Ode to a paper deadline

Oh, that you were succinct and timely
Like the full stop of this strophe.

But instead you run on,
and on,
and on,
Needlessly extending,
delaying,
postponing,
Without hint,
or rhyme,
or reason for doing so
Requiring authors to collect,
and analyze,
and run more data
And ultimately to re-write,
re-shape,
re-reflect on their submission
Spending night,
after night,
after exhaustingly late night
Putting in one last chart,
one last plot,
one last conclusion
Before finally,
thankfully,
mercifully,
(and without warning)

You end.

Nice Goals

I visited a couple of art museums yesterday, and while I haven't had any formal art history training, I feel like I'm pretty good at getting the big picture.

Take Henry Matisse, for example. The "bored, rich, white dude that decided to take up painting." Now he's got a museum dedicated to him. The commentary provided for his artwork went on and on about how he really wanted to infuse the colors of the blue, blue Mediterranean sea into his paintings and everything changed substantially after his visit to Tahiti and blah blah blah. I don't know if I buy it. I think he might have just wanted an excuse to stare at naked women all day. (Actually, I really liked some of his impressionism stuff, especially the statues. I love the idea of presenting what you see, not what is visible.)

Or take, for example, the museum of Marc Chagall. The audio tour included with my visit (thank the gods for student discounts!) provided the meaning of every last brushstroke. Do you really think Chagall used the crucifix to represent his father's hat on his 26th birthday, the trials of his people in Belarus, and the end of suffering to the Jews? Or do you think that Chegall, a Jew, was merely including the crucifix because his employers were Christian churches? (Actually, I was baffled and in awe at the incredible woven tapestries he designed. The amount of skill and precision they must have required... Incredible!)

But what gets me even more is that Chegall was actually alive when they dedicated his museum. In fact, he designed the museum and placed his paintings. I would have been fascinated to have him give the audio tour–or at least offer a rebuttal to the current version. What would he have said? Would he have called it a bunch of hogwash?


And then I stumbled across XKCD: explain today and realized that Randall probably has an even harder time. Not only do his comics get critiqued, they often get over-analyzed. And he's STILL ALIVE WHEN THIS HAPPENS. What gets me even more is the discussion section: "And you, sir, are a canonical example of an outlier. Seriously, though, go to http://google.com [hyperlink included, just in case you missed it] and type 'is an acquired taste.'"


Someday when I grow up, I'm going to be a famous artist. And then I'm going to show up in disguise at all the fancy-schmancy art dinners and say, "Oh I heard Nathan talking about how his latest painting entitled 'apple by book' is actually a reference to the Garden of Eden as written in The Bible and in fact suggests that history is a tangled mess to nail down." I'd be the master troll.

Love from Nice, where the water is blue, the houses are pastel, and you can't help but look away from the camera when you take a selfie.

Becoming acquainted

I forgot my bike on the bus today. It felt good.

Not because I had left a (mostly just) sentimental transportation device on a public vehicle that would have been a hassle to recover, but because, as I was walking away empty-handed, the bus driver honked the horn and patiently waited for me to realize my error. This was the same bus driver I had chatted with my entire ride about South-By, traffic, the 30 route, and how more people should take public transportation... This was also the same driver who, when I got on the bus, greeted me with a welcoming smile and a reference to the conversation we'd had yesterday.

I love taking the bus. I feel proud to say that I haven't driven once to school this entire semester, and even though the experience isn't always the most pleasant (sometimes it might smell like an armpit and sometimes your bus might be 20 minutes late...and sometimes both of those things happen in the same day), I feel like I'm contributing to a better environment.

But what I really liked about my experience today was that it had become routine enough that the driver recognized me. I haven't had a lot of experiences like that, and I don't really know why. (It might be that growing up not drinking hot or alcoholic beverages prevented my establishing a favorite coffeshop or bar, or it might be that being a poor college student who didn't want to take out student loans precluded my frequenting of restaurants, but it just as likely could be something else.) Lately, though, I've been looking for some sort of consistency. I've been looking for a diner where I can walk in, say "the usual" and they'll know exactly what I mean. I've been looking for a barbershop where I can say, "same as last time," and they won't bat an eye.

So it was nice today when the bus driver remembered my face, remembered my stop, and even nicer that he noticed I had forgotten my bike.

A time-lapse video taken from the car (loser) in the official Austin Rush-Hour Race–another reason to take public transportation.

