Random Thoughts from a Nonlinear Mind – Page 3

Datasaurus!

Well…that is something.
Buford Lister (personal communication)

That is in the top seven of the coolest things I have ever seen.
Warren Andrew Slay (personal communication)

This post takes off where the last one (Anscombe’s Quartet) ended. Anscombe had four data sets, whereas the mighty Datasaurus file has 13. Yes, it is either a Baker’s Dozen or you can think of it as the dino plot along with 12 others (the Datasaurus Dozen) that illuminate its glory. Either way, prepare to be dazzled.

As with Anscombe, the summary statistics for all these plots are virtually identical. (x mean = 54.26, y mean = 47.83, x SD = 16.76, y SD = 26.93). Yeah, yeah, the 4^th or 5^th decimal place is different. So what? If you think that is important, I can’t help you. Please just relax and behold the Datasaurus Dataset. And yes, please be careful with your data when engaging in a project. That just might be the point of the following plots.

I hope you are astonished. I find it fascinating that all these plots share the summary statistics I mentioned earlier. Considering those commonalities, I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to get this kind of variability.

If you want to learn more about these graphs, search for Alberto Cairo and the team of Justin Matejka and George Fitzmaurice. They have done good work. They all want us to think carefully about our data. I could not agree more.

Anscombe’s Quartet

Let’s be Frank; this data set is interesting.
Buford Lister (personal communication)

Yale statistician Frank Anscombe published a short paper in 1973. As I recall, around that time, Tony Orlando hoped to see a yellow ribbon wrapped around an old oak tree while The Godfather dominated award season in the film industry. As for me, I can’t recall, but I am sure I was wearing bell-bottom pants and a flimsy shirt to the local grade school. Anscombe’s paper and The Godfather have fared much better than those bizarre jeans (the huge ones were called elephant pants, my flavor of choice).

In Anscombe’s paper, he introduced what has become known as Anscombe’s Quarter, one of the most famous data sets in the world. Pay careful attention to the summary statistics at the bottom of the table.

Do you see it? The summary statistics are virtually identical. Back in the day, before computers were ubiquitous, many relied upon these summaries to get a general idea of their data. After all, what else were they supposed to do? Believe it or not, Box Plots and Stem and Leaf Plots were not commonplace. Anscombe’s brother-in-law, the great John Tukey, introduced them and other exploratory data analysis techniques during this time.

I am sure many of you are ahead of the game. You know the data set wouldn’t be famous, and I wouldn’t write about it unless there is something extraordinary about the data. Take a look at the following graphs.

I only recently came upon this dataset. I am currently learning Python and SQL. I am also brushing up on R, a statistical package I have been fighting with for decades. For those of you too young to remember the baby version of R, it consisted of a command prompt and numerous 1,400-page manuals. Things are much better today.

This data set has appeared more than once in my recent studies. It usually appears as a cautionary tale against making assumptions and refusing to think when you may be tired and want to go to bed. Also, it serves as a stunning reminder to never forget to plot your data. As you can see, the plots are essential to truly understand the data you are analyzing.

Even though I am done with this essay, I am just beginning with my “data” themed posts. I have lots of information burning a hole in my hard drives. I assure you, Anscombe’s Quartet, as brilliant and illuminating as it is, is just the beginning.

P.S. Don’t forget to check out the regression equations. Amazing.

A Few Thoughts from the Big City

Do any of us set out to live an uneventful, pedestrian life? My guess is that, yes, many of us want nothing more than a decent partner, a job that pays the bills, and kids that don’t end up as axe murderers. In the land of low expectations, you could do a lot worse.

I am back at the library, the intellectual and cultural center of this neck of Hillbilly Land. There is a man a table away from me struggling to get his phone charged. He is unhappy with the progress the USB port is giving him. He reached into his duffle bag and pulled out a couple of chargers. Those do not appear to be sufficient either. A mild inconvenience for me could prove disastrous for this man.

I could invent a back story for this homeless person. That is what writers often do. I have done it all my life. One guy is a secret agent, another a fledgling serial killer. See that guy over there? He is about to steal a large sum of money from work so he can run off with his mistress. I am not sure any of those random people would be given a backstory that matches their reality. A homeless man’s story is only interesting if they can somehow come out the other side with their wits intact. I am rooting for this guy, I haven’t seen him before, but the other homeless people know him. They are all saying hello or nodding in his direction.

When this man was a child, I doubt he envisioned that he would be an old guy without a home or a job. Perhaps he even had parents who had bright hopes for his future. No one wants to think that they will be the guy sitting by himself at the library, loudly cursing the phone charger that is letting him down. Indeed, no parent would wish that fate on their child.

Could it just be a bad cable? The dollar store sells them, and most of them are good. Still, the occasional defective actor slips through the quality control process. I bought many cables there and have had excellent luck with them.

