Family Gatherings

Here's the thing about six year olds: Not only are they staggeringly cute...

...but they are also quite portable.

I'm showing you this otherwise-unexceptional photo...

...because it sets this one up so nicely.
When it's time to arrange the by-generation portraits, we get sat down in front of a half-dozen eager photographers. This makes it a little hard to coordinate...
... get with the program, Sol!

I guess the older generation has been fully indoctrinated in the tradition of "Uncle Fred's Family Portraits"... these photos all came out well.

The payoff for our discplined posing has always been, and always will be, the "funny face picture". I'm always amused by the disparity between behaviors in these photos. The older kids actually make funny faces (trust me, Ben is making a funny face somewhere back there), while the younger kids basically scream and try to hit each other...
...or they don't change facial expressions at all.

Finally, for a special treat, I've got this photograph with not one, but both grandmothers!

I am apalled by your scarf

It's hard to get worked up over fashion. Style is personal, and quite subjective, so who could object to someone else's wardrobe? Some people love Crocs, and some hate them. Some are deluded enough to think they look good in Uggs, but it's no skin off my back.

Now, though, I'm taking a stand. As much of a stand as one can take writing on a web log with limited readership (there are dozens of us!).

It seems that Arab scarves are growing in popularity. Keffiyehs, if you will, or shemaghs. And this trend is pretty upsetting.

For whatever it's worth, I think the look is actually pretty attractive. While I don't have the vocabulary to describe fashion, there is a definite appeal to girls wearing scarves, and it doesn't get much scarfier than keffiyehs.
That the scarves are aesthetically pleasing does not imply that they are appropriate. I look fantastic naked, but you don't see me walking around the student center in my birthday suit.

In researching this post, I found a lot of justifications along the lines of "this year's fashion is based on global influences" and "these scarves are an anti-war statement".

Oh really? Global influences?

If this is a question of globalizing fashion, where are the Indian saris? Where are the Japanese kimonos? Where are the Aboriginal loincloths?

It is not at all bad to select one non-Western item and incorporate it into Western fashion. I, personally, loved the Karate Kid headbands. However, to take a non-Western item and relabel it as "global-influenced" - as if this is not one item, but actually a whole range of styles spanning the non-Western world - is insulting to the intelligence.

It's a clever marketing ploy, because anyone who objects to global influences must be narrow-minded and xenophobic, right? If I don't like Arab scarves, I must be a small redneck who fears change. Heaven forbid I point out that the Emperor is wearing no clothes.

And oh really? Anti-war?

Setting aside politics and pro- or anti-war debate (seriously, I'll delete your comments without hesitation), it is quite certain that there are people out there who want to kill you. To kill you.

I can see how anti-war protesters might associate keffiyehs with protesting, like a show of solidarity with their like-minded pacifist brethren from the other side. However, the connection between keffiyehs and peace-loving Arabs is far weaker than the connections created by images like this:
This is what you look like when you wear a keffiyeh.

Sure, you can explain away the whole "this is what terrorists wear" thing by reminding people of the peace-loving Arabs who wear the same scarves. However, much like a bad joke, if you have to explain it when the first impression isn't what you expected, maybe it's time to rethink the whole thing.

I was torn while writing this post, because the last thing I want to do is be the sort of small-minded xenophobe that I've been conditioned to believe the author of such a post must be (confusing, ain't it?). I can see where these hipster kids are coming from, with their slavish devotion to style and naive ambition to appear sympathetic.

That lasted maybe 3 minutes, though, because I realized what's really rubbing me about these keffiyehs. Forget the Iraqi "insurgents" and the Palestinian "militants". The oh-so-worldly teenagers walking down College Ave with smug satisfaction and fashionable keffiyehs look like Janjaweed.

Oh, my bad. Is Darfur so 2007?

Recoverying

This post is bound to be a little all-over-the-place, so buckle up and behave or I WILL TURN THIS POST RIGHT AROUND.

Wouldn't you know it, another training block has come and gone, and I'm exhausted again. Funny how this works. Funny, see? HA HA HA.