It builds character

I was talking with some friends the other night about absolutely terrible experiences that were incredibly profound, but were also terribly painful to go through. I've thought about it some more, and have come up with:

The 9 life experiences I believe everyone should have*^,**

1. overcoming an addiction (and I don't mean something mamby-pamby like a mild fascination with sugar or caffeine or an "addiction to cracking knuckles"; I'm talking a serious, chemically-induced, behaviorally-modifying, possibly-health-or-even-life-threatening one you fight with for several years)
2. coming out of the closet (and this doesn't just include gender or sexual orientation (and could, perhaps, be even more) but any experience that requires you to drastically change the expectations of many–if not all–of your closest associates)
3. a ritualistic burning of the boats
4. a seriously traumatic experience
5. mental therapy and/or counseling in any of its varieties 
6. being heartbroken
7. wanting something so badly it hurts, and then realizing–all in a short period of time–that you'll never actually have it
8. being picked last in gym class
9. realizing you're so strapped for cash at the end of the month that you can either fill up your gas tank or eat dinner, but not both

* but couldn't really consider myself a decent human being if I wished them on my friends
** somewhat in order of significance

black and blue

I used to paint the world in black and white
  the whites clean, pure, sometimes a little stale
  the blacks deep, rich, and often very meaningful

one day I woke up
  physically
  metaphorically
  maybe a bit of both
and realized I wanted a life more rich in color

so I poured a measure of blue ink into my bottle of white
  gradually
  carefully
  then all at once, with reckless abandon

the world was more beautiful, colorful, alive
  I could see things I'd never before seen
  imagined vistas I could never before consider
  and was less concerned that my black was a bleeding,
        permanent stain on my white-white palate

until today, when I woke up
  physically
  metaphorically
  maybe a bit of both
and looked at my blue ink
so deftly poured from the well
and wondered how I hadn't realized before:

blue is just another shade of white

Bad Feminism

I am a bad feminist.

The other day, a friend asked me if I was a feminist and I hemmed and hawed and qualified and... I finally had to admit that, even if I had some pro-female qualities, I really couldn't label myself as a feminist.

And then within only a few short days, I was called out on several occasions for saying or thinking things that really were counter to the feminist movement. I like to think of myself as more of an egalitarian, somewhat progressive and forward-thinking, typically politically correct, culturally aware, etc, etc, etc. I also am fairly aware that I have a ton of middle-class-white-educated-male-I'msurethere'salotmore privilege, and I do a fairly decent job of recognizing when someone says something fundamentally ignorant or racist. But twice? In two days? Being corrected for very male-centered thinking?

This morning while I was playing basketball, I found myself wondering how certain darker-skinned guys (how do I say this without being racist?) had a very similar cadence/accent to their speech. Is it just because they were raised that way? Because they've been around it from a young age? Is it a conscious choice or something that just happens? And then on the way home, the Ted Radio Hour addressed just this issue. An African woman talked about how she had control of three "languages": her native African dialect, the African-American dialect she was raised on, and her "articulate" American dialect she's developed so people think she's "qualified." The program further went on to describe how even Prime Minister Tony Blair (definitely not American) was considered "more American" than Barak Obama.

And then Paul Bloom went on to say something that really stuck with me:

You can't change implicit biases by just sitting in your room and concentrating, saying, "I'm not going to be racist, I'm not going to be racist." But what you can do is, you can actively expose yourself to real-world instances which give you maybe a more accurate and more fair representation of these groups.

Maybe I am a bad feminist. And I probably have a lot of hidden biases that will come up with terrible timing. And I certainly hope I'll be corrected in the future for my self-centered thinking. But instead of being sorry for this reproof, I should welcome it as real-world instances that give me a glimpse into another group.


So I'm going to stick with Roxanne Gay on this one, and proudly proclaim that I, too, am a bad feminist—and that's not a bad thing.

A Grief Observed

I've recently gone through one of the hardest experiences of my life.

During the month of December, I made a new friend (a girl who worked at the University) and enjoyed the brief time I was able to spend with her. The getting-to-know-you phase was cut somewhat short by the holidays (I went home for a few weeks), but we still kept in contact. On December 30th, I flew back into town to plan a New Year's Eve party, and picked her up to help buy decorations. About 5 minutes after I had picked her up, I made the turn into my apartment—the same left-handed turn I'd made hundreds of times in a year and a half of living there—and was broadsided by an oncoming car. I was knocked unconscious so there's a good chunk of my memory that's rather blurry (and I remember none of the incident or the supposed other car), but after a few CAT scans and other procedures, I was released, completely fine.

She never made it out of her coma.


The ten days between when the accident happened and when she finally passed were some of the hardest days of my life: wrestling with God, with my emotions, trying to accept what happened. And the days and weeks that have followed have not been any easier. Since that time, I've gone through a complete gamut of emotions: intense guilt followed by sweet peace; sadness and fear that things will never be the same, followed by an optimistic hope and a knowledge that they would...followed by the confused, gradual, heavy settling that she was permanently gone and I was powerless to do anything about it; concern that I had forgotten her and moved on too quickly followed by intense, violent sobbing...

I've also learned a lot about comfort in grief. I've learned that the worst (and yet most common) thing one can ask is "How are you doing?" (Are they using the phrase in its trite, meaningless greeting sense, or do they know what happened—and are they prepared for the floodgates that might be opened in response?)

But most of all, I struggle with the "What can I do for you?" question—which is traditionally followed by "No really, what can I do for you?" and almost always wrapped up with "Well remember that if you need anything, I'm just a phone call away." As if repetition and emphasis makes up for the burden they've just (knowingly or otherwise) placed on my already-weary shoulders, the burden of making them—the non-grieving, nonetheless—feel better by offering them control in a situation that for me has been spinning violently out of control for days and weeks and now months... I've since quit telling them, "Well for starters, you can never ask me that ever again," and have instead opted to just smile and thank them for their concern. Sometimes, the simple repeated song is all that humans or birds know how to sing.


