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Posts tagged as “We Call It Living”

End of an Era

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So Rush has announced that they’re no longer going to tour. Now, I take announcements of retirement by musicians with a grain of salt - how many farewell tours did Cher and Tina Turner have? - unless the musicians have actually died, and then hey, there’s always Tupac to throw a wrench in that monkey. (He, Elvis and Jim Morrison recently announced their tour - I’ll stop.) 20150723_192124.jpg But Rush has been touring for 40 years, their R40 concert was amazing, and their last several albums were solid - if there’s any time they should stop, this is it. If I’d done something awesome for 40 years and I felt inclined to stop, that would be a good point to do it. (I never plan to stop; I want to faceplant in my keyboard before they freeze my head, but hey, that’s me). 20150723_192047.jpg Rush was my introduction to rock; it was the first rock band I enjoyed, the first music that my friends liked that I liked too. (Normally there’s no crossover, or, rarely, the musical introductions went the other way around). I still remember “Tom Sawyer” though, after the death of my dad “Vapor Trail” is my favorite. And a Rush concert was one of the first dates I had with my future wife. Enjoy your laurels, my never-forgotten friends. Your labors may or may not be ended, but your music will live forever. -the Centaur

Red Herrings

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So, I’m behind on my blog. And several posts have died on the vine because events have moved too fast.

So let’s get you all caught up on what’s going on.

It all appeared to start when the lights burned out on my car. This was distressing because I’d just had them replaced, twice in the last nine months, and is a real pain in the kestrel because while one of the bulbs, the left side, is easy to replace, the other, the right, is devilishly hard to get to, and even harder to put back because of a bracket that pokes right where your hand should go. The bruised back of my right hand is still hurting from the attempt to get the bulb back in - but as you can see above, I succeeded. I even took a picture, with the ripped up package that had held the new bulbs now holding the old bulbs, just to prove I did it.

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I felt good about that, and so had a nice meal - actually, that’s a lie. I was already heading to dinner - and actually, that’s a lie too, I was at work. I fixed my car's headlights on the first dry day after the day I bought the bulbs, squeezing it in between a bank trip to fix some Thinking Ink Press business and my usual evening “break” which consists of a drive listening to a fiction audiobook (“Imprisoned with the Pharaohs” by Lovecraft), a dinner reading technical papers (on deep learning) and a coffeehouse run working on writing stuff (more Thinking Ink Press work and research for the new opener of THE CLOCKWORK TIME MACHINE).

But, as the evening wound down and I packed it in to go to the gym with my night-owl wife, I started mentally planning a short blogpost about “So I can fix my car!” which I felt all unwontedly triumphal about since I’d tried replacing these bulbs two or three times before and always had to get it done at an auto shop, but “Look, Ma! Bruised hands!” I did it myself this time, and I felt great about it.

Until I got back to my car and it failed to start.

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The car’s failure mode was strange. The door opened, the lights came on and stayed on, all normal - but then all the interior displays flickered and died without starting the engine, and then progressively all electric circuits on the car locked up, including the locks and the trunk - though some weird device in the hood of the car made a sad, dying-Millennium-Falcon-hyperdrive whine. The failure was so strange, in fact, that at first I thought I’d fried a circuit when I was struggling with the light (though later I realized that would probably have just blown a fuse).

So there I was, eleven at night, with a dead car, in a sub-sub-basement parking garage in a part of Palo Alto so spooky I’ve written about it as a haunt of vampires. (In the middle part of the third Dakota Frost book, LIQUID FIRE, available on Amazon in print and on Kindle - am I spoiling the mood? I’m spoiling the mood. I’ll stop).

My night-owl wife was desperately trying to finish the antiquing on a mirror due tomorrow, so I was unable to get her on the phone - and she was forty-five minutes away regardless. So I tried to carefully think through my options: call a roadside service (which I don’t have), get the car towed to a nearby garage (a prospective gamble if the garage couldn’t take me), rent a car to get home (somewhat expensive), get a nearby hotel until the morning (probably more expensive), get a cab (certainly much more expensive), and so on, and so on. I settled on a tow truck with good Yelp ratings, only to find that they couldn’t send a truck out until morning because of the ridiculously low clearance of the sub-sub-basement of the parking garage I was parked in (6’8”).

