Life Update Archive

Okay, look at the map on the right. If you are in the shaded region, you must go to Lark Toys , and you have to do it soon, before you forget. We should have built up enough trust by now that you realize that if Doctor Doug is going prescriptive on your ass, he has a really good reason, and you don’t need to read further. But if you need further persuading, read on.

But seriously, just go. If after you’ve been you think I’ve steered you wrong, I will apologize to you on your phone answering machine so you will have a permanent record.

If you’ve read any children’s books or fantasy novels, you’ve seen the kindly old toymaker who has a wonderful toy store filled with wondrous things. That’s Lark Toys, down to the kindly toymaker (He’s the founder and owner, although his adult children help out now). You are probably picturing wonderful hand-made blocks and pull-alongs. And you are right. But that’s not all there is.

If you’ve ever had anyone rave to you about a cool toystore, you are probably picturing gorgeous and fun educational toys from yuppie companies like “Melissa and Doug” and “Gund Toys”. And Larks carries that stuff. But they are selective – only their coolest stuff. But that’s not all they carry.

If you live somewhere like Ann Arbor or Madison or the Minneapolis Uptown neighborhood, you probably know the really kid-friendly toystore with a wall of hats or a shoe-tree full of puppets, and the “cow-in-a-can” and things like that. Lark Toys has all that, and is beyond kid-friendly. But that isn’t all.

You also probably have heard the geek telling you about the great toystore that turns out to have all these toys aimed at adults that real children wouldn’t necessarily like. Like the Nancy Pearl or Albert Einstein dolls, or the Spider-Man jack-in-the-box, or the cocktail monkeys. Lark carries them, in a separate storefront, so the children aren’t made miserable by Baby Boomers like me drooling and playing.

They have a bookstore section that rivals any kids bookstore I’ve seen, including the Red Balloon. They have a science-toy section that screams to me at night, begging me to sacrifice unto them my credit card. There is a “Geppetto’s workshop” with toys that are made by the Larks themselves. They have an amazing candy store, a cafe (the kids' drinks come with cocktail umbrellas), a bakery, and a toy museum. Each among the best you’ll see.

There is a giant troll in the tree, but fear not, because upon entry you get a “troll charm” to wear around your neck, with a wooden rune on it, that will protect you. There is a wooden carousel, with an assortment of beautiful animals, all made of various woods, all by our kindly toymaker. It is gorgeous. Can you RIDE the thing? Of course, if you can afford the one dollar fee. When Frances was looking around, Mr. Lark (I am trying not to be cutesy and call him “Geppetto”, but that’s the name he has in my mind) asked her if she liked cats. When she said yes, he showed him his pet cat who was sleeping on the counter, and let her pet him.

This is not just a toy store for children. This is a toy store for everyone. There is no other place with as many fantastic toys, and at the same time with as few dull ones. The inventory list had a great author and a great editor.

I could go on and describe the huge selection of rubber duckies, but as I said, I need you to trust me on this one. Make a day of it and bring a camera. There are directions on their website. Let me know how it went! I care about you!

6/2006: So, what's happening these days? Frances is perfect, but you don't believe me, because I'm her dad, and so there's not much I can say on that front! I'm reading Finnegan's Wake and to my surprise, horror, and delight I am enjoying it! I'm only reading two pages at a sitting - that's about the right number for me. I think one of my problems with Ulysses was that I tried to read too much of it at a time. I might have been like the guy who takes swigs of "sippen' whiskey". I've discovered the best Bob Dylan spoof ever. (There are 7 songs in this vein, all are great, but I'm not going to post them.) My mind was blown when someone said that you can explain all the anachronisms of "B.C." by pretending that it does not take place in the past, but in a post-apocolyptic future. Lap is doing great - she's doing some web-design, and hoppin and a boppin and a singing her song.

Okay, one story:

I was teaching Combinatorics, and heard myself saying this whopper: "Let G be a maximal non-Hamiltonian graph. So, by definition, if we were to add an edge to G, it would become Hamiltonian."

Of course I wanted to follow it up with an accessible explanation. Here's what came bursting out of me:

"It's like this. Assume you are at a French Restaurant, and you eat a lot. In fact you eat as much as you possibly can. If you have one more bite you are going to explode. Then the waiter comes and gives you a wahfer -thin mint, and you eat it. What happens?"

Some people answer the obvious.

"Exactly! G is like that. It is maximally non-Hamiltonian. [in Terry Jones voice] 'Go away! I'm full! If I have one more edge I'm going to become HAMILTONIAN!' [in John Cleese voice] 'Just one edge? It's wahfer-thin.' [Terry Jones again] 'Well, just one...' and BAM! it is now Hamiltonian."

Some days, it is good to be me.

I hope you and yours are having a great day!

2/2006: When I told people that I was going to be a dad, my friends and family congratulated me warmly, and then would tell me about how much work it was going to be, or warn me that my life was going to change, or tell me how I was going to be a different person, or smile at me and shake their heads a little patronizingly, like you shake your head at an eight year old telling you that the picture he is painting is going to be the best painting ever painted.

As someone who had no desire to work harder, who was happy with his life and with his Self, and who does not like to be condescended to, this Parenthood thing was starting to sound like a major chore.

Two people said very helpful things. My friend Margaret told us a story about how when she returned from the hospital with her first new baby, she was a little surprised to find that her house and its contents were pretty much how she left them. Her point wasn't that Mike is a bad housekeeper- it was... damn, this is hard to phrase, but Laurel and I understood immediately... it was that she left without a baby, and came home with a baby, but her life still was her life, and she was still Margaret... The main thing is - it reassured me immensely.

Even more helpful was what my brother Al said. And what he didn't say. He didn't tell me how much work it was going to be, and how everything was going to change, and how glad he was I had finally "Grown Up" or how I now would have to "Grow Up", and how I would be a completely different person when I first looked into her eyes, and how I would have to babyproof the house, and here is a list of things you need to buy and things you don't need to buy that other people are going to tell you you need to buy. None of that. I told Al that Laurel and I were going to have a child, and Al laughed generously and said, "Oh, wow, you are going to have SO MUCH FUN!" He was the only person who used the word "fun."

Its been about fourteen months. It's been work, life has changed, and maybe I have, too. But I have to tell you, if I had to sum up the last year in a word, it would be "fun." Laurel and I had a lot of fun, and then after about the four month mark, Frances started having fun alongside us, and after about the six month mark, she started having fun right with us, which is slightly different. Big brother was on the money this time.

10/2006: So I put a silly substitute home-page up a month ago. If you miss it, it is here.

Laurel, Frances, and I are doing great. She continues to get web-design work, my job is going well, and the cats get along with the tot. We are auditioning new members for the improv troupe, enough new members that the character of the whole group will be changing radically. The Wright Challenge has started up again. Sorry to be so boring.

I've been doing some fun experiments with morphing animations, and I'll be putting those up here soon.

8/2006: So I was at the AP Reading in Colorado, and a bunch of my fellow math teachers and I were discussing the proper term for this number: -3. We agreed that the technically correct term is "negative three", although we were equally split between people who used that term and people who say "minus three."

"Minus three" is bad because students are already confused between unitary and binary expressions, and the word "minus" in that context just confused the issue. Furthermore, there is a "negative" key and a "minus" key on most calculators, and calling negative three "minus three" makes it harder for the students to understand which should be used when.

"Negative three" has its own set of problems. If you use the correct term, then you are forced to say things like "Let x = -3. Then we know that negative x is positive." The definition of the absolute value function gets very confusing if students are used to calling numbers to the left of zero "negative numbers."

Some teachers claimed to use the term "The opposite of three" but, when pressed, they admitted that using all of those syllables every time didn't last long.

I pointed out that the problem was that there are three concepts here: minus, negative, and "additive inverse" and we only had two words to use, so confusion had to occur. I proposed we come up with a third term, and that from now on we should call -3 "Bizarro three".

Nobody got it. Best line of the week and nobody got it. Fortunately, I got together with some friends at Buca in Minneapolis after the reading, and they all got the joke.

4/2006: My improv troupe had a kickass show at the end of March. Next semester, about 2/3 of the cast will be new people (who will have auditioned in the Fall of 2006). The show was fairly tasteful, but afterwards it got a bit more maudlin than the last episode of M*A*S*H. And I was mostly to blame, but dammit, it was called for.

I'm still working on the book project (can't tell you about that yet), Laurel is working on some websites, and Frances is working on standing by herself.