In stark contrast, the most meaningful expressions since that day have been in the form of gifts. Gifts I neither asked for nor expected, but sent me to tears nonetheless—tears of appreciation and gratitude and friendship and love. One such gift was the remote to our apartment complex gate, so I could take the back entrance instead of revisiting that same left-hand turn day after day, driving over the fluorescent-green painted lines in the street that shouted to all passers-by "something terrible happened here."

The other gift that meant the world to me was a pair of pants. Someone should have told me when I got on the plane that cold December morning to put on a pair of ragged jeans and a sweatshirt I didn't care about. When they pull you from your totalled vehicle, they don't ask you nicely to lift up your arms as they gently take off your jacket. They don't even spend the time to unbutton your shirt or unzip your pants. Instead, they take scissors (or a knife or bolt cutters or a blow torch or whatever they have handy, I guess) to the lot of it, giving it back to you in a hospital carryout bag like a prize from Dave & Busters. No, they really should have told me not to wear my favorite outfit, to keep my faux leather jacket I still haven't replaced safely hung in the closet, to keep my brand new pair of Bonobos safely unpacked, and to save my favorite flannel shirt for a different chilly Texas day. So when the pants came in the mail (from one of my very best of friends who, despite her attempts at remaining anonymous, left her billing address on the packing slip), I was once again reduced to tears. But this time, they were welcome tears, appreciative tears, and--most important--tears I could experience on my own, in the comfort and privacy of my own car, and at the rate I wanted or did not want.


Maybe this is the way all grief is: the disgust with trivial "checkins," the appreciation of gifts. Or maybe I'm different. In conclusion? Save your favorite outfit for a day when you'll decidedly maintain a comfortable distance from ambulances and paramedics with blow torches. And buy a friend a pair of blue jeans.

Solidarity

It's a beautiful day when one can realize that we, as humans, are all in this fight together.

This morning I was on the bus and the gentleman in the back was having a rather heated conversation on the phone. I'm not sure if he realized it, but his voice was loud enough and distinct enough that the entire bus was aware of his conversation. And I'm also not sure if he was aware, but this was probably not a conversation he wanted the entire bus to hear. I wish I had recorded the conversation, but the only phrase I can remember (perhaps because it was repeated eight or nine time with varying emphasis) was, "We've gone out several times now and she still hasn't introduced me to a single one of her [expletive] friends!"

But the best part of the entire trip, the part that gave me the warm-fuzzies, was when those of us at the front of the bus realized we were all having the same experience. Smiles were exchanged, eyes were rolled in unison, and understanding nods made us all instant friends.

So thanks, Mr Unashamed-Phone-User. Thanks for bringing us together. And I hope for the sake of another bus of isolated individuals that your girlfriend continues to keep her [expletive] friends to herself for many months to come.

Musical Turing Test

I currently TA for an undergraduate Issues in Computer Science class, and during one of the lectures, the professor talked about a computer's ability to create art and music—which, one might suppose, are very "human" skills. Can a computer compose music? Sure...but it won't sound quite right. Right? In class, the professor tried this with two composers: Bach and Joplin. For each of these composers, she had a computer program generate ("compose") a musical piece after it had identified patterns ("learned") from a lot of music from that composer. She then recorded a pianist playing the computer-composed piece, so a piece generated by a Bach-learned program would sound a little something like Bach, and a Joplin-learned one would sound quite a bit like your typical Joplin rag.

I won't bore you with any more details (there are a few more at the actual test—you should take it, it only takes 7 minutes tops), but the results were interesting. During class, the teacher juxtaposed each computer-composed piece with an actual human composed piece, and then asked the students to pick the real piece. The performance was terrible. It was clear these students couldn't tell the difference between a great like Bach and a computer imitation of Bach. But then I began to wonder: as I took the test, I was able to pick out each of the real compositions. Was this because of my musical background? I decided to give the same test to a larger audience, this time recording their self-reported musical experience.

If you're not interested in the individual results and discussion, the takeaway is that, even among self-reported musicians, only just over 40% of the individuals were able to correctly identify the human composer. Yes. Only 40%. In other words, more often than not, humans think computers are more "human" composers than Bach or Chopin or Joplin. This is a terrible result! (There's a pretty good description why this is bad in this RadioLab episode, at about 16:26.) I'll try and go into it more in the Analysis section below.