After yesterday's loooong ride (nothing compared to the A Race at Dartmouth, I know, but it hurt enough), I wanted to ice my left patellar tendon, because it was hurty. But my right calf was hurty as well. As were my right quad, my left hamstring, and both ITBs. Not the scary injury-indicating hurt, mind you, but just the soreness that follows 3 big weeks.

I actually don't have that many icepacks. Even if I borrowed some frozen vegetables from the ol' roommates, there wouldn't be enough cold compresses to thoroughly ice everything.

So. I bought 4 big bags of ice from the student center's convenience store. "Throwing a party?" asked the clerk? "Sitting", said I.

I filled the bathtub with ice, then ran cold water. Then I sat. In the cold. Cold. Water.

It seems I've gotten ahead of myself, so let me backtrack a bit. Once the tub was full of icewater, I put my left foot in and yelped. My right foot, and another yelp, followed suit. A few deep breaths. I put my hands on the porcelain rims of the tubs and started lowering. Some more deep breaths.

I hovered with my butt a few inches from the water for a while. Every once in a while, I'd count down from 3, as if that would help. Finally I asked myself if I was going to do this or not, so I just did.

An outburst consisting almost exclusively of expletives almost certainly followed, but you'd have to ask Will. I was busy trying desperately to ignore the ice water that was now in contact with my genitalia.

The trick, in the first 45 seconds of an ice bath, is to breathe. You'd be surprised how hard it is to follow this simple rule.

I think it was worth it, though, because my legs feel reasonably okay today. This is a very subjective assessment, but the efficacy of ice baths isn't really in question - their physiological rationale is pretty solid. It's just nice to see that my mind-shattering sacrifice wasn't for naught.

Remember being a teenager? That was fun, wasn't it? Like woo! Junior High! Remember the ungraceful awkwardness, and being all elbows and knees? Well, it's back. Making my way between tables and chairs today, I was knocking them around like a drunk. But I was sober.

I think it's the fatigue. I've overused some muscles, and now they're misbehaving in a way with which my motor cortices aren't coping well. Just like when I was a teenager, but this time it's from the fatigue rather than the growth. There's probably a Gedanken experiment in this somewhere, but that's not for today.

Also for another time is the story of the panic I felt when, after a pretty tough ride, my calf muscles got all twitchy during a one-legged sobriety check, courtesy of the Hamilton Police. I passed, of course. But it's a story for another time.

So today was the first Cycling Team Yoga Soiree. Coach Ken's wife Lisa led it, and it was great. As always, while I love yoga with all my little heart, I have trouble with the hippie-ness of the language of the instructors. Don't tell me to direct my breathing towards my hip; tell me instead that I should be feeling the stretch in the hip flexor, or in the adductors, or the abductors. Tell me what I should be doing, not what connection with the universe this pose should enable.

Pluto said, "I can't take this seriously with you guys". He's absolutely right, we were joking around way more than would any respectable yoga class ... but no more than I want to while in a respectable yoga class, anyway.

This is, in my opinion, how yoga should be: Get your stretching and strengthening in, sure, but don't worry yourself with "focused breathing" or "aligning the root chakras". Yoga-ists shouldn't take themselves so seriously.

But yes, I can still scorpion ... now on my hands, too!

Late Night Dilemma

It is time for sleep now. Someone, presumably one of the undergrads in the dorms down the street, is playing music at a rather ... ambitious volume setting.

By law - seriously, by State Law - University Housing can't turn the heat off until May 1. We can turn it down, but it's never off. My room is being heated.

So I can close my window and roast. Or I can leave the window open and be lulled to slumberland by the sweet and soothing serenade of "Soulja Boy".

Do not want.

The MTB Puzzle

Inspired by my ride today at Chimney Rock, which was awesome, thank you for asking.

1.
What do you call a man who rides Chimney Rock (a technical, rocky, fast park) with knee-pads, shin-guards, and NO helmet?

a) A retarded shoe model whose only asset is his legs
b) The best and most confident handler in the history of bicycles
c) One helluva cool guy
d) The reason I think cognitive function exams should be a prerequisite to procreation


2.
Who has the right of way on a singletrack hill?

a) the guy descending
b) the guy climbing

The Hat Puzzle

Three men are in a room. A priest, a minister, and a rabbi... no, wait, Tom, Dick, and Harry.

