Random Thoughts from a Nonlinear Mind

A Problem with a Post

A few days ago, I published a short essay entitled Multiplicative Persistence.  Now I want to tell the story behind the trouble I had trying to get the post, to well…post.  It was an ordeal.

As you might imagine, I go through lots of drafts when I write these things.  Actually, I go through a lot more than you might think.  It is not unusual to have 20 or 30 of them.  I am always tweaking a word here or there, and my good friend Grammarly always has something to add.

Usually, I am sitting at my computer pounding away on the keyboard, but that is not how all the posts originate.  Lots of times, I am out at a bar or restaurant waiting for inspiration to strike.  I always have an open notebook and a few working pens by my side.  I have found that inspiration has its own timetable, and it doesn’t care much about what I want.   That said, I always try to be ready in case The Inspiration Gods decide to shower me with booty.  You will be learning much more about this process when I post the essays I wrote for a book called The Athena Chapters.  Those will be up soon enough.

This post is about the problems I had trying to get my essay on Multiplicative Persistence to save and then show up on my website.  The first few drafts were acting normal, but then the essay started to fight back.  It didn’t want to post, it didn’t even want to save any new drafts.  One moment I was typing and then, before I realized what was happening, I was engaged in battle.  This is my story…

When I clicked on Save Draft, the computer gave me a 502 Bad Gateway error, then it did it again, and again, and again.  I had never seen this error with WordPress or GoDaddy before, so I paused and tried to figure out what was going on.  I assumed that the problem was on their end, seems reasonable, right?  Nothing had changed on my system, and everything else I was working on seemed to be fine.

You know what I did, right?  I hit Save Draft another dozen times.  I got the 502 Bad Gateway error another dozen times.  After that enjoyable experience, I decided to hit the Troubleshooting Chat Button on GoDaddy’s website.  That is where the real fun began.

I can paraphrase the conversations…

Hello, what’s wrong?

502 Bad Gateway error when I try to save a draft of a post I am writing.

Ok, …give me a few minutes.

OK

I went to your site, and I was able to log in, no problem.

I do not have a problem logging in, I am having a problem trying to save a draft of a post I am writing.

Hold on…I am transferring you to a specialized team.

Hello, you are having a problem logging into your site?

No, I am getting an error when I try to save a draft of a post I am writing.

OK…give me a few minutes…

OK

We have put up a test post, and everything is fine.  Are you some kind of moron? (They didn’t come out and say that, but it was strongly implied.)

Here is a screenshot of the 502 Bad Gateway error I am receiving when I try to SAVE A DRAFT OF A POST I AM TRYING TO WRITE!

OK…thank you very much.  I am transferring you to a more specialized team.

All right.  Is Batman part of this group?  While he is not an actual superhero, he has world-class deductive skills. I am confident he could get me fixed up in no time.

No answer…

(I really love this next part.)

OK, sir, it is evident that you have no idea what you are doing.

Is this Batman?

No, sir, this is not Batman.

Can I speak to Batman?

There is no one here named Batman.

What should I do next? Hours are racing by, and my readers are clamoring for a new essay on multiplication.  If I don’t get the post up soon, I can only imagine the level of rioting in the streets.

At this point, all I saw was a blinking cursor on the chat screen.  I guess this person was trying to find Batman to tell him that I was out of my mind.  This poor representative, with limited imagination, couldn’t understand why any person would want to read an essay on multiplication.  The fact that he is pretty much right is beside the point.

Sir, please try another network and see what happens.  We are thinking that the problem is on your end.

I don’t have another home computer network.  My setup I not as sophisticated as that of someone like Batman.  I am sure he has redundancies built-in, don’t you think?

I really don’t know.  Again, there is no one here named Batman.  Could you reset your router?

If I do that, I will lose you, and I will have to go through all this nonsense again, correct?

No answer…

I will reset, but can I have the direct line to Batman to save me some time after I reconnect?

No answer…

I tried the reset, lost the guy helping me, and still got the error message when I tried to save a draft.  It was at this point that I started to utilize all those years of education I am rumored to have.

I asked myself a question: Is there anything different about that post?  Is there something unique about it?  The answer was yes.  It was those stupid right-pointing arrows that I included to show the progression of the numbers after the digits were multiplied together.  Those were the culprit, and, of course, there is a story behind their use.

The first few drafts of that post were behaving normally.  The Save Draft button was working fine.  I finally realized that the problems started when I decided to put those arrows in.  The arrows are specialized symbols, getting them into a program like WordPress is not the easiest thing to do.  You don’t tap the keyboard, you have to have a specialized script for mathematical symbols, or you need an equation writer.  For decades, scientists and mathematicians have used a program called LaTeX (pronounced lay-tech) to write their papers.  It is not very user-friendly, I use it when I have to, and in WordPress, I have to.

I went back to my draft of the essay, and I removed all the arrows.  I tried to save the draft, and it worked.  I really wanted to use arrows, so I didn’t give up on them. I then inserted a different kind of arrow (this one from a Special Symbol Editor, not an Equation Editor), and everything was fine.  I was instantly back on track, and the world is now a better place because a handful of people now know what Multiplicative Persistence is.