Population Distribution
For those of you interested in the questions and population distribution, I've been updating the values here. For your information, the quiz consisted of 6 questions: three background, and three with the paired audio samples. For the first three questions, here are the number of respondents (total of 247) in each category:

1. What is your major field of work? The responses were free-form and varied from math to computers to culinary arts to music to motorcycle repair. I haven't looked at any of these responses past collecting answers.
2. Do you play any instruments? This was multiple choice, divided into 4 categories of increasing "musicality." Here are the number of respondents that self-selected each category:
1. No: 28
2. Yes, but I've picked it up on my own without lessons: 27
3. Yes, and I've had official lessons for at least one year:  131
4. Yes, I would consider myself a professional musician: 61
3. What is your technical musical background? This was also multiple choice with 4 categories, and had the following number of respondents:
1. None: 38
2. I know some musical theory, but I've picked it up on my own: 42
3. I've taken a class or lessons in musical theory: 124
4. I'm a professional musician or majored in music theory: 43

Categorical Results by Response
And here are the responses, separated into response for each category

Second question, accuracy by response:

1 - 27.4%

2 - 40.7%

3 - 42.0%

4 - 50.3%

Third question, accuracy by response:

1 - 32.5%

2 - 42.9%

3 - 40.9%

4 - 54.3%

Average total accuracy:
42.2%

A graphical representation of the responses, by category. The x-axis has the question number, and the y-axis has the accuracy. The circle size is representative of the number of respondents for that specific question.

Overall Results and Analysis

The overall accuracy for all three composers was 42.2%. In other words, only 42 out of 100 times were people able to correctly identify who the human composer was. There probably aren't quite enough samples to show statistical significance, and the survey process wasn't exactly accurate (I didn't prevent anyone from cheating—they could take the survey as many times as they wanted), but there does seem to be a general trend that with musical experience, the accuracy increases.

This is what I expected.

Almost.

On closer inspection, this all is actually quite disconcerting. With the sole exception of those who are professional musicians, humans think that the computer composer actually sounds more human. How could this be possible? Well, I can think of a couple of possibilities.

First, it's possible that there was a hidden variable we weren't controlling for. I had my roommate take the quiz first, and he got them all right. I asked him how he did it, and his response was that he just picked the better recording each time. Oops. When I designed the quiz, I already had the mp3 files for the computer composers, but I was lazy with the real compositions and just ripped the music off YouTube clips. I went back and actually purchased the music off iTunes so they would sound more similar. When I sent the survey out to a larger audience, there were more issues. Turns out iTunes adds album artwork, which was displayed in some browsers when they played the music. Oops again. This was a little harder, but with some online conversion and VLC magic, I finally cleared them all of their extraneous information. Perhaps there is something more I'm not controlling for—if this were real science, I'd want to have the same performer play each piece and be recorded with the same device. Good thing this isn't real science, right?

But there's another possibility that seems more likely. When the computer "composed" a piece by Bach, she wanted it to sound as much like Bach as she could, so she consciously added bits and pieces of actual songs. But when Bach really wrote his pieces, his goal was to create something new and fresh, something that didn't sound like anything he'd written before. Something that people would clearly identify as Bach--or would at least recognize it when they heard it before. All of his similarities to previous works were subconscious, influences from his schooling, the music he enjoyed listening to, even some of the music he previously composed.

Conclusion

With high statistical confidence, humans think that a computer who is trying to imitate a Bach piece actually sounds more like Bach than the composer himself. Maybe this is bad (computers will eventually replace composers and artists and singers and all other "human" fields), but maybe, instead, this identifies an aspect of talented human creators: the ability to create something truly unique.

Notes:
Note1: As people take this test, I'll update the results on this page. Hopefully I replace them all so it makes sense. Also, if you want some more statistics, I can try and get them to you—or I could probably give you the data myself, it's pretty well-anonymized.
Note 2: The first numbers were published on 23 Nov 2013 with 65 respondents and 42.6% accuracy. The results were updated on 26 Nov 2013 with 99 respondents and 40.7% accuracy. They were updated again on 11 Dec 2013 with 201 respondents and 42.8% accuracy. They were updated on 12 Sep 2014 with 247 respondents and 42.2% accuracy.

Back it up

My hard drive just crashed, completely unexpectedly. I have a high-end MacBook Pro that I only bought in 2011, so it was well under the typical 5-year life of most spinning drives. I learned two lessons from this experience:

1. Get the Apple Care. If you're buying Apple, it's one of the best add-on purchases you'll make. It gives you three years of protection (most companies only give you two), and it's only a fraction of the cost of your entire machine. The amount you spend will definitely be justified by your peace of mind. Apple replaced everything for free--and did it all over the weekend (I went in on Saturday and was out by Monday. The lag was because I had customized hardware). Very fast and efficient.
2. Back up your devices. While waiting in line to pick up my laptop, I stood behind an older gentleman who was obviously distraught after losing data on his phone--probably in the form of non-replaceable pictures of his grandkids. Unfortunately, there isn't much you can do after the fact, so prevention is the only way to go. Get a large external drive, something like the 3 TB Seagate drive I have (on sale, it's just over $100--definitely worth the hours of time you'd spend rewriting all your papers). If it's this big, you can also use it to store any pictures and music and movies that don't fit on your machine. Make sure you set it up to remind you to back it up every 10 days or so, or you'll forget and will have wasted the $100.

Do it. You won't regret it.

And to help you remember, I've included this wonderful song: 

The powers that be, hard at work

Finally, after years of hard work and countless failed revisions, the illustrious University of Texas at Austin has put together a "new Student Honor Code." It is the hope that this well-worded Code will not only inspire students to achieve greatness, but will also mention academic integrity--a fundamental flaw that prevented several other Codes from making it past round 2 of the workshop phase. 