2/2006: Dick Cheney's approval rating is 18%.

Why is this interesting to me? Because it is now official - more people disapprove of the vice-president than recommend sugarless gum for their patients who chew gum.

1/2006: When my daughter grows up, she may want to be a private person. So it is killing me not to write a lot about her here. Call me and I'll talk your ear off. Email me and I'll do the equivalent. But I don't think it is cheating to say that soon she will be six months old and she is objectively gorgeous."Ugly babies are an embarrassment to all concerned" Lynda Barry

I had some very interesting conversations at the annual math meetings, and I may be doing some really challenging and exciting book projects in 06 and 07.

11/2005 I solved the mystery of the LOST numbers. Click here.

10/2005 Every time I talk to someone on the phone, or see them, they ask if the baby is here yet. As if I would spend fifteen minutes talking to someone about navel lint and the Oxford Comma, and not happen to mention that there was a three day old baby in the house.

Dear World,
I WILL LET YOU KNOW!
Doug

This came to me while I was asleep:

In the hard sciences, there is a great deal of specialization. This means that it is almost certain that there is some biology professor somewhere whose main area of research is pus. So, as a graduate student, this person had to decide at some point, "I would like to major in pus." At graduate school parties (which are the best parties I've ever been to, btw) this guy would have some delicious brilliant lady dancing with him and she would be specializing in "Economic-based Distributed Resource Management and Scheduling for Grid Computing" and ask him what he was researching and he would have to say "Pus."

Poor Pus majors.

7/2005 Today there was much water.

5/2005 I don't know about you, but I think differently about music and culture that came out before I was born. That's "old music". I love that music - if you look at my music you will see a lot of things from the early sixties and the late fifties. (And classical stuff from way before even my brothers Mike and Al were born.) I know it is not just me - I'm sure that you make the same distinction.

Now two weird things: Every song I know, every television show I've seen, every movie I've seen, every painting, book, cartoon, advertisement... all of it will be "old" to my daughter. Her culture has not yet been created. Not a single lick of it. Everything that I know so far, everything that I love so far, will be in the "before I was born" category to her.

Second thing: In 20 years there will, almost certainly, still be a list of the top 10 hit songs in the country. Nobody can even conceive of what they will be like, and yet I know that three of the top 10 hit songs of 2025 will have been written by my daughter.

And not any of this love and rainbows and understandingpeace acoustic Lillith Fair stuff. She will rock out and kick ass. She'll be out there with her nuclear guitar belting out words like

Laurel and Fetus are doing well, the former cheerful and the latter punchy. We did an ultrasound and found out that we are going to have a baby girl, and that she is temporarily breech. I have been officially mooned by my unborn.

I've decided that my daughter will not have a "Time Out Chair." My daughter will have a World Domination chair. When she is wasting energy on displeasing me and Laurel, she will be sent to the World Domination Chair. In front of it will be a fancy globe on a stand. She will have to sit there until she comes up with a plan to rule the world. The backrest will have "World Domination Chair" painted in blood-red letters with a drippy effect, and there will be little fake controls on the armrests, and an old CB microphone that she can use to bark orders to imaginary underlings, and a gong next to it with a big hitty thing that she can use to punctuate powerful announcements, and a space for a little tea-cup, because even Evil Overlord little girls like herb-tea in little teacups.

Don't tell Laurel about my plan yet; this is the type of idea that has to be presented carefully.

1/2005 This is what walking to work is like for me these days:

Laurel and I were married October 9. According to the ultrasound, the marine hit the beachhead on October 25. The due date is August 1. This is something we wanted very much, and so you can officially be happy for us.

(And a shout out to Serge Elnitsky - twere it not for him, I probably would not have met the Laurel)

11/2004: The wedding pictures are up! You can view them here. Your ID is guest@dougshaw.com, and your password is "honored."

NOTES:

THE TALE OF PICTURE 003
We took photos before the ceremony, so that after the ceremony we could be with our guests. Lap left early in the morning to do bride things. At 3 PM, we started the photos. I hadn't seen the dress yet. Lap was set up at the top of the stairs. I waited at the bottom. Picture, picture. Then Lap tapped me on the shoulder and photo 003 occurred.

WHAT IS THAT THING ON THE TOP LEFT OF THE CHUPAH
It's a picture of Basho the Cat. You can see it better in picture 85.

TELL US MORE OF PHOTO 121
My best man, Stuart, and I met in Kindergarten, when he (it turned out falsely) claimed that I was sitting in his chair. You are viewing a re-enactment of my best friend and I meeting.

ARE THERE ANY PHOTOS THAT THE PHOTGRAPHER CENSORED?
The photo session involved a lot of people getting up and sitting down. "Now just the boys" "Now just the girls" "Now Doug and Laurel and Doug's family." "Now Laurel and Doug's nephews who were born in odd-numbered months." It was inevitable that there would be mixups. You can see a photo that was a consequence of the confusion here.

10/2004 Scene: My home, about six months ago:

LAUREL: You agreed to have the deadline for the calc books to be the SAME as our wedding date?
DOUG: Yes. That way I will not forget my book deadline.
LAUREL: Won't that cause a problem as this date approaches?
DOUG: No. It will give me incentive to keep on top of both deadlines. I'll be fine.

(BTW: If you look to the upper right, it is an up-to-the-minute electoral vote count based on state polls. Unless you use internet explorer, in which case it is a blank spot reminding you that Microsoft products aren't exactly state of the art anymore)

6/2004 I'm about halfway through the linear algebra book now. This is one of the toughest I've had to write. It isn't nearly as long as the Multivariable Calculus monster, and I don't have to deal with a boss who wants me to put every sentence in both active and passive voice so he can appear to "choose" even though I only send the active voice one to the typesetter regardless of his choice. So why is it tough? Because linear algebra has always bored the Holy Hell out of me, and it is very hard for me to get into DougShawWhimsicalPlayfulKittyTeacherMode when I am writing about QR Decomposition.

Fortunately, my co-author is a man about whom it was once said, "Mike Prophet would rather diagonalize a matrix than breathe oxygen." So between his boyish enthusiasm (he persists in being younger than I) and my rough-hewn cynicism, we are coming up with a book that we both are really proud of. Think about it - mix sweet and bitter and you get Dark Chocolate, Hot Cappuccino, and ummm... hmmm... Think of a good third metaphor and write it in this space: ___________. It's working great, and I hope we find an excuse to write together again.

5/2004 And we come to the end of another semester. I will be working on some book projects in May, but also will be doing some work-related travel, grading AP exams, doing a video for Brooks Cole, and hopefully revisiting America with the Laurel. But enough about me...

What is it with web designers these days?

It seems that there is some sort of contest to see who can make the "log in" box the smallest and hardest to find. I understand the concept: "We need to spend as much space as possible luring in new customers and suckers, once somebody had made the mistake of REGISTERING to use our site, screw them, let them hunt for the log in box. Bastards. Now that we have made this decision, let us go out and rape puppies."

Look. This is all anyone needs: A "search" box, a "contact us" box, and a "log in" box. ANYTHING ELSE on your damn home page is just icing on the cake, foam on the beer, froth on the rabid-dog's muzzle, cherries on the sundae, Robby Krieger in the Doors.

Yes, I am talking to you Amazon, Fidelity, US Bank, Yahoo, music.yahoo.com, and the rest of you. Make your log in box bigger, top-center, with big circles and arrows and a paragraph at the bottom explaining where it is.

P.S. To all people who think they are Jerry Seinfeld - I know that I don't have a "search" box on this website, even though I just said that websites should have them. You are very clever.

4/2004 I'm writing this at The Oasis coffee shop, and I feel bad about it.

When I interviewed here, someone made sure to show me the local coffee shop, whose name I can't remember. It was the only one within walking distance of my office, but it was nice enough. Word had gotten to the hiring committee that I did a great deal of my writing in coffee shops, and that walking-distance access was something important to me.

By the time I reported for work, it had closed. There was no coffee shop.

A new one opened, called "Ma and Pa's general store." It was usually empty. It got to the point where they never had coffee, but when I would go in they would make me an Americano. An Americano is a shot of espresso in a coffee cup, then filled with hot water. It is analagous to reconstituted mushrooms, to freeze-dried carrots and peas, to... well... to crap. Laurel says she did a side-by-side once, and found very little difference between real coffee and an Americano. To hell with that. If you go to a coffee shop, they should have coffee.