We canceled it, and I finally got a call from my wife, who agreed to pick me up. With difficulty I extracted my work laptop from the frozen trunk of the car and sealed the car up. It was midnight, and almost everything was closed, so I then trudged to a nearby Subway and waited, starting on my work laptop the work I was fairly convinced I wouldn’t have time to get to the next morning, all the time thinking about a blogpost “So I can fry my car” while I angstily considered the wisdom of running 130,000 miles on a car, or working myself to the bone, or of a late-night coffeehouse run with my car in such a low clearance garage.

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The next day, after canceling my morning meetings, arranging a tow and a garage visit, and an adventure in helping my wife deliver her mirror, my wife brought me back to the parking structure. The sub-sub-basement was sealed - it’s private parking during the day - and after wandering around looking for a buzzer an eagle-eyed security guard found me and agreed to let me in. The tow was almost guaranteed to be expensive because of the clearance, so the tow company sent a battery technician out; after another adventure guiding the technician to the poorly marked garage via cell phone, we found out that the progressive death of power in the car should have been a hint. The Prius’s backup 12-volt battery, the original which came with the now six year old car, had died. Perhaps I left the lights on when I left the car, though I don’t recall doing that; the repair technician’s opinion was the battery was crap, outputting bursty voltage (? really? but it was visibly frying his instrument) and that’s what fried my lights and was on its way to frying my other electrics. Um … sure, not sure I’ve heard that failure mode before, but $300 dollars later, I had a functioning car.

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The thoughts that I’d fried my own electrics, or even left the lights on, were red herrings. Now, I don’t mean red herrings like those smoked fish that activists used to drag along the path of a fox to throw hounds off the scent, though that would have probably fried my electrics, or even red herrings like those false clues mystery writers use to throw the readers off the track of the real killer, though leaving my lights on to throw me off is the kind of sneaky thing that a mystery writer might do, and it is the mystery usage that inspired the sense which I do mean; no, I mean the red herrings of debugging: those things that happen right around the time a problem happened, but which have nothing to do with it - so no amount of investigation of them will make sense.

No amount of looking for a shorted wire in the hood would have revealed my dead battery in the trunk. No amount of brain wracking about whether the lights were on would have revealed anything about the age of my car. The actual solution didn’t involve more digging into the obvious possibilities, but involved doing something completely different - collecting data about a different system, using instruments I didn’t have on hand. Even without the intuition that the battery was old or the drained power was a sign of power loss or the possible lights out were a battery issue, one look under the hood of my car - where I could find no system with which I was sufficiently familiar to successfully debug or even feel safe with experimentation - should have told me to call a roadside expert to do tests I couldn’t perform myself and to effect a repair in minutes what would have taken me hours.

Similarly, the idea of running myself too hard or exposing myself to risk from a late night coffee run with my car parked in a nearby garage were red herrings. I had fun that night, fixing my car, making things happen with the small press, my car was parked conveniently, and even with the failure little more thought about the problem would have had me call out roadside service, gotten a new battery, and I could have driven it home. The long time walking around making phone calls in the dreary parking garage sucked, but no more than the time when, as a child, my dad’s motorcycle had a breakdown way out in the country, and we had to call a friend to pick us up. We waited hours then, like I waited an hour and a half that night; but the car came, the ride home happened, and then the problem was fixed. I got home late, sure, but it was after a nice ride with my wife talking about life. I missed a couple of morning meetings at work, sure, but I got to have a sandwich with my wife before she went home, and I drove my own car to my next meeting, which went swimmingly. And I even got some work done, and learned something. Studying the different methods of gradient descent, working through implementations in TensorFlow, and modeling function parameters in Mathematica, that time in the parking garage was long forgotten.

So, red herrings. Things can go wrong, but the obvious causes aren’t the obvious causes. Don’t blame the wrong thing, or you can spend a lot of effort hurting yourself. Do the due diligence to find the real causes - and then make the right choices to solve the real problems, and then move on, and on, and on, solving one problem at a time until you at last fall asleep at home, content.

That’s the only thing that really works.

-the Centaur

Obfuscated

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Yeah, that goop someone injected into my Dakota Frost site doesn’t look suspicious at all.

(In case you’re not a programmer, healthy code doesn’t look like that. This code has been munged and rewritten so it’s almost impossible to see what it does. Not that I care - I just deleted it. But it makes it hard for someone who needs to debug it, in the cases where you need to debug it.)

Sheesh. Get off my lawn. Still cleaning things up. More in a bit.