Tom, Dick, and Harry are in a room. They are sitting in 3 chairs, front to back, so that Tom can see Dick and Harry, Dick can see Harry, and Harry can't see anybody.
Enter the kidnapper, a bad bad man by the name of Angry Mark. Angry Mark is a little crazy.

Sayeth Angry Mark:
"You have one chance of being set free, otherwise you will die. If you get up from your seat, you will be killed. If you turn around, you will be killed. If you talk to each other, you will be killed. The only way I will let you go is if one of you answers my question"

Angry Mark then cackles, crazy-like.

The room goes pitch-black, and Angry Mark puts a hat on the head of each of his captives. When the lights come back on, he says:
"I have put hats on your heads. There were 5 hats from which I chose - 3 red, 2 blue. The other two are now hidden and won't help you at all. My question to you is, what color hat did I put on your head?

"If one of you can tell me what color hat he is wearing, you will all be set free. Otherwise, you will be killed.

"No guessing, either. You have to tell me how you knew.

"You have 5 minutes!"

Angry Mark, after cackling again, flips the switch on a giant digital clock, which begins to count down from 5:00

The minutes go by, and the three captives are stumped. Nobody says anything. Suddenly, when the clock reads 0:10, Harry shouts "I've got it, I've got it!"

What color hat is Harry wearing, and how does he know?

Birdwatching Made Difficult

With the sun starting to set last Thursday, the birds that live in a nest outside our living room were going crazy. I'm not sure why, maybe it was competition or maybe it was mating, who knows? Whatever it was, their loud and incessant CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEPing drew our attention.

For a while, I just tried to snap some photos.

The key word there is "tried". I tried to take some photos.

The photos were mediocre at best. Most were unusable.

Will, whose pride in his photographic skills is exceeded only by his pride in his camera, tried to encourage the birds to pose for him by throwing crackers near their nest.

For the most part, it worked, even though it did seem to cause a flurry of fighting for a while.

Satisfied, or maybe just bored, Will settled down to reap the benefits of his cracker-tossing labor, photography-wise.

No word yet on whether Will's fancy, expensive camera outperformed my rather outdated technology.

Also no word yet on how creepy it was for the undergrad girls who walked by and saw two topless guys, holding cameras and staring out the window.

Don't Fear the Blogger - the actual post

Abstract
There is a stigma to blogging, and that stigma is stupid.

Introduction
Everyone with access to the internet could have a blog. Blogger and Wordpress are two of myriad websites that host blogs free of charge. It has been shown far too often that neither wit, nor discretion, nor even a strong command of the English language are necessary for blogging.

Yet not everyone has a blog. That's okay, not everyone needs to blog in order to keep me entertained. However, the mention of this gap between potential and actuality, this blog deficit, leads to surprising reactions.

Herein we explore these reactions. Specifically, the stigma associated with blogging is explored, and the utter stupidity of this stigma is proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. By me (ooh, writing in the passive voice is so infuriating).

Methods
The first part of this study asks, somewhat philosophically, what might cause someone to want not to blog? That is, why would the noble art of blogging earn a bum rap?

Secondfully, we look at specific examples from my recent experience that not only exemplify this stigma, but also serve as evidence that it is baseless.

Also I will list real blogs that may have contributed to this stigma, or at least shouldn't exist. No I won't. That would be mean.

Results and Discussion
In conversation, a jerk is recognizable as he who speaks only of himself. If the internet is the world's largest conversation, does not the blogger - who inevitably speaks only of himself - become the wold's biggest jerk? Of course we know that the answer is a resounding "No!", because many bloggers have figured out how to write less about themselves, and more about their worlds... it's an important distinction, of which many non-bloggers aren't aware or don't think themselves capable.

Who blogs? Not in real life, mind you, but in the perception of the people who disdain blogging. I think this question is best answered by thinking about modern sitcoms. When the cool hero stymies his nerdy foil with some cavalier witticism, the response is often something like "I'm going to blog about this!", and the resultant canned laughter correlates blogging to defeat, to nerdiness and slowness and laughability. Jim from the Office doesn't have a blog... Dwight does.