How would you feel if you went to a pet store and they had no kittens, but offered you a dead cat soaked in water to make it take up the same volume as a living cat? You would not like it, right?

It wasn't a particularly comfortable place, and shut down. No coffeeshop for the Douglas. Then a woman named Jen, and her husband James, who were too damn thin and cute to exist opened a shop in the same place. Painted the ceiling with a huge Betty-Boop mural. And then ... they moved to a cheaper spot across the street. The new place was called The Vibe and it had nice coffee and they were friendly and all. Jen was extremely New York Hip, which was kind of refreshing, and not overdone. And she knew the regulars by name, and while it didn't THRIVE it was a good place for me to have coffee and write group-work and all. Why am I writing like Holden Caufield? (answer revealed below, after the life update)

The Vibe was a place I wanted to succeed. Another professor, Moriarty to my Mycroft, also is a coffee shop fiend, and he frequented the Vibe as well. But the Vibe couldn't pay rent, so they moved to above the used bookstore. Stairs were involved, but Jen made it a very nice place. And she hired some great people, including Emily. And then Jen did the ultimate in New York Hip: She left everything and moved to New York City.

Thus ended the Jen Administration and began the Emily Administration. Emily completely rocked. She is one of those people who not only knows the regulars by name, but can give each one the impression that they are her favorite customer. I've spent 5 hours at that shop when the book deadlines loomed, watching her make every single customer feel special and important. Of course, deep down, I knew I was her favorite, but I didn't get all stuck up about it. So much of a coffee shop's mood depends on the Barista or Barrister, and the Vibe was a cool place. I even started to get to know the other regulars, and there was good poetry and joking around.

Then Emily did the ultimate in Icelandic Hip and left everything to move to Iceland. And we became subjects of the Elysia Administration.

I didn't want to like Elysia, because I missed Emily, but Elysia was very very cool, born and bred in Cedar Falls and she wanted to make Cedar Falls a more Happening place. I didn't go to the poetry readings and concerts she booked, but I was glad they existed. I loved the Vibe, although the clientele suddenly got younger. But there was coffee, fellowship, big tables, and silly putty and toys all over the place. Elysia and I became friends, or at least friendish. She and her man actually house-sat for Laurel and I when we went on vacation, and when we came back they cooked us a fancy dinner, and wrote poetry and left it for us in my office. Why is this life update so long and detailed? (answer revealed below, after the life update)

Then Elysia did the ultimate in Cedar Falls Hip and left everything to move to Minneapolis.

And the Vibe lost all its character. I like the new people in charge, but the place has no soul. It has lost enough money that the bookstore owner who bought it can no longer have someone working in the shop, so you buy your coffee in the bookstore and are allowed to go upstairs to an empty, quiet, deserted coffee shop to drink your coffee. I've done that a couple of times, hoping to get work done. But I can't because I am distracted by the ghosts.

There's Jen, talking about starting Yoga classes, with her short brown hair forming little commas around her ears, swapping stories with me about coffeehouse experiences we've had. When light passes through her body, it makes things become crisp, angular, and chrome.

And she gives a little wave to Emily, who is stacking a pile of privately printed Haiku books that she made with some of the other regulars, and arranging the magazines subtly to make the entire room magically warmer. When I look through her, everything winds up being in earth-tones and natural, and the plants get healthy when she passes through them.

And there's Elysia, wearing a domino mask from the Archie MacPhee catalog, spinning around and laughing, creating polka-dots on the tables by touching them, and refracting little rainbows when she walks past the window.

And I say something about Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, and Jen smiles indulgently at the cliche, Emily starts to follow up on it, and Elysia laughs. Why am I telling you all this? (answer revealed below, after the life update)

So I go to the new University Book and Supply coffeehouse, who have sponsored two of my projects, where everyone greets me like I'm Norm from Cheers. And today I am in the new Oasis, built on the ashes of the Red Eye coffeeshop, which wasn't here long enough for me to fall in love with. At the Oasis, the coffee is strong, and there is wireless internet, smoking, and red wine.

I am happy that I now have two coffeeshops to choose from, the Oasis and the University Book and Supply. But I'm a little melancholy that the number is two, when the Vibe is ostensibly still open... perhaps host to another ghost, my ghost, sitting at his usual table, writing group-works for an instructor's guide, being happy.

Answer to above riddles:

2/2004 Okay, so I've been making fun of the Schick Quatro for some time. In the 1970s, Saturday Night Live did a parody ad for a "Trac 3" - a THREE bladed razor. (Making fun of the Schick Trac 2 - the two bladed razor we now take for granted) The slogan? "Three blades - because you will believe anything."

I'll bet the marketers were mad, because I have no doubt they had planned on making a three bladed razor, and knew that they would now have to wait 20 years before coming out with it.

Well, now there is a very silly looking four bladed razor, and I've been making fun of it. Particularly because I want to buy a razor that takes those single blades that come in the little boxes, and I can't find a good single-blade razor anywhere. I wanted to make fun of it on my website, and realized that as a scientist, I couldn't dis' it out of hand without trying an experiment.

So I bought a Schick Quatro, and new blades for my Sensor Excel, and shaved half my face (three days manly Polack growth) with each, so I could have the satsifaction of saying that there was no difference, and letting the mockery begin.

Damn, damn, damn.

The Quatro gave me the best shave of my life. It only took a few strokes to clear the stubble, unlike the Sensor which I had to do all that back and forth stuff that I always need to do. After the shave, I gave it the Girlfriend test, asking Laurel to compare both sides, first with her fingers, then with her cheeks. I proposed other experiments in the name of science, but we stopped there. She said that the Quatro side was not only smoother, but softer as well. And she could tell the difference when she was watching, by the SOUND that each one made as I scraped it across my professorial skin.

I hate hate hate it when the marketing people are right. But I have to say that the idiotic looking Schick Quatro gives a noticably better shave. I wish I were dead.

1/2004 I've been getting a lot of campaign literature. Some of the ideas are good, some I disagree with, but ALL are ALWAYS written at a fourth grade level! How can I respect text written like a school primer? Yes, I know why they do it, but it is so irritating.

Take a look at this:
"XXX XXX believes that the way we strengthen America is to have a government that honors our values. XXX understands that hard work, responsibility, faith and family are the values that built America, and they are the values we should rely on to shape our future. XXX XXX's plan offers real solutions for America."

It's practically doggerel. Over the years I have learned to tolerate bad presidents. But I just cannot get used to bad writing.

12/2003 Once upon a time, before I had a personal home page, I created a web 'zine called Painless Endings. Every "issue" was a poem or story written by me, and then one written by a guest. Because of its personal nature. I used a pseudonym, and didn't tell anyone about it.

Well, I'm older now, and have grown a little less shy about revealing myself to the entire planet. And I've survived all the hate mail from people who still are angry that someone would dare suggest that people compare a real Italian restaurant with the Olive Garden and make up their own minds. Long story short - I'm out of the closet on Painless Endings. I've moved it to this domain. I've wimped out on one "adult" story, and password protected it, but aside from that, here it is.

In other news, this Saturday December 20, from 10:30 - 1:30, I will be performing at the University Book and Supply as Crispy Claus: Santa's Kid Brother. It should be a lot of fun, with songs and embarassing stories about Santa, and you will have a chance to tell him what you want for Christmas, so he can tell his bro'. (I'll be on KWWL on Wednesday, December 17 at 12:30 promoting the event)

(...and check it out! Laurel designed a bulletin board for this website!)

11/2003 I'm going to try to give up swearing for November. I tried last month, October, and wound up swearing over thirty times. Think about that, the average amount was once a day! I think I may have an addiction, or at least a very nasty habit, and it is time to stop.

10/2003 I just got this email:

I am contacting you about cross linking. I am interested in dougshaw.com
because it looks like it's relevant to a site for which I am seeking
links. The site is about a new site with information on dog health,
diseases, problems, and health care.

I'll keep the web address confidential and will send it to you only if you
give me permission to do so. Just let me know if it's OK, and I'll send
you the web address for your review. If you approve of the site, then the
intention is to exchange links.

Looking forward to your reply.

Sincerely,
Lxxxx Hxxxx

I decided to give up swearing for October. Just to see if I could do it. Good idea, right? I didn't count on the ladybug invasion. I don't know what it is like in your part of the country, but Cedar Falls is infested with "Asian Lady Beetles." They swarm outside, and get in your ears. They swarm inside, and get all over, causing you to swear. I'm at 13 times, and I am writing this on the seventh day of the month. And I pay a fee of 25 cents every time.