Author’s Note: I had a lot of trouble sleeping again last night. The past, a place I have a complicated relationship with, has been tugging at me. Thinking about the deaths of people who die far too soon can do that. Perhaps I am worried about living long enough to finish all my projects. That is probably it, right? Old Killy McGee has come after me twice in the last six or seven years. I have been lucky. I hope I won’t need to dip into that well again soon. It is a morass of stochastics and probability that allows only so many withdrawals before the bean counters take some initiative and do their thing.

A woman, another homeless person I have never seen before, just sat down with the man having phone charger issues. She is much younger than him. She is clearly agitated. I could take off my headphones to get a sense of the conversation, but I would rather listen to Mozart in my headphones rather than their conversation.

An interesting thing just happened. The people at the table are having animated conversations, not with the other person across from them, but with themselves. If I had a solution to this problem, I would present it. I would write it up, send it to anyone I thought would read it, and then work to implement a plan. I have nothing.

Mozart juxtaposed with hopelessness. And here I sit, the eyes through which a nonsensical story with no plot, direction, or purpose, is told. Mozart’s death was an unnecessary slap in the face to humanity. He was taken from us way too soon in the most significant cosmic ripoff in history. The universe didn’t care that a genius was struck down before reaching his prime. I can’t help but think that the universe has the same attitude toward the two people at the table across from me. Genius, homeless, no matter.

The woman at the table is becoming increasingly animated as the man is loudly mumbling about a local church. I guess they will stop by there and get their lunch. They might be a couple, even though he appears much older. Love, right? Who can know how such things happen. Who understands the chemical, biological, or cosmic forces that work to bring two fragile and precarious people together. I have no thoughts on how such a thing might have happened to them (in particular) or others (in general).

Implied Author’s Note: I tried to publish the post I wrote about Dawn and her memoir yesterday. Things became odd, very odd. My website says that the post was published, and I can see it on my computers at home, but it does not appear on any other computers. I have no idea what is happening. In the past, with hundreds of other posts, I have never had this problem. I spent some time researching the problem, and I came up empty. It must be some kind of omen, right? Maybe not, probably not, most certainly not. I am sure it is some random nonsense that has a technical solution.

The couple just left together. He struggled to lift his backpack from the floor, his arthritis creating problems I am familiar with. She did much better. She had no problem jumping up, her backpack already around her shoulders. I wish them luck, but they will need more than I can offer, a lot more.

Author’s Note: I do not make New Years’ Resolutions. If a person wants to change, they should simply do it. An arbitrary date on a calendar means nothing to me. That said, I have 8 books I want to get out the door and into the world this year. Some are 90% done, others closer than that. A couple volumes are going to require a lot of revision. Time and energy are in short supply in my general vicinity.

I usually sit and write at the library until I get up to use the bathroom. Old guys need to go a lot. For any young men who might be reading, when you reach my age, you will wake up in the middle of the night, probably multiple times. You are going to plan your travel so that a restroom is always close. The whole thing is an inconvenience and can quickly become a major problem. Hopefully, modern medicine will progress to the point where discussions such as these will be forgotten by the time you are my age. Good luck to all of you.

I have moved upstairs to the nonfiction section at the library. I am very hungry, but I am still on my “post-blood-clots-trying-to-kill-me-diet.” I am hungry all the time. I am hungry when I go to bed and hungry when I wake up. I am hungry all day and into the night. The powers that be tell me that is better than dropping dead. Most days, I tend to agree.

Implied Author’s Note: I recently discovered that nothing I have ever written has influenced a single person. How did I come to such a realization? That is a topic for a novel. If I can get those 8 other books out the door, I can work on that one. With luck and a cheeseburger or two (something I haven’t had in years), things will be just fine.

Highly unlikely or even inconceivable events do happen on occasion. This might be one of those strange moments in time. Bizarre might be another word for it. I need to leave and go home. Against all odds, my laptop charger is malfunctioning. When I get home, I will try another cable. That’s probably all it is, right? I just need to swap out the cable. If that doesn’t work, I will have to think of other things I might be able to do to fix this mess. Without a charged laptop, there isn’t much for me to do at the library, and there is not much they can do for me. I don’t need any social services; I have a home and a job. I took a shower before I came in this morning. I think I’ll just head home and think about what I want to eat.

An Unwelcome Memoir

I guess it is simply a function of getting older, right? No matter their age, these people I once knew are dying too young. I am 60, but I am only 60. I am not 85 or 90. People I met when we were young should not be dying, yet here we are.

{If any hillbillies want to criticize me for writing this post, I recommend that they keep their thoughts to themselves. I put the last ignorant hillbilly on a subtle form of literary blast. I only developed a little sympathy for this person when one of my friends made a suggestion. He said it was within the realm of possibility (or probability) that certain forms of branded hillbillies do not know what a metaphor is. If such a person has read this far, I want you to stop. Please just go away. Seriously, go now.}

I am back at the library today. My usual table was taken by a homeless man in Cleveland Browns’ gear. He didn’t stay long, my table is now empty, but I don’t want to move. I am unpacked and working. I don’t feel the need to move ten feet just so I can keep doing the same thing over there that I am doing here.

