But what kind?

My favorite part of the Oscars is watching the Cavalcade of Death, the tribute to the artists who died the previous year. The New York Times has their own cavalcade (but pictures for only 27 of them, including a very upsetting one of Marcel Marceau out of makeup). So far, my favorite is:

“Joseph E. Gallo, 87, winemaker who turned to cheese.”

What a tragic way to die!

Alexie, again

Here are the books that Junior really likes in the book The absolutely true diary of a part-time Indian:

The Grapes of Wrath
Catcher in the Rye
Fat Kid Rules the World
Tangerine
Feed
Catalyst
Invisible Man
Fools Crow
Jar of Fools

Are they sloppy or just crazy?

I’m a big fan of the BBC News website (and go to some trouble to get to the Domestic version—and not just because it doesn’t have ads), though every so often they run a piece that makes me (usually not literally) tilt my head and say “Huh?” With few exceptions, these stories are in the Health section. Here’s today’s example: the headline is “Humour ‘comes from Testosterone’”; a more accurate summary of the article would be “Men were ruder to unicyclist than women; researcher concludes hormones are the reason, and further fancies this has something to do with humour.”

“The idea that unicycling is intrinsically funny does not explain the findings,” said Professor Shuster.
The simplest explanation, he says, is the effect of male hormones such as testosterone.
“The difference between the men and women was absolutely remarkable and consistent,” said Professor Shuster.

Ah, the simplest explanation. The “study” appears so badly designed that I’m not convinced there are any findings, much less that hormones are the simplest explanation. Oy.

I Am a Strange Loop Review

I Am a Strange Loop, Hofstadter. Non-fiction. I am (it turns out, several months later) not going to be able to say in this review everything that I want to. IAaSL is at a first approximation a deeper exploration of some of the recurring themes in Hofstadter’s work: most notably, consciousness (which he asserts is equivalent to a “soul”, and I don’t see a lot of reason to differ on that point), how it arises, and what it means.
Hofstadter spends a lot of time in the book asserting that my model of you is an extension of your consciousness. For a number of reasons, I am unable to buy it: I’m fully prepared to accept that my consciousness is more or less an accident of the way my senses work, and, especially, how my sensory/processing system feeds back into itself. My model of me, though, is based on observations of my actions, not the same direct feedback that brought me to consciousness. Similarly, my model of you doesn’t have any direct feedback relationship with your senses. Yes, you can tell me what you know about why you do things, but 1) no one has perfect knowledge of why one does things, and 2) your reports are delayed by time and filtered by both your senses and your model of you. My model of you is never going to surprise me with some insight into itself.
The time-sensitivity in feedback is, I think, a vital element that I’m not sure Hofstadter sufficiently respects. I’m fascinated by the study that showed our inability to tickle ourselves is very tightly time-limited (if you delay the result of my action enough (and it doesn’t take much), I will find it more tickling than if you don’t).
One thought that keeps coming up for me goes something like this: I am (i.e., my consciousness is) the total of my memories and my sensory input. So, who am I when I’m amnesiac? And variations on that theme. I find that a much more interesting rat hole to climb down than debating whether a loved one lives on (in anything more than a metaphorical sense) in the memories of others.
Thought-provoking, as Hofstadter always is, but not his best-directed effort.

Edisonblog!

Menlo Park NJ, July 13 1885
(added a new tag for Edisonblog! so you can find the other entries)

Woke (is there such a word) at 6 oclock– slipped down the declivity of unconciousness again until 7. arose and tried to shave with a razor so dull that everytime I scraped my face it looked as if I was in the throes of cholera morbus. By shaving often I too a certain extent circumvent the diabolical malignity of these razors — if I could get my mind down to details perhaps I could learn to sharpen it, but on the otherhand I might cut myself- As I had to catch the 7.30 am train for New York I hurried breakfast, crowded meat potatoes, eggs, coffee, tandem down into the chemical room of my body I’ve now got dyspepsia in that diabolical thing that Carlyle calls the stomach, rushed and caught train– Bought a New York World at Elizabeth for my mental breakfast– Among the million of perfected mortals on Manhattan island two of them took it into their heads to cut their naval chord from mother earth and be born into a new world, while two other less developed citizens stopped two of the neighbors from living– The details of these two little incidents conveyed to my mind what beautiful creatures we live among, and how with the aid of the police, civilization so rapidly advances–
Went to New York via DeoGrosseo Street ferry- took cars across town- saw a woman get into car that was so tall and frightfully thin as well as dried up that my mechanical mind at once conceived the idea that it would be the proper thing to run a lancet into her arm and knew [ed: knee?] joints and insert automatic self feeding oil cups to diminish the creaking when she walked– Got off at Broadway- tried experiment of walking two miles to our office 65 5th Ave with idea it would alleviate my dyspeptic pains– It didn’t — Went into Scribner & Sons on way up and saw about a thousand books I wanted right off. Mind No 1 said why not buy a box of fluff and send to Boston now- Mind No 2 (acquired and worldly mind) gave a most withering mental glance and mind No 1 and said You fool, buy only two books, these you can carry without trouble and will last you until you get to Boston, Buying books in NYork to send to Boston is like “carrying coals to Newcastle” of course I took the advice of this Earthly adviser– Bought Aldrich’s Story of a Bad Boy which is a spongecake kind of literature, very witty and charming- and a work on Goethe Schiffer by Boynsen which is soggy literature a little wit + anecdote in this style of literature would have the same effect as baking soda on bread, give pleasing results.
Waited one hour for the appearance of a lawyer who is to cross-examine me on events that occurred 11 years ago– went on stand at 1130– He handed me a piece of paper with some figures on it, not another mark, asked in a childlike voice if these were my figures, what they were about and what day 11 years ago I made them– This implied compliment to the splendor of my memory was at first so pleasing to my vanity that I tried every means to trap my memory into stating just what he wanted– but then I thought what good is a compliment from a 10 cent lawyer, and I waived back my recollection. A lawsuit is the suicide of Time. — Got through at 3 30 PM– waded through a lot of accumulated correspondence mostly relating to other peoples business– Insull saw Wiman about getting car for Railroad Telegh experiment– will get costs in day or so. — Tomlinson made Sammy mad by saying he Insull was Valet to my intellect = Got $100 met Dot and skipped for the Argosy of the Puritan Sea; ie Sound Steamboat, — Dot is reading a novel– rather trashy. Love hash. — I completed reading Aldrich’s Bad Boy and advanced 50 pages in Goethe then retired to a “Sound” Sleep