“My initial reaction to the word ‘calculus’ is not unlike a caveman throwing rocks at the moon in ignorance and fear resulting in blind rage. There is no such thing as ghosts creeping up behind me on the stairs, but there is such a thing as a polynomial monster, and it has hooked teeth and causes chronic yeast infections, I’m sure.”
I can’t speak to the yeast infections, but a new psychological study indicates that such reactions do have real, measurable physical effects. Specifically, when it comes to neural responses, math anxiety reads much the same as physical pain. It’s not the numbers themselves, but the anticipation of encountering them, that seemed to trigger anxious, painful responses in the test subjects.
There are many complicated reasons why people react this way, but one of them might be the fact that math is just so damned unyielding, the enemy of wishful thinking, dashing our most cherished hopes with its cold hard facts. And is it sorry? It is not! Like the infamous honey badger, math don’t care. Math don’t give a s$%.
The anti-science think tank Heartland Institute has billboards comparing climate science believers and reporters to “mass murderers and madmen” like bin Laden, and the Unabomber.
Seriously!
Andrew Sullivan weighs in and calls this “a brutalist style of public propaganda that focuses entirely on guilt by the most extreme association.”
… what the fuck.
Imagine two rowboats, both adrift at sea. The first rowboat has no oars. They can see an island in the distance. Somebody calculates the distance to it, and the rate at which they’re drifting, and concludes that they have only half the food and water they’ll need for everybody to reach the island. The conclusion is obvious*: at least half of them have to be thrown overboard. And the sooner it happens, the fewer of them will have to die.
Now imagine the other rowboat. It has plenty of food and water, and it has oars, but it has a different problem: it’s leaking, and fast. Somebody does the math, and they conclude that they can all make it to the island in the distance. But they can only make it if everybody who can row, rows, and if everybody else bails water as fast as they can, and if they cooperate in sharing the rowing, bailing, and resting cycles; if anybody is selfish, if anybody doesn’t cooperate, nobody will make it.
Call the first rowboat “America.” Call the second rowboat “the Netherlands.”
That’s the metaphor that came to my mind after spending a couple of days deciding how to explain Not Under My Roof: Parents, Teens, and the Culture of Sex, by Amy Schalet (University of Chicago Press, 2011). Even though the book has nothing to do with rowboats, and only indirectly to do with the overall differences between Americans and the Dutch. What the book is really about is the regulation of teenage sex by their parents. You see, as someone who grew up in both the Netherlands and the US, baffled by the differences between the two, and who went on to do her Ph.D. research in the sociology of adolescent/parent relationships, Schalet has dedicated an entire book to trying to explain a major difference between two different cultures that were substantially identical as late as the late 1950s: democratic capitalist republics who won their independence from colonial imperial masters around the same era, dominated by conservative Protestants, who went through the same Great Depression and two World Wars, and the same sexual revolution when contraception and antibiotics were made widely available, and the same economic shock after the OPEC crisis. But in the years after that, huge social differences appear, and Schalet concentrates, as her academic speciality, on one of them.
It’s a glaring difference, and it has to do with what American and Dutch parents and teens “know for a fact” about teenage sexual development and maturity during puberty.
Following on from the last of the Alderaan quests, Risha and Captain Nik head to Tatooine to rescue Audila, then back to Nar Shaddaa for their final delivery and the location of the lost riches of Nok Drayen.
Of course, once they find the location, collecting it should be a breeze, right?
And thus concludes the first chapter of our brave heroine’s story. Where she’ll end up next is anyone’s guess, but one can be certain that whatever it is will be done with style.
Well, those that have to guess, anyway. I peeked. :P
Okay, this is just freaky. We know LED lights are versatile enough to be used for practically anything, but LED contact lenses? Really?! Yes, as it turns out, really. University of Washington researchers have figured out how to implant semitransparent red and blue LED lights in contact lenses, for the purpose of receiving and displaying data in sharp visual images and video. This means wearers will literally be able to watch TV or view photos that are projected directly onto their eyeballs.
I LOVE THE FUTURE.
Oooh. New favourite nature blog. I love the graduating colours as one scrolls down.
I haven’t been blogging about my cats recently.
Some of you may have breathed a sigh of relief when you realized that you had entered a relatively feline-free zone. “Finally,” you said. “She’s going to talk about something that doesn’t meow.” Others may have been concerned. (I’ve heard from the concerned contingent, not from the relieved, but I have no trouble with the idea that both sides exist. Honestly, I don’t demand that anyone be interested in everything I have to say, and that includes my cats, machete collection, horror movies, the X-Men, and candy corn.) Even more of you may well have been confused, given how focal cats have traditionally been around here. But I haven’t been blogging about my cats.