Darn beetles.                           

10/9/2003: It is up to about 17 swears. I think I am going to extend this experiment for another month after this one. I may have a Problem.
10/16/2003: About 22 - I'm getting better. I have no problem abstaining when I'm angry - well, I rarely get angry - but its the casual ones that sneak in.
10/21/2003: About 26 I think. Thank the Lord that I don't consider the words Crap, Damn and Hell swearing. Maybe I will give them up, too, if I extend the experinment into December
10/31/2003: Grand total: about 30 - 35

9/2003  I recently heard from a friend, who I had been trying to locate for years. We got on the phone, and he reminded me of something that we did when we were in college. A completely forgotten event, that suddenly became a vivid pleasant memory. The actual anecdote isn't important. But it was an interesting feeling - a complete memory suddenly bursting into my active conciousness.

Think of it this way. What is your objective "here and now" reality? For me, right now I am sitting at a desk, typing into a monitor. Right now, that is "me" objectively. All the rest of my Self is based on memories. And, by giving me that memory back, my friend Pete gave me a little bit more of my Self.

He's in Chicago now, and we are going to meet half way on some Saturday and catch up. I'm going to have to rewrite the "Have you seen these people?" essay I'd been working on. He had been the top of my list.

8/2003 The video shoot went very well. Unfortunately, I was so busy in the evenings busting my professorial butt to get this book done on time, that I was not able to look up any of my Massachussets friends. I feel awful about that. But I did get much book written, which is crucial, and the shoot was amazingly fun.

Northwest Airlines sucks.

August is going to be one of my busiest months ever - finishing up projects and also getting ready for next semester. But I don't really have a right to complain, given that I enjoy my job. At the start of this summer, for the first time in my life, I got into Roasted Vegetables and Bloody Marys. (Not eaten together) (And is the plural "Bloody Maries"? "Bloody Maryot?") It is now the end of the summer, and I am still not sick of them. If you care, I can email you my fave Bloody Mary recipe - designed by me, but not terribly innovative.

7/2003  I have a new website that I check regularly. I love bookslut.com and, if you like to read, you will, too. And as long as this update sounds like I'm selling stuff, I should go ahead and say that if you are a user of amazon.com, well you shouldn't be. You should shop at your local, independent bookstore which is chock-a-bloc with knowledgeable attractive staff, many wearing cotton. But if amazon is one of your vices, I ask you to go via the following URL from now on: http://www.dougshaw.com/amazon. Go ahead and bookmark it, I won't mind. Long story short? I get a small kickback of whatever you buy, and I promise to spend it on my local independent bookstore, coffeeshop, or girlfriend. You want Laurel to get presents, right? Well, it's up to you.

This summer is pretty much about working on a College Algebra instructor's guide, with a short camping trip coming up later, and a week in Boston, shooting math videos still later. I've been doing a lot of shish-kebobing, which has caused my red pepper intake to increase dramatically. If only there was some study showing that people who eat a lot of red-pepper become healthy regardless of all the other slovenly stuff they do.

"You're older than you've ever been. And now you're even older. 
And 
now you're even older. And now you're even older. 
You're older than you've 
ever been. And now you're even older. 
And now you're older still." - 
They Might Be Giants

6/2003 Tomorrow I fly to Colorado to grade AP exams for a week. There are 25 exams to a packet, and 100 packets to a big ol' box. The college board takes great pains to make sure that partial credit is consistent. My personal goal has been to grade 2500 problems - i.e. one whole box worth. Last year I graded 2347 of them. The college board discourages emphasizing speed - they are more into you doing a good job. Last year I made a total of four errors. An "error" isn't just counting something wrong when it is right, or vice versa - an "error" is giving a problem a 7/10 when it should have received a 5/10 or something like that. As I said, they are very careful about consistency.

Anyway, for the last two years my personal goal has been 2500 problems, and less than two errors. Let's play a game - you figure out a nice thing you will do for me if I make the goal, and then you get to be personally invested in this madcap wild romp that I like to call "my life."

-----------------------------

Update - I didn't make it. I am ashamed at my accuracy (I made too many errors on one particular day). I am no longer even going to consider speed; my goal for next year will be 100% accuracy. Yes, I said 100% and I mean it.

5/2003 Last week the improv troupe (actually, the half that were still in town) (actually, the 53.846% that were still in town) and I met at the UNI clock-tower to do a short unannounced show, to celebrate the end of the semester. By the end of the show, our audience had swelled to twelve, which is actually quite good, given that the campus is practically deserted. The audience really loved it, some of them actually stamping their feet while laughing. It doesn't feel like any one of us deserves the credit. Something happened this semester - the fourteen of us (including myself here) created something of us, yet apart from us. And the shows we've done has revealed something Very Good, with potential to be even better. I'm not engaging in puffery here - I wasn't going to boast about this troupe on my website. But I'm part of something that is Very Good, and I am afraid that somehow I'm going to screw it up.

For years I've been haunted by an album cover from a sixties band. I even bought the album at a used record store, although by then I didn't have a record player. It just intrigued me; I can't tell you why. (It partially has to do with the woman at the bottom right, who might very well be decended from the woman who posed for the Mona Lisa, and who also looks like she would make love like an angel) Well, I got the CD on ebay. My friends will know that I don't abuse the word "literally." When I use the word, I mean it. I listened it today and it, literally, is the worst album I ever heard.

I don't want to post the name here, because I know people who really love the album. Aw, heck, if you are under 40 click here to see it, otherwise don't. My god it was bad. I was laughing and laughing. I am someone who owns FOUR of Leonard Nimoy's albums. I am someone who had the William Shatner CD. I am someone who has heard the "Bad Beach Boys outtake" show on luxuria dot com. And this was... well I've already said it. I would be ashamed to be born in the fifties, because then I would have been born in the same decade that they were.

My god this was bad. I'm going to have to buy another copy and send it to my friend Ed.

4/2003 The improv show went really well!

"Days go by endlessly, pulling you into the future." Laurie Anderson

I'm very busy at work, but I really don't have a right to complain. No professor does. There are people who mine coal. That seems like a really tough job; the kind of job that merits complaint when you get home. I read a book about people who work at Merry Maids. They have something to complain about. Me? I have an interesting job, work with smart, witty people, and in general have nothing to whine about.

"I can't complain but sometimes I still do." Joe Walsh

...oh, and last Monday, the Regents voted. It's official now. As of next semester, I will have tenure.

"Being just contaminates the void." Robyn Hitchcock

3/2003 So I am directing an improv show, to be performed at the Interpreter's Theater in Cedar Falls on April 3rd, 4th, and 5th. The plan was to have 10 actors, but after auditioning about 20, I found cuts almost impossible to make. We had such a talented group! I wound up casting fifteen gifted UNI students, and now we rehearse twice a week, getting ready for the big night.

At first I was intimidated. For the last few years, I've been part of a variety show in the Twin Cities that features some of the most talented performers I've seen. (I'm not engaging in mere puffery here, many of them have had ace reviews in Minneapolis papers, and the directors made the City Pages' Top Ten must-see list. Ask anybody who's seen the show - these people have It.) So I understood how Ringo must have felt when he made his first solo album... Who the hell am I to direct my own show in a world where the No Pants Cast exists?

But in the past ten years, I've learned quite a lot about improv, and the teaching thereof. And my UNI cast has turned out to be every bit as talented as they seemed during the auditions. And their attitude is phenomenal - enthused and bubbly and eager. We are halfway through the rehearsals now and I'm thinking "This show has the potential to be truly great."

I miss my monthly trips to the Twin Cities, to drop my pants for a paying audience, but I am really looking forward to the first week in April, because it looks like once again I'm going to be blessed to be part of something wonderful.

2/2003 I had so much to tell you. I got to sing Birth of the Blues as a duet with my all-time favorite Opera Singer as part of the New Year's Eve show. I fufilled a life-long fantasy in Iowa City yesterday, and you will be able to hear about it on the radio. The tenure committee made its recommendation to the department head.

But none of that matters anymore. Nothing does. Todd just came into my office and showed me this theorem:

How can I think of anything else ever?

