A recent Skeptics’ Guide had a great tip on not getting emotionally attached to conclusions. This is definitely a failing of mine. Ask me whether organic food is worth buying and you’ll get a fairly vitriolic, non-measured response. This is mainly because I don’t like seeing people bilked, but I’m way more attached to the organic-food-sucks conclusion than I should be. I doubt I’d change my responses appropriately if the consensus opinion started to shift. This is particularly bad when you consider I don’t actively follow the latest research, and that ‘organic’ has many different meanings. So I need to stop doing that.

Steve Novella’s tip? Get emotionally attached to the process, not the conclusion. Fetishize the scientific method. Demand that appropriate evidence is analysed properly, and then accept whatever conclusion pops out. This also helps with spotting pseudoscience, and some kinds of logical fallacies, which start with the conclusion and search for evidence to back it up.

Sounds reasonable. I’ll give it a go.

If I could alter my brain and adapt to one particular profession, high on my list would be a cosmologist. It’s just such a cool time to be alive, in terms of space probes confirming or disproving theories, and the universe throwing curve balls at every step. Unfortunately the maths is way beyond my capability¹, but I’ve been roughly following the field for years and years. I find that it’s important to actually keep up with developments, as things are rapidly changing. For example, the last couple of years have seen large changes in the understanding of dark matter and dark energy.

Dark matter is matter that only indicates its existence through its gravitational effect on other matter - it’s not detectable in any other way. But another interpretation of this is that our understanding of gravity is wrong. This was still an option when I took an Open University cosmology course a few years back, but recent observations pretty much killed that theory.

Dark energy is the mysterious force causing the acceleration of the universe to increase, and analyses of the movements of massive-scale galaxy clusters have shown they move exactly as predicted by current theories of gravity - if dark energy were also a flaw in our understanding, it’d be detectable at those levels².

We’re figuring this all out right now. That is cool. The best I can do is stand at the sidelines and catch what I can, which is why I like Astronomy Cast so much - I can follow recent developments without great amounts of effort on my part, which suits me just fine Today’s episode caught me out - I thought I roughly understood the concept of the shape of the universe, but their recent episode on the topic caused many WTF moments. I’m a little out of date. It turns out that the WMAP probe has found the universe is likely to be totally flat - no matter how big a triangle you draw in space, the angles will always add up to 180 - but, this requires fine-tuning to an insane degree, as a difference of 1 in 447 sextillion in densities during the big bang would have created a non-flat universe. So there’s got to be either a) some new physics out there or b) a bajillion big bangs, and we have to be in one of them. Wow!

Wish I could be a cosmologist. Can’t, though, but I’ll try to keep up - I’d hate to be alive and miss it all.

939495

1. took the maths A-level twice and got worse, baby [↩]
2. at least, I’m pretty sure this was the study, I can’t find a link right now though [↩]

I don’t think it unreasonable to describe most statues as deeply, deeply boring. I’m sure it takes lots of skill, and all, but there’s only so much interest in yet another long-dead dude on a horse. With this in mind, I give you the Vigeland Sculpture Park in Oslo:

My photography tutor mentioned it yesterday, and it’s been intriguing me ever since. It contains 212 stone and bronze statues by Norwegian Sculptor Gustav Vigeland. The centrepiece is the Monolith:

It’s 14 metres high, took 14 years to complete, and represents reaching salvation in heaven, or something. The surrounding statues depict people in all sorts of positions:

Each was made in clay by the artist then farmed out to contractors, and in 2005 some unknown prude placed black tape over every nipple, crotch and bum in the park. Can’t have kids seeing that kind of thing.

These are some cool statues. Which, let’s face it, takes some doing. Every statue I see is now going to seem even more boring. I like the central image above, but the park also contains the Best Statue Ever:

It would really suck to be attacked by tiny babies.

I need to change domain name. wongablog.co.uk regularly suffers massive spam attacks, and the resulting load takes down my site and anything else on the server (sites somewhat more important than little personal blogs). Individual attacks can be dealt with fairly quickly, but every new batch of zombie machines require individual attention, and it’s never going to stop.

The easiest way of dealing with this is to upgrade to a ridiculously powerful server with lots of bandwidth. This costs a lot, though, and isn’t an option.