John Scalzi has just made a lengthy post about the shit female bloggers get that he doesn’t get. Go and read it. I’ll be honest: after more than a decade on the internet, I find his experiences to be pretty spot-on. I make a controversial comment, I get death threats, comments about my weight, accusations of bitchiness, comments about my weight, offers to “fuck the stupid” out of me, comments about my weight, insults, comments about my weight, and, best of all, people swearing up, down, and sideways that I deserve whatever I get. It’s been a few years since I’ve had a really bad troll problem, but when I had one, it was…
It was bad. It was “Kate monitored my journal and deleted comments before I could see them” bad, with a side order of feeling sick every time I considered getting online. I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat, and I was scared all the time. It’s invasive, and it’s scary. Cracks about my weight aside, I’m not that big, and if someone wanted to fuck me up, they could. Easily. (Is this a motivator for my large and oft-discussed machete collection? Possible! Anybody comes to my house with the intent of doing me a mischief in the woods, they will not be thrilled by the results.)
And I haven’t been blogging about my cats recently.
I’ll be honest: I understand people being dicks for the sake of being dicks. We’re all a little mean when we’ve had a bad day. My mother used to snap at me, even though she loved me. Sometimes I pick fights with my friends, or snarl at my co-workers. Human nature sometimes trends toward asshole, and no matter how hard we work to control it, it’s going to happen. What I don’t understand is why being a dick towards a woman on the internet so often turns into a) threats of violence, b) sexual insults, c) threats of sexual violence, or d) comments about perceived attractiveness/weight. Or violence toward the things that woman loves.
I haven’t been blogging about my cats recently, because someone has been sending me email, from dummy accounts, threatening to kill my cats. In graphic detail. They know what my cats look like, thanks to the amount of blogging I have done in the past, and they’ve been able to get really, really specific in what they’re going to do. Why? Because I got my cats from a breeder, and not from a shelter, and that means I need to suffer in order to understand the suffering of the cats waiting for adoption. “Bitch,” “cunt,” and “whore” feature heavily in these emails, which is always a nice seasoning for my rage and terror stew. It’s all very gender-specific.
And they’re threatening to kill my cats.
So no, I’m not going to talk about them right now; not until this email stops, not until the trolls find something else to chew on. And yes, I realize that making this post may reawaken some of my old trolls (and oh, Great Pumpkin, I hate it so much that I even have to take that into consideration), so I’m going to be watching comments carefully. Anything insulting will be deleted. Anything malicious will result in an immediate banning. I mean that. I am not going to let that shit stand.
We need to stop acting this way toward one another. We need to remember that there are humans on the other side of all those keyboards. We need to be decent human beings, because otherwise, everything is going to fall apart.
And none of this changes the fact that if the fucker who’s been telling me what he’s going to do to my babies comes anywhere near them, I will probably be going to prison for assault.
Some days I hate being a girl.
Ana Somnia is seeing a great deal of reblogging, so I would like to take the opportunity to direct people towards my favourite Rostlaub project, 99rooms. I am a huge fan of the exploration of urban decay, so this is something I’ve always appreciated the atmosphere of. They’ve taken photos of dilapidated architecture and edited in animated graffiti, most rooms have something to click or wave you mouse over to trigger the action before you can proceed to the next room, others just have a short bit to watch before you move on. It’s something that never fails to get my creative juices flowing, so I hope you guys enjoy it as well.
However, the important question remains: why this massive popularity of faux-vintage photographs?
What I want to argue is that the rise of the faux-vintage photo is an attempt to create a sort of “nostalgia for the present,” an attempt to make our photos seem more important, substantial and real. We want to endow the powerful feelings associated with nostalgia to our lives in the present. And, ultimately, all of this goes well beyond the faux-vintage photo; the momentary popularity of the Hipstamatic-style photo serves to highlight the larger trend of our viewing the present as increasingly a potentially documented past. In fact, the phrase “nostalgia for the present” is borrowed from the great philosopher of postmodernism, Fredric Jameson, who states that “we draw back from our immersion in the here and now […] and grasp it as a kind of thing.”*
People who remove links to the sources of their images get me all stabby. Give credit where credit is due, motherfuckers. It takes all of two seconds to copy and paste the URL of the site you’re stealing this shit from.