Isn’t it strange that a small piece of random code for a right-leaning arrow caused all these problems?  That little symbol led to a lot of issues and cost me a bunch of time and aggravation.  The mysterious ways in which some computer code can interact are not to be underestimated.

After I figured out what was going on I decided that it was best if I write the guy from the chat, I still had his email from when I sent the screenshot of the error message. I thought that maybe my story would help in the future when some other poor slob stumbled across something similar. I told him to let Batman know that I had solved the problem and that everything was fine.  Neither of them wrote me back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Multiplicative Persistence

277,777,788,888,899 is an unusual and special number.  When it comes to Multiplicative Persistence, it is an unparalleled superstar.

Check out the following table.  Can you figure out what is going on?   The digits of any given number are multiplied together to get a new number, and then those digits are multiplied together, and so on.  The Multiplicative Persistence of a number is equal to the number of steps required to get to a single digit.  Really simple and pretty cool, isn’t it?

MP        n

0              0

1              10→0

2              25→10→0

3              39→27→14→4

4              77→49→36→18→8

5              679→378→168→48→32→6

6              6788→2688→768→336→54→20→0

7              68889→27648→2688→…→0

8              2677889→338688→27648→…→0

9              26888999→4478976→338688→…→0

10           3778888999→438939648→4478976→…→0

11           277777788888899→4996238671872→438939648→…→0

 

So, 77 has a Multiplicative Persistence of 4 because it takes four steps to get to a single digit, in this case, 8.  What about 11?  Why did we stop there?  Because 11 is the record, and 277777788888899 (commas aren’t necessary, right?) is the shortest number to share in that record.  Other numbers, with many more digits, tie our special number, but none beat it.  Did you get that?  Do you fully understand the strength of that statement? The conjecture is that any number, any single one you can think of, has a Multiplicative Persistence of 11 or smaller.  No number has been found that takes even 12 steps to get to a single digit.

This is quite extraordinary, don’t you think?  If you like, take out a computer and start coding.  Mathematical immortality awaits, but my guess is the search is futile, just like it is with the 10,958 problem I wrote about some time ago.  I think that a series of digits with a Multiplicative Persistence of 12 or greater, if it exists, would have been found a long time ago.

I am happy that I get to mention the great Paul Erdos before I close out this short post.  Erdos had a finger or two in this particular mathematical pie.  He suggested that we ignore all zeroes and just multiply together all the other digits.  After all, if you come across a zero, you are sunk.  This makes for a tasty mathematical stew.  There are people actively doing research in this area.  If you ignore zeroes, I have seen a Multiplicative Persistence as high as 22.  That said, I recently came across a paper on this very topic in French.  I tried to understand it as best I could.  The strange thing is that this is the first time I can remember that the specialized math did not lose me, I got lost in the language differences long before that could happen.  Those French, it’s like they have a different word for everything.   And yes, I tried to translate the page, but Google only decoded the numbers…

 

 

The Feynman Point

Richard Feynman was unusually intelligent.  He earned a Nobel Prize in physics.  He was one of those people who had a VIP pass to look at The Book virtually whenever he wanted. There are a bunch of biographies and autobiographies out there about him.  It wouldn’t be a waste of time to pick them up and read them.

This short post is about a little known aspect of .  There is a particular sequence in  that starts at what has been named The Feynman Point. The Feynman Point starts at decimal digit 762 and runs for six consecutive 9’s before it takes off, once again, on its random journey. How cool is that?

…2113499999983729…

That is not the only instance of consecutive digits, either. One of the most interesting sequences starts at decimal digit 1,699,927. You are not going to believe what happens at that point. There are six consecutive zeroes before it takes off again. I find that genuinely extraordinary.

…5105800000059277…

Wait, there is more.  How about 8 consecutive zeroes?

Starting at decimal digit 172,330,850 we get the first zero in this sequence:

…655810000000012202…

So, this brings up a question.  Since  is infinite, does that mean that, at some point in the sequence, we will get 1,000,000 zeroes in a row?  How about 10,000,000?  Furthermore, does contain every known, or possible, number string?  Will my DNA sequence show up at some point?  How about my Social Security number, that sequence is obviously a lot shorter.  I did check, and my Social Security number does not appear in the first 200,000,000 digits.  Neither does my phone number with area code.

The answer to the question I posed is unknown.  Mathematicians do not yet know if the universe lies within .  I don’t know what to think, the universe is a vast place but infinity is an awfully long “time.”

Give Me Some Space!

It is very difficult for old people to change their ways.
Buford Lister (personal communication)

A few years ago, I got an email from a friend of mine.  As I was reading it, I began to become irritated, then I became agitated, and then…well, I didn’t throw my computer monitor out the window, but I thought about it.  Why?  Was the content of the message that annoying and frustrating?  No, not at all.  I can’t even remember what the email was about.  What I do remember is that the author only put one space after each sentence, and I found that visual to be compact and quite disturbing.  Welcome to my world, a universe unto itself where the spacing between sentences is far more critical than the content of the text itself.

