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Renormalization Group Flow

Sometimes I do the ‘tardedest things.

This quarter I needed to take an elective class to fulfill my 10 unit quota. Rather than finding something low stress and easy, I opted to take graduate level equilibrium statistical physics. How did such a class even enter my radar you ask? Well, 1) it came “recommended” by my department as a suggested elective for my emphasis: computational neuroscience, and 2) a fraction of the course content exactly tackles the statistical mechanical basis of An Introduction to the Theory of Neural Computation by Hertz, Krugh and Palmer–basically the bible of neural networks.

For the first couple of weeks I reveled in the success of my class choice. I learned mean field theory and the Ising model of ferromagnetism that closely parallels the Hopfield network model of Hertz and Krugh. Even though the class is intended for second year physics grad students I understood the lectures and did quite well on the homeworks. All seemed to be going as I had hoped… and then came week three.

All of the sudden we delved into the realm of quantum operators and scaling theory and renormalization group flow–all of which are theoretical methods well beyond the scope of my book or my interest for that matter. But I made a commitment to myself that I would stay in this class no matter what happens, so these days, in addition to TAing a human physiology class and spending 4 hours a day in my lab, I spend all of my “free” moments trying to wrap my brain around advanced concepts of theoretical physics.

Once again, here’s to my superior judgement with regards to my academic choices!

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ASS Country Song: ‘fore She Was Mama

Check out the ramblings of this incestuous turd!

‘Bout ten years old, hide and seek
I found me in the closet
Ready or not I stumbled on
And opened up that box of
Yearbooks, letters, black and whites
A hundred, maybe more
Next thing I know my brothers and me
Got ‘em scattered on the floor (Yeah)

There was one of her, flippin’ the bird
Sittin’ on a Harley
And a few with some hairy hippie dude
Turns out his name was Charlie
Her hair, her clothes, her drinkin’ smokin’
Had us boys confused
I’ll never forget the day us nosey kids got introduced

To Mama, ‘fore she was Mama
In a string bikini, in Tijuana
Won’t admit she smoked marijuana
But I saw Mama, ‘fore she was Mama

We put that box right where it was
And never said a word
But growin’ up got hard just tryin’
Not to picture her
In anything but aprons, dresses
Mini-vans and church
Oh and Daddy would have whooped our butts
For diggin’ up that dirt

On Mama, ‘fore she was Mama
In a string bikini, in Tijuana
She won’t admit she smoked marijuana
But I saw Mama, ‘fore she was Mama

We laugh and hang it over her head
Right above her halo
Her face turns red when we bring up
That tie-dyed Winnebago
She runs and hides and still denies
That hip high rose tattoo
She burned that box of forget-me-nots
When she found out we knew

About Mama, ‘fore she was Mama
In a string bikini, in Tijuana
Won’t admit she smoked marijuana
But that was Mama, ‘fore she was Mama

And there’s that one down in the Bahamas
But that was Mama, ‘fore she was Mama

– Clay Walker
…what a shit bird. Believe it or not, hearing the song is a far worse experience than merely reading the lyrics.