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My second car was a 1978 Chevrolet Caprice. The same make, model and year of many a Highway Patrol cruiser. The following extras distinguished my sporty “Landau” subtype from your garden-variety bare-bones police-interceptor:

 

“My laptop’s so old…”
“How old is it..?”
“My laptop’s so old, three undergrads have come up to me and said: wow, cool laptop!”

Today is our department’s annual retreat in Leavenworth. Three weeks ago, knowing
my car’s failing radiator would not sustain the 120 mile journey, mostly on mountainous roads, I asked for a seat in one of the department vanpools. This preemptive measure set my mind at ease.

Last night my buddy said that he would appreciate my company on his drive up.  “Win for me” I thought, rather than spending three hours in cramped confines having to behave myself in front of respectable professorial types, I’d get to enjoy good music, raunchy jokes and juicy gossip in my buddy’s car.

This morning, I woke up on time, packed, grabbed some breakfast and drove to his place.  The plan, as I understood it, was to depart at 9 am and then pick up another friend of ours on the way out.  On arrival I discovered his car mysteriously absent and no answer at his door.  I waited about ten minutes then called his cell phone and left a message. Panic struck when my phone flashed 9:15.  Having no confidence in my memory, I figured I mixed up our agreed upon meeting time, my buddy got fed up waiting and headed out without me. 

The vans had already left, and being on the hook for several duties for the event, driving my jalopy seemed the only course of action left available.  With a tank full of gas and a trunk full of anti-freeze, I said prayer to Bitchasschles, the god of perilous- (formerly snow-) driving, and set off east.

Having just rounded Lake Washington my car’s idiot gauge suddenly climbed to “H”.  I stopped in a turnout, grabbed a gallon of coolant (one of 5) from my trunk and dumped it down my parched radiator—I would have suffered steam burns had it actually contained fluid.

Back on the road, I get a call from my buddy:

“Where the fuck are you!?!” 

“Uh, I was by your place earlier and you weren’t there…” I
replied meekly.

“When?”

“9:05, and I waited ten minutes.”

“I was getting gas.
We were supposed to head out at 9:15.”

“I left a message on your cell phone.”

“I never check my cell phone; you know that.”

“I thought the plan was to pick up Anne at 9:15?”

“No.  We were to
meet her at Ly’s doughnuts at 9:30.”

“Well, shit… sorry, I guess.”

“You’re hopeless.” [click]

I continued the drive on highway 2, my heater on full blast, studying the oscillating needle of my temperature gauge.  I checked the road occasionally so I wouldn’t slam into the occasional RV.

After fifth time I stopped to replenish my radiator, I turned on the engine and studied how, what had been a drip of fluorescent green 2 hours earlier, had become a steady stream–my car relieving itself alongside of the road.

I coasted close to twenty miles down Stephen’s pass with my engine off, which bought me some miles before the my next stop. 

Bitchasschles came through for me, once again.  I arrived in Leavenworth, on time, and my car still running though my engine likely sustained some overheating damage.  My buddy and I made up.  He acknowledged he was a bit cranky since he spent all but 3 hours last night working on his poster.  With the exception of twisting my knee playing volleyball, I’ve been enjoying the retreat so far.

Artificial neural networks are computer programs that simulate how a collection of representative neurons (or more accurately: groups of neurons) can interact to perform a computational task.  Neural networks have been trained to recognize faces, read handwriting, complete partially-presented patterns and continue temporal sequences–in short, they perform many of the tasks that our brains can perform with ease, that computers, programmed with conventional rules-based routines, cannot.

In the 80’s and 90’s, the Department of Defense funded most academic research on artificial neural networks.  I speculate the military hoped for a means to imbue machines with cognition.  Perhaps so they could make themselves some Terminators or whatever.  These days, interest in artificial neural networks has waned as many cognitive scientists contend artificial neural network models do not adequately capture the more intricate physiological mechanisms underlying cognition.  Consequently, many have deemed artificial neural network models unworthy of study. 