1/2003 Occasionally, some of my former UMTYMP students will show up at the variety show. We share our Life Updates and sometimes I feel like I nothing to say. "Well, you have grown up and seem as healthy and bright and clever and wonderful and attractive as ever. Me? I often feel old and fat and tired, but I have a job that I relish and a fantastic girlfriend that I adore and I'm only missing Basho twice a week instead of twice a day, so I have no idea why I get depressed, but I do" isn't really appropriate. And I get sad that I feel so awkward. UMTYMP (the Minnesota program for talented youth of which I was a part for four years) was a very intense experience - the students worked very hard, and gave their best, while I (as always) worked my hardest, and gave my best, too. We learned a lot of math together at a very fast pace; we also had quite a good time together in that course. The students would often say or do things that would make me laugh out of sheer delight. It was an incredible shared experience that neither I nor the 200 of them will probably ever forget.

A few months ago, and then again last weekend, my show ended and the cast and the audience were socializing and I was standing in front of former UMTYMP students, and all I wanted to say was, "Did the 200 of you realize how much I loved you all?" and I didn't because even if wasn't taken completely wrong it would have sounded really stupid and led to an awkward silence. So maybe the feeling isn't that I have nothing to say; maybe it's that I have too much to say. So I wind up reminding Them about the mouse ears and telling them how glad I was They wore them, thanking Him for the purple shirt that I still wear with a white tie I bought specifically to go with it, telling (or forgetting to tell) Her that my mother has framed the flattering letter she wrote to her about me and it is next to the picture of my Step-Brother joking around with President Clinton.

They don't want me to go all Human and Maudlin on them. They want a bit of the old Doctor-Shaw-show. But sometimes, when I am feeling sentimental or truly happy, it is hard to be "on."

12/2002 Laurel and I were in Houston last weekend, and went to visit NASA (the Johnson Space Center). It was amazingly fun, and it reminded me of what the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago used to be like before they took a bribe from Exxon to make half their exhibits about how good oil is, and took a bribe from Starbucks to plaster its logo in the "authentic 1890 neighborhood." (I'm no museum owner, but I thought that they didn't HAVE the Starbucks logo in 1890)

But I digress. The tourist museum at NASA was a museum done right. There were historical artifacts galore, including the capsules from Apollo 17 and two other missions. (They were smaller than you are imagining. Nope, even smaller) There were fun exhibits for kids, include a playland with a giant slide. But it also was not dumbed down. There was a "dock the shuttle" game that many were playing and nobody was able to win. Erm... except... well, I'm not going to brag. But I will say that I did use some concepts from calculus to get the shuttle into the space station before the fuel ran out, and I was impressed that they didn't do anything to make the game easier. I guess I just bragged.

One thing got me angry. In the middle of all this real science, this dramatic science, this amazing science, this SPACE HELMETS YOU CAN TRY ON science, this testament to the greatness of pure smartitude, there was an exhibit on ... crop circles. A continuous video of some "expert" who probably wasn't even bright enough to get an MBA sitting there talking about how something as Perfect as a crop circle could not be made by a human being... Who the hell decided that it would be a good idea to put that sort of thing in NASA? There was even a "let the VIEWER decide!" part where you could write your thoughts, and they would be posted periodically behind a glass wall. The debate ranged from, "I think that God (Jesus) would not allow aliens to exist and visit Earth and make crop circles" to "It is obvious that Jesus put aliens in the universe so humans would have something to wonder about" and, of course, every opinion in between.

But I don't want to be negative, because this was a marvelous museum. There was a movie room with a history of the Space Program. Laurel and I went in (my urging) expecting a truly hokey experience. But it wasn't. It was a tastefully done movie with very little narration, the story being told in news clips and sound samples, starting before I was born and continuing through the present day. The Challenger disaster was neither dwelled on nor ignored. In front of the screen was the podium at which John F. Kennedy announced our goal of reaching the moon. They did not have the desk at which Ronald Reagan agreed to "have NASA out of Space Exploration by 1986," but that was just as well.

Then there was a room that was also a vault, in which the moon-rock was stored - the one that you could actually touch. I went around looking at other things first, while Laurel went straight for the moon rock. Then I went to touch it. I had to kneel down to get the angle right (it was pretty well protected and insulated, so you had to come at it horizontally from kid-height) I didn't expect for a second to be any way affected by it; I assumed that I would just be able to say, "I touched a moon rock" to some bored friends and be done with it.

I must have been there for about 5 minutes. I was touching a rock that had come from the moon. Let me try to rephrase that: I was touching a rock that had come from the moon. No, I don't think you really appreciate what I am saying, let me put it another way: I was touching a rock that had come from the moon. One more try: I was touching a rock that had come from the moon.

No, you don't get it. Before I went to NASA I wouldn't have gotten it either. I can't describe how I felt, what it meant to me. I hadn't felt that way about space-travel since I was in first grade and everyone in my class except for me wanted to be an astronaut. (I wanted to grow up to be a math professor in Iowa, of course) It was just nuts. I went to tell Laurel about it, and her back was turned to me, and when she turned around, she almost looked as if she had been crying. The rock had affected her, too. "We're going to get NASA out of space exploration by 1986." You didn't completely succeed, Ron, but you didn't completely fail.

I was touching a rock that had come from the moon.

My name is Doug Shaw. I'm a math professor and a pretty ordinary guy. And I have experienced a miracle.

11/2002  The book is done!

10/2002 Dear God,

As of this writing I am

1. Alive
2. Not in physical pain
3. Doing something I love that I think is
4. Cool
5. Getting paid for it
6. Able to grow a fantastic beard at will

Thanks.

Your Pal,
Doug

9/2002 What a busy semester I am having!

Last weekend I was in Minneapolis for the tech-rehearsal for the variety show. I hate it when the best way to express my thoughts is a cliche, but I am so proud to be a part of this show. The dancers, the keyboardist, the tech-guy, the actors, and the writers are just so damn talented, and here I am, a portly math-professor, up on stage with them all... How cool is that?

8/2002: I'm typing this from a hotel room in Boston. For the next two weeks, I will be here, working on a video project for Brooks Cole. The idea that students throughout the country will be seeing my silly mug on their television screens, teaching them calculus, is both exciting and terrifying. A lot of people who I highly respect have put their faith in me for this one, and I feel quite a bit of pressure to prove that they were right to do so. And of course the big question: Do I wear a normal tie or yield to the voices in my head chanting, "Go for the bow-tie, dude!"

...yes, the voices of my id sometimes use the word "dude." My superego has given up trying to stop them.

I close on my house at the end of August. It has three bedrooms, a semifinished basement and a 5.5% mortgage rate. When I was a mere youth, the standard interest rate on a savings account was 5.75% which is more than 5.5% which means that you could even say that... well it means that literally... well, I can't think of anything particularly interesting to say about that fact, but I'm sure that there is something interesting to be said. Think of your own clever thing and write it in this space.

If anybody has any extra furniture, please ship it to me.

7/2002: Minor car-accident. No big deal, but it involved some body work. My insurance paid for it. And it did involve repainting... so I thought, "Hey, as long as insurance is paying to paint part of the car, why don't I have them paint the whole car purple?" It is gorgeous. Bright, Metallic, and very very purple. I feel like I am driving a new car around. Well worth the extra money. If you are in Cedar Falls next year, and you see a purple Hyundai driven by a very happy looking fellow, then the odds are that you are looking at my car.

There was an old scratch-and-dent on the car, and the insurance person asked if it was from the same accident. I could have told a lie, a quick "yes" to someone who was half-nodding anyway, and I would have saved about $500 or more on the paint job. A serious amount, particularly since things are tight this summer. But I chose not to lie, because, well, it would have been stealing and stealing is wrong.

Why do I bring it up? Because a friend of mine is a new convert to the Baptist religion (do I say, "A new convert to Baptism"? That can't be right) and is always condemning me for being a "moral relativist." He used to always tell me I was a fool for not deducting pleasure trips as business expenses, as he did. I know for a fact he has not written a check to the government to reimburse them for his prior theft; I wonder if he still is stealing? And another friend of mine went to Sunday school and was taught never to marry an Atheist, because, for example, the Atheist will want to cheat on the family taxes and the Christian will not. And a couple of weeks ago two different friends sent me a chain email stating that the responsibility for the World Trade Center Bombings lay, not with the evil religious extremists who destroyed it, but with the Atheists living in this country.

This is probably not the time or the place for me to come out of the closet, and I didn't expect to when I started, but I didn't lie to the insurance company, and it cost me a lot of money. I don't lie on my taxes and it costs me a lot of money. And I don't believe in God. If you are a believer, and you behave differently than I do, don't worry; I won't judge you. We moral relativists are like that.

