The Powers of Ten that Be

In the beginning, it was simple. I'm better than you. But then, we got numbers. So the question became, how much better am I? Those Greeks with their love of division but ignorance of zero and decimal points could say, quite simply, I'm half again as good as you. There, you were ahead of someone else by an almost insurmountable margin. But then you start learning about incrementing. The simple act of adding one to one. And then you need to be twice as good as someone.

This of course becomes an arms race of integers. My love for the woman whose hand I'm seeking can not shine merely twice as bright as the sun (for then I might leave her in the event our Sun becomes a Red Giant and consequently that much brighter), but thrice will secure our position in the eternal book of couples. And then, not thrice but quat... tetr.... four times better. Four leads to five, and six is afraid because seven ate nine.

Soon, we're in double digits. And you're slapping zeroes on willy nilly. Ten times better. 100 times stronger. Samson slayed One Thousand men! (With the jaw of an ass, no less. Keep that in mind, all those who tell me to shear myself in real life. If I ever find a jaw of an ass, I will be your worst nightmare.)

We all know what madness lies down this path. Millions. Billions. English Billions. Trillion. Googols. Googolpleces. Plaid. Ludicrous.

The real culprit, of course, is the machines. Men do not work in terms of thousands. Allow me to quote a sage mentor: "How do you make my dick 8 inches long?" "Fold it in half." This 2/3 foot phallus is still only 4 times as long as D.R.F.'s semblance of an organ: less than an order of magnitude separates us.

Instead, it is McCormack's Reaper, Whitney's Gin (Cotton, not the Christmas Tree liquor), McCoy's Not a Bricklayer, He's a Doctor, and such contraptions of the 19th Century that introduced the idea that one man, no matter how great, even if he were John Henry, could not match up against machines measured in Hundreds of Horsepower. (I don't believe in posthumous medal ceremonies).

And it was their 20th Century progeny, the computer, that delivered the final blow. That chip in your current computer can add billions of numbers every second. You could add, in that same span, what? 2 single digits and a Roman Numeral?

But towards what end? That chip could challenge a grandmaster at chess, but only if it has a friend to move the pieces. It cannot fell trees, it cannot heave coal. It cannot even solve tic-tac-toe until the climax. It may be a trillion times superior to you... at what you don't care about.

So, say it with me and say it simply: I'm better than you.

The only mechanics they're used to deal with their Bimmers

It ain't easy being a pseudointellectual. It's of course de rigeur to subscribe to the New Yorker and at least one of the Atlantic or Harper's. But once you factor in perusal of McSweeney's, consumption of a drink at least as pretentious as a free trade shade grown mochaccino latte, you start to see why it's tasking. But at some point, every up-and-coming would-be Stoppard-quoter finds him/her/itself at a critical juncture: needing more science.

Somewhere on the scale of knowledge after learning the difference between Hindenburg and Heisenberg and before "learning" about string theory (yeah, metaphor's great, but how many times have I seen an International Relations major (in my fraternity, we called them IR unemployed majors) try to woo a girl at a party with long, soft elucidations on the nature of the cosmos only to learn that she was herself a physics major and he was laying Lipton instead of lepton?), there's early-20th Century quantum theory to be tackled.

The problem is that it makes no sense. I mean, it does if you have a Ph.D. in physics. Or the ability to think. But quantum theory does not jive in any way shape or form with the world we experience. Its most famous analogy, involving the possible attempted murder (or is it attempted possible murder?) of a feline was originally proposed to show how ludicrous the whole get up was. This failed attempt at satire (and I know how that feels) was followed up by a play written by Michael Frayn, a playwright principally known for choreographing an amalgamation of staging gone wrong. The best analogy he presents is a skier going both to the left and the right of a tree simultaneously, which is obviously false because it doesn't account for the more compromising routes of Michael Kennedy or Sonny Bono.

Mythology, having the benefit of being crazy and hence accounting for any possible though, affords us several examples. Orpheus and Lot's Wife both looked back at the lost of, respectively, their beloved and their not-being-a-pillar-of-salt. But, this hardly counts, for the true pseudointellectual must have progressed with 2000 years of thought, instead of finding inspiration in the same fire and brimstone that Calvinists have been spewing for centuries.

But, finally, I have found an example of Heisenberg's principle in a way that even the most blatant of tidbits-of-knowledge seekers can understand. ApplyYourself is a way that people apply to Business School. Well, entities like people but without souls apply to Business School. But ApplyYourself was Holier than the bastard lovechild of John Paul II and a Sieve, so applicants could look at their status before it was reported to them. Several hundred people did so. Several hundred people are now not going to Business School.

That's right, most of the schools affected (Harvard first among them) decided to reject anyone who looked at their status, even if their status was admitted. Why! Perfect! Observing the value of a variable affects it! Just what Heisenberg was talking about. So take some solace, Mr. Looky McGlancerson, in the fact that your downfall will help is the comprehension of others' physical goals.

(Seriously, though, this is an important lesson in ethics for would-be businessmen: If you can do something unethical in a forum as anonymous as the internet, do it to your competitor. If only Enron had forged ExxonMobil's books instead of their own, they never would have lost their futon in the Lincoln Bedroom.)