Other codes that could have been approved but were rejected:

• "As a student of The University of Texas at Austin, I shall abide by the core values of the University." (Doesn't include "academic integrity")
• "Let's just be good, y'all." (Again, doesn't mention "academic integrity")
• "A longhorn is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly..." (Again, doesn't mention "academic integrity", and there were also some minor issues with Legal)

The official message announcing this change has been copied below for your convenience:

From: President

Date: September 6, 2013

Subject: Official: New Student Honor Code in effect

Dear Colleagues:

Now that classes are underway, I'd like to announce that a new Student Honor Code has been approved and is now in effect. I'm proud that our students, led by the Senate of College Councils, have taken the initiative to update UT's Honor Code.

The new Student Honor Code reads:

"As a student of The University of Texas at Austin, I shall abide by the core values of the University and uphold academic integrity."

This code is more succinct and explicitly mentions academic integrity, as requested by students. 

The code that we have used for the last nine years is now known as the University Code of Conduct and is applicable to all members of The University of Texas community. It reads:

"The core values of The University of Texas at Austin are learning, discovery, freedom, leadership, individual opportunity, and responsibility. Each member of the university is expected to uphold these values through integrity, honesty, trust, fairness, and respect toward peers and community."

Meaningful words have real power, and I am proud that our whole campus community contemplates and abides by these principles.

Sincerely,

Bill Powers

President

Academic Hazing -- Part II

It's been a while since Part I happened, and I didn't publish it because I wanted to remain in good graces with my adviser. Now that it's officially over, I figured I could post Part I and finish up with Part II.

To keep the three major actors (all advisors) in this play separate, I will give them names. First, my PhD adviser I'll call M, the graduate adviser for the CS graduate program I'll call Al, and the academic adviser (she knows all things rules and regulations) I'll call G.

I got an email from G mid-August, informing me that since I hadn't given my qualifying presentation by that point, I needed to provide the graduate committee with a schedule for when I would accomplish it. I wasn't too concerned--since I had already prepared for it in Part I, I could really do it any time.

But before I could email any response, M preemptively replied to the thread (Al, G, and me) with a two-sentence response:

I am no longer supervising Nathan Clement.  I will be at the meeting.

I spoke with Al and he told me I should probably get my act together, create a plan for how I would fulfill what I previously had considered "arbitrary requirements," and try and smooth things over with M. Since these "arbitrary requirements" consisted essentially of writing a 30-page background chapter for my PhD dissertation in the next two weeks, I sent a sort of extended abstract to M as a token of my dedication. This morning I got an email that simply stated:

Your emails have caused me to revisit events and progress per your research with me.
I come to the same conclusion. I am no longer your advisor.

In talking to a fellow student in the lab, he recommended I still talk in person with M and express my willingness to "take my scholarship seriously," so I waited for him to arrive at his office.


I described the meeting to a friend via text like this:

there's not really much of a story ... I talked to him, he said no, I said "please", he said never, and then I threw his chair out his window. 

maybe the chair part was only in my mind... 

I find it interesting that less than a month ago I was considering what I'd do if "my life were completely and irreversibly turned around."

Academic Hazing - Part I

I just got a scathing email from my advisor. There's a little bit of back story, so bear with me for a minute.

About the end of April, I finished writing a paper describing my research to that point, sent it to my advisor for review, and then set it aside to do some more research.

About the middle of May, I prepared to give a presentation–somewhat equivalent to the qualification exams in most PhD programs–invited colleagues and professors, and was about to purchase fruit and drinks. The night before I was scheduled to give this presentation, my advisor suggested I wasn't ready. Suggested is a light word. He actually forbade me from giving the presentation.

About the middle of June, my dad encouraged me to submit the paper I had previously written to a conference: there was one in Australia and one in Greece. On a whim, I asked my advisor about these conferences, if he had heard of either of them, and which one he thought I should attend. His response was that I don't know enough to submit to either conference and I should instead think about combining forces with another graduate student and submitting to a conference in Colorado (who wants to go to Colorado when they can go to Australia?) I respond with a short message saying, "Thanks. I'll just submit to one of these conferences and see if I can get some feedback on my paper."

About the beginning of July (now), he sends this "scathing rebuke." Apparently, my work to this point has been unsatisfactory, it is clear that I don't know what I'm talking about, my response to his email was "very discouraging," and if I didn't fulfill a set of arbitrary requirements, he was going to metaphorically and physically kick me out of his lab.

As I sat there seething, trying to think of some sort of witty, biting email to put him in his place, I imagined how the "perfect scenario" would play out:

I would write a scathing rebuke to him (my graduate advisor was already CC'd–let that continue), and he would become incensed. The graduate advisor would schedule a meeting in an attempt to mediate between the two of us, but tempers would be high. My advisor would make his first (weak) arguments that consist mostly of things clearly made up on the spot. I would politely wait, a wry smile on my face, then patiently ask, "Are you finished?" when he stopped talking.

And then my turn would come: "Oh. So you say I've not done my part? Well, what part have you done? How do you know I haven't attained the level of scholarship you desire? You haven't even read my work! You won't be able to give me even one detail from my paper that would prove you looked at anything past the abstract–because you didn't! If anyone is to blame here, it's you."