I am 57 years old, which means I grew up with typewriters; back in the day, personal computers were nothing more than a figment of somebody else’s imagination. I learned to type on an old mechanical device.  You had to push down hard on the keys to get them to strike with enough force to make an impression. Also, and this is the crucial point, everyone was taught to put two spaces between sentences.  That was how it was done, no questions asked.

Typewriters use monospaced fonts, which means that every character is given the same amount of space on the page.  An “I” and an “m” get the same area even though the “I” certainly doesn’t need or deserve it.  The use of monospacing led to a consensus that hitting the spacebar twice after a sentence was required to make it easier for the reader to see the end of one sentence and the beginning of the next.

We all know what happened, right?  Computers came along, and word processing programs started using proportional fonts, the type of fonts where an “I” gets less space on the screen, and the page, than an “m” or some other broader letter gets.  Before any of us knew what was happening, people were only hitting the spacebar once, dogs and cats were living together, and the ghost of Shakespeare was seen floating through English departments throughout college campuses worldwide.

The people who argue for one space after sentences hate, and I mean hate, to see two spaces being used anywhere.  They complain about rivers of white flowing through a passage of text.  It somehow offends them that there are still people walking the earth who prefer the two space method.   Sadly for them, I am a proud “Two-Spacer,” and I fully intend to die that way.  Hey, all you “One-Spacers,” do your worst, I am fully prepared for the onslaught.  Present the evidence in favor of your position, of which there is none.  Then sit back and behold the science supporting my position.

There was a study recently done; yes, you heard that right.  People take this stuff so seriously that someone is trying to further their academic career at a university somewhere by addressing this pressing issue.  The author of the study found that using two spaces after a sentence does increase reading speed as well as comprehension.  Take that!  Of course, the opponents say that the research must be flawed, how else could the wrong conclusion be reached.  So it goes…

I recently read a blog post somewhere about an older woman who was asking for advice about this issue.  She explained that she was too old to change, but she didn’t want her readers to think that her text was written by some sort of modern-day keyboard wielding buffoon.  So, what to do?  The reply was genius, shocking coming from a One-Spacer.  The One-Spacer said that the woman should type as she always does.  Keep right on tapping that spacebar twice, continue to do it out of habit, no worries.  When the document is complete, all she has to do is perform a search and replace.  Search for the two spaces and replace them with one space.  In one fell swoop, her document would then be acceptable for polite and sophisticated company the world over.  Not bad, right?

It is surprising (or maybe it isn’t) how worked up people get over this issue.  Lots of professional writers, as well as English professors and random commentators, take firm stances.  Their opinions are strong and unwavering.  While I much prefer two spaces, I am not going to take out a loan, purchase a tank, and go to war over it.  As for some of the others, I think they have already met with their credit unions.

Now for the big reveal, I have secretly left a trail of intrigue in this short essay.  I am conducting my own little, non-scientific study. I put two spaces after some of the sentences, and others got one space treatment.  Did you even notice?  Are you offended at this travesty?  My guess is no one noticed, but I bet you do in the future.  Once that genie escapes, they cannot be shoved back in the bottle.  Oh boy, I just used the word “they” to refer to a singular genie.  Not a bad segue to a future essay that I am finishing up now.  More on that soon enough.

 

Notes:  The article about spacing is entitled Are Two Spaces Better Than One? The Effect of Spacing Following Periods and Commas During Reading.  Rebecca Johnson, an associate professor at Skidmore College, led the team that conducted this outrageous and groundbreaking research.  Three cheers and a tiger for her and her colleagues, they are doing the world a service by putting those distrustful keyboard jockeys in their proper place.

 

 

Breathe Deep

This is a piece of Flash Fiction. The topic: A person goes to a doctor’s office, and a nurse gives him some free sample medicine.

Archibald “Butane” Maclaine struggled to walk into the doctor’s office. He paused to grab the back of a chair, moved forward a couple steps, and then leaned against the wall.  He steadied himself and then made his way to the Reception Desk.

Butane was an old man, he had been around (seen most everything and done most anything), but today he made a mistake, a big one. Hey, he’s only human, right?

The Nurse looked him over, handed him a form, and then told him to take a seat.  As she watched him struggle to walk, she hoped that he would fall and crack his head open on the corner of the coffee table that was a few away feet away.  C’mon, c’mon, you can do it.  Fall, please just fall.  No such luck.

Butane made it to a seat and did his best to fill out all the nonsensical information The Nurse wanted. Had he ever been pregnant? Was he pregnant now? Has he ever used topical ointment designed to promote hair growth? Are his hemorrhoids painful or do they just itch? Only once did he notice the nearly constant stare of The Nurse. One glance, it turns out, was enough.

Author’s Note: I occasionally am willing to give unsolicited advice for one reason or the other. If poor, old Butane had asked me, I would have told him that he needed to keep on walking when he came to that particular office door. Somewhere (actually most anywhere), there had to be a doctor’s office that didn’t have a nurse indebted to The Vampire Mafia.