The other solution is to ditch wongablog.co.uk and set up some kind of bot-befuddling forwarding system so links still work. This is my host’s recommendation, and certainly seems sensible. So I need to set up a new domain in the not-too-distant future.

wordofwonga.co.uk and worldofwonga.co.uk have both been suggested, or I could just go back to the old wandwaver.co.uk. I’ve a couple of ideas, but nothing that particularly grabs me. Obviously I’m not asking people to put any effort into this, but should anything happen to occur, please let me know…thanks muchly

I’ve been busy at LAN parties and such, but, still, 4 days without a post is most unlike my normal wittering rate. Hopefully back shortly.

Meanwhile, here is a side-by-side comparison of recent Metafilter / YouTube comments. It is…appropriate.

I played Wii Table Tennis last night. It’s a separate game rather than the Wii Sports version, and much more fun as it actually involves some skill.

Swinging the wiimote left/vertically/right aims it at the relevant side of the table, and up/down determines the front or back of the table. How well each attempted placement works depends on both the physical position of your player relative to the table (in the basic modes the computer moves them automatically, but in the higher levels you control them with the nunchuck), and your particular character’s skill level. You also use the direction pad, while swinging, to add topspin, backspin, leftspin or rightspin (?), or a ’soft shot’ to really wind up your opponent. The ball changes colour depending on its spin, so this can be taken into account when returning.

All of which gives you a decent amount of control, without being excessively complex. The physics is good enough to be predictable, so it’s much more a game of skill than blind luck. The hardest part is thinking fast enough: you have to swing after your opponent has hit the ball, which in the faster games means you’ve a very short amount of time to process all the variables. This is quite the mental workout, but achievable without ridiculous amounts of practice. It’s a physical workout too - my arm is still hurting this morning. Good fun.

Sometimes the universe gives you no choice. A mild example occurred in February, when I heard of somebody claiming it was the Chinese Year of the Salmon, and I was compelled to remark that this must be due to the leap year. There was no option: these circumstances were never going to arise again, and it’s a moral duty to take advantage of such existential confluences, regardless of company or surroundings. Professional ballroom champion Darren Bennett, on the news that Strictly Come Dancing partner Emma Bunton had become pregnant a month into their training, said “I thought she was getting heavier.”. He knows what I’m talking about. This kind of thing can get you in big trouble. I call it the OTOCE - the one-time-only-comedic-event.

Apropos of nothing, I remember realising in my teens that the much advertised “Now” compilation CDs would one day reach number 69. And that would be a funny day. As a 24 year old I can look back on my teenage self and observe the unsophisticated nature of this humour. Adolescent and immature, the slightest hint of sexual innuendo seemed incredibly amusing. I’m now older, and wiser. Here’s the thing, though: the Now 69 adverts are on tv at the moment and they’re really funny.

I’m not proud of this. But what can do you. Here are the rumoured hidden tracks:

• Dead or Alive - You Spin Me Right Round
• Men At Work - Down Under
• The Hollies - The Air That I Breathe

Sorry.

The latest tactic by US creationists is to cry academic discrimination, and they’ve produced a documentary, ‘Expelled!’, claiming that anybody who criticises evolution is being forced out by evil Darwinian scientists. The makers interviewed biologist P.Z. Myers under false pretences, and yesterday he tried to get into a local showing:

I went to attend a screening of the creationist propaganda movie, Expelled, a few minutes ago. Well, I tried … but I was Expelled! It was kind of weird — I was standing in line, hadn’t even gotten to the point where I had to sign in and show ID, and a policeman pulled me out of line and told me I could not go in. I asked why, of course, and he said that a producer of the film had specifically instructed him that I was not to be allowed to attend. The officer also told me that if I tried to go in, I would be arrested. I assured him that I wasn’t going to cause any trouble.

This isn’t all that surprising, but I haven’t included the best bit. Head over to Pharyngula to see what happened next…Via L.

Please tell me this is an early April Fool:

Skinner is one of a growing, albeit secretive, network of astrologers who work for seemingly conservative British institutions such as high street banks, City investment funds and retailers. Desperate to avoid financial meltdown and to spot fashions and consumer trends before they start, these institutions have turned to the planets to divine the future.

Great. As if there weren’t enough problems already.

“Most academics distrust astrology and regard it as mumbo-jumbo,” she says. “The thing is, it works. Nobody’s sure how it works, but it does. Most of my clients are business people who are very canny. If it didn’t work for them, why would they use it?”

Maybe because the idea of the ultra-rational businessperson is a pervasive myth? Somebody who works in ‘business’ (whatever this means) is just as vulnerable to logical fallacies as the rest of us. Try watching Question Time - the ‘business’ panelists are regularly the most cringeworthy, and often have rings run around them by debate-trained politicians. Being good at making money doesn’t mean you know how to think.