And then I would give him the kicker. I would issue the penultimate threat. I would put him so far into his place, he would have no response but to...

And then I realized. There was no possible way for my "perfect scenario" to end in my favor. At the end, I would tell him he was lousy and should jump off a cliff. He'd tell me I was lousy and didn't belong in his lab. I'd tell him he wasn't kicking me out of his lab cause I'd already left. And then my so-called perfect scenario would be turned completely on its head. Sure, I might have been able to get a couple biting jabs at him, let the graduate advisor know a few things he surely already knows. But I'd be no better off than I would be in any other scenario.


And then I was reminded of my fast-growing comparison between receiving a PhD and getting admitted to an elite club. I've always known it was an elite club, that you had to complete a set of somewhat-arbitrary requirements before you met some completely-arbitrary standard. And I knew that, once you were "in the club," you could get the secret handshake and sit at the secret table and talk with all the super-important people just because you had those special three letters attached to your name.

But until this point, I had never thought there was hazing. Every semester, the school sends out reminders that "individuals or organizations engaging in hazing could be subject to fines and charged with a criminal offense." Causing physical harm to someone else just so they can enter your club is strictly prohibited. But the mental and emotional hazing is part of the game. My last advisor required me to spend a summer unpaid, working on a dead-end project, and didn't approve when I wasn't in the lab every day. Why? Hazing. If you want to join the club, there has to be some sort of (usually unreasonable) mental/emotional/physical harm. And then once you do join the club, you get to inflict the pain on others.


Or perhaps I really do need to better my scholarship and just take it silently.

Le Scaphandre et le Papillon

I watched a movie the other night, Le Scaphandre et le Papillon. It's about Jean-Dominique Bauby, journalist and editor-in-chief of Elle magazine. He suffered a massive stroke that left him with "locked-in syndrome:" he could think, hear, and see, but couldn't move anything but his left eye. Ten days after he finished his memoir (after which the movie was named), he passed away.


A few weeks ago, my right arm started to ache. At first I thought it was carpal tunnel, but the symptoms pointed more toward tendonitis. I looked around on Google hoping for an easy cure (something like, "do arm yoga every morning for 15 minutes") but was sorely disappointed when all sources agreed that "the first stage toward recovery" was to "stop the repetitive actions that caused the tendonitis for at least 3 months." How does a computer science PhD student doing an internship at Google stop typing?

Although it's nowhere near the life-altering condition of Jean-Do, I wondered what it would be like if suddenly my life were completely and irreversibly turned around. Like the construction worker who breaks his back in his late 40s, or the medical doctor who goes blind.  What if I could no longer type? Or even worse--what if I could type, but I'd be miserable the rest of my life unless I chose not to?


Maybe I'll pull an Angelina Jolie an preemptively become a genetic counselor.

On advocating the devil

My friend recently wrote a blog post condemning The Devil's Advocate.  It hit a particularly sensitive nerve as I have been censured several times (including by the author of the post) for "wrongly" taking this position.  My comment on her blog was getting fairly lengthy, so I decided to post it here.

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As an advocate of the devil myself, I am going to respectfully disagree with you, and propose two reasons for such advocations that go beyond those expressed in your post.  Each of these reasons suppose that, instead of being limited in his understanding, the devil's advocate actually possesses greater insight into the situation.


First, one might play the devil's advocate for pure sport.  Let me ask you when the last time was you successfully "convinced" someone of an alternative position.  It's going to be rare--not only because convincing someone is a difficult task, but because typical "discussions" lack a definitive "right" or "wrong," being instead guided by opinion (which can be neither right nor wrong).  In this scenario, the devil's advocate is perfectly aware of the futility of change, so he shifts the parameters to create something accomplishable.  As a sporting event, the game can be likened to a digging expedition:  how deep are this individual's convictions? are they rooted in something substantial?  do they understand that many of their so-called "scientifically-based and entirely-reasonable" conclusions have neither a foundation in science nor logical basis?  One might think changing the rules to a sporting even is unfair, but on the other hand (as a wise man once said), the purpose of a true scholar is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comforted.


My second reason is closely linked to the first:  the proposition that all positions are insubstantially-founded.  As a good friend once quoted,

"All articulated positions emerge from social process, and even the attempt to elaborate foundations must ultimately beg the question of how its elaborations are to be warranted. This scarcely suggests that we should abandon the positions we occupy. Rather, it is to become aware that we live within traditions that may or may not be adequate to the contingencies of today. Reflection, curiosity, and doubt must all be encouraged." – Kenneth Gergen

The devil's advocate, then, has a greater understanding of this claim.  As he pushes the limits of his own understanding, he is able to identify the areas of his arguments constructed by social processes that might not be globally accepted and/or understood.  He also knows that in agreeing with the current social norms or trends (ie, going along with the conversation without exploring the alternatives), he is preventing himself of empathizing with others.  Frequently, the devil's advocate will propose the following thought-question:  "Assume there exists a logical, well-founded, unbiased individual with an opinion opposite to my own.  How is it possible for them to arrive at their current position?"  The opponent of the devil's advocate will rarely be able to admit—and even less frequently answer—these questions.