-the Centaur

So it was a hacked .htaccess…

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So, the Dakota Frost site got hacked. May still be hacked, for all I know, because I just found and eliminated only one error, and I still haven’t found out how they got in. Of course, I changed all my passwords everywhere else first before logging into the site, confirming no-one had hacked the user accounts, and then downloading all the code for some forensics.

But what was peculiar was that, even though I could clearly see evidence of hackery thanks to the very nice, publicly available Webmaster tools at the Google, I could not see any difference between the live site and my previous backup except for the addition of the Akismet spam filter, which I’m pretty sure I did myself.

Then I found it, when I detected a strange file named kgcakmhg.php. Tracing it back, in the root of the HTML directory, someone had modified files back in February - first to point the .htaccess to a strange file named baccus-contextually.php, which called the weirdly named file and also relied on changes to the style directory. No changes to the blog code were necessary - everything was being rewritten before it got there.

Removing those files? Easy. Site’s back to normal … I guess. Closing the open barn door? Uh …harder. Since I don’t know which door they came through.

Off to do more debugging …

-the Centaur

So, dakotafrost.com has been hacked

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So, yeah. I’ve lost sites to hacks before - the wiki on dresan.net, which I barely used - but those were obvious. This one is a subtle hack, not immediately visible, detected by the supercomputers at the Google. Will take a bit of effort to work this one out.

You see disruption here, you know why.

Sigh.

-the Centaur

I can’t channel John Scalzi

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Imitating Scalzi’s inimitable style (at least when he’s too busy to blog): “Has the novel been sent back to the editor? NO.”

But Debra did like the new first couple of chapters for THE CLOCKWORK TIME MACHINE, and her guidance gives me a clear path forward to cleaning them up, and the changes to the rest of the novel are minor … if I could Just. Get. More. Time. Friends from grade school are crossing the country to visit me, and friendly mathematicians are dropping by my coffeehouse table to school me on Clifford algebras and deep learning, to the point at which I finally had to turn down an impromptu lunch meeting today with someone who really wanted to know more about my team, just because I had no more time.

So, having no more time, just now I wanted to throw up a quick blogpost, other than the half dozen half-finished longer blogposts I can’t get done and still get to my own work. So I tried imitating John Scalzi’s quick posts when he’s backed up. Normally a sentence, and a photo. That’s it. But today, Google Photos and AT&T’s network and my phone and SPACE GREMLINS have conspired to make it impossible for me to upload photos in a timely fashion, I mean, dammit, how hard is it to write a sentence and post a photo?

THIS is why Scalzi is paid the megabucks.

I am no John Scalzi, so, here, you get a picture of the structure of the first 72 positions in tic-tac-toe, because I can’t not do the foundational work on a problem once I’ve thought of it, or I’ll never get back to it. This is important, it will mean something, I promise. But later.

Back to the novel.

-the Centaur

P.S. Yes I know my Mathematica could be simplified via NestList or something like that, don’t bother me, don’t bother me.
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Reminders

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reminders.png I’m a packrat - not just the six tons of books I have in my library (as of 2006! God knows how much I’ve got now) but at work, where in last week’s office move I had thirty-two individual labeled items for the movers to move, sixteen of those boxes of stuff (again, mostly books, both for my personal library and for the robotics team library). But there were two boxes of stuff I took home, along with various bric-a-brac - mostly genre toys, a lot of them items only there for entertainment, like my large centaur statue or my mini R2D2 robot. But in that is a far more important genre of materials - in a way, the third most important category of things on my desk. The most important thing on my desk is the computer - I’m there to work, natch. The next most important thing is a picture of one of our cats - not because cats are important, but because it’s a reminder of my wife and family, of why I’m working. But the third most important thing are a set of awards, swag and trophies from work itself. These trophies include everything from a major award for a team I was on to a tiny piece of swag for hosting an intern. Not a one of them - not a one - is a major award for me in and of myself, sorry; my contributions were minor. But they are reminders that I’ve done something at work I can be proud of. As a neurotic workaholic, I need that feedback to keep going. When I’m struggling, when I’m fighting an algorithm, when I’m debugging code, I can always look to my right, see my cat sitting in front of a sabertooth skull, and remind myself why I’m doing what I’m doing; then I can look to the left, give my Google Instant globe a spin, and remind myself that hey, don’t you worry: you’ve got this. -the Centaur

