December 2007 Archives

Over the years of working in IT, I have developed a phobia about cords. USB cables, power cords, headphones ... whatever. My heart starts racing and my breathing becomes labored whenever I have to deal with them. Why? Because they always end up tangled in ways that seem to defy common sense.

Once, at a former job, the power cord of my computer knotted itself (completely on its own) around the leg of my desk. When I pulled the desk out to retrieve a fallen object, the cord yanked the outlet out of the cubicle wall, which caused a short that, in turn, killed power to the first two floors of the library. As if that wasn't bad enough, the same thing happened two months later.

How can two cables lying peacefully under my desk one day end up in some sort of triple-bowline figure-eight double-hitch knot the next day? I have long suspected that evil little gnomes are responsible.

But I am pleased to learn that it doesn't just irritate me. An article from Science News Online reports scientists, prompted by similar frustrations, have conducted experiments that demonstrate surprisingly complex knots can arise in strings and cords after subjecting them to very little agitation.

This was not the first such experiment. The article explains:

Once again, science disproves superstition. But I'm still blaming the gnomes for stealing all my underpants.

One of the main reasons Amy and I moved to Seattle was for the climate of the Pacific Northwest. I had never known a life without four seasons before relocating, and I am constantly amazed at the difference a more temperate environment makes in overall quality of life. Not everyone can handle the rain and overcast skies throughout the winter, but to me, as long as I never have to feel the liquid on my eyeballs freeze in the winter or walk around the summer drenched in sweat and searching for air conditioning, I'll never leave.

Yesterday, I was reminded of this after a chance encounter with some former colleagues of mine.

I ran into Linda and Cindy while I was grabbing some lunch. They told me that another former co-worker of mine (hi John!) had finally made a long-anticipated move to Iowa City where he was currently suffering through the aftermath of one of that area's famous ice storms. I recall those ice storms and the inches of beautiful but deadly ice covering every surface pretty vividly from the time I lived there.

After bidding farewell to the ladies, I headed back to my office. On the way, I spotted Gretchen, another co-worker of mine, standing on the path looking up at one of the buildings. She saw me as I approached and beckoned me over to her where she spoke in a low whisper.

"This is a hummingbird battleground. Keep your eyes open for hummingbirds."

I turned to where she had been looking. I saw a field of blooming camellias against the south wall of the library. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move by very fast. Then another, then another. I soon became aware of several hummingbirds darting in and out of the camellia bushes and then aggressively lunging at each other trying to keep all the sweet pollen to themselves.

December ice storms in the Midwest; flowers and hummingbirds in Seattle. I love it here.

Ask me again, however, after the earthquake hits.

I'm no fan of eBooks; I do still enjoy reading printed text on a physical slab of dried wood pulp. But it's comments like the one above that almost inspire me to throw all of my book onto a 451-degree bonfire, shell out the $400 for Amazon's new Kindle device, and rebuild my library out of zeroes and ones.

What, honestly, is the ontological difference between drops of ink on paper and "pixels" on a screen? It is an aesthetic difference, to be sure, but nothing prevents either from being "read, understood, etc.". Those things "we still call words" are words if they are produced on a press, displayed on a screen, or scrawled in sand along a beach. They mean exactly the same thing regardless of medium or form.

Now, certainly, form can contribute to meaning. A sculpture is entirely different from a photograph of a sculpture. But for the letter-writer, is the only way to truly understand Madame Bovary, then, to read Flaubert's original hand-written manuscript? Or would a first edition printed book suffice? What about a modern Penguin paperback? Those are all forms of "text", but they each have different weights and sizes, use different typefaces, and have different cover art. I infer from her screed that those physical attributes are somehow important to understanding the meaning of the work. Or are all those variations minor and insignificant provided the text of the book is not "turned into pixels"?

Again, I like books. I think books are great. But Assistant Professors who commit egregious epistemic fallacies in prestigious popular magazines really get my dander up!

Every now and then, Amy's not paying attention and I'm able to jimmy the lock she keeps on the basement door, get a hold of some tools, and start working on a "simple" home improvement project.

Sometimes everything works out OK, like the other day's wall sconce project. But more often than not I end up irritated or injured (or both), and the "simple" task I set out to do ends up taking eight hours and costing $300 more than I had planned. Maybe one day I'll post about the time I tried to drill a hole in the side of our house for a "quick" Ethernet wiring project and ended up somehow permanently embedding a drill bit, a socket wrench, and part of screwdriver handle in the wall (OK, I guess that was the story).

Today's simple project was to replace the water filter system under our kitchen sink. It is difficult to get filters for our existing system, and Fred Meyer had new complete systems on sale, so in a moment of optimistic spontaneity, I purchased one. I should add that I consulted with my resident home improvement project assistant before doing so. Ray assured me that we could handle this project.

And why should we have thought any differently? It says right there on the box: "Hassle Free Installation."

This afternoon, helper Ray and I cleared out the area under the kitchen sink and went to work. There were only four pieces in the box, which was heartening. Any idiot can figure out what to do with four things, I thought.

In a clear demonstration of genetic personality inheritance, Ray threw the instructions aside and wanted to know where he could start to drill.

"Hold on there, little whipper," I cautioned him in my best parental voice. "Maybe we should read the instructions first." I could hardly believe my own ears.

The instructions were pretty clear and non-threatening (measure this, mark that, etc.) until I got to the part that read:

Using a pipe cutter or hacksaw, remove a 3-inch (76 mm) section of pipe (A) from the 3/8 inch (10 mm) cold water line. Deburr ends of remaining pipe with a file.

Maybe it's just me, but as soon as "pipe cutters" and removing sections of my home's plumbing system come into play, the project ceases to be "hassle free." For me, needing to use any tool whatsoever is a hassle, but I think that there's a huge span on the hassle spectrum between a screwdriver and a pipe cutter. (And the only file I have is a nail file, but I know that's probably my issue.)

Showing my newfound ability to "learn from my prior mistakes," I dutifully packed up the four pieces, put them back in the box, and have the whole "system" ready to go back to the Fred for a refund.

And I hope it's a "hassle free" refund.