I am pausing, hesitating, and procrastinating to write about this most recent death because I do not know what to say. The story isn’t necessarily long or complicated; it is simply terrible. I am debating whether to tell it.

The year is 1986. Yes, present tense; see if you can take yourself back to that time if you were among the living. I was in Hillbilly Land, not far from where I am seated now. I bet I met Dawn no more than 100 feet from this spot. Sure, the high school is gone, but the ground remains. I do not like thinking back to that time; it is marked by a bunch of Hillbilly nonsense piled on top of more Hillbilly shenanigans. Adjacent to that? More Hillbilly stuff. It was a cavalcade of Hillbillies.

I finished a summer at Harvard University and was back in Hillbilly Land. I was preparing to go back to Cambridge for good. I was teaching at a local university during the nights and substitute teaching at any school that needed me during the day. You need a kindergarten gym teacher? Sure, sign me up. High school music teacher for a day? No problem. You get it.

I came in contact with many hillbillies (both upper and lower case), people with no ambition, direction, or hope for the future. The individuals who didn’t have those inherent hillbilly qualities stood out. A high school student named Dawn was one of those. She attended my old alma mater, a school that I ended up subbing at a lot.

We know it is not uncommon for students to develop crushes on their teachers; it happens all the time. Even though I was only a substitute teacher (not one to generally merit admiration or respect), it became clear that Dawn had a crush on me. That one of her friends came up to me and told me multiple times only reinforced what I already knew.

I thought she was an extraordinary young lady. If the universe had different plans for us, she would have been a college student what we met. As it was, there was no way we could have any kind of relationship. That was a simple fact. There was nothing to be negotiated.

After the school year ended, I left for graduate work in Cambridge and never saw or heard from Dawn again. Even so, I never forgot her.

The other day I was going through the obituaries in the local paper when I came across her. Early 50s and widowed. The obit said something about a rare liver disease. I sat in stunned silence, numb from what I saw on my computer screen.

At the very bottom, her obituary mentioned the memoir she had just published a few months ago. Reading that such a manuscript existed made me happy. The fact that she had written a memoir implied that she had lived a life worth writing about, a life others would want to read about. As I said, the fact that she wasn’t a hillbilly had jumped out at me all those years ago.

Author’s Note: I believe the workers at the library are viewing me with suspicion. In high school, I was voted best dressed in my class. Do you know how bad your fashion sense must be to be awarded such an honor? They didn’t give me the title because I was a snappy dresser; it was an ironic award. I have never, ever cared about clothes. Today I am wearing a favorite pair of sweatpants. They are over 20 years old, and they are falling apart. The material is very thin, especially near the knees. I know these will have to be thrown out soon, but I am wearing them because I love these sweatpants. I feel a bizarre sense of loyalty to them.

I just finished Dawn’s memoir. I couldn’t sleep again last night (why has that been happening so much lately?), so I knocked off the last couple of chapters. Even though it was well written, it was hard to read. She experienced lots of tragedy and didn’t spare the details. It appears that those in charge of making people suffer for no apparent reason took a particular interest in her. An indifferent universe remains unreasonably undefeated.

An observant reader might wonder why I need to include the part about the teenage Dawn and her feelings for a substitute teacher she never saw again. Why did I mention that she had a crush on me? Is that really necessary? Well, yes, it is. I am honored that such an extraordinary person thought I was worthy of her attention. I suspected her life would turn out as bright and interesting as it did. I just didn’t know it would be so damn short.

Author’s Note: Some months ago, one of the homeless guys at the library thought I was another homeless person. The details do not matter; it was apparent that he felt that only a person down on their luck would wear such sweatpants. I was also wearing a 30-year-old Harvard sweatshirt that, like me, had seen better days. That morning, I also carried the backpack I used back at Harvard decades ago. I often utilize the old stuff because those items remind me of better days, my good old days. The days when I woke up in a magical setting, surrounded by the most extraordinary people I have ever met. The days when a remarkable woman might smile at me instead of looking through me. The days that are long gone.

I am in my writing room. It is raining much too hard for me to venture out. The library can wait for another day or two. I am sure I will not be missed. As I look out the window, I see a few people walking along the sidewalk. They are getting drenched. No cars are moving out of the way of the large puddles. The amount of water being thrown by the tires is significant. Neither the drivers nor the pedestrians know that this neck of the universe is slightly less interesting today. They are oblivious that an iridescent and significant light went out halfway around the world. Unlike me, they have bigger worries. After all, they are cold and wet, and I am warm and dry.

Postscript

Love, Loss and Lifelines: My Year of Grief on the Run is the memoir that Dawn Picken published shortly before she passed away. Yeah, I think you should read it.

I have been thinking a lot about Dawn and the life she wrote about. One of my friends said that Dawn was lucky to have met the love of her life even though he died so young. “Lots of people don’t even get to do that. They never meet the love of their life.” She looked at me sheepishly as she realized what she had just said to a 60-year-old dude who had never been married and would surely be dead for days before anyone might think something was wrong. I don’t know what to think about my friend’s comment. Maybe Dawn was lucky, maybe not. Read the memoir, and you can decide for yourself.