Priorities

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Wow, the Vegan New Orleans and Vegan Las Vegas posts are taking a lot longer than expected - I didn’t get them out yesterday like I wanted. But that’s OK, because even more important stuff happened: Thinking Ink Press received the print proofs of THIRTY DAYS LATER, our first fiction anthology, which happens to feature Harry Turtledove. Woot! Here’s Betsy Miller, the author and publisher who did much of the work making the physical copy of this happen:

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I’m normally a hermit, working on my projects, but this past week has been almost totally focused on people: coffee with my thesis advisor talking about the Google, interviews, office moves with my team, coffechats with friends about the mathematical underpinnings of deep learning, dinner with my buddy Nathan Vargas, dinner with my buddy Derek Reubish planning a friends and family trip, and dinner with Derek and our buddy autocross racer Fred Zust catching up after Fred’s wife participated in a big race. No pics of that - I let Derek and Fred handle that chore - so instead I give you pics of the farmer’s wrap I had at Barnes and Noble while waiting for the call that Fred had finally hit town.

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Work is important - I spent the morning working on math and writing prior to meeting Betsy to talk about the page proofs, which itself was another kind of working; and as you see above, I worked while waiting for Fred to arrive.

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But there’s more to life than work. As another buddy, Gene Forrer, just pointed out, THIRTY DAYS LATER wouldn’t exist except for the strong camaraderie of all the authors at Clockwork Alchemy, and as Belinda Messenger-Sikes pointed out, that level of camaraderie among writers is unusual for such a small genre convention.

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But that camaraderie does more than just produce books; it also produces communities, long-lasting friendships, durable associations that pass the test of time. I’m happy to have all the friends I have, and even though I love being a hermit and just working on my work, I enjoy all the time I get to spend with all my friends building and building upon our friendships.

-the Centaur

I cheat …

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… using the following picture of a tree from Jackson Square in New Orleans. Trees can be awesome. What may not be clear is that this branch is spiraling out about thirty or forty feet. Hear, I show it to u:

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Amazing. It just seems to hover, just out of reach.

Trees are awesome.

-the Centaur

For the record …

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… I appear to be about 3 posts behind for the year, depending on how you count it. Blogging every day has been really rewarding in making me open up and try new things with this blog, but man, for a man who complains that he takes on too much, I’m a man who really does have a great skill at taking on too much.

-the Centaur

Not Dead, Just Working

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I haven’t given up on blogging once a day - I just got overwhelmed at work and life and, more importantly, at friendship - hanging out with some of my best buddies and catching up, something I’ve been far too busy to do recently. But this week I put in time with a few good buddies - one from high school, one from the writing group, even one day when I was a bit under the weather working remotely with my laptop in the backyard, which was appreciated by our aging, inappropriately urinating, formerly-indoor cats.

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I was real stressed this week, but, objectively, things are going very well. I saved my threatened project from last year’s craziness and it’s now in use; I started a great new project with my team; even something that we thought was dead long ago got used in a great demo at work. I sent a novel to a publisher; we planned a high school friends trip to Tahoe; things are going well.

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One friend noted I’d been living my life the way I do - overstuffed with work, a full time software job; plus as much as a full time novelist as I can be reading over lunch and dinner, writing over coffee and occasional breakfasts; plus helping manage a small press; plus doing comics - for a while now, and he was worried the stress was getting worse. I see that, but didn’t quite agree.

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I’ve been this stressed before, particularly in the middle of my PhD, when I was two or three years in and thought I had two or three years more to get out … and then found out after three years of work I had several more years to go. I’ve done it to myself, taking on an 80% time job to spend time writing, but then spending a whole year filling my life with karate, improv, and weekly roundtables which filled my whole schedule to the point weeks just disappeared. As the stress builds, you just want to take a break - and if you don’t, as my friend pointed out, things may break anyway.

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Those periods of my life sucked, and in a way this one does too, but in another way, it’s more manageable. My crunch now is not being trapped just by doing too much to myself; it’s like being trapped by my PhD, which got delayed because I had an opportunity to work on a robotics project. Now, while I have a few things to deal with like a wrecked floor at the house, I’m mostly trapped by opportunity: the opportunity to do a great project at work, to write great books, to help bring other books to life.

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I can see an exit strategy - a couple years of work at work, three years of work on my next novels, plus maintenance of the small press and continued practice at comics, and once I get through those things, if they’re even moderately successful, I’ll be in a position of much more creative freedom. So I think it's important to not lose these opportunities - but on the other hand, it’s pointless to let your opportunities kill you. That’s why today, after I finished booking my next trip, after I finished more readings which hit the intersection of my robotics work and my urban fantasy research, but before I did any more serious work, including this blog entry … I took time out to be creative. To just draw.