The details of her bondage are not that important, let’s just say that it was one of those things.  She was at the wrong place at an unfortunate time.  That’s all, she didn’t do anything other than stand near a wall and radiate charm.  A person (you guessed correctly, a vampire) took an unnatural interest in her…and here we are. Know this: she had to do what he and his cohorts said, or things were quickly going to go from bad to worse for the beautiful woman The “VM” only referred to as The Nurse.

On the morning of Butane’s visit, she woke up early and instantly checked her phone to see if there was a new post at Random Thoughts from a Nonlinear Mind.  She was about to read “Professor Bob” when she saw a small package on her nightstand. Her pulse began to quicken, and her chest tightened up as she picked up the box.  It contained a vile vial and a simple set of instructions. Put this powder in Butane’s medicine. She, of course, did exactly what she was instructed to do.

“Archibald, you can come on back now.” Butane hated that name, he preferred the nickname that he had received decades ago. He always told people he got the name Butane because he was often on fire at the poker table. The real story is a bit different and slightly (OK, a lot) more sinister.

Butane followed her back to the exam room. C’mon Zelda, you can do this. Breathe deep…relax.

“Have a seat, Archibald.”

“You can call me Butane.”

“OK, Butane. We have reviewed your files from your previous doctor, and we want you to try this new medicine. Dr. Jenkins is optimistic that this one is going to work.”

“Will I see him today?”

“No, I am just going to show you how this inhaler works, and then you will come back in two weeks.”

She illustrated the ins and outs, as well as the ups and downs of the device.  When she finished, she inserted the poisoned cartridge and hit the plunger. It was all simple enough.

“Here is a free month’s supply. No need to get a prescription until we know if this is going to work, right?”

Butane was old and worn out, but he still had game, big game. He sensed it…he felt it…he knew. He grabbed the sample medicine and, without saying a word, walked out of the office. The Nurse watched as Butane threw the package in the garbage and quickly turned to her and waved. She could have sworn she saw a set of yellowed fangs extend and then retract as Butane smiled at her.

The Nurse knew she was going to get a visit that night. I gave him the doctored medicine, I watched him leave with it.  Her hope was that half-truth just might allow her to see the sunrise.

 

 

Dog Man and Puppy Boy

This is a piece of Flash Fiction.  The topic:  A person finds a die with a missing 6 alongside a quarter standing on end.

Millionaire playboy Jedediah Magillicutty power-walked down the street, waving to his unsuspecting neighbors as he continued his daily morning constitutional. Unknown to all but a select few, he is secretly Dog Man, the scourge of criminals everywhere.

Magillicutty paused as he noticed something unusual; he didn’t have anything like a Spider-sense, but he had the heightened intuition and investigatory instincts of a man who had been fighting crime for decades.  A quick glance down and to his left and then, poof – like Keyser Soze, he was gone. Nearly breathless, he burst into the mansion, up the broad staircase, and into the library.  “Cletus, c’mon.” Cletus, his youthful ward, smiled as he dropped his copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War and quickly stood up.

“Hurry, something unusual and possibly sinister is afoot.  It is time for us to suit up.” Cletus shook his head as Magillicutty ran to the bust of Ivan Pavlov that was sitting on a small table near a bookcase.  As he pressed a little button under Pavlov’s chin,  a hidden pocket door on the far wall opened to reveal the Canine Poles.  They slid down into the Dog House.

Puppy Boy started to run toward the Hound Mobile but quickly stopped when he heard Dog Man yelp.  “It did it again, my underwear is on backward.  I was sure I had that thing fixed.”  Puppy Boy examined himself and determined that everything on his crime-fighting suit was where it was supposed to be.  “I think I am good, Dog Man.  I’ll fire up the Hound Mobile if you want to fix your underwear.”  Dog Man wiggled around in his suit, shrugged his shoulders, and raced toward the vehicle.  They leaped into the Hound Mobile and blasted down the road.  After about a minute, Dog Man jammed on the brakes.

Dog Man sniffed around for just a few seconds.  There it was, a red die with a missing six next to a quarter standing on end.  It was just where he had seen it during his walk.  Dog Man adjusted his plastic nose, hiked up his Hong Kong Phooey leotards, stroked his chin, and…paused. He slowly got down on all fours to better examine the clues. Sniff, sniff. “The six is missing. What is special about that?” Puppy Boy thought: Um, well, it is a piece of dice candy, and someone licked six dots off of it, you moron. What he said was, “Gosh, 6 is the first perfect number; if you add up all its divisors – 1, 2, 3, then you get 6.  Also, if you multiply 1 times 2 times 3, you get 6.”

“Right you are my canine companion. Now, what about the quarter?”

Puppy Boy knelt down to examine it. It was clear that it was standing on end because it was stuck in the seam between two concrete slabs. He thought: If it weren’t for that trust fund, I would yell at the top of my lungs that you are a damn idiot who needs serious medical attention. What he said was, “Golly Dog Man, I don’t know.”

Dog Man grew more and more agitated as he chewed on the clues. “6 is a perfect number and next to it a quarter. Yes, of course, 6 times a quarter is 25 fourths, right? Let’s go!”

“Wait…what?”