Few would dispute that neural networks are very crude models of how the brain could perform a cognitive task.  It is the physicist in me that finds them fascinating and worthy of study.  Like sub-atomic particles that comprise matter, neural networks are more than just the sum of their parts.  Their smallest elements, units, are very simple–each takes input from, and sends output to, the other units in the network.  The connections between units vary in strength, but each unit simply adds together all of the input it receives (from the other units in the network) and conveys this sum with its output.  That’s all.  To first order, this is what physiological neurons do as well.

The magic of artificial neural networks lies in the connections between units.  A connection dictates the extent to which one unit’s output activity affects another unit.  It is how these connection strengths are adjusted that differentiates a network that, say, recognizes faces from one that generates a sine wave when cued.  Though these examples perform very different tasks, their underlying functional element, the unit, is identical.  Given enough units and the processing power to appropriately adjust the connections between them, artificial neural networks can be trained on a great variety of complex cognitive tasks.
 
Could neural networks ever embody an artificial intelligence?  Probably not.  But my materialist philosophy leads me to believe it is the right track.

Post-docs laughed as the gears in my head ground smooth. 

When the clock struck seven and the series of graphs I’d been trying to beautify looked no better than they did when I started at 3pm today, I decided to call it a day.  There’s a reason why I have never taken an art class: I’ve got no aesthetic sensibilities when it comes to graphics.  None whatsoever. 

I walked up a Dirty Ave. just stirring to wake from its summertime dormancy.  When I reached my bus stop, I discovered that, according to schedule, I had a cool 50 minutes to kill before the next bus to Lake Shitty. 

Being the fourth-generation alcoholic I’ve been working hard to become, I decided to imbibe a distilled spirit or two at A Pizza Mart.  I walked in, sat down, my “usual” was placed before me, and I began to read Dynamic Gain Control of Dopamine Delivery in Freely Moving Animals.  I managed to tone out most clucks and squeals produced by the cadre eugenically-bred, bleached-blond sorority girls behind me. 

“Hey there!  Can we like get seventeen Washington Apples…es?”

The bartender stared at them; his eyes flat with disdain.  “Uh, alright…” he replied.  One space-cadet actually picked up on his loathing and attempted rectify their transgression: “We love you… we’ll take you to Vegas with us.” 

At this he became more annoyed.

They then toasted: “Here’s to all of us who are now twenty-one…whooo.”

The bus that I had thought I missed then lumbered past–a cool twenty-five minutes late.

Then I became annoyed.

I became more annoyed at the paper I had been reading.  The authors incorporated as many free-parameters into their model as was necessary to get good agreement with their data.  Few parameters were actually justified.  I decided the paper was no longer worth my attention, so I put it away. 

Alone and buzzed, eavesdropping was the only activity I could trust myself to perform.  At another table to my rear, upon suggestion of their crawl to another establishment, the alpha-female urged:”Let’s invite my ex-boyfriend, Richard!”
An acquaintance countered: “Isn’t he a shit-head?”
“Who cares?  He’s hot!”
Another voice:  “Why’d you break up with him then?”
“Well, he’d been working the same job for six years.  He’s not even a waiter at the restaurant he works at…he just delivers food.  He’s what they call: a runner.  [He] Doesn’t even have a college degree…”

Intended or not, the many hopeful males surrounding her squirmed in their insecurity.

The bartender walked by and asked if I would have anything more.  I asked for the check and, of course, seventeen Washington Apples.

He laughed.

…but overhearing three gay men argue the virtues of waxing versus shaving, as means of removing their body hair, made me vurp up my SE Portland prepared pancakes.

Otherwise, I enjoyed my Sunday morning last week.  I observed first hand how substantially Portland’s “Vision Division” re-vitalization grant–or less euphemistically: re-gentrification grant–has transformed my old neighborhood.

In place of meth-addicted blue collar folk, it now brims with “meth-experimenting” hipsters.

While riding the bus to work every morning for the past two months, I’ve noticed this fine specimen…

parked in a lot alongside other “Luxury Cars”; one member in an otherwise homogeneous collection.  There she stares gloomily at Lake City traffic passing callously by. The florescent green numbers on her windshield proclaim she could be yours for a mere $7998.

