The Master Debater

Lots of people like to say that they love to argue, and I used to be one of them. An argumentative spirit is a sign of intelligence, of community. It's a sign of mutual respect to engage a friend in argument, a stark contrast to the less respectful cold shoulder. Or so I thought.

Lately, though, I've realized how fine a line there is between argument and discourse. In other words, the mutual respect we seek can be found in discourse, while arguments are just obnoxious exchanges between two increasingly-frustrated parties. It's a fine distinction, but it can make all the difference.

To define terms: in my lexicon, an argument is the result of a knee-jerk desire to oppose, a belligerence that spawns claims of "devil's advocacy" while just producing pigheadedness. On the other hand, discourse is a productive discussion that takes two opposing viewpoints and synthesizes something positive for everyone. Discourse makes everyone a little smarter, while arguments rob everyone of a few minutes of their lives.

Arguments, at least in my life, often take the form of something like "I like sitcoms." "I do not like sitcoms." "Elitist." "Moron." You know the type.

In the past few days, I've been fortunate enough to have some really good discourse-style discussions. It started off in the car with Aaron. While making small talk about our research's progress, we started bantering about the properties of the Central Nervous System. For 20 minutes, we just went back and forth about the plasticity of motor cortices, the potential for rehabilitation after stroke, the adaptability of the brain in general, and so on. This may sound painful to you, but it actually got my adrenaline pumping.

More recently - in fact, just a few hours ago - I noticed an interesting diagram on the whiteboard in my lab. I mentioned it to my labmate, who is working on developing an explanation for the unexpected results he found in a recent experiment. He bounced some ideas off me, and I mulled them over like any good (read: bored) labmate would. Suddenly, some lightbulbs went off, and we spent the next 45 minutes going back and forth about possible mechanisms for the perception of workspace curvature. We didn't necessarily disagree, but we were approaching the same conclusion from different directions, although we were both too stubborn to acknowledge that fact. At one point, I had to say, "Time out. Dude, this is so much fun. Okay, time in."

Perhaps the wackiest discussion of my academic career took place last night. Will, Aaron, and I were sitting in Will's room. Suddenly, we found ourselves debating the class-discrimination capabilities of somatosensory neurophysiology in regions of the body that are highly innervated but rarely studied... In other words, how well can genitalia perceive the difference between sexual partners? I have no idea how this came up. No conclusions were drawn. Hilarity, however, was all but inevitable. When Will and Aaron started listing hypotheses, I had a laughing fit so hard I almost doubled over.

Aside from the indisputable humor inherent to genitalia, it's hard to explain why these sort of experiences move me so thoroughly. Certainly it must be at least partially based on the fact that each of these discussions focused on my research (perception, not genitalia, jerk). However, I really want to attribute it to the back-and-forth.

More specifically, the conversations that I enjoy the most are the ones where the back-and-forth is a synthesis building from statement to statement, rather than dismissive rebuttal-fests between people who aren't actually listening to each other. If the discussion centers on the neurophysiology of the crotch, well, so much the better.

because I haven't written enough about New England recently

I guess the theme for this week's posts is "New England". Last week's theme, if you missed it, was "Robots and Monkeys". Next week's theme will be "Pissing People Off", although I may start early. We'll see.

When my main man Dan Flan rode a bicycle from New Jersey to Maine, it wasn't just a whimsical windmill-tilting excursion. Dan was traveling North with the express purpose of reconnoitering a new life for himself. He came back to Jersey so enamored with New England that he promptly packed his belongings, quit his job, and moved to Maine.

celebrating at Dan's ever so epic Birthday Party
Before I go any further, let me assuage your concerns... I'm not quitting grad school, I'm still actually rather pissed at New England as a whole, and I sure as hell am not moving to Maine. It's a romantic notion, but it's not for me.

In one of his far-too-infrequent reports, Dan mentioned that the weird thing about the Maine is this: you've gone so far North that you actually find yourself in the Deep South.

Mark, who is a New Hampshire native, had said something to that effect in the past. I think it was when we were talking about NASCAR and how it's inexplicably popular up there.