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Well, drawing practice because I want to do comic books, but you get the idea.

-the Centaur

Back to Basics

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As a guilt-motivated ex-Catholic with a perfectionist streak, I’m constantly trying to be a better person than I am - religiously, ethically, personally, even at the level of my skills. And one of the best ways I’ve found to improve my skills is not simply to practice, or to push the bounds of your knowledge, but to step back and look again at the basics.

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For some areas of knowledge, this is obvious. We wouldn’t have gotten anywhere with number theory if we hadn’t been willing to go back, again and again, to the definitions of numbers. But it seems less obvious for skills, where our perception often is that first you are a novice, then you become skilled, then an expert, then a master.

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But that road can become a blind alley. Learning from a teacher can channel you into their style; self-taught artistry can create works of great power, but it can also leave you with deficiencies which no amount of further training can improve. Sometimes the only way to get better is to step back, reassess, start over.

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That’s why I like periodically coming back to beginning art instruction books. I find the older references somewhat more informative than the newer ones, perhaps because they’re more methodical, or perhaps because there was a greater concern for representational art - or simply because I’ve read a lot of newer references, making the old ones seem fresh.

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Now, I once heard an artist suggest that you should buy a pile of art instruction books, wrap them in a trash bag, and bury them in your back yard, get a big thick sketchbook and sketch people in coffeehouses until you filled the whole thing, and then, after a year or so, dig them up to start drawing. My wife, however, an accomplished artist, agrees and disagrees with this plan.

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She agrees with the latter two thirds - but not the start. She argues, there are so many things to learn about art that if you tried to start from just sketching, you might end up never making certain discoveries and instead get trapped in rookie mistakes. Your art might have emotional power, but you’d be handicapped if you were aiming for mastery of your tools or representational accuracy.

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I tend to agree. As a scientist, though, I try another approach - not just practice, but "scientific” analysis, at least the initial, data collection part of science: not just doing the practice, but carefully examining how it went, looking for successes and failures, and trying to generalize from them. I can’t double-blind A/B test myself, but I can be mindful about how I practice.

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I pray it’s helping! I have a lot of art I want to do.

-the Centaur

Pictured: Exercises from Andrew Loomis’ DRAWING THE HEAD AND HANDS, folk art from the U.S. Mint in New Orleans, art books in Dauphine Street Books also in New Orleans, and various drawings I’ve done over the years, from long ago (the highly detailed centaur and the copy of the Hemingway cover) to yesterday (the basic circles and analysis of problems with my line).

It was N’awlins, y’all

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As if it wasn’t obvious. Sandi and I spent the week there in New Orleans' French Quarter - we never left it, never even rented a car, but just walked around, soaking in history and food. It was awesome, I have much to talk about, but, following the rules we’ve established, it wasn’t a business trip, so the details had to wait until my return.

I have returned. Expect a post on Vegan New Orleans soon. (Not a contradiction in terms!)

-the Centaur

I Think I’m Calling It

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Welp, looks like I’m not going to Comic-Con this year. My fault - I had a Professional registration, but received my renewal email when I was working to get a novel to the publisher and read the REGISTRATION DUE email as NOT DUE. Found out like the day after the professional registration closed. And then, even though I was reading the Toucan blog that announces such things, I was so busy working on another project that I missed Attendee Preregistration. And, as of now, even though I’m in line … it’s sold out:

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That happened while I was typing the above paragraph. At this point, three of the five days are sold out. My favorite night, preview night, sold out first:

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Comic-Con is awesome and overwhelming. I’d wondered if I would go back this year, but if I was not to go back, I’d prefer not to go back, like, on purpose, not through oversight, accident and bad luck. I look forward to going again next year. But perhaps I should focus less on going like a fan and more on doing the work that will get me invited there as a guest.

As my wife would say, focusing on making my next creative project spectacular.

-the Centaur

Update: while posting this …

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O.M.G. While TYPING that …

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Yeah, this ain’t Cave Johnson, but we’re done here.

Disruption

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Nothing lasts forever. Appreciate things while they’re there, because one day they’ll be gone. You will too.

-the Centaur

Oh no, someone’s wrong on the Internet!