6/2002: So, last week I graded 2347 AP Calculus problems. There are 25 exams to a packet, so I had hoped that when the smoke cleared, I would have graded 2500, or exactly one hundred packets. But that was just my mental geeky goal. We are supposed to worry about accuracy, not speed, and my accuracy was good, so that is what the College Board really is concerned about.

I think that all concerned teachers of AP subjects (both high-school AP teachers and college professors) should consider applying to grade AP exams. It is a week-long process, where they pay all expenses (flight, room, board, snacks) and you get a reasonable stipend. You learn a lot about grading, and you get to spend a week hanging with concerned, expert teachers of your subject. Go to AP Central for more information.

I will be living in St. Paul for the rest of June and July, working on the book, with occasional trips to Cedar Falls doing house-buying things. At some point, probably in July, I will be a home-owner. Then, due to a wonderful but unfortunately timed opportunity, I will probably spend the first three weeks of August in Boston. So June and July will be my last extended stay in the city for quite a while (maybe forever?) so please don't be shy about contacting me to take me out in the evenings. And yes, Laurel will be joining me in Cedar Falls.

(and happy half-century birthday to he-knows-who)

5/2002: Travel, travel, travel. I am supposed to be living in St. Paul for the summer. But there are frequent trips to Cedar Falls, because I am house shopping. AND Laurel and I have pals there to visit. Soon I am off to Colorado for a week to grade AP exams. Over one million AP Calculus problems have to be graded, and I am proud to be on the team. So I am living in St. Paul, but am often not there.

Yes, I said "house shopping." Scary, isn't it?

AP CALC UPDATE:

As of 6/9 I have graded 181 problems, no errors
As of 6/10 I have graded 181 + 317 = 498 problems, one error
As of 6/11 I have graded 181 + 317 + 335 = 833 problems, one error
As of 6/12 I have graded 181 + 317 + 335 + 407 = 1240 problems, three errors
As of 6/13, I have graded 181 + 317 + 335 + 407 + 339 = 1579 problems, four errors
As of 6/14 I have graded 181 + 317 + 335 + 407 + 339 + 695= 2274 problems, four errors
Final Total: I have graded 181 + 317 + 335 + 407 + 339 + 695 + 73 = 2347 problems, four errors

5/2002: My students, all of my students, the ones getting As and the ones getting Fs, the ones who want to be enrolled in my course and the ones who are stuck fulfilling a requirement, the ones who like math and the ones who don't, are a very pleasant bunch of students and a joy to teach. I'm a very lucky guy.

4/2002: Performance alert! click here for details!

When I was in fourth grade, Lester taught me to draw the following figure:

He said it was a "family secret", and that he would hit me if I dared reveal the secret of creating it. Perhaps to emphasize that fact, or perhaps to alleviate his guilt at sharing the secret with me, he hit me several times that day. But it was worth it, for I had secret knowledge, and I drew the figure obsessively for about a year before becoming bored with it.

I was teaching Math for Elementary Education majors today, and wanted to put a figure on the board that demonstrated rotational symmetry without having reflection symmetry. My class notes had a prosaic little figure in them. Suddenly, I remembered, "Lester's Drawing!" and drew it on the board. It took me two tries. "I'm sorry," I explained, "I haven't drawn this since the fifth grade." They laughed. They thought I was kidding. Okay, they didn't really laugh, but they smiled kindly.

So I got to draw a picture that I learned in the fourth grade, in front of a bunch of nice people, as part of my career. And, as long as I'm telling you this story, I'm going to show you how to draw it, thus "getting even" with Lester for hitting me for no reason.

Today has been a good day!

Step 1	Step 2	Step 3	Step 4	Step 5	Step 6
Draw a square	Make it into a "Twisted Cross"	Give it feet	Connect the feet with curves	Add holes	Save as a transparent .gif

3/2002: You and I are in a mid-conversation and you ask me if I've read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and I say "Yes." Did I lie? I would say that I did not, and Laurel would say that I did. When I was making a long drive, I rented the unabridged book-on-tape and listened to it. So technically I didn't "read" the book, it was read to me. But I also don't like the clumsiness of answering a simple question: "Did you read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea" with a longish explanation, like the one I just presented. So I just say, "yes."

So, depending on whether you talk to Laurel or me, I may or may not be "reading" Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. It is a spoof of the pettiness of the society of Manners and Breeding, but the problem is that satirizing these people requires that the reader spend time with them. This is a hard book to "read" because of the annoyingness of the characters. But for every three horrid scenes there is always one "gem" that makes me happy that I picked this one up. And it is long enough to last for many Iowa-Minneapolis car rides.

2/2002: In deference to my parents, I am not going to swear, but I am swearing angry.   No, "angry" isn't the word.  Maybe "sad," but aggressively sad.  Sad like I want to scream and cry and pound my fists on the wall.  Sad like I want to grab the moon in my hands and shake shake shake it until the entire world is staring and someone asks, "Hey, Doug, what the heck is your problem?"   Funny you should ask:

Here's a hypothetical for you.  My best friend gets divorced, after only being married for four years.  She is twenty-two years old, and very depressed about it.  And I send her a card, saying, "I'm very sorry about your bad news.  I just want you to know that I am here for you as you go through this, your very first divorce."  What would you think of that statement?   What would you think of me for making it?  Unbelievably cruel?   Unbelievably tactless?  Unbelievably stupid?  I think the key word here is "unbelievable."  Even though you, the reader, may not know me very well, I'm sure that you would have a hard time believing that I would ever use the phrase "your very first divorce."

Oh, let's do another hypothetical.  You are friends with a married couple.  They get into a car accident.  The wife winds up in the hospital; the husband does not, but he has a black eye and lost a couple of teeth.   Neither talk much about the accident, but as time goes by there is a rumor that police were involved, and they nearly divorced.  One day later, you are at their house.  The wife's limp is permanent, and the husband's face is scarred.  They ask if they can take you into their confidence, and you agree.  It turns out that the husband was driving drunk that night, and the wife knew about it, but was too drunk to object.  After you express your surprise, and support, you say, "I just want you to know I won't tell anyone about this, your very first serious drunk-driving accident."  Would you say that?  "Your very first drunk driving accident?"  I don't buy it.  I can't believe anyone would be that tactless.   That stupid.

Okay, lets move beyond the hypothetical.  Prominent Republicans, including George W. Bush, and recently Democrat Richard Gephardt, have done the following:  They give a speech about the war, and then they end some flowery patriotic phrase with "...we will win this, the first war of the twenty-first century."  The cadence of the speaker is always as if he was talking about a teenager's first date, or a baby's first word.  How wonderful.  Our very first war.  I think you take my point, so I'm going to stop now before I say something I will regret. 

1/2002:  Robotic Combat, like a Jazz Trio, is a wonderful form of entertainment that is best enjoyed Live.  Laurel, Jeff, and I went to see TechWars last weekend.  My god, there is nothing like watching radio-controlled death robots mixing it up right before your eyes, looking like they are going to destroy the very arena as well as each other.   Actually, a couple of times they did break through the arena walls - don't mess with Son Of Whyachi or The Tortoise.

I'm not wearing ties this semester.  Did my students treat me differently last term than I've been treated in the past?  It is hard to say - they weren't particularly more Respectful, but there was a definite positive change.   But I don't know if I can attribute that difference to my wearing a bow-tie, or just the routine variance in class personalities.  It only takes four or five members of a class of thirty to determine the overall mood.  A few grousing students, and you have thirty people complaining about everything.  A few vocal students and you suddenly have thirty people willing to ask questions and volunteer solutions.  Maybe I just had the right mix. 

On the other hand, I certainly feel a difference in my own outlook.  Mornings feel less structured now that they don't include selecting a bow-tie, and letting my fingers perform their deft cloth-magic.  There was something about seeing myself in the mirror, doing what Bruce Wayne, Cary Grant, James Bond, Fred Astaire and Bill Nye all did when they were getting ready for work...  it made me feel more confident and professional.  I am aware that this is an odd thing to say, given that bow-ties are viewed as quirky at best and clownish at worst.  I don't believe strange women saw me and thought, "Oh, look at that man in a bow-tie... he looks dashing and dangerous... the type of man who can make a girl do crazy things without her realizing it."  But I got a big kick out of it, and I miss that.

My former boss, Harvey Keynes, once said, "If we knew what the outcomes were, they wouldn't be experiments."  Well, this semester I'm going sans tie, and I'll keep you posted.