Dan, however, was talking about the music scene. There's probably more to it than that, but the music is what really caught my attention. When Dan Flan talks music, it is best to listen. Trust me.

Dan DJed HPCX last year...
...need I remind you what happened then?
A ukulele-strummin' fiend and owner of a genuine electric piano, Dan's tastes can be a little, um, eclectic. For example, he's pretty much the only Karaoke civilian, so to speak, who has the cojones (or desire) to sing Prince or Hall and Oates.

To his delight, Maine has turned out to be a hotbed of Dan's sort of music. Specifically, the Bluegrass scene is top-notch. I'll go so far as to infer that Bluegrass' popularity is less about the redness of Maine-iac's necks and more about the prevalence of hippies. But that's only ancillary to the point.

It's best not to ask what's going on here...
...but it has something to do with Karaoke
Dan's excitement about Bluegrass has become infectious, and I had to check it out for myself... and, well, I liked what I found. Here's Yonder Mountain String Band singing "40 Miles from Denver"


I don't think they suck. It's okay if you do, though. Maybe you'll like this better.

In defense of New England

While I've been posting way too many "check out this sweet video" posts recently, here's one more that will hopefully brighten your day.



It was Disability Day at Fenway Park. When an autistic kid got flustered in the middle of the Star Spangled Banner, the crowd immediately helped him out. They didn't jeer, they didn't stay silent. Just listen to how tens of thousands of people came together to make this boy feel good.

There may yet be hope for New England.

Dear Santa

If you're wondering what I want for the holiday season, here's a helpful list:

• not socks
• not ties
• not hats
• an exoskeleton

Words can only say so much. Amusingly-narrated video demonstrations say so much more...


Screw the military applications. Screw the rehabilitative potential. Screw the myriad questions this raises about software design. This thing would be SO MUCH FUN.

want.

Since this is just a prototype, it may be tough to get your hands on, not to mention prohibitively expensive. Therefore, please feel free to get me any of these.

I also like this picture, and you should too:
I can see what they're trying to do, but damn. That is one freaked out monkey. Cute idea, terrible follow-through.

Up your nose with a rubber hose, New England

Ah, the Northeast. Home of funny accents and cold weather. America's answer to Saskatchewan.

I traveled North with high hopes, which were (as always) coupled with an unshakeable sense of dread. Last year, my forays into NECCS were fun adventures, even if not personal successes. I was really hoping to repeat that.

For four hours, I drove to Massachusetts. In the grand scheme of things, this is really nothing, but damned if it didn't feel like I invested a lot of time.

I'll cut to the chase: They wouldn't let me race.

The reasoning behind the decision is legitimate, I suppose. I registered for the B race, but I'm a Cat 4. In the Mid-Atlantic, that's okay, but in New England, they've arbitrarily set their own cutoff at Cat 3. Since I've already scored ECCC points in the Bs, I can't race C's. Last year, this wasn't a problem, and I was assured that it wouldn't be this year either.

I went into the weekend looking for a fun race and some ECCC points. All I have left are these sour grapes.

This should be a description of the amazing, beautiful, fun course. Instead, let me tell you how glad I am that I didn't have to worry about cornering on gravel.

This should be a heroic dismissal of the pain in my knee. I'm okay with hurt. Hurt is inevitable. Hurt means you actually did something. Instead, let me tell you how glad I am that my knee doesn't hurt as bad as it would've if I'd raced.

This should be a description of my race, which would be similar to, but distinguishable from, every other race report. Ever. Instead, let me tell you how glad I am to relay to you my teammates' happiness rather than my own displeasure.

Here's the worst part: wondering about what might've been. Actually, there is no wondering. According to the ECCC Cyclocross Czar, had I finished even half of the B race, Rutgers would've won.

Nobody likes sour grapes.

Okay. Deep breath. This was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, my fault. The rules are well-known, and I was acting outside of them. Nobody gets to expect an exception. I could've contacted the promoter, I could've made sure my upgrade went through in time, I could've blah blah f'in blah. The onus was on me.

I wouldn't turn down a refund, though.