Hitler, a keen user of astrology, notably failed to take into account Mercury’s influence. He launched the Battle of Britain and planned Operation Sealion - the invasion of Britain - just as Mercury turned retrograde. Both mistakes dealt serious blows to his plans for world domination.

Christ. No other factors involved there. Post-hoc rationalisation, anyone?

While many decry astrology as bunkum, Dr Percy Seymour, an astrophysicist recently retired from Plymouth University, has his own theory of how this inexact science might work. He believes that low-frequency magnetic fields emanating from the sun interact with those of the earth, which in turn affect the functioning of the human brain.

“The magnetic field of the sun can be affected by the movement and position of the planets,” he says. “Having said all that, I don’t believe that the cosmos controls us, but it can influence us.”

It’s a neat theory, but does it stand up to scrutiny?

Well, no. Theory is redundant without an effect to explain, and there’s no evidence of planetary movements affecting anything. The ‘cosmos’ only influences us in as much as, when times get bad, people will turn to anything. I’m sure The Skeptics’ Guide once mentioned a correlation between economic downturns and the popularity of woo, although I can’t find anything to back this up atm. Incidentally, Dr. Percy Seymour has apparently been saying this stuff for a while, and his theories are taken apart here.

Jim Porter (not his real name), chief technical analyst for one of the largest banks in Britain, believes it does. He uses heliocentric astrology to predict the direction of the international financial markets.

Millions of pounds’ worth of commodities, shares and currencies are traded on his command. His decisions may affect the values of your pension and your home, and perhaps decide how long you hold on to your job.

We’re all screwed.

I’m pretty skeptical of the stock market. I’ve yet to be convinced its movements aren’t random (or, at least, chaotic) and inherently unpredictable. Richard Wiseman detailed in Quirkology how the investments of a stock analyst, an astrologer and a five-year-old girl performed over different periods of time - from a week to a year¹. The girl won. Random processes are an easy mark for anything that claims to predict the future - the nature of random data means there’ll always be some pattern you can take credit for.

Via Bad Science.

1. or longer, I’ve lent my copy out so can’t check atm [↩]

Had a moral failing in Somerfield just now. An elderly lady in the checkout queue was badly insulted by some evil woman, for no good reason, and although not deeply upsetting it was probably enough to spoil her afternoon. It happened too quickly for me to get involved at the time and be sure I understood the situation - evil woman promptly buggered off - but after it became clear I left it to the checkout girl to provide moral support. I was next in line, thinking ‘that was bloody unreasonable’ but acting like one of the faceless crowd, which probably only added to the poor lady’s embarrassment. Bad. I think another voice would have helped.

Good job I didn’t bump into that woman on the way home; I was fuming the whole way.

Grrr. One for the list of Situations to Get Right Next Time.

A man is walking home, following a road back to the city on an unfamiliar planet. I forget why. Perhaps he had an accident, perhaps he was stranded; it doesn’t matter. He’s walking, alone, in the black night, thinking. He remembers the rumours of monsters in the desert, but of course there’s no such thing. He thinks of his life, and how it’s going. He remembers the large holes in the ground he passed on the journey out. He’s trying to think how far from the city they were, and therefore when he’ll pass them by. He’s trying not to think what could hide in such holes. He’s glad it’s night, so he can’t see. He’s trying to be rational, but it’s hard, with no light. He’s looking forward to seeing his family. The lights of the city grow closer, and closer. He’s home. He’s home, but for the clacking of enormous jaws, in the dark.

I don’t know what story that is. I don’t know which of the many collections it comes from. But it appears in my head roughly once a week, often for no discernible reason.

Arthur C. Clarke died today.

I finished Rendezvous with Rama last week. I was, and am, looking forward to the sequels. I’ve read all the 2001 series. I must have read most, if not all, of his short stories. I’ve read his collaborations with other authors. I once wrote a short screenplay completely ripping off The Nine Billion Names of God.

Others will be more knowledgeable, and eloquent. But Arthur C. Clarke introduced me to science fiction. His was the first sci-fi collection I ever read. I can still pick out his style a mile away. From him I found Asimov, and from them combined a thousand pathways opened, from Star Trek to Sagan to Tolkien. Their alien worlds sent me into a fascination with UFOs and the paranormal, but the underlying ode to science gave me a foundation to get out of it.

