are deemed immutable. This is a mistake made not just by genetic determinists, but by their vociferous opponents, the people who say behavior is “not in the genes”; the people who deplore the fatalism and predestination implied, they say, by behavior genetics. They give too much ground to their opponents by allowing this assumption to stand, for they tacitly admit that if genes are involved at all, then they area t the top of the hierarchy. They forget that genes need to be switched on, and external events – or free-willed behavior – can switch on genes. Far from us lying at the mercy of our omnipotent genes, it is often our genes that lie at the mercy of us. If you go bungee jumping or take a stressful job, or repeatedly imagine a terrible fear, you will raise your cortisol levels, and the cortisol will dash about the body busy switching on genes. (It is an indisputable fact that you can rigger activity in the “happiness centers” of the brain with a deliberate smile, as surely as you can trigger a smile with happy thoughts. It really does make you feel better to smile. The physical can be at the beck and call of the behavioral.)

Ridley, I believe, successfully finds and holds that middle ground. Our genes certainly influence who we are and what we become. But our behavior can, in turn, influence our genes. We are machines, beautiful, free-willed machines, capable to some extent of reprogramming ourselves.

Here’s a thought I had on the bus this morning: Our genes are like the model tank kit we can buy at the hobby store. We follow the instructions religiously and build that magnificent tank. Everything works. The wheels turn. The gun turrets rotate. The tracks allow the tank to maneuver through any kind of terrain. And then we take that tank not into the battlefield, but gently down a city street, to the park, to the grocery store, trundling along. It is still there in its essence of tankness; everything that makes it a tank is still there. And yet our use of it for domestic purposes does not mean that its innate tankness takes over; we drive it to the grocery store and load it with groceries, we do not drive it to the grocery store to level the building with our tank shells.

So brain and genome, tank and the purpose we put with it, work together. As Ridley writes:

The human brain is a far more impressive machine than the genome. If you like quantitative measure, it has trillions of synapses instead of billions of bases and it weighs kilograms in stead of micrograms. If you prefer geometry, it is an analogue, three-dimensional machine, rather than a digital, one-dimensional one. If you like thermodynamics, it generates large quantities of heat as it works, like a steam engine. For biochemists, it requires many thousands of different proteins, neurotransmitters, and other chemicals, not just the four nucleotides of DNA. For the impatient, it literally changes while you watch, as synapses are altered to create learned memories, whereas the genome changes more slowly than a glacier. For the lover of free will, the pruning of the neural networks in our grains, by the ruthless gardener called experience, is vital to the proper functioning of the organ, whereas genomes play out their messages in a predetermined way with comparatively little flexibility. Yet . . . the dichotomy is a false one. The brain is created by genes. It is only as good as its innate design. The very fact that it is a machine designed to be modified by experience is written in the genes. The mystery of how is one of the greatest challenges of modern biology. But that the human brain is the finest monument to the capacities of genes there is no doubt. It is the mark of a great leader that he knows when to delegate. The genome knew when to delegate.

I think what I enjoyed most about reading this book is that I learned a few things. Genetics is a pretty fascinating field of science, and I think if we all learned about it a bit more, we could have more intelligent discussions on the subject that what we see in political and media circles. Politics tends to get too black and white in this subject, and the media, for the most part, either boils things down too simply or merely presents both sides of the argument without really bothering to explain anything to the layman about what's being discussed. Ridley does a wonderful job explaining to the layman, but keeping it intelligent enough that the curious layman is able to keep exploring and asking questions.