“C’mon.  Let’s go!”

The Hound Mobile screamed down the road to number 25 Fourth Avenue, the home of Yvette Gregg, the actress who played Bitch Girl in their old TV show (the one aired during less enlightened times).  Dog Man ran into the building, not noticing that Puppy Boy stayed behind.  As Dog Man disappeared behind the heavy, red door, Puppy Boy pulled out his portable Mutt Phone and hit the Canine Alarm button.

Dog Man ran up the nine flights of stairs to Yvette’s apartment.  He quickly knocked the door down with the sledgehammer he kept in his Doggy Belt.   “Bitch Girl, where are you?  Is everything OK?”

Yvette came running out of the kitchen, she was armed with a knife and a can of corn.  She threw the can at Dog Man, hitting him in the shoulder.

“You idiot!  I told you last time that if you ever showed up here again, I was going to call the police. Now get out!”

Dog Man took a quick look around the apartment and then backed out into the hall.  He tried to put the door back in place, but he was going to need more tools than his Doggy Belt carried.

“I’ll have someone fix this for you.”

“Get out!”

As Dog Man reached the door and was about to head toward the Hound Mobile, a suspicious man came bounding down the sidewalk. He looked straight at Dog Man, poked him in the chest, gave him a dismissive wave, and then walked on. He was there only to create a diversion; the straightjacket was on Jedediah before he knew what hit him.

Four men boxed him up, tied him down, and loaded him into what appeared to be an ambulance.  The whole thing was over in seconds.  Puppy Boy waved as they drove off.

Cletus went home and threw his Puppy Boy costume in the garbage.  He unlocked his personal wall safe, the one behind the large portrait of Lassie, and enjoyed what was left of a bag of dice candy.  As he ate, he went over the documents the family lawyer had recently drawn up.  Page after page of legal materials that gave him total control of all of Jedediah Magillicutty’s assets “in the event of said Magillicutty’s death or mental incapacity.”

Dog Man was never seen again.  For years, the local authorities flashed the iconic Dog Bone signal into the night sky.  After a decade with no response, hope began to fade.  Eventually, the disillusioned people of Iriquois County lost all expectations.  They all clenched their jaws and moved on with their lives.

Today, there is a garbage dump located in the southern part of the county.  If you go there and poke around, you will find the remains of a large, rusted spotlight.  Next to it is a broken Dog Man and Puppy Boy Big Wheel.  That is all that remains of a bygone era, a time when the people of Iroquois County left their doors unlocked and stashed their money in their mattresses.

 

THE CLOSING

This is a piece of Flash Fiction.  The topic: A family moves into the neighborhood haunted house.

 

And by signing this form, you acknowledge that you have been informed about any and all paranormal activity that has been witnessed at the property located at 124 Chestnut Street.

 

Noah Kuhn turned and gave his girls one of those famous looks that only a tired daddy at his breaking point can give. It was a look that said Can’t I take you girls anywhere? They both smiled as they continued to kick the table legs. Noah narrowed his eyes a bit more, and they finally stopped. No one (not even Noah) noticed the eerie, unnatural interest the girls were taking in the people across the table.

Noah smiled at the seller, a recently widowed elderly man, and his attorney, a young blonde woman, and then deliberately lifted his pen. “I want another $10,000 knocked off the price of this house, or I am walking away right now.” He was already getting 70% off the asking price, but he knew there was no way the seller could say no to his last-minute change in terms. The lawyer nodded, and with a pen stroke, Noah Kuhn and his two young daughters became the proud owners of a most deliciously haunted house.

 

The three of them drove directly to their new home, where they worked all day. They scrubbed windows, vacuumed, and even washed the walls.  “Daddy, this place still smells like old people.”

“I know girls.  Just keep cleaning.  We will get there.”

They had everything done by bedtime.

“Daddy, we didn’t mean to kill that old woman, you know that, right? We only wanted to scare her. We just wanted them both to leave so that you could buy us this house. You used to tell us all the time that one day you would buy us a house just like this one, you remember, don’t you daddy?”

“Of course, I remember. Look, girls, I know you didn’t mean to scare that poor old woman to death. It wasn’t your fault, she was sick, and she was going to die soon anyway.”

“Daddy, did you notice the old man at the meeting? We stopped haunting this place months ago, and he still looks scared. Stupid old man. All we did was knock a bunch of stuff around and make noises and float in front of him when he was waking up. Boy daddy, it sure doesn’t take much with old people, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t. Ok, it’s bedtime. Let’s try to get some rest, hear me?”

“Daddy…guess what?” Noah turned as the girls exited their physical bodies and began the attack. They advanced in unison as they tried to rip their father’s head off. Claws, fangs, spiked tails all employed with clinical precision. One with her fangs in his back while the other tried to rip his throat out with her claws.

“Girls, girls, girls…you know you are no match for your old man. Get to bed, we can play tomorrow.”

As Noah turned out the light, he remembered what his mom had told him long ago: Adolescent demon spawn can be a handful, especially for a single parent.

 

 

 

D’oh!