So, to my blog-writing friend, I am going to have to respectfully disagree.  On the off-chance you don't accept my respectful disagreement, I'm going to have to disrespectfully disagree.  And, if you continue to pursue the subject even further, I am going to vehemently disagree and suggest that, perhaps, you should participate in a simpler sport or entertain less empathetic conversations.

On qualification exams

A part of me died last night.

It wasn't really a big deal. Really. I'd been planning for a month or so to give a presentation today–a sort of oral qualifying exam, the only of its kind in my PhD program. I'd been over my slides several times this week with my advisor, and then he finally sort of snapped. The conversation went from "I don't understand this slide" to "You need to do it my way," and then finally ended with a decisive "You're not ready for your presentation tomorrow."

Perhaps his decision was closely linked to our "discussion" earlier, the discussion that started out with ridicule, then proceeded quickly to a heated argument and ended with him walking out saying, "Maybe you need to find someone else willing to bring forward your research ideas." I watched him go in a quandary:  Do I apologize, let him know I'll change my slides to match his desires, or do I just ignore him and go forward with the presentation? He's fairly fickle, and if I could catch him in a good mood, I was confident I could get him to pass me. Besides, I would be presenting to a committee of three professors, and I'm guessing the other two wouldn't have any emotional attachment to my slides.

But then I decided to bow out. I'd had such visions of grandeur up to this point. Coming to graduate school was going to be the best thing I'd done. Sure, it might be hard work, but no longer would I be surrounded by incompetent undergraduates, no longer would my nights be filled with busy work just to get the grade.  Instead, I'd be in an environment surrounded by high-energy, deep-thinking scholars. The only problem I would have is finding enough room on my CV for all the publications I'd be pushing. There would be no drama, no posturing for positions or fighting with the "wunderkind" for an advisor's attention. Just research, and making an impact on the world.

And then I let that dream die.

It was slowly replaced with a kind of saddening understanding. Maybe a PhD program is something akin to the hazing process required for a college fraternity. At times the requirements might not make sense, and they might have nothing to do with the end goal, but if you can only get through the hazing, you'll be accepted by the group and given a lovely PhD diploma to hang on your wall.


Now I have only one question for myself:

Is this really what I want?

MR-ADAM

Dear C++ MapReduce:

All your base are belong to us.

EOM

Next on the Bucket List: The Down Under

I was listening to the radio last night on my way to basketball (there wasn't anything situationally-appropriate to play, so I shamelessly listed to NPR) and it was all about homing pigeons.  In summary, they don't know how pigeons always manage to return home (even sedated during the trip out, they still make it back), but they think it has something to do with a "built-in compass."  Apparently, pigeons aren't the only creatures with this sort of auto-nav.  An Aboriginal community, the Prompuraaw, has a language that is largely impacted by 16 different words for cardinal directions.  Instead of saying "How are you" as a greeting, the typical question is, "Where are you going?" and a typical response would be, "Southsoutheast, in the middle distance." Literally, they always know where they were heading.

Anyway, this got me to thinking about my own sense of cardinality.  Ever since I can remember, I've been confused by north and south.  Not in a "I can't tell my way around town" sort of confusion—in fact, I always know which direction I'm going.  But I always think north is south and east is west.  It's really easy to fix when giving directions, for example, because I just reverse my intuition and it's all smooth sailing.  But this radio program made me wonder if, perhaps, my internal sense of direction really was correct, I was merely living in the wrong hemisphere.  Needless to say, I added "visit the southern hemisphere" to my bucket list (anyone up for a trip to Sydney?).

But there's another interesting phenomenon that has been troubling me lately.  Whenever I think of a dream or a memory, I always think in 3rd person.  When I remember my brother and I rolling down the stairs on our stomachs as a kid, I don't feel the stairs hit my stomach, I watch happily from a distance.  When I'm running from a killer witch in a nightmare, I don't look down at my feet and wonder why they won't move, I watch myself from a distance, trying to will myself to run.  

It's not really a problem (it has gotten me into trouble a couple of times...like when, as an 18-year old at the family dinner table, I "remembered" my parents wedding), but it does concern me because this implies that none of my memories are actually real.

What does that even mean?

Bogo Sort

(This post inspired by one of the latest XKCD comics)

The CS department recently finished our new building, and it's the first time I've actually been seated with my fellow labmates.  As the first item of business, we commenced prototyping our own version of Bogosort.

According to Wikipedia, the expected runtime is (n - 1) n!, so obviously we sought to empirically determine if this was accurate.  Our results showed that for lists of length 10, the number of iterations varied wildly from 1.0 to 315.9% the expected number of iterations, with an average at around 82.8%.  We also found that, for lists of numbers of length 15, nobody had the patience to wait for a single run to finish.  We also empirically determined Python is inefficient and hypothesized that C++ could probably even do the job better.

If you'd like to run the code yourself, you can find it here.