Call me Jelly (Because I am on a roll!)

A Post with no Text (An old ambition fulfilled!)

More Thoughts on the Great Tara Westover

I had a bit of an epiphany a few moments ago. I am sitting on my couch, listening to the transcendent music of Mozart, my favorite composer (the greatest who has ever lived, by the way). I am drinking a few beers, a luxury in my post-60-year-old existence. I stopped drinking for a long time, but I genuinely love beer. My consumption never caused any problems, so I have decided to have a few when the mood strikes me. It struck me tonight.

I found myself reading the comments of an English professor regarding a paper a person wrote for his class. The particulars aren’t necessary. I do not have the energy or the inclination to explore that particular bunny hole; I’ll let it be. This professor’s comments were especially salient, considering his history as a soldier in the military. He was not a soldier in service to the United States; he was required to fight for the South African government in their quest to crush the forces fighting against apartheid. Imagine the gravity of that statement for a moment and then consider how that might affect a young man who knew that apartheid was fundamentally wrong. Then think of yourself in his position; imagine being forced to kill people because of the color of their skin. I can’t imagine the pain such a person must keep bottled up.

It is too early to get to my thesis statement, my reason for writing this post. I am a master at burying the lede, something that any young student should ignore. Your writing teacher will put the smackdown on you if your point is buried in paragraph seventeen. You can only do such things when you have proven that you understand the rules. Only then (when the rules are ingrained) are you allowed to break them.

I am not usually big on giving advice, especially of the unsolicited variety. In this case, I will make an exception. Read Tara Westover’s Educated. Now. Borrow it from your local library, buy it from a bookstore, or, if you must, steal it. Please, just get your hands on it. After you read it, you will know why.

Next comes my lovely niece Haley, the tennis player who occasionally shows up on my blog. Haley had a tennis racquet in her hand as soon as she could walk. I remember the first ball she hit back to me. I was standing in front of her with one of those soft foam balls made for children. Her dad told her to hit the ball back at me and hit me in the chest. I tossed her the ball, which came back right between my pecs. She joined me in a dance in the parking lot of a junior high school near my house. Then I tossed it again and again and again and again with the same result.

Any athlete or coach can tell you about the importance of muscle memory. If the muscles are adequately trained, interesting things happen. When movements are repeated with precision, the athlete does not have to think about what they are doing. The physical forces take over automatically. The muscles have been trained to know what to do without conscious intervention. You might find this hard to understand if you have never been an athlete. I know you can appreciate it because it works the same way for things you might have been taught when you were young.

When a person takes their first tennis lesson, there is a good chance that they have to unlearn all that they thought was true about how to hit a backhand, forehand, volley, or serve. Anyone is much better off taking lessons when they begin playing so that they learn the correct form from the start. If they do that, they do not have to unlearn all the stuff being done when they start playing. It provides a serious advantage to taking lessons from the start. And, trust me, the same applies to the mental game of any participant.

Personally, I had to unlearn a bunch of crap I was taught by numerous hillbillies throughout my younger years. This infinitely complicates the whole process. When presented with new information, it first must be processed in terms of the nonsense already processed. The point is the hillbilly “wisdom” must be unlearned before the new data can be processed. Understand how vital that last sentence is. If you were not inundated with hillbilly nonsense, then you can not possibly understand the importance of that statement. And that brings us to Tara Westover.

Westover was born into a family of hillbillies. These were the deluxe versions of hillbilly, not the regular kind of ignorant sons and daughters of the soil. They were special. The fact that she could unlearn all they taught her is extraordinary. After that, the rest was relatively easy due to her natural brilliance and innate compulsion to work hard. I really admire her. I would offer to take her for a taco if I were younger. Sadly, I will wave from a distance and then get on with my day.

She managed to unlearn all the nonsense her parents taught her. That is harder than reprogramming muscles to hit a tennis ball properly. And trust me, that can be a thing. Muscle memory is real, as is the reliance on the things we are taught as youngsters. Those memories, as nonsensical as they might be, have a mighty tug. They all act in unison to keep a person mired in ignorance. That is how things work in Hillbilly Land. I made it out; I broke free. Westover had a more challenging upbringing than me. I am proud of her, and I wish her well. A doctorate from Cambridge University is just the beginning of her story. She is an exceptional example of a human being, and I will follow her career with great interest.

There you have it. This story is about the difficulties of unlearning all the nonsense a young hillbilly learns as they set out in the world. Most, unfortunately, are never exposed to other ways of thinking. They live out their lives in an uninteresting fashion and die a normal death. Much to the dismay of Socrates (a figure they have never heard of), they do not examine their lives or begin comprehending the implications of such an act. This much I know, I don’t feel sorry for such people, and I try not to pay any attention to the nonsense they continually spew. I simply am glad that I am not them.