We, and our many supporters worldwide, have done our best but the ignorance and laziness present in modern times have won!
John Richards

Did you hear the news?  Something extraordinary happened a couple days ago.  Much to my surprise, a punctuation mark made international news.  No, it wasn’t the ampersand, or my personal favorite, the interrobang.  The protectors of the mighty apostrophe have served notice that they are out of energy and ammunition and have admitted defeat.  The Apostrophe Protection Society has disbanded, put up an Out of Business sign, and set sail for parts unknown.

I own lots of grammar books, they all have sections about the apostrophe.  I also have Grammarly open as I type this document.  I recently bought the Grammarly program, and I have found that it is worth every penny.  It is working as the editor I do not have.  It is constantly telling me to remove or add a comma, but it also has a lot to say when it comes to apostrophes.

Are you supposed to use an apostrophe when writing “the 80s” or the “90s?”  No.  Both Grammarly and The Apostrophe Protection Society say that “80’s” is incorrect.  The same with CDs, for those of you old enough to remember what a CD is.

What about a name that ends in an “s” or a “z”?  Is it James’ book, or is it better to write about James’s book?  This is where things can get a little sticky.  Publication houses and entities like newspapers all have their own style guides.  They pick one way of doing things and then remain consistent.  In the case of James and his book, I have seen it done one way or the other depending on the guidelines adhered to by the particular publisher.  This doesn’t mean that the pedants among us don’t lose their minds when this topic comes up.  Of course, about half say their way is the only correct way, the other half say the opposite.

Many years ago, I ran into a woman who was a high school English teacher.  She mentioned to me that the school system had stopped teaching grammar.  I was shocked.  When I asked her why all she could say is that they all felt that time could be better spent on learning critical thinking skills.  The idea was that reading and analyzing passages of text was more important than learning where an apostrophe was supposed to go.

I met a young man a few months ago, I believe he is an 8^th grader.  I asked him if he was learning grammar in school, and he said no.  He is a smart kid who wants to study computers in college.  I told him a story about going to school at Harvard.  When you are there, you are judged every time you open your mouth, any missteps will knock you down a couple notches in the eyes of your peers.  What is even worse, if your writing is sloppy, if you misplace an apostrophe or misuse a comma, the results can be disastrous.  You simply won’t be taken as seriously as you might otherwise be.  The ability to write clearly is viewed as an extension of your intelligence.  When I told him this, he said: “And that’s why I’m not going to Harvard!”  Pretty funny, and that is the type of attitude that caused John Richards to shutter The Apostrophe Protection Society.

John Richards is a retired editor from England.  In 2001, he started the site to help people stop abusing his beloved apostrophe.  Richards finally had to give up, and I don’t blame him.  He fought the good fight, but arguing for proper grammar in today’s world is akin to straightening deck chairs on the Titanic.  As he said, the battle is lost.  I also believe the war is over.  I hope that Richards, who is 96, enjoys his retirement.  He has fought long enough.

So, how important is this issue?  Is proper apostrophe use fundamental to the English language?  Languages do evolve, things change; not only word meaning and usage but also the punctuation we use to minimize ambiguity in our writing.  It would be nice if everyone would use proper punctuation, but that is never going to happen.  That said, I think I’ll grab some of my Rick James’ CDs from the 80s, put on my headphones, and try to relax.

 

This is a piece of Flash Fiction.  The topic: a second-person account of an individual who picks up an almost empty can of air freshener.

 

Air Effects

You are in your upstairs library, you appear to be reading Proust. Your thoughts, though, are not on the text. Let’s begin there.

Things seem normal until you put down a half-eaten madeleine and pick up a can of Febreze (old book smell can sometimes be overwhelming) and then…well, then things get stilted and awkward. As you slowly squeeze the nozzle, you can see each individual droplet as it slowly exits the cylinder. You not only smell them, but you can also feel each unique sphere. Preoccupied with childlike innocence and amazement, you do not notice that the walls are beginning to lean in. Even worse, the heat suddenly radiating from your chest begins to overwhelm you.

Are you having a stroke? Probably not, you seem healthy enough. Maybe you fell in love, and that is what this is all about. Ahhhh, yes…love is powerful enough to warp matter and slow the flow of time. Didn’t you read that somewhere? What was straight and plum becomes slanted, geometrically unstable. Do you really need me to tell you that you are in love?

You must listen to me: Time and space are part of the same thing, separate them out at your own risk. The fact that everything is in slow motion and the walls are warping is no coincidence. The warmth in your chest?  That is probably part of the same deal, at least you better hope so.

You…you and your logical mind, is all this too much for you? What, you think you are some sort of Vulcan, Spock incarnate? Look around you, the walls are closing in, they are bending at strange and severe angles. Do you even realize it is also getting darker? Open your damn eyes, it is getting darker.

It is totally dark now. Not regular dark but intense blacklight dark. It is pervasive (how unusual); the light seems to be piercing you, invading your essence. You feel it…you don’t like it…not even a little.