I almost bought one of these a long time ago.  When I learned that one had to disconnect the battery after shutting the car off (to keep it from blowing fuses), it put me off.

Now, $7998.00 strikes me as a ridiculous sum for a ’76 Cadillac Eldorado, so this morning I did some research.

First off, I mistakenly believed this was the year and model of Boss Hogg’s vehicle in the TV series The Dukes of Hazzard.  It wasn’t.  That was a white ’70 Cadillac Coupe De Ville convertible.  Though, it is Boss Hogg’s car in that craptastic Dukes of Hazzard movie that came out a few years ago.  That car, coincidently, Warner Bros. studios is attempting to sell.

Secondly, I tried to look up its Kelley Blue book value.  Unfortunately, the online version only lists values from cars born in 1989 or later.  No luck there.

Finally, I found AutoMedia.com recently selected the ’76 Eldo as a Modern Classic.  I retrieved the following except from article text woven about penis enlargement ads:

Predictably, the Fleetwood Eldorado, America’s biggest front-wheel-drive car, wallowed, rolled, pitched and dove under cornering and braking. On smooth pavement, the ride could be likened to a mattress. Motor Trend reported, “maneuvering the Eldo in
traffic was like docking the Enterprise in a 30-foot slip.” 

That, coupled with its gas-guzzling-yet-meek 8.2 liter engine, I’ve decided to get out my checkbook to embrace the extravagence that is/was the 1976 Cadillac Eldorado.

Reprimand
During one game of “ball tag” in fourth grade, I threw a 2′ diameter rubber ball at my friend Juan. It impacted him square in the chest. He fell 5 feet and landed on his ass. Juan fell from the playground structure that the “not-it” players used for cover. Obviously, the only times we could engage in this game was when the recess-lady wasn’t looking. So, when Juan–humiliated and being the sore loser I did not yet know he was–ran up to me and kicked me in the shin, there was no adult around to break up our soon-to-follow altercation. In each other’s face and hurling threats back and forth, the bell rang before we could make good on them.

Juan decided to continue the spectacle in class. The substitute that day sent us both to the principal’s office where we were both suspended. Last I saw Juan, he had just gotten jumped into his gang, following his expulsion from junior high.

A Close Call
Growing up in a town seething with homophobia, I heard the word “fag” often from any early age onward. Apparently, slurs are not something covered in 7th grade sex ed., because by that time I had only a vague idea of what the term actually meant. Though based on the reactions the term elicited from those called it, I knew it was derogatory.

Waiting in the hall to be let into math class, I decided to experiment with the term myself. David, a classmate of mine who had always been kind to me, had been called “fag” often. I figured: “What was the harm if I did it too?”

So I did.

This angered our mutual friend Ari, who consequently ran up to my desk and tipped it over with me in it. Mr. Moore, without so much as blip in blood pressure, promptly escorted Ari and me to the principal’s office. This time I was not suspended. However Mr. McDougal did an excellent job of making me realize what an asshole I had been.

Scott-free
Mr. Hanks was an important man at Woodland Senior High School. He was 6’5″ of Nebraska corn-fed muscle that commanded Woodland’s varsity football team. When he stood raising his fist at school pep-rallies, he resembled a Mortal Kombat character who just performed his signature Fatality™.

Unfortunately, Mr. Hanks’ talent for coaching had not yet bled into his capacity for teaching. My senior year, he was charged the painful task of teaching AP US Government/Economics to us “Gifted and Talented” smart asses–the vast majority of whom did not appreciate football or foster school spirit.

Near the end of the year, Mr. Hanks split the class into halves: buyers and sellers. For a week, students, depending on their randomly-assigned role, would either buy or sell stocks (actually scraps of paper with monetary values written on them). I was a buyer…and I sucked at it. My apathetic ass always trailed the class with the least profits.