Why the Internet will never replace being smart

We've all heard "The More The Merrier." You hear it when your friends are going somewhere and you want to tag along, or when your friends are organizing an orgy and you want to tag along, or... You get the idea. What a great saying...

Except that's not the whole story. The saying actually goes "The more, the merrier/the fewer, the better fare." Amusement comes with a price, and it is this trade-off that gets to the heart of inclusion/exclusion. Sure, wikipedia may be an excellent reference for all things computer or math-related. It may devote pages of idolatry to the comedy of Idle. It may even have decent reporting on nerds' favorite history event. But look at their description of characterization, see that half of it discusses the use of characterization in fan fiction, and realize that their world view is and always will be skewed.

Why, even just a search for [ the fewer the better fare ] brings up mainly airplane ticket options (better fare) and health care studies (fare better). Computers will never be able to edit, and the people who use computers will never see the need.

Oh, you might be wondering: where did *I* learn the complete turn of this phrase? From an old media type of edited information source. (It was on Jeopardy! when I was a kid)

Retrospective

When I was a kid, I always confused Dan Rather and Ronald Reagan. Since then, my white male discernment sense has evolved, and I am no longer confused by why a president would be reporting about himself. (Though, with the FCC's stance on television ownership, it won't be long until Big Brother Murdoch decides and announces everything himself). Well, Reagan is dead, Rather is retiring tonight, and Zombie Reagan isn't even a shoo-in for the VP nomination in 2008. What has happened to the world?
My summary of the last 20 years, and how they are reflected in the coming about of these events:

1. Stem Cells. Look, I'm no biologist, but the fact of the matter is that these are as close to ambrosia as we can ever come. Ambrosia made from fetuses. Distasteful (and bad-tasting), I know. But these contain the secrets to eternal youth, curing cancer, and the Colonel's secret recipe. As long as they don't team up with nanotechnology and fusion, we will continue to be the dominant species of the planet.
   
2. Someone, I forgot whom, managed to convince Americans that your choice of anchor was like inviting this person into your home. Of course Tom Brokaw and Peter Jennings are more personable and more likeable and handsomer and probably better-smelling. But you shouldn't look for a father figure in a nightly news anchor. You should look for the same sort of enjoyment you get from Crazy Uncle Fred. Except that Rather can't mess up your carpet by spilling his drink during Thanksgiving and then vomiting on the spot to try to clean it up. Cause he's in your TV. Also, that's not the side of the garage he's rattling incoherent analogies at, it's Madeline Albright.
   
3. The stagnation of Constitutional Law. With the current Supreme Court more full of near-deads than a Sunday Matinee of Maltock Made-For-TV Movies, no one can ever be sure how they will decide. Will Rehnquist see the logic of your arguments, or be too embarrassed to ask you to pause for a second so he can replace the battery in his hearing aid? But the fact of the matter is, any decent reading of the 22nd and 25th amendments make it quite clear that Zombie Reagan could move from the Naval Observatory to the White House. The only ticket from the Left that could beat him would be Vampire Howard Dean / Werewolf Hillary Clinton. (I almost made it Werewolf Howard Dean / Vampire Hillary Clinton, but then I realized that was too close to the truth.)
   

New Tricks

Here's the thing about growing older: You have more laurels to rest on. In today's installment of The Enfranchised, I'm posting the beginning of a short story I originally wrote more than a year ago and recently revised (special extended director's cut). Things I'm proud of in this story: the different impression the reader gets of the narrator than he has of himself, and some of the ideas. Things that need to work on: well, this is where you come in.

(the first page is here, and I've provided a link to the full text)

"Gerald, did you hear me? You've, uhh, gone somewhat catatonic." As my boss blathered on I prepared the cogent response that I knew would save my skin and impress my peers.

"No. No I'm not." Damn. It had sounded better in my head.

"Yes you are." He sighed. "No one wants to fire you, Fred. It's just something that happens. Now and then. In these hard economic times."

"If no one wants to fire me, then how is it happening?"

He was silent for a moment before saying, "Fine. Very few people wanted to fire you." He shuffled papers and looked at his watch. "Look, Fred, we both know this isn't the end of the world for you."

"Damn right it isn't." This wasn't the end of the world for me. "What do you mean?"

"You're a respected, preeminent researcher in your field. Everyone in the Labs has a copy of your book on their shelf." It's true: my book was a veritable litmus test for economists the world over. Any schmuck can name-drop Einstein or Hawking (that publicity slut of an author. You think he really needs the wheelchair? I've seen him get drunk at conferences and do karaoke). Only the truly initiated, those who've dug deeper, know my name.

"Great, you're right. Thank you Ari. So, I'll just submit my resume, excuse me, my CV, to a few search committees. I'll start my new appointment next fall, and formally retire in, say, October." From January 2nd, that was 9 months to start a new life: swift, but doable.

"Well, Gerald, you do have six months vacation saved up. We were thinking maybe you could take it starting now." That sounded fine. "Oh, and if you could have your office cleared out, we have an intern starting tomorrow."



(the rest)