The smell, that’s it! It is the smell! The scent of the Febreze reminds you of what Chris’ apartment used to smell like. Unfortunately, your deep insight isn’t helping matters. The walls are so close that you can reach out and touch all four, five, six, seven (what…seven walls?). You wonder how this is possible. There were only four walls here a few minutes ago, weren’t there?

You realize the scent that initiated this fiasco is dissipating. In your troubled mind, this means that Chris is also fading away. Even though you do not know it, people like you are wedded to metaphor; in a certain sense, you live by it and for it. Do you even realize the can is still in your left hand? You do? Then squeeze the trigger. Try again…press harder. What? It is empty? Oh no…

You have just seen and experienced something rare, an unimaginable (almost inconceivable) moment in space and in time. The Fifth Dimension, the one reputed to be of hope and ecstasy, opened up (ever so briefly) around you. What are you supposed to do now? I know precisely what you are going to do next, you are going to buy more Febreeze.

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Existential Threat

Two things happened in the last couple of days that have required me to spend hours in front of my computer.  First, Harvard Magazine sent me a digital copy of my monthly subscription.  Second, Harvard played Yale in football on Saturday.  Decades from now, people will be writing about that game, not for who won or lost, but for what happened at halftime.

In the latest edition of Harvard Magazine, there is an article about a debate going on at Harvard concerning divestment.  Lots of faculty and students want the university to sell all the stock in the endowment that has anything to do with fossil fuels.  Not only that, they want Harvard to sell any holdings in companies that contribute directly to climate change.  The employees, alumni, and students asking for divestment do not feel that Harvard should profit from the destruction of the earth.  That last sentence seems commonsensical, doesn’t it?  It is also entirely nonsensical that I had to write it.

It is hard to imagine that anyone at a place like Harvard would argue against this position, but of course, the administration is taking a hard line.  Money still rules, maybe more so at Harvard than other universities.   In the article, professors and students offered up their arguments for and against divestment, I found one to be quite powerful.

Charlie Conroy, a professor of astronomy at Harvard, published the following statement.  It is taken in its entirety from Debating Divestment in the Faculty of Arts and Sciences, an excellent article written by John S. Rosenberg dated 11/5/19 for Harvard Magazine. 

I am an astronomer. I spend most of my time collecting data and running computer models to understand the origin of our Galaxy. But today I speak to you as a deeply concerned member of our community.

I have grown up with the reality of what we once called global warming: rising temperatures, melting glaciers, species extinctions, destabilizing weather patterns. The consequences for humans have also been in plain view: increased occurrence of famine, droughts, and diseases, and, on the horizon, a refugee crisis unparalleled in human history. And yet, like many people I became numb to the increasingly urgent calls for action. I was busy and preoccupied with issues closer to home: raising a family, conducting research, securing tenure. I focused on small acts—recycling, commuting with public transit, eating locally grown food. What more could I do? I am after all only one person.

That thinking was wrong.

As members of the Harvard faculty we have a powerful platform to effect change. This means that we also have a responsibility to use that power in extraordinary times. And these are extraordinary times.  

As I speak California is burning. UC Santa Cruz, where I used to teach, has been subjected to forced blackouts resulting in canceled classes. Fire-related evacuations are now a routine part of life for many communities. This is the new normal. In recognition of the climate crisis, the University of California system is divesting its $13-billion endowment and its $70-billion pension fund from fossil fuels. 

The ice sheets on West Antarctica and Greenland together hold enough water to raise global sea level by 13 meters. Destabilization of these ice sheets could result in sea level rise of 2 meters by the end of this century and 6 meters by the end of the following century. With 6 meters of sea-level rise significant portions of the Harvard campus will be underwater. As will all of MIT, Fenway, and the South End. Globally the situation will be much worse: 600 million people live at an elevation within 10 meters of sea level.

We in rich countries may be able to mitigate the worst effects of climate change, though the costs may be staggering. Maybe. Maybe not. But island nations, poor countries in South Asia and elsewhere, will not have the option of buying their way out of disaster. 

The predicted short-term consequences of climate change from major organizations such as the IPCC [Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change] tend to be conservative. We see evidence of this every year as new reports indicate the pace of change is accelerating faster than predicted. The global climate is a complex system with multiple non-linear feedback cycles that are poorly understood. The near future could easily turn out to be much more extreme than current models predict—during the Pliocene Epoch the levels of CO₂ in the atmosphere were comparable to today’s levels. During that time the Earth was 3^° C warmer and global sea levels were 10-20 meters higher.

There is currently five times more fossil fuel in proven reserves than can be burnt if we are to stay within the 2^°C warming scenario advocated by the UN Paris Agreement. Avoiding catastrophic changes to our world will therefore require leaving huge reserves of fossil fuel in the ground. And yet, the fossil-fuel industry continues to devote vast sums of money and resources to identifying new reserves. Despite its profession of support for the Paris Agreement, ExxonMobil has not changed its position since this agreement was signed. In 2015 ExxonMobil projected that by 2040 fossil fuels would supply over 75 percent of the world’s energy needs. In its latest projections from this year, that number has actually risen to 80 percent.   