And finally, we determined an even more "efficient" (I use the term loosely, since efficiency for Bogosort is somewhat of a misnomer) Bogosort algorithm:

While not sorted(list):
  Rebuild Universe

Unfortunately, we never made it past the prototyping stage, even after expanding our search to include non-standard libraries.

Bad Labels

Sometimes I think labels are a bad thing.  For example, I realized the other day I'm not homophobic–I'm just not a fan of PDA, and I'm not a fan of kissing boys.  It's the same way you might be grossed out when I eat my corn flakes with water.  Is it gross?  Not at all to me, but you might think so.  Does that make you a corn-flakes-in-water-phobe?  Well, not the negative connotations currently in use with the term.  

Another one I realized I don't like is "you have a problem with authority figures."  I think that title fits me pretty decently, I'd just tweak it slightly:  I have a problem with authority figures who are doing a fantastically terrible job.

Take this morning, for example.  I had two notable experiences.  The first (actually, it happened second, but I want to bring it up first) was a call from StubHub.  Recently, I purchased two relatively-expensive tickets from one Andy T for an upcoming concert.  Andy sent me 4 tickets instead, and I was thrilled because at half price they were almost reasonable.  StubHub called last week with the old "Andy sent you the wrong number of tickets.  Can you send them back?"  I acquiesced, of course,  since I'd hate to be out two great tickets myself.  But...I was at my brother's wedding in another state and I didn't get around to it.  This morning, StubHub called me again.  The conversation went something like the following:

StubHubGuy:  I noticed you haven't sent the tickets yet.
me:  Yeah.  I've been out of town.
StubHubGuy:  Well, you know that if you don't send them, we might charge you full price for the other tickets.
me [here's where the "authority issues" came out]:  I actually am only sending the tickets because I'm honest.  There is nothing in the StubHub agreement that says you can charge me double.  I don't take kindly to threats.
StubHubGuy [now backpedaling cause I didn't lay down]:  Well, I didn't say we were going to charge you double, just that we might.
me:  I think we're done here.


I don't think that's issues with authority, is it?  Maybe I was a little testy because of a carillon issue that cropped up the night before, but "issues with authority"?  He was clearly doing a fantastically terrible job, and I was not in the mood to put up with it.


The second experience actually has been spanning several days now.  Our delightful Guild of Student Carillonneurs has been growing quite nicely for a few years, but the President/Dictator of the Guild (he actually named the typical "vice president" office the "deputy director."  Serious?  Are you looking for a fight?  Do you need a deputy to police our little 9-member club?) has been growing restless.  Just last week, he sent out an email to the Guild that "the inability of recently-inducted Members to fulfill the specified duties of membership...makes those inductions incompatible with the Guild's new Constitution and the mission of the Guild."  Which means that all of the members but himself and me are either kicked out, or graduated.  Including the former Cornell Head Chimesmaster who's doing a PhD in Arabic studies at UT. Are you catching the "fantastically terrible job" here?  This is a perfect case of ex post facto, and an even better case of abusing it to nobody's benefit.

Needless to say, I sent him the following email.  (I spent a good deal of research time on it, but I thought it turned out pretty good, don't you?)

You've made a couple of bad decisions recently, but they're decisions you've made nonetheless, and some of them are impossible to reverse.  Right now, though, you have two paths ahead of you:  that of the mediocre man, or that of a true leader.  Let me describe them for you. 

Your first choice is the choice of the mediocre man.  It is the nature and disposition of almost all men, as soon as they get a little authority (as they suppose), to immediately begin to exert unnecessary dominion.  It is the nature and disposition of almost all men to undertake to cover their mistakes, continually heaping on poor decisions.  When one wrong decision leads to another, instead of taking responsibility and admitting fault, the mediocre man takes the coward's way out, finding excuses for what they've done or allowing others to take the blame for them.  They will not admit fault, because fault is a sign of weakness and the mediocre man does not believe weakness should be expressed.  They may some day become a great politician, but they will not be successful.  And always, always, their organizations are filled with pettiness, back-bighting, and a general poor sense of morale. 

On the other hand, you may choose the path of the true leader.  While this path might be harder in the beginning, it will be so much worth it in the end.  The true leader does not seek to gratify his pride or his vain ambition, he does not seek to hide his faults or cover his wrong choices, and places the desires and needs of his constituents before that of his own.  This path will require you to admit that you were wrong, to offer apologies where necessary, and to mend bridges you have burned.  While it might be tough for you in the beginning, the Guild as a whole will be much stronger because of it.  No true member of the Guild will care about power, because no true lover of music would care about anything but playing the instrument they love.  If you're a good leader, you'll demonstrate this by example.
 

[Name withheld to protect the "innocent"], I'm hoping you'll make the right choice.  I'm hoping for the Guild's sake you'll choose the path of the true leader, but I'm also hoping for your own sake.  If not, the School of Hard Knocks has several tough lessons for you yet to learn.
 

As a wise man has said, I seek not for power, but to pull it down.  I seek not for the honor of the world, but for the satisfaction personal gain can bring.  I seek not for the praise of men, but for the betterment of the Guild.  Let's all have the same goals in mind.

The carillon is located at the top of the famous UT tower, just above the clocks seen on all sides.