Turning Japanese oh yes I'm turning Japanese I really think so

There is just too much wacky stuff going on in Japan for me to continue indulging in my stubborn monolingualism (which is a surprisingly low-scoring word in Scrabble). I swear, that whole country is Pee Wee's Playhouse writ large. It seems like there's no difference between a research laboratory and a gameshow in the land of the Rising Sun. I love it!

I wish, I wish, I wish there were subtitles in this video...

Fortunately, I've sat through enough presentations about visuomotor adaptation to appreciate the awesomeness of this little experiment. For example, watch how they totally lose the ball once it's out of their field of vision. We could talk about this study, or about this study. The brain is a beautiful thing, especially when you start peeking in.
Results from a study that asks,
'What if they'd kept wearing the binoculars?'
Instead, let's just continue to chuckle at the slapstick mishaps of the striped-pajama footballers.

Update:
Upon further investigation, we can draw further conclusions about the creators that gameshow. They are enamored of physical comedy, an obsession that is only exceeded by their affinity for stripey pajamas. Also, they really hate fat guys. Observe:

Man of Equilibrium

I can't help but be amused by a recent turn of events, namely the utter imbalance in my daily life.

On the positive side of the ledger, there's a whole lot of positive: the academics. Whether it was destiny or the result of hard work, things are going well. It feels very much like my brain is firing on all cylinders. Listen to that baby purr!

The negative side, however, is pretty damn negative. I haven't done anything more physical than walking the 5 minutes from my apartment to my lab since HPCX... and that includes stretching, which I desperately need. The problems, stemming from tight tendons across my knee (damn you, you powerful sexy hamstrings!), have trickled down the kinematic pathways to other muscles, which are now very unhappy with me.

Compounding this, there's the fact that I've been pulling way too many late nights at the lab for the past few months, including an 18 hour code-fest yesterday. Sitting in front of a computer for so many hours has let my posture simply fall apart, and lord knows I needed the sleep I sacrificed to the Labview gods. Add a weeklong head cold from hell, and blend for a delicious daquiri of discomfort.

I feel like that geriatric professor you see in the Student Center, mumbling to himself about trajectory optimization or some such nonsense as he limps towards the coffee shop.

The big question is whether I'm happy with the current situation, whether I'd rather be on my game mentally or physically. That's easy! Progress is fleeting, certainly moreso than some ancillary bodyaches. You can pop an Aleve, but you can't pop a dissertation.

Besides, if nothing else, I'm a glutton for punishment.

---------------------------------------------------

After having added the non-sequitur image above, I couldn't resist adding this video...

It's a fun watch, and an Academy Award winner, too. For some insight into the mind of NinjaDon, though, pay special attention to the hands and their interaction with the chess pieces. This is groundbreaking, beautiful work, even for the late 90s.

I Hereby Reject Your Dictionary, Sirs

The one good thing to come out of all of the new Facebook apps is my newfound ability to play Scrabble online. I'm always a fan of puzzles, although I'm usually more of a numbers sort of guy. Being able to do this sort of mind-calisthenics at my leisure is a good thing.

I've been a little frustrated by some of the words this game allows. "Moggy" should not be a word, nor should "vesta" or "quin" or "mabe" [upon further inspection, it seems that "vesta" and "moggy" are obscure british slang, "quin" is slang for quintuplet, and "mabe" just doesn't exist]. However, all of these words took part in the trouncing of your favorite NinjaDon. I am just too damn competitive to abide such affronts, but if the software allows it, then what can I do?

The software, by the way, is buggy. During my most recent game, I hit "refresh" and suddenly my ten-point Z was replaced by a 1-point A. The Z never reappeared. My heart ached.

Still, I soldiered on with a stiff upper lip and a burning Scrabbly rage. I fought valiantly, until the game dealt me a blow from which my resolve could not recover.

Did you see what it was that finally broke me? Allow me to clarify:

I hereby proclaim unto the blogosphere: Scrabble's dictionary is henceforth null and void. So it shall be posted, so it shall be done.