ChatGPT

This morning, I had an interesting interaction with an Artificial Intelligence “thing.” I didn’t know if I should type entity or machine, so I settled on “thing.” Turns out, it identifies as a Language Model that is not conscious. How do I know that? I asked. Here is the conversation.

RTNM: Please write python code for the Collatz Conjecture.

The Collatz conjecture is a mathematical problem that states that if you take any positive integer and apply the following process repeatedly, you will always eventually reach the number 1:

If the number is even, divide it by 2
If the number is odd, multiply it by 3 and add 1

Here is some Python code that demonstrates the Collatz conjecture:

def collatz(n):

while n != 1:

print(n)

if n % 2 == 0:

n = n // 2

else:

n = n * 3 + 1

print(n)

collatz(10)

If you run this code with the number 10 as the input, it will print out the following sequence: 10, 5, 16, 8, 4, 2, 1. As you can see, this sequence follows the rules of the Collatz conjecture and eventually reaches the number 1.

RTNM: Please write Collatz Conjecture code such that the program keeps running.

Here is some modified Python code that demonstrates the Collatz conjecture and keeps running until the user decides to stop:

def collatz(n):

while n != 1:

print(n)

if n % 2 == 0:

n = n // 2

else:

n = n * 3 + 1

print(n)

while True:

try:

n = int(input(“Enter a positive integer: “))

collatz(n)

except ValueError:

print(“Please enter a valid integer.”)

except KeyboardInterrupt:

print(“\nExiting program.”)

break

The rest of the code is an infinite loop that keeps asking the user for a positive integer and then runs the Collatz process on it. If the user enters an invalid integer (e.g. a string or a negative number), an error message is displayed and the program continues to run. If the user presses CTRL + C, the program exits and breaks out of the loop.

RTNM: Please write Collatz Conjecture code such that the program keeps running automatically.

Here is some modified Python code that demonstrates the Collatz conjecture and keeps running automatically:

def collatz(n):

while n != 1:

print(n)

if n % 2 == 0:

n = n // 2

else:

n = n * 3 + 1

print(n)

import random

while True:

n = random.randint(1, 1000000)

collatz(n)

print()

This code defines a function collatz that takes an integer n and repeatedly applies the Collatz process until the number becomes 1. It then prints out each number in the sequence as it goes along. The rest of the code is an infinite loop that generates a random positive integer between 1 and 1,000,000 (inclusive) using the random module, and then runs the Collatz process on it. The program will keep running indefinitely, generating and processing a new random number each time.

Note that this code will run forever unless you manually stop it by pressing CTRL + C. You can also modify the code to add a delay between iterations or to stop running after a certain number of iterations if desired.

RTNM: Please write Collatz Conjecture code such that the program keeps adding 1 to n and keeps running.

def collatz(n):

while n != 1:

print(n)

if n % 2 == 0:

n = n // 2

else:

n = n * 3 + 1

print(n)

n = 1

while True:

collatz(n)

n += 1

print()

def collatz(n):

while n != 1:

print(n)

if n % 2 == 0:

n = n // 2

else:

n = n * 3 + 1

print(n)

n = 1

while True:

collatz(n)

n += 1

print()

The rest of the code is an infinite loop that starts with the value n set to 1, runs the Collatz process on it, adds 1 to n, and then repeats the process indefinitely. The program will keep running forever, processing the numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, etc. in turn.

RTNM: Please write Collatz Conjecture code such that the program tests every number between 100000 and 10000000.

Here is some Python code that demonstrates the Collatz conjecture and tests every number between 100,000 and 10,000,000 (inclusive):

def collatz(n):

while n != 1:

if n % 2 == 0:

n = n // 2

else:

n = n * 3 + 1

for n in range(100000, 10000001):

collatz(n)

print(f”Processed number: {n}”)

print(“Finished processing.”)

This code defines a function collatz that takes an integer n and repeatedly applies the Collatz process until the number becomes 1. It does not print out each number in the sequence as it goes along.

The rest of the code uses a for loop to iterate through the range of numbers from 100,000 to 10,000,000 (inclusive) and runs the Collatz process on each one. It also prints out a message indicating the number that was just processed.

When the loop finishes executing, the program prints a final message indicating that the processing is complete.

Note that this code will take a long time to run, as it is processing a large number of integers. You can modify the range of numbers or add a delay between iterations to make the program run faster or slower as desired.

RTNM: Thank you for all your help.

You’re welcome! I’m glad I could help. If you have any other questions or need further assistance with anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m here to help.

I read that this model can create very sophisticated code. I wonder what all the computer science professors will do when the students hand in work generated by this model. Not to mention the writing instructors or any teacher who has their students write papers. We are entering an interesting time. I can’t wait to see what happens next.

Hillbilly Bona Fides, Exile from Eden, and Wittgenstein’s Rhino (or elephant if you prefer)

Here we go again. Yes, another essay on hillbillies and my unrepentant aggravation when they cross my path. Try as I might, I cannot insulate myself from their nonsensical wrath, nor can I just forget and move on.