12/2001: It is clearly time to get a new picture up in the upper-right hand corner.  I had that one taken when I was a graduate student, auditioning for Second City Detroit.   I haven't changed it, because it is spoofed on Anakin's page.  Then again, it probably time to get a new photograph of him up - his was taken by his breeder when he was the merest of kittens.

A couple of weeks ago, my late cat, Basho, got an email from a prominent TV psychic, Miss Cleo.  (And not even to his email address)  Okay, okay, if you all insist, I'll share the email with you:

FROM THE DESK OF MISS CLEO:  Basho, We must speak with you. I don’t usually take the time out to write a personal note, Basho, but your name was provided by someone you had recently spoken to. We believe your vibrations to be so strong that I’ve endorsed a free Tarot reading with one of our elite psychics! It’s urgent, however, that you call immediately—I can only reserve this number for a limited time. Call toll-free 1-800-[censored], now!   Basho, we sensed that your connection is likely to be unusually strong, especially in the very near future. It is vital that you call us right away to optimize the results of your reading. There’s not much time! Call toll-free 1-800-[censored] as soon as you receive this letter! With love and prayers, Miss Cleo  P.S. Please do not share this number with anyone—it is meant only for you, Basho. However, you must call soon—we can only reserve this number for a short time. Call toll-free 1-800-[censored] right now!  Must be 18+. For entertainment purposes only.

I know it is rude to make fun of other people's beliefs, but if you are one of those people who believe in the psychic ability of Miss Cleo I have to ask why she didn't realize these four things about my sweet Basho (1) he is a cat (2) he would be under 18, if he weren't  (3) dead (4) he is unable to read email.  I didn't print the number, not out of fear of Miss Cleo's wrath, but because I don't want to help her spread her silly meme all over the internet.

11/2001: For the past fourteen years, whenever times have been really hard, I've waited until I was home, and called Basho.  I'd hear the "trot trot trot" sound, and then he would leap into my arms, and I would hold him and bury my face into his fur and hear him purr loudly and feel him rubbing his head on mine.  I often didn't have to call, because he would "trot trot trot" as soon as my key turned in the lock, or he would be waiting there if I was home five minutes later than usual.

Okay, for the last several years he hasn't so much "trot trot trot"ted as walked, and he hasn't so much "leaped" as stood at my feet staring at me, meowing to be picked up.

Last Friday I had a very sad conversation with his veteranarian.

During his last evening, he got to eat the other cats' food, that was usually forbidden to him because of his Kidneys and his F.U.S.  He didn't have to sneak a mouthful - he got to eat all that he wanted.  It wasn't that much; he hasn't been eating a lot this month.  But he clearly enjoyed it.  Laurel bought him a very light harness and we took a walk outside.  I expected him to wander, like cats do, but he liked walking in a straight line on the sidewalk, tail held high like he used to hold it when he was younger, walking at an even steady pace alongside me.  I could hear him purring even over the wind.  Sometimes he would stop and meow to be picked up, and when I lifted him he butted his head into mine and rubbed his head and seemed VERY pleased.  I wish I could say that I was enjoying myself, too, but I wasn't.  I was crying.  When Laurel called him he walked to her, and when I then called him he walked to me, and I may have even detected half a "trot".

I had a show late Friday Night.  Laurel took him out again, and they sat by the stairs, until he discovered the catnip plant that I'd been harvesting for the past few months.

On Saturday morning, we hung around the house.  I held him and petted him in my lap, as usual, wondering if we should give him another week or two.  I'm not going into the details now - but another week would have been very uncomfortable for him.  But it was hard to believe it when he was acting so normal and happy.  At one point he went to his special spot in the closet.  I pulled up a chair, and sat there, too.  He purred when I sat down, and soon fell asleep.   Later that morning, he went for another walk, and swatted at fallen leaves.  I picked him up again and we went to the car.  No cat-carrier this time; he was never going to have to go into the cat-carrier again.

I asked Laurel not to go into the actual examination room with us.  She and Basho said their goodbyes in the waiting room, and I took him into the examination room.  The vet said vet things, and I held onto Basho while she got the stuff ready.   I was miserable.  And I did what I always do when I'm that miserable - I buried my face into his fur and listned to him purr.  I told the vet to go ahead.  It was hard to speak, my throat was tight and small like a soda straw.  I took my face out of his fur so I could look at his head.  He turned to face me and we made eye contact.  We held like that for a few seconds, and then his head flopped to one side.

I put him down on a towel on the examination table, and looked at him for about thirty seconds.  Then I asked Laurel if she wanted to come in and see Basho.  I thought she would decline but she stood up and walked in with me.   She had been crying.  We paid our respects.  I am usually detached and cynical about things like, well, things like standing respectfully staring at a dead cat.   But I didn't feel anything like that.  I was just so so sad.  And all I wanted was to call him and have him jump up into my arms and comfort me, but that is never, ever going to happen again.

I want him back.

10/2001:   Performance alert!   Click here for details!

I was tired of having a nice tuxedo and using a clip-on bow tie with it.  So I decided to learn how to tie a real bow-tie.  It took me a while to procure one, and an unexpectedly long time to figure out how to tie it.  Not having anybody to teach me, I had to look for information on the web.  There is one tricky bit that was hard for any of the relevant websites to convey.  Even after I finally was able to get it tied, it still took a half hour per attempt. 

I was quite proud when I finally figured it out.   Christmas occurred, and Laurel bought me some very nice bow-ties that would arrive one every-other-month for one year.  These ties were custom-made by a Maine seamstress out of fabrics I selected (in the style I chose), and were gorgeous.  It was frustrating that I only got to wear them with my tux, about once a month, as part of some shows I was in.  I wanted to wear them more often.  Especially as I was getting better and better at tying them.

A well-tied bow tie can be worn all day without discomfort.  A well-tied bow tie gives you a satisfying "click" sensation at the moment the tying is complete - comparable to the moment when you've just finished grading sixty final exams, or the moment between the time your parachute opens and you feel the crotch-pain when the wind jerks you up, or the moment when you've signed all the papers and you start your new car for the first time.  A well-tied bow tie does not get in the way when you eat, when you lean over, or when you spin around in a circle.   A well-tied bow tie gives the illusion of a rare and pretty event, even though one can experience it on a daily basis.

...as I do.  Laurel's gifts made me feel too good to confine the wearing to those special occasions when my friends are generous enough to let me on stage and Minneapolitans are twisted enough to pay for admittance.  Since the beginning of the school year, the last thing I do before leaving home in the morning is to turn up my collar, select a custom-made product of my Maine Seamstress' labor, and work my cloth-origami-magic-trick.   I am delighted at my quick-skillfulness, getting a satisfactory knot my first try, every time, in about a minute.  I may not have finished proving the Collatz Conjecture, I may not have my weight down to 180 pounds, I may not be able to consistently beat my on-line scrabble partner, but I can tie a bow-tie like nobody's business.

Unfortunately, the seeds of my problem are contained in the solution.  I've gotten too good at it.  On two separate occasions in as many weeks, somebody has complimented me on my neckwear, and then offered to teach me how to tie a "real" bow-tie. 
    "Um, this IS a real bow-tie"
    "No, I mean a 'real' bow-tie, as opposed to a 'clip-on.'"
    "This is not a 'clip-on' ."
On the first such incident, I dramatically pulled at the end, allowing the whole to unravel, revealing a single segment of Maine craftsmanship.  The second time, I just stood there while my colleague poked and tugged, finally complementing me on my knotting excellence.

Now I am obsessed.  Does everybody think I wear clip-ons?  I feel like my naturally blonde friend whose hair is so "classically perfect" in color that everybody assumes she dyes it.  I feel like my friend Phil G, whose high-school science project was so wonderful that everyone assumed that he didn't do it by himself.  How do I convey to the world at large that I am not a pre-made pretender?  Am I to take my morning craftsmanship and ... spoil it slightly ?  In elementary school, a Native American speaker told us how her nation did just that when they wove blankets, because only God had the right to make something perfect.  Or do I just work into EVERY conversation the phrase, "By the way, lookit me!  I tied this myself!"  That doesn't work either.  There are no easy answers in this cruel world, but I shall carry on, knowing that at least Laurel and my seamstress know the Truth, and perhaps that is enough.

9/2001:   Performance alert!   Click here for details!