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What I’ve discovered is that even if you definitively know something, that won’t stop someone online from snapping back with stupid, every step of the way. What’s worse, my rule of threes says that in any discussion, one third of their points will be wrong, one third of your points will be wrong, and the middle third will remain an area of durable disagreement.

There’s no cure for online idiots, but, fortunately, your own ignorance is correctable. Get into an argument with someone? Don’t try to get the last word - go look up the truth. (Or do the work to prove it, if it isn’t known). And be satisfied with your own answers.

Because if you found the truth and told them, that particular person isn’t likely to listen anyway.

-the Centaur

That Damn Wolf

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Welp, while I’ve missed a few days, I have overall kept ahead of the blog wolf. By a hair. My lovely plans to build a buffer have resulted in one backlogged article, which I’ll post tomorrow to keep myself honest (and keep it from becoming stale) and basically no buffer. I’m only ahead because I sometimes post several articles per day, like today.

Sigh. No wonder I’m so stressed out - I make even being a dilettante a chore.

-the Centaur

Effective Beverages

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So after a gut punch, one of the most important things to do is to take time out to recuperate.

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But funny thing is, the highly effective sangria above wasn’t the thing that broke me out of my funk. When something bad happens, I try one of the following strategies to feel better:

  • Take a nap. Or just go to bed. Sleeping can sometimes reset your emotional state. When I had my big crisis of faith in the 90’s, converting from Catholicism to Episcopalianism, I slept for like a day and a half, rethinking my whole life. Of course, if you can’t fall asleep, that’s no good - I was up to 5:50AM this morning, so blech.
  • Take a walk. This can also provide metaphorical distance from your problems. During my crisis of faith, I walked around my apartment complex again and again, taking an inventory of my whole life, weighing and evaluating everything I could think of. Today, when I tried the same strategy, I was snarling at the air, so blech.
  • Change your scene. Talking to uninvolved humans, not connected with your dramas, really can help. I had an interview with a candidate, a technical conversation about deep learning with a TL, and, later, after my mood was lifted, another technical conversation with my waitress at Opa! about the econometrics of developing nations.

As for why that last conversation happened …

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Which goes to the next item on the list ...

  • Try shopping therapy. Doesn’t work for everyone, but I’m a bookhound. I ended up going to the Stanford Bookstore to try to pick up a book on large scale machine learning (it had sold out). The books themselves weren’t the solution, but I’m getting to that - but it did involve the books in a tangential way.
  • Get some coffee. The inventor of the idea of separation of powers, Montesquieu, reportedly once said “coffee renders many foolish people temporarily capable of wise actions” and I’ve found that to be true - which perhaps suggests that we should install a Starbucks in the Congress and change the structure of our political debates, but nevermind. It helped.

You’ll note that nowhere in here is “get a drink.” That’s a terrible idea - if you think you need a drink, you probably shouldn’t have one, as needing a drink is the road to alcoholism. For that reason, and many others, I always stop at one drink per day - period. No matter how strong the drink, it’s almost impossible for a one hundred and eighty pound male to get drunk on just one.

Having a drink after you feel better, on the other hand, can be a great relaxer. But how do you get to that relaxed state? Well, one thing I try is, well, trying to resolve the problem.

  • Talk to the people involved. I have a theory that if you have a problem with a person and leave it alone, your emotional reaction will be frozen, even intensified over time - a theory based on my personal experience, but backed by cognitive emotional theories which say your emotions are derived from your stance, your relationship to the people, actions and events in the world - which doesn’t change if you don’t give yourself the chance to have new experiences with those people. Thanks to the fact that it’s the twenty-first century, this can be done via text, even when people don’t have time to talk.

But the point at which it turned wasn’t when I got a drink. It wasn’t after I took a nap, took a walk, talked to people, changed the scene, got a book on political economy, got coffee, or texted the involved parties to finalize the resolution of yesterday evening’s gut punch. It happened at very strange place, as I was drinking coffee, as I was reading, as I was texting with my friends to resolve the problem, I got sucked in to the problem that prompted me to get the book, a question I heard in an unrelated political debate from last night. As is usual in these cases, I found that the debate followed the rule of thirds: on a third of the topics, my buddy was definitively wrong, on a third, I was definitively wrong, and on the middle third, there were open unresolved questions worthy of debate. And as I started to look at those questions … I had a brainflash on how to solve them.

And then on a meta-brain-flash, as I realized what tacking the problem was doing to my mental state: it was fixing it.