The Pen is Mightier

You may have noticed that I haven't written as frequently this week as I usually do (and if you haven't noticed, then clearly you don't read my blog often enough and I hate your guts). While I try not to stress about blogging as if it has deadlines, standards, or any importance whatsoever, there's still a subtle, interminable self-assessment that is constantly running in the background. Meta-blogging, if you will.

This week, I've realized that the decline in post-frequency isn't for want of ideas, nor of time. Instead, it's a lack of a muse. The Writing Muse is a fickle thing, an ephemeral little faerie that likes to flirt but never seems to want to put out. She's the worst kind of tease, but I love her anyway.

Sometimes, a little respect is all the Writing Muse needs. For example, it is not uncommon to curry her favor with a purchase of coffee. I ain't sayin she's a gold-digger...

Often enough, a little deceit is all it takes to melt the ice. You can't be too needy - staring at a blank paper, pen in hand, will only leave you blue. In fact, it is often when you least expect it that the Muse takes your side.

I was sitting in the student center on Thursday, poring over papers on post-stroke rehabilitation of the upper extremity. Every author had a different opinion about the mechanisms of neural reorganization, and most had the evidence to back their opinion. As confusion turned to frustration, and hot coffee turned to lukewarm sludge, the Writing Muse started whispering in my ear.

An hour later, I had the first draft of an Introduction section for the writeup of my project, complete with references, neurophysiological explanations, and a testable hypothesis. What had started out as a study session had become a hot-and-heavy make-out session with my Writing Muse. This is the real-deal, folks. It's only a first draft, but this is dissertation material. Ooh, it feels good to say that.

On the downside, all of the research-related writing has held back my blogging. It seems that there's only so much writing I can do in a day. This downside is completely negligible to say the least, especially when compared the giant strides I'm making towards being an actual adult of some sort.

I haven't ridden my bike in a week. There's no Karaoke until f'in December. My left knee cracks when I look at it funny. Will's cyclocross debut has inflated his ego, setting back my efforts to give him a body image complex. And yet, I'm so happy!

You know what? It felt so good before, I'm going to say it again: This is dissertation material. Yes.

Monkey Business

I've given this post the title "Monkey Business" only because neither "Ape Business" nor "Primate Business" work. "Chimpanzee Business" works even worse. However, the post is about a chimpanzee, a brilliant ape named Sarah.
Not Sarah. Cute, though, right?
So, in 1978, two researchers named Premack and Woodruff conducted an experiment on our fair maiden Sarah. She'd been trained since a young age to, among other things, operate some simple tools (keys, wicks, hammers, etc) and select the "best" option from an array of choices.

The experiments showed that Sarah could make the correct choice for tool use, even when she wasn't the one using the tools. For example, when shown a video of a human locked in a cage, then presented a set of photographs with a variety of tools, Sarah would choose a key, even though she herself wasn't locked in the cage.

This is a classic Theory of Mind experiment, in fact one of the seminal studies in the field. Primates, it seems, have the ability to perceive the mental states of others. This capability has been demonstrated in children as young as 15 months, which is also pretty amazing.

Most interestingly, it seems that autistic children lack this Theory of Mind mechanism. This fits with their lack of imaginative play, impaired communication, and difficulty with social interaction, at least from a neurophysiological standpoint.

This is all pretty straightforward stuff. However, I have the advantage of taking a class with an expert in the field. Last week, we were guest-lectured by another expert. With that many brilliant minds in the room, a game of oneupmanship was inevitable. The following story was the result:

The videos Sarah was shown were of Sarah's trainers. Some, she liked, and she disliked others. Depending on her feelings towards the trainer in the video, she would either help or not with her tool choice.

Moreover, given the chance, she would mess with the trainer. For example, if the trainer was shivering in a room with an unlit heating lamp, Sarah would choose a lit wick if she liked the trainer; however, if it was an unfavored trainer, Sarah would choose the burnt wick.

In other words, Sarah had the ability to abstract not just what the trainer wants, but also what would surprise the trainer. This is not only a surprising level of cognitive depth, it is proof that chimpanzees are capable of playing practical jokes.
'Up yours,' this chimp might say

I think that's awesome