Bored, and having just read Germinal and The Grapes of Wrath, I decided to add some reality into Hanks’ ivory-tower simulation by doing what all good Americans do: buy more than I could actually afford. Needless to say, for that last open market, I was hugely popular. To get my attention, my classmate Jamie positioned her “nannies” (see: glossary, A Clockwork Orange) right in my face.

It was glorious.

Mr. Hanks was not amused. I had thoroughly fucked his market trend and his entire simulated economy…single-handed. If you’re reading Mr. Hanks, thank for not sending me to the principal’s office as I deserved, and thank you for exposing my talent for fucking with shit (i.e. scientific investigation).

“…  This is a high fidelity recording.  Steely Dan uses a specially constructed 24-channel tape recorder, a “State-of-the-Art” 36-input computerized-mixdown console, and some very expensive German microphones.  Individual microphone equalization is frowned upon.  The sound created by musicians and singers is reproduced as faithfully as possible, and special care is taken to preserve the band-width and transient response of each performance.  Transfer from master tapes to master lacquers is done on a Neumann VMS 70 computerized lathe equipped with variable pitch, variable depth helium cooled cutting head.  The computer logic circuits of the VMS 70 widen and narrow the grooves on the disc in accordance with its own bizarre electronic mentation for reasons known only to its designers; this accounts for the lovely light and dark patters that can be seen on the surface of the pressing.  Vinylite compound is used.  For best results observe the R.I.A.A. curve.   …”

“… This band has no past.  Literally.  We can tell you some things—a little of this and a bit of that—but CHEAP TRICK is, in fact, a band without a history.
Rick Nielsen, CHEAP TRICK’s lead guitarist (and when we say lead, we’re not kidding: he’s got thirty-five guitars) and Tom Petersson, the band’s bassist, have spent three out to the past five years in Europe.  Having formed the band overseas, the returned home to the U.S. where they have been performing constantly for the past ten years.  “We came back,” says Rick, “because we like the musical climate.”  With them they have brought a melting-pot of ideas and experiences from throughout the world.  “The European thing and being from America,” continues Rick, “brought us together as CHEAP TRICK and because of our travels we were opened up to an enormous number of musical styles.”
Rick was born in Chicago, but certainly spent little time there.  He met Tom, who was born in Sweden and raised somewhere in the hinterlands of America, under somewhat mysterious circumstances.  Together, in search of adventure and new faces to peer at, they zoomed into Europe, wandering throughout Germany, Italy, England and Spain, blowing amps and minds with astonishing frequency.  They finally came to roost in the South of France amidst a warm sunny clime, nubile bodies and a plethora of expatriot American musicians who, having heard of Rick’s and Tom’s brilliant but joyously unsavoury reputations, were continually clamoring to play with them.
There they met the remaining two members of the band, so that to Rick’s hyperthyroid Donald Sutherland and Tom’s warmth and charm were added Robin Zander’s brain-boiling good looks and Bun E. Carlos’ avuncular charm.
Robin, the thin man with a thousand voices—some say he is related to Lon Chaney—was born in either Boston or Kansas City, depending on which day you approach him.
Bun E., short for Bunezuela, hails from Venezuela where he learned his drumming and where his father was an industrialist moving around South America.  His family was instrumental in the building of the Panama Canal to which Bun E., who is fluent in English, comments, “That was a long time ago.”
While in the South of France, CHEAP TRICK came together, but that is not all.  Rick ran into Ken Adamany in a dusty café one day.  They had known each other in America and when Rick told Ken about the group, the latter, being a manager and promoter based in the Midwest, invited the band back to the States.  To Rick, it seemed like the least likely thing to do.  So he did it.
Despite the fact that Rick and the band are highly unconventional, and despite the fact that Rick himself has been described by some who are most certainly knowledgeable as “a high risk in the business,” CHEAP TRICK’s wealth is their music.
Songs, songs, songs.  The band has so many top notch songs that they used to do three separate sets a night of completely different songs.  Now, with the rigors of extensive touring, they know better.  They’ve obviously had to cut it down and the fact is that they recorded twenty-one tunes for their Epic long-player and could have gone on forever.  The band just hasn’t any “B” material.  Nielsen songs such as “Taxman, Mr. Thief,” “Mandocello,” “He’s a Whore” and “Oh, Candy” put pure musicality—richly varied melodies, lyrics of both thought and heart—back into rock’n’roll.
What you are listening to is only one-half of the story.  Because CHEAP TRICK is that rarest of entities, a classic rock’n’roll band, aware that the disk and the concert are two separate theatres.  On stage, their spectacular showmanship combines magically with their musicianship to create a total event.  You’ll be able to see them soon because the band plays 290 dates a year, taking their music to the streets.  And, after all, that’s what rock’n’roll is all about.