I have often written about my hillbilly background. My mom was a coal miner’s daughter, and my dad was the first person on either side of the family to attend high school. The previous generations went to sixth grade or so, if they bothered to go at all. Using the remarkable power of the hillbilly, a couple of my uncles managed to drink themselves to death in their 40s. As you might imagine, not much generational wealth was being passed down.

I have lots of relatives who still believe that the moon landing was faked. There is no way to convince them otherwise. Any conspiracy theory is treated as if it came from a book of The Bible. As for Sasquatch? Depends on the person and their particular mood at the time.

My big problem (one of them, at least) was that I was surrounded by lots of hillbillies as I grew up, and they weren’t all relatives. One of my math teachers told me that studying statistics was a waste of time because he couldn’t think of one job I could get with such a degree. I believed him because he was a teacher and I was a kid; for some reason, I always respected my teachers. I now know he was a hillbilly whose life was spent teaching hillbilly children the proper way to live as a hillbilly.

The thing I needed more than anything else when I was a kid was the 50-year-old version of me. Such a person could have set me straight and nudged me toward what I was genuinely passionate about. The problem is people such as the 50-year-old version of me are virtually nonexistent in Hillbilly Land. The people who evolve beyond the hilljack stage take their newfound knowledge to heart. They tend to run as fast as possible in any direction away from their roots. Can you blame them?

That 50-year-old version of me could have set the younger me on a completely different path. Maybe I would have had a Ph.D. in statistics as a teenager. Perhaps I would have arrived at Harvard or another great school as an undergrad. Maybe things would have gone off the rails, and I would have been hit by a bus. Who knows? My point is that hillbillies don’t have access to such mentors. Their mentors are other hillbillies, with the occasional hilljack thrown in just for fun.

I saw an interview with a hilljack the other day on TV. I know he is a hilljack because he consented to be on television. Lots of hillbillies run at the sight of a camera. The topic? Trump, of course. He explained that Trump was the most selfless person he had ever heard of. Trump, he said, cares nothing about himself. His only concern is the welfare of the American people. Between us, I can not have an intelligent interaction with such a person. There are fundamental differences in our makeup. On what common ground do we stand? I can’t think of anything.

Tara Westover of Educated fame is working on such issues now. She is studying the differences between the educated, highly educated, hillbillies, hilljacks, and Hillbillies Deluxe. She is looking for common ground, something that binds more than separates. I admire Westover; I think her story is extraordinary. I think she will fail miserably. Lots more separates than binds. The trajectories are undeniable. Maybe it is time we just give up.

Now that I have talked a little about my hillbilly bona fides (I could add more, but you get the idea), we can move on to more pressing matters. Perhaps a few words about my exile from Harvard are appropriate.

Exile from Eden. Yes, that is what some call it when Harvard tells you it is time to leave and go out into the world. We are tasked with creating a better world and making our communities better in any way we can. It is not a suggestion; we are mandated to do such. The contribution should match the abilities that you have. Not everyone is expected to earn a Nobel Prize or have a statue erected in our town squares.

I would comment on where I am in my “contribution journey,” but I know no one cares. I know exactly where I am and how much more work I have in front of me. It is not on the back burner; I think about it daily. Trust me, I am working on it.

One of the reasons Harvard is compared to Eden is the absence of Hillbillies. The people there are extraordinary. They are all intelligent and work much harder than the people you know. They work lots harder than any hillbilly out there. Those people consistently lose sleep so they can work. Holidays? What are those? One Christmas Eve, I was strolling through campus late at night and saw every light in a big biology lab building was on. I could see all the figures in the windows, working away, oblivious to the time or the date. I’ll leave it to you to decide why I was there.

I was saying just the other day that the primary job of philosophers is to argue over the meaning of words. A world-class philosopher once told me that, and I never forgot it. Of course, as I have aged, I understand more completely what she meant. For her, let’s have a conversation about hillbillies.

I have decided on a more nuanced approach to my analysis of hillbillies in general and one anonymous hillbilly in particular. I am going to utilize my world-class education to put hillbillies on blast. Let’s begin…

There are levels of hillbilly. Some mind their own business and live their lives out the best they can. Those lives are not extraordinary; they just are. Nothing to see here; let’s move along.

The following classification of hillbilly that deserves our attention is the hilljack. These people took a couple classes at a community college and think they are better than all the other hillbillies. These are the people who use toilet paper (yes, that is a thing) but know better than to flush it. A true hilljack knows that a septic system does not like toilet paper, so this more sophisticated version of a hillbilly wraps the paper up, puts it in a paper or plastic bag, and then throws it out the window. It is also possible that this brand of hillbilly collects all the paper in an abandoned fridge somewhere on their property. The fridge will usually be found next to the collection of old tires and the obligatory broken tractor.

Hilljacks are perhaps the most dangerous of all hillbillies. They think they know much more than they do and can let their opinions fly. Many hillbillies know when to remain silent, but the hilljack has ideas and wants their wisdom to spread.