It is simply unrealistic to expect the fossil-fuel industry to willingly walk away from so much money in the ground. As our colleague Naomi Oreskes has demonstrated through extensive scholarship, the fossil-fuel industry has for decades engaged in deliberate doubt-mongering on the topic of climate change. This includes explicit undermining of public policy and indirect undermining of attempts to move to alternative energies. In light of these facts, the idea of working in collaboration with the fossil-fuel industry is dangerously naïve and counterproductive.

These extraordinary times require big ideas and bold leadership.  

The scale of the problem is so enormous that many ideas must be pursued simultaneously. We should commit to a carbon-free campus on a rapid timescale. We should incentivize reduced air travel and the use of a robust public transit system. We should encourage significant new academic and research ventures. We should engage with our community beyond Harvard. And we should divest from the fossil-fuel industry.

There are multiple reasons to support divestment. There are arguments from history and from economics that my colleagues will discuss. My perspective is this: the degree of action and change required to avoid the worst-case scenarios is far larger than anything we could hope to accomplish on our own, even as teachers and researchers. Every one of us could commit 100 percent of our time and resources to combating climate change, but that would fall far short of what is needed. This is where divestment comes in. It is an opportunity, perhaps our best opportunity, to catalyze action and change far beyond these walls. 

Imagine I came here to announce that a civilization-destroying asteroid is heading toward Earth. Would we wait to act until the probability of disaster is 100 percent? No. Would we wait to act until the impact was days or weeks away? No. Climate change is that asteroid. Its impact will be felt not instantaneously but over years, decades, and centuries. As scientists we have an obligation not only to identify and study the asteroid, but to act upon the clear and present danger it represents, and to join our colleagues in other disciplines in urging responsible action.

Harvard is in a position to lead on this issue. We have a responsibility to do so. Now is the time to act.

Conroy’s points are well taken.  I mentioned that he is a young professor, and I think that is important to remember.  Older people tend to be more concerned about money than the type of world their grandchildren are going to inherit.  That is simply a fact.  As I look around, I see little evidence to the contrary.  How many people do you know who are cutting back on fuel consumption in an attempt to better the lives of their grandchildren?  With that settled, we get to the football game between Harvard and Yale.

Who won the game?  Who cares?  The only important point is that the second half of the game was delayed by about an hour.  Why?  Student, faculty, and alumni protestors from both schools took to the field and sat in protest of older generations’ refusal to take climate change seriously.  The young people are correct, the old folks running things have given little indication that they care at all about what is happening to earth’s climate.  The battle is up to people like 16-year-old Swede Greta Thunburg.  She is an activist on an inspired mission to get the people in power to take action on climate change.  Ms. Thunberg is the closest thing to a superhero that we have.  I will be watching her career through the coming decades with great interest.

How bad is the situation? What are people like Greta Thunberg up against? I often tell people that if New York City is underwater, the people in the Midwest will laugh at them and say: “See…that is what you get.  God’s vengeance and so forth and blah, blah, blah…”  Even then, the threat won’t be taken seriously.  It is quite curious, but I don’t see many older people lamenting the amount of government debt they are leaving their grandchildren.  And they certainly don’t care about a figurative asteroid approaching the earth.  I guess that asteroid is moving a bit too slowly for them to bother.  As for the debt, I think it is a bit too abstract for most people to wrap their heads around.  I am not sure what excuse the politicians have, it appears that they simply do not care.

As for the science behind the warming of the globe, I took a course in Climate Change a long time ago.  The threat is real, the science is solid, the math is inspired.  In recent years it has become clear that the earth is warming at a rate much faster than predicted by the worst-case scenarios.  The professor who taught the course was optimistic that the human race would come to its senses and tackle the problem head-on.  I chuckled to myself when I heard that.  I was not optimistic then, and I feel even more pessimistic about the future now.  We may be at the point where we need a Hail Mary type technological solution that will scrub the earth’s atmosphere.  I have no idea how that would work, neither does anyone else.  I wish us all luck.

One final thought: I read somewhere that there is only one group of people in the world who do not believe in the science of Climate Change.  It should not be too hard to guess that there are old, angry, white members of the Republican Party in the United States.  Why don’t these people believe in science?  It gets a bit complicated, but religion is the main culprit.  Have you ever talked to an evangelical about Climate Change?  The reaction of most of them to the topic is that it is a liberal conspiracy.  There is no such thing as Climate Change because God gave us all that coal, oil, and natural gas.  Why would God give it to us if we weren’t supposed to use it?  Simple, isn’t it?  There is another group of evangelicals, one slightly more sophisticated (I will never type a bigger oxymoron than sophisticated evangelical).  They believe that Climate Change is real, but they think that it is part of God’s plan for the earth and its inhabitants.  Apparently, God wants the planet to warm for reasons that are far beyond simple human understanding.  In any event, neither group has any interest in doing anything about the problem, that would be far too inconvenient.

I will be writing more about this topic in a future post entitled The Science Wars.  This regrettable episode in intellectual history was running at full tilt when I was at Harvard during the mid-80s to early 90s.  The perpetrators set the scholarly foundation for the rejection of science we are seeing in our society today.  Unfortunately, no one knew just how high the stakes were.