We are at war, and were told that we would have to sacrifice civil liberties for the duration of the war, and that the war will probably last for years.  I understand that.  What I don't understand is how will we know when the war is over?  In past wars, the end occured when one side was wiped out, one side gave up, or all sides signed a treaty.  Everyone acknowleges that terrorism will never be completely wiped out, and we know that they aren't going to give up, or sign a treaty.  (It isn't like there is some Terrorist Union Local #245 who can bargain on behalf of all terrorists everywhere)  So how will the war possibly ever end?   I'm not asking this to be a "liberal" and I'm not asking to be a smart-aleck.  I am sincerely, all-rhetoric-aside, confused.  If you get a chance to ask a question of anyone in power, please find out the answer for me.

9/2001:   Performance alert!   Click here for details!

I had Frosted Flakes for breakfast.  I haven't had cold cereal in a long time.  I realized as I was eating it that there was nothing in the world that would have tasted as good at that moment.  It is rare that you get just what you want exactly when you want it. 

In two weeks, back to Iowa I go.  Cedar Falls winters are cold, and it is good to have a warm place to sleep.  I don't have a place to live yet, and I am frightened.  This is bad.  I am going to be taking a yoga class; this is good.

Things proceed apace - Basho has recently been diagnosed with diabetes, which is bad.  I'm teaching Number Theory next semester, which is very good. 

"Life is made of marble and mud." - Oscar Wilde.   "You see," said Mrs. Weinberg, my English teacher who quoted him, "many of you want the 'marble' part of life, but don't want to accept the..." and then she pointed to the word "mud" on the blackboard.  She smiled knowingly and condescendingly - foolish foolish high-school students, wanting the best part of life but not the worst.  I sat quietly in my seat.  I didn't stand up and shout the following.  "ARE YOU MAD?  Of COURSE we want the good and not the bad.  The reason that we call bad things 'bad' is that we don't want to experience them.  If getting poked in the eye was pleasurable, we wouldn't call it 'bad' now, would we?  I can also quote famous humorists.  'I don't like pain!   Pain hurts!' -Lucy Van Pelt." 

Yes, having a cat with diabetes is "part of life", but NOT having a cat with diabetes is also "part of life", and (having experienced both states of being) I can safely tell you that the latter is preferable.

I have good and bad elements in my life now, and many people are much worse off than I am.  In fact, to be fair, the vast majority of people in the world are much worse off than I am.  But, shallow as it is, today I find myself thinking about those people I know who are better off than me.  And unfortunately, I am thinking of them while within reach of a computer, and hence this life-update.

7/2001:  Performance alert!   Click here for details!

Laurel took me to the Semisonic concert in April.  Now, I've seen some great concerts in my time: Laurie Anderson, Beck, Garbage, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Ben Folds Five, etc.  (Click here if you are a member of my family)   This was the best concert I've ever attended in my life.  First and foremost, of course, is the music.  Picture your favorite Semisonic album.  Picture it fifty times better live.  These people are amazing live.  The don't only play their songs, they celebrate them.  But a concert isn't only about the music, its about the show.  Without ever being gimmicky or gratuitously high-tech, these people put on a heckuva show.  Laurel and I used the exact same tacky phrase:   "You could feel the love."  Part of the fun is that Semisonic started out as a local Minneapolis band.  (In fact, their drummer lives down the hall from us.)  So here they were, back from Paris and London, touring the United States, and playing the State Theater.  The former local band playing the State Theater.   And you could tell how thrilled they were.  It all boiled down to the show as a whole.  Semisonic puts on an outstanding performance.  They got the entire audience singing, participating, sharing.  Look, the average life-span of a rock and roll band has been decreasing steadily in the last decade or so.  If Semisonic comes to your town, I would strongly suggest seeing them if you have the chance.

I'm in Minneapolis for the summer (except for a week in Colorado, grading AP exams).  I'm getting a lot of work done, and also having a heck of a time.  Drop me a line!

4/2001:  I wrote quite a long life-update, that became the Botticelli essay.  Click here to read it.

2/2001:  This is a true golden age of television, and most people don't realize it.  Think about it - in the past five years there have been quite a lot of really good television programs, programs that don't always assume you are an idiot.  Animation fans - besides the Simpsons, there has been the underrated Family Guy, Futureama, and the Powerpuff Girls.  There are some genuinely funny sitcoms on right now - Malcolm in the Middle, that 70s Show and Everybody Loves Raymond are all worth checking out.  West Wing and Law & Order are dramas that aren't afraid to leave you asking some questions.  On the late-night front, Conan O' Brien and The Daily Show all have true wit behind their silliness.  And for the eclectic we have Iron Chef, Junkyard Wars, and Otcek Lopfv.  And that's just what's on now - check out reruns of Freaks and Geeks, Homicide, Frasier (yeah, I know it's still running) and the like.  I don't watch all of these shows regularly, obviously, but when I turn on the TV I am surprised at how often I find something good to watch.

Please don't send me email saying how I left your favorite show off the list, because that isn't where I'm going with this.  My point is that there are sit-coms that are funnier than The Cosby Show was at its best, late night shows that are better than Letterman was at his best, and dramas that put L.A. Law to shame.   There is an unprecedented choice of really good television out there now, even for smart people.  Like all trends, this one won't necessarily last, so let's take a moment to appreciate it for now.

...if one of my students is reading this, please ignore the above two paragraphs, and get to work on your calculus homework.  Television is bad.  Worse than swearing. 

12/2000:  "SEQUOIA" on a triple word score, using all seven tiles.   Really, what else needs to be said?

9/2000:  Work has been very exciting lately, to the point where I haven't had much time to update the ol' home-page.  So fasten your seat-belt, here is what's up:

Last year, I finished a paper presenting some new results on the Collatz conjecture.   After discussing it with some colleagues, I sent it to a journal which I will not name because I don't want to give myself cannahurra.  Well, two weeks ago it was sent back to me with suggested revisions.  The tone of the cover letter was that the journal will probably accept the paper if it is satisfactorily modified.  I agree with all of the reviewer's suggestions, and they seem do-able, so this month will be spent back in the world of tripling numbers and adding one to them. 

I have been spending a lot of time on The Wright Challenge, a math contest where all UNI students and Iowa high-school students are eligible for marvy prizes and handsome certificates, suitable for framing.  (If you aren't an Iowa resident, and promise not to tell anyone, you are still eligible to win a certificate if you perform outstandingly)  I worked up a press release for said contest, intending to send it to the major Iowa papers.  A few days later, the UNI department of public relations sent out a form letter to all faculty saying, in effect, "We are here!  Use us!"  (They said it better - they write things like that for a living).  So, I went to the PR office, dumped the press release in their lap and said, "Are you telling me that I can leave this here and it becomes your problem, not mine?"  And they laughed and said, "Yup!"   They did edit the release a bit, removing the paragraph about the University of Northern Iowa, and removing the phrase "ruggedly handsome."  In exchange for my acceptance of their suppressing of reality, they sent it to EVERY newspaper in Iowa, every television station, every radio station.

The next two weeks involved lots of radio stations calling me to do telephone interviews, a newspaper reporter, and even a photographer!  There was a story in the local paper, with a picture that (thankfully) didn't make it into the web version of the story.     Our math office staff is incredible.  For the past year, they have taken care of posting the problems throughout campus, and this semester are going to take over the record-keeping, as the number of participants grows.  Nan Sash came up with the idea of sending the press release to area high-school teachers, and she made this happen.  (I gave her my version of the press release.  Ho ho ho!)   The whole thing has been very exciting, and the contest has been getting a lot of entrants. 

In addition to teaching Calculus, I'm teaching topology for the first time.  "What is Topology?" you ask?  Picture a scene that could have been in Terminator 2:  The evil morphing robot is disguised as a bagel.   When Schwarzenegger decides not to order a bagel, the robot transforms smoothly from a bagel to a coffee-cup.  Now, some properties of his shape changes when he morphed.  For example, the bagel had symmetry, the coffee cup did not.  But some properties did not change.  There was always one hole throughout the process.   The shape was always three-dimensional.  Properties of a set of points that change when you morph them are called "geometric" properties, and properties that don't change are "topological" properties.  And the course I am teaching is about sets of points and Topological properties.

Both my topology students and my calculus students are truly wonderful.  After I'm done teaching all three classes I sometimes find myself thinking, "...and they pay me to do this?  What's the catch?"

I know it is very annoying to hear people rant about how much they like their job, so I'm sorry.  I'll try to find something to whine about next time.