  • Do the work. Find something you love, and cultivate the ability to throw yourself into it. If you’ve had a gut punch, you might have a bad taste in your mouth about a lot of the projects you were working on … but get your brain into a new space, and all those behavior programs will execute … and give you something new to fall (intellectually) in love with.

The particular question I was tracking - how to evaluate economic policies - is something I’m going to be working on for a while, but I can give you a flavor for it: how do you know whether a political candidate’s economic policies will work? Sometimes that’s easy: for example, Democrats like to spend when the economy’s doing well, and Republicans like to cut when the economy is doing poorly - and both sides are dead wrong. An economy is not a household - cutting spending in a slump will cut the state’s tax revenues and cause an austerity spiral and increased debt; spending in a boom incurs obligations that the state can’t sustain in the next slump and increased risk. These are pretty close to ironclad laws, that operate whether you believe in big government or small or low taxes or high; those are just the dynamics of economies whether you like it or not - whether you believe it or not, suck it up.

But looking long term, some policies promote growth, and some don’t; and it isn’t always clear which is which. What’s worse, exogenous factors - those pesky world events like wars and plagues and wardrobe malfunctions - throw an unavoidable amount of static on top of whatever we’re trying to measure.

The book I’m reading gives me, so far, the impression that individual outcomes are, roughly, helped by a country’s growth, and a country’s growth is affected by things it can't control, like the luck of history and geography, and things it can, like culture and institutions, with evidence strongly suggesting that institutions matter more than culture, since some countries have kept their cultures but changed their institutions and shown amazing growth. The factors that seem to affect this most are protecting private property, having enforceable contracts, reducing barriers for investment, having a level playing field for businesses, and creating equality of opportunity for citizens … but …

But how much of this is noise, and how much is reality?

And that got me thinking: if you assumed some randomness affecting growth, could you tell apart policies that caused 1 percent growth, or 2 percent growth, or 3 percent growth?

Turns out ... you can.

The Promise of Growth v1.png

The central red line is 2% growth, projected out over 20 years. The dotted lines above and below it are 1% and 3% growth … and the grey range is the max and min of a stochastic simulation of ten different histories, each with 5% random variation from year to year, which looks something like this:


The Alternatives to Growth v1.png

The point is, if you get a gut punch - like in the bottom trajectory above - it can look like you’re running a bad policy on a time range of a decade or more before things start to get back on track. On twenty year time horizons, however, you really can start to see an affect. On even longer time horizons, having the right polices can be the difference between a country like Nigeria - rich with oil wealth, yet having a flat growth range - versus a country like the US or Japan or even Botswana or South Korea.

This doesn’t show whether I or my buddy is right - in fact, this model, even as an abstract model, would need to be augmented greatly, to get a proper range of growth rates, of randomness, of the types of exogenous influences and their timescales. But even in its current state, it shows that under a very broad set of assumptions … I and my buddy were right to wrestle over this problem.

What we do now matters, not just in the next election, but twenty years down the road.

And doing that work took me out of my slump. It connected me to an earlier conversation, to earlier problem solving skills not engaged with what I’d been doing just prior to the gut punch. The gut punch still needs to be dealt with - but now it’s just an event, not a thing that causes random spikes of rage and anger when I’m trying to drink my coffee.

effectivecoffee.png

And that’s how I learned a new way to deal with a gut punch.

-the Centaur

Appendix. The graphs above were generated via the following Mathematica code:

RandomGrowth[initial_, rate_, fuzz_] :=
initial (1 + rate) (1 + RandomReal[{-fuzz, fuzz}])

ProjectGrowth[initial_, rate_, fuzz_, years_] :=
NestList[RandomGrowth[#, rate, fuzz] &, initial, years]

InterpolateGrowth[initial_, rate_, fuzz_, years_] :=

Interpolation[ProjectGrowth[initial, rate, fuzz, years]]

FuzzyGrowth[initial_, rate_, fuzz_, years_] :=
Table[InterpolateGrowth[initial, rate, fuzz, years], {iterations, 10}]


fuzzyTwoPercent = FuzzyGrowth[1, 0.02, 0.05, 100]

Plot[{
Min[Map[#[x] &, fuzzyTwoPercent]], Max[Map[#[x] &, fuzzyTwoPercent]],
InterpolateGrowth[1.0, 0.02, 0.0, 100][x],
InterpolateGrowth[1.0, 0.01, 0.0, 100][x],