Hillbilly Deluxe is capitalized because these people are special. They are truly ignorant, but that is not by any particular design. They were born to hillbillies and have a sense of obligation and responsibility to their families. Education, while viewed with extreme suspicion, is sometimes allowed for the younger set.

In each instance, escape is problematic. The tug of hillbilly culture is strong, and there tends not to be any role models for the youngsters to look up to. Usually, the kids are not presented with any other lifestyle choices. The options are hillbliiy, hilljack, or maybe even Hillbilly Deluxe. The inertia radiating out from hillbilly culture is real.

Having concluded an in-depth philosophical discussion of various versions of people who are sons and daughters of the soil, we can move on to a bona fide philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein.

For those of you sitting on the edge of your seats, wondering if I have a Wittgenstein story, you can relax. Of course, I have a Wittgenstein story. The first thesis I wrote at Harvard had a draft that featured a discussion of Wittgenstein and his famous duck-rabbit. I say a draft version because when I got that draft back from my adviser, he had taken a red marker and placed a big X through all 30 pages of the introductory chapter. He didn’t care that I had spent as much time on Chapter One as I had the rest of the thesis. Oh well…

While the duck-rabbit is well known, I am interested today in his rhino (it may have been an elephant or a hippo, Bertrand Russel changed his story a few times). Wittgenstein’s Rhino is a curious beast full of intrigue and mystery. The story goes like this.

Wittgenstein went to Cambridge to study with Russell. It is important to note that we are talking about two intellectual giants of the last century. Oh, to be a fly on the wall or a rhino in the corner. The stories such a creature could tell if such a creature existed. And that is what this tale is about; Russell could not get Wittgenstein to admit that he was sure there was no rhino in the room with them. His reasoning had to do with “asserted propositions” and is well beyond the stuff I tackle in this blog. Wittgenstein made a serious philosophical point that Russell was not initially impressed with.

As the story goes, Russell didn’t think much of Wittgenstein when he first met him but quickly realized that the young man was a genius. Wittgenstein, as complex a character you will ever come across, went on to make significant contributions to his field. His story is a fascinating one.

This is the point in the post where I tell anyone interested to search Wittgenstein’s Rhino. You will not be disappointed. It is also reasonable to assume that this essay has some overarching point. It does, and it involves the elephant version of Wittgenstein’s point about “asserted propositions.” There is a figurative elephant in a theoretical room. I have been dancing around it since an anonymous hillbilly, er hilljack, er Hillbilly Deluxe, decided to insult me because they were too stupid to understand a post I wrote a while ago. Have you figured it out?

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day, a man I went to school with. And yes, he knew Scott, the old friend of mine that recently passed away. As I told him the tale of the essays I wrote and the comment I received, he noted that it was probable that the hillbilly didn’t understand what a metaphor was. I found that interesting. He might just be right. If this hillbilly is too ignorant to understand the meanings of the words I type, that might explain a few things. Maybe…

So, an elephant is in the room, and I have been dancing around it. It is over there in the corner; unlike Wittgenstein, I know it exists. From now on, whenever I think of Scott, I will not remember the times we had growing up together. I will only be thinking of sons and daughters of the soil and the problems they can create when the electric bill is paid. I will think of one ignorant anonymous hillbilly with the apparent cranial capacity of a juvenile Australopithecus and the deftness of a run-of-the-mill gastropod. And that, for many reasons, is a great shame.

An Interview with Warren Andrew Slay, Part 23

I know it is unlikely that any reader will notice that parts 9 through 22 of my interviews with Warren Andrew Slay are missing. The interviews were conducted, but he wouldn’t let me publish them. Why? Excellent question. I can tell you what he told me; he said that the ground covered in those interviews is too sensitive. He said he is writing a novel exploring the topics we covered. I have no reason to doubt him; he has never led me astray.

Oddly enough, he called me to conduct the following interview. I wasn’t accosted by any mysterious figures trying to get me to ask him specific questions. The following has been conducted on his behalf and at his request. I am not sure what to make of it. Good luck if you decide to read on.

RTNM: So, you asked to meet with me. I have to admit I was surprised to hear from you. What do you want to talk about?

WAS: Tardigrades.

RTNM: OK, what about them.

WAS: You know about them? I am a bit surprised.

RTNM: I know lots of things, including a few things about tardigrades. I must admit, I find them fascinating. Why do you want to talk about those most interesting creatures?

WAS: Easy; I have a question.

RTNM: Just one?

WAS: Yep.

RTNM: Well?

WAS: Are they conscious? Are tardigrades self-aware? Do they realize they are tardigrades spending their days doing tardigrade stuff?

RTNM: Umm…

WAS: Exactly. That is my point. “Umm” might be the perfect answer. I have to tell you, this whole thing is fascinating. The idea of consciousness and which species or objects might have it.

RTNM: What are you talking about?

WAS: Look, consciousness is either emergent or somehow fundamental. In either case, there isn’t a more fascinating question human beings can ask about us and our place in the universe.