Goat Racism

A couple of months ago, my aunt was offered early retirement from her 25+ year tenure as assistant district attorney for Yolo County, CA. She accepted.

Dogs, horses, pigs, steers, turtles, sheep, cats, iguanas comprise the set of pet varieties my aunt has tended in her life. With the sudden abundance of time her retirement affords, not only did she sew five bridesmaid dresses for her daughter’s wedding, she also delivered three kids, the product of her latest pet project, goats. She did not expect to do this. She was careful to pen Billies and nannies separately. But as Spielberg-instructed Jeff Goldblum hammily said: “nature always finds a way…”

As best as she can figure, rutting billy-goat of breed A maneuvered into the pen of breed B does, and the pasture shook. Three half-breed offspring were conceived and carried to term.

Sadly, shortly after their birth, mamma-goat, failing to recognize her kids, withheld her milk from them. One baby goat died.

My aunt now spends here mornings and evenings bottle-feeding the two unfortunate beings; victims of racial discrimination.

Seeds of Animosity

My father and my great uncle Pep (see: Epic) never got along. Whenever I asked why, dad only replied with vague, unsubstantiated descriptions of Pep’s occasional idiosyncrasies –never any specifics. This past weekend he finally let one slip.

Drilling is the act of driving many tons of steel pipe hundreds of feet into the ground while simultaneously removing the displaced clay, sand and gravel “cuttings”. Occasionally, if drilling is hurried, the hole can cave in around the drill pipe. When this happens, the rig cannot generate sufficient upward force to dislodge the stuck pipe (called “tools”). Drillers, reluctantly, must drop explosives down the hole to break free as much of the tens of thousands of dollars worth of tools as they can salvage.

If one is born male in my family, one necessarily spends time in “the Gulag” (i.e. working 12 hour shifts on drilling rigs) at some point in one’s life. It’s our rite of passage. While some Eaton males, myself included, have managed to escape, my dad, my grandfather and my great uncle Pep were not so fortunate–drilling is/was life for them.

Not only did the Z-boys of Dogtown prosper during the drought of ’77, so did the family drilling company. That year, California farmers near and far demanded more water wells than the business could produce. To keep up with demand, drilling was hurried. And during one job, the frenzied pace likely caused a cave in of legendary proportions. Explosives were required.

Because both my grandpa and my dad lacked the guts to even get near nitroglycerin; purchasing and handling of explosive charges laid in the (assumed) capable hands of Pep. Now Pep was a smart man; he usually did things right. In 1977, terrorism must have been as foreign a concept as equal rights for homosexuals because Pep purchased a crate of TNT wholesale with not so much as a driver’s license.

Pep dropped charges down the hole and managed to salvage some of the tools.

Fast forward to 1982. One morning, en route to preschool in a beat up pickup truck typical of the company’s fleet, dad opened the glove compartment and discovered two, long-forgotten sticks of dynamite laying in wait for a sufficient jolt to awaken them.

When dad furiously relayed his discovery to Pep, Pep replied: “take it easy, they’re pretty safe without the blasting caps…”

What a Tangled Conceptual Web My Mind Weaves

Speaking of preschool and goats. Next-door neighbors to my preschool would sacrifice the occasional goat in their backyard. Only a thin wire fence separated our play area from their ritual. According to my mom, after the first bloodletting any hint of goat plus ax would be grounds for immediate indoor story-time.

Wimpy Christians.