A million scenes are running through my head. A man struggling for shelter on the surface of Mercury. A spacecraft destroying a mountain. Wires of pure diamond, stretching across the solar system. A black sentinel, buried on the moon.

Here he is, last December:

You gave me delight, Mr Clarke. I couldn’t forget your books if I wanted to.

The man was the most influential author of my childhood. I consider him a giant. RIP, Arthur C. Clarke. And thank you.

–

Tributes: Phil at Bad Astronomy has a lovely post.

Waiting for Cory Doctorow, as he always manages to express these things beautifully…

I just discovered Overanalysis - a blog describing itself as “Dispatches from a personal educational journey on philosophy, religion, atheism and history”. Full of skepticism, atheism and general rationality, it’s definitely worth a look. Full disclosure: it’s (well) written by my Sydney-based cousin, who’s apparently another fan of The Skeptics’ Guide and therefore a classy chap. He’s currently relating his adventures infiltrating the Hillsong Church.

Today’s Dinosaur Comic tells of Edward S. Curtis, an early 20th century photographer who photographed American Indians in highly subjective style. Not wanting to disappoint stereotypes, he deliberately dressed his subjects in ‘Indian’ garb and removed all signs of modernity. Most people bristle at this. Even if his motives were virtuous - he possibly thought he was documenting and ennobling a ‘dying’ race - this kind of manipulation seems akin to lying.

But at the same time plenty of photographers were travelling far and wide, offering their services to people never before photographed, and I recently learnt that many took along their own backgrounds. They produced thousands of images of…people…, all with the same lighting and against the same scene. I instinctively don’t like this either, but it’s harder to say why. What would the ‘correct’ background add? It would likely only be a very small area, and hardly representative of the surrounding environment. I don’t object to modern-day high-street portrait studios, either.

To me the photos don’t feel false, just disappointing - is this because of the missed opportunity to capture these people in their environments (despite the word ‘documentary’ not being invented until the 20s)? Or could it be that people looked roughly the same 100 years ago as they do now, and the lack of anchoring context robs me of the romance of empathy? I can (kinda) imagine myself in the place of an 1890s farmer working the fields, but in a staged, fixed-background picture there’s nothing to latch onto - it could be any old dude. Accompanying text can tell me who these people are, but this doesn’t produce the same kind of connection as actually seeing photographic ‘proof’. Why do I care about feeling a connection, anyway?

Odd. I don’t have any kind of conclusion here, it’s just an aspect of photographic theory I find interesting. Photos produce weirdly abstracted feelings, sometimes.

I saw Juno this afternoon. Was lovely. I’d recommend it to anyone. No scene lacks a delightful, inspired moment (or three), and it’s crammed with deeply endearing sass. I want Diablo Cody writing my conversations. The lead actress, Ellen Page, puts in such a performance it’s hard to believe she isn’t exactly like her character, and the rest of the cast never hit a wrong note. I also liked the visual styling - my eyes rarely drifted from the characters, but I occasionally became aware of the beautiful compositions and arrangement of scenes. I’ll definitely be picking up the DVD. The official trailer gets the tone of the film perfectly, but possibly gives away a fair bit - I recommend the Odeon version.

Sorry I’ve been a bit quiet recently. This is due to a combination of:

1. worrying too much about what readers think of me (I go through this occasionally)
2. hectic off-camera events
3. pedantically wanting to produce perfect posts (hah)

Shall try to be better, particularly regarding number one.

It’s difficult to be offended by hair straighteners. Maybe if they set fire to your head, but otherwise, what’s to mind? Well, 23 Christians apparently don’t like their adverts, and somehow convinced the generally-sensible Advertising Standards Authority to uphold their complaint.

Here’s the advert (I don’t think it’s quite the banned one, but is close enough). Try to guess what the problem is:

What’s the main issue? They used a cross in place of the letter t. A cross. This makes the baby Jesus cry. He didn’t die / not die / zombify on a cross so people could just use it for…shudder…consumerism, you know. The very existence of the letter t is bad enough - it’s a little known fact that every time you write ‘turtle’ Jesus sends you to hell for another ten minutes - but making it look even more like a cross is offensive to people obsessed with medieval torture instruments. The ASA had no choice.

But Ben spotted the best bit, which has to be my favourite complaint ever. Not only did they use a cross without a note from the Pope, and not only was the Lord’s Prayer quoted without a safety cracker, but the women were ‘praying while being erotic’. Dolly Parton is so going to burn.