RTNM: OK, if consciousness is emergent, it somehow is a product of the brain. It emerges from the biological system that is that 3 or 4-pound lump of flesh.

WAS: Sure, for us. But what about the microscopic tardigrade? If it is indeed conscious, can we tell? And it if is, how did that happen? How did the evolution of tardigrade consciousness stumble upon the current state?

RTNM: Right. So you are saying that we not only need to explain how human consciousness evolved, but we also need to figure out if critters like tardigrades are conscious.

WAS: Yes. And if we decide they are conscious, even though I am not quite sure how we would do that, then we need to be explicit about any differences we think we see in tardigrade versus human consciousness.

RTNM: Oh boy. So, you think there might be levels of consciousness?

WAS: Truthfully, the more I study consciousness, the less I know. It is a very hard problem to approach. I used to be totally ignorant, but now I am getting a better understanding of what I don’t know, which is a big deal. I am putting a more refined point on the types of questions I am asking. The problem is that it doesn’t help me answer any of them. Fortunately, I am in good company. No one knows what is going on with consciousness.

RTNM: I think, therefore, I am.

WAS: Yeah, sure. You know there is something inside of you that you consider as you. You experience the world, see, smell, and have things to talk about. You are sure of that, but you can’t explain what consciousness is or where it comes from. Descartes couldn’t either. Neither can neuroscientists, physicists, philosophers, or the odd archaeologist. And don’t get me started on the religious “scholars” and their theories.

RTNM: What is wrong with those theories? Aren’t they as equally valid as any other?

WAS: Good grief. In science, appeals to the supernatural are not allowed. You can’t step back, say God did it, and call it a day. Is there anything more uninteresting than that? I will tell you this, I am convinced that all the religious fixation on the human soul is nothing more than a discussion about the nature of consciousness. For me, a soul and consciousness are the same thing.

RTNM: Well, la di da, let me send a message to every religious leader I can think of. I am sure they will be interested in your ideas about the soul.

WAS: As I have said many times before, no one, and I mean no one, cares about what I think regarding any topic. People know my lips are moving, but no one listens to what I am saying. Typing is even worse. No one bothers to read anything. Did you know that? Do you realize that you spit into the wind whenever you interview me?

RTNM: I do not think about such things. I just put my head down and go. My existence does not depend on the number of people influenced by your shenanigans.

WAS: Count yourself lucky. We were talking about consciousness. I think that consciousness might just be fundamental to the universe. That means it did not evolve in any Darwinian sense of the word; it just is and always was. As long as there was a universe, consciousness was there simply because it goes along with the package.

RTNM: Well, that is totally unsatisfying. I am surprised to hear you say that.

WAS: I’ll tell you what; I do not believe that the universe owes us any answers. As I look outward, I see no indication that the universe I am living in has any reason to ensure that I am satisfied with any intellectual voyage I might set sail on. Totally indifferent, does not care, not even a little.

RTNM: So, consciousness might just be fundamental, and that means what for us?

WAS: First of all, we all will be very unhappy with that scenario. Try as we might, we will never figure out how consciousness emerges from our physical brain because it doesn’t. We will not make any progress asking about the consciousness of tardigrades because they have “tardigrade consciousness, ” which is just the way it is. We would search for evolutionary answers to a process more fundamental than evolution itself. It all really is very curious.

RTNM: If consciousness is fundamental to the universe, it seems that the implications would be profound.

WAS: No kidding. Panpsychists believe that consciousness permeates the universe and that it is fundamental. One of my old professors thought this was so long before it became fashionable. One day he held up a piece of chalk and proclaimed it had “chalk consciousness.” Of course, no one can know what that type of consciousness is relative to human consciousness because we don’t know anything about human consciousness.

RTNM: I sense you believe there is much more to it than that. Otherwise, I do not think you would have consented to this interview.

WAS: Think about this. If consciousness is fundamental, if it is not simply something that emerged from our physical brains, then it is within the realm of possibility that our consciousness could survive the death of our bodies.

RTNM: That is fascinating. You don’t think that is true, do you?

WAS: All I Am saying is that if consciousness is not an emergent property of a tardigrade “brain” or a human pile of flesh, then I have no idea what is going on. Maybe we are in a simulation. I heard one philosopher claim that if he were a betting man, he would lay his money down on 20% odds that we all live in a computer simulation.

RTNM: That can’t be true, can it?

WAS: The Matrix is one of my favorite movies. It is the first movie that I have watched over and over. As far as our reality? Who knows? I am not paid to have an opinion one way or the other. I will say that there is some intriguing evidence that consciousness might be fundamental and that we all, unlike Neo, took the blue pill.

With that, as unbelievable as it sounds, there was a power outage, and Warren was gone. It is going to get very cold tonight, and I hope the power comes back on. As for Warren, I am pretty sure his power is also out. The storm that hit us is massive. Lots of snow with raw, high winds. You would think that a simulation coder would be more sensitive to this stuff, but if that person doesn’t care about what happens… well, you get my drift.