Angry Mark, for team-related reasons, has been asking (nay, demanding) that our frequent racers write up their results. Kids who will brag endlessly about the good results, or lament [read: bitch] endlessly about the bad, just will not take the 5 minutes to write up their races. Lord knows they're not too busy to make the effort, either. Unless Mark twists their arms, they won't even email the team with a brief report, let alone craft a post for the team blog.

A friend of mine - let's call him El Capitan - does not have a blog. He writes eloquently, albeit infrequently. He is one of the few people I know who is indeed too busy to blog, so that's not my beef with him. However, he also claims he "wouldn't know how to write one without sounding overly self-important". This relates back to the heuristic framework of the "bloggers are selfish jerks" misconception, and it is bullshit. See, when you are informed outright that people want to hear what you have to say, it becomes a tall order to sound overly self-important. This doesn't apply to all potential bloggers, but it applies to many and is worth mentioning.

One day, I mentioned to a somewhat new friend that I have a blog. The reaction was, in quick succession, the following: a wrinkled brow, the focused frown of suppression, and finally an "oh". This isolated incident is typical of non-bloggers' reactions... always from people who have never even read TheNinjaDon! This probably stems from any one of the above reasons, but man oh man, it stings.

Conclusion
The negative connotation associated with blogging is as real as it is undeserved.

Cures What Ails You

In a series of misfortunes that aren't worth listing here, Wednesday started out as a shitty day. The shittiness lasted all the way through 5, when I got stuck in traffic en route to picking up Farmer Andy.

We drove to Chimney Rock, a rocky but rideable park in the area where we do hill rides. I love Chimney Rock, a bushel and a peck. Chimney Rock loves me, sometimes, but more often it crushes me like a bug.

I had a bad feeling about our ride, because that's just the sort of day I was having. Rationally, I knew that there is no interdependence between any two events, but being a not-too-distant descendant of the cavemen, I naturally look to find connections and predict the unknowable. So I overinflated my tires to ward off flat tires.

In case you've forgotten what kind of bike I ride, it is a Kona Unit 2-9er. One gear. No suspension. Purple.
Having higher-than-optimal pressure in my tires may reduce the risk of a flat, but it also changes the ride quality. With a totally rigid bike like mine, the effective suspension is your elbows, your knees, and the smushiness of your tires. Having rock-hard tires has caused me endless misery in past rides... but not yesterday!

Maybe I'm starting to figure out how to handle a bike off-road, or maybe strengthening my arms has helped me control the front wheel. Maybe it was the warm, long-awaited sunshine on my face. Maybe I just needed an enjoyable ride to turn my day around.

A lot of the intangibles of cycling are indescribable, so that recounting them to non-cyclists never works. Moreover, you can't even describe a good MTB ride to a roadie. For example, descents on a road bike are fun, without a doubt, but rocky, rooty, twisty descents on a MTB that leave you hooting and hollering with childlike joy... you just can't convey that verbally.

With my hard tires, I felt every rock, every root, every rut and bump. The trail and I were joined, one-to-one, in a zen sort of melding. It was hoot-and-holler inducing.

Q: What did the Zen Buddhist say to the Hot Dog Vendor?
A: Make me one with everything.

MTBing, man. It is exactly what I needed yesterday. The world would be a better place if more people would just ride bikes.

When to judge a book by its cover

Just to give you a taste of Engineering, imagine a world where the following is an acceptable title for a paper:

1677 V, 5.7 mΩ • cm2 4H-SiC BJTs

Now, writing a title that has absolutely no English in it - no description, no syntax, nothing even hinting at language - isn't encouraged in Engineering... but it's okay.

In fact, you can get published.

This paper is displayed somewhat prominently on a billboard in the Electrical and Computer Engineering building. I have no idea what it's about, and I'd just as soon not know, thankyouverymuch. Its authors might not have indended it for this reason, but it sets the tone for my weekly meetings with the Mathemagicians quite nicely.

Here's the full text, if you're looking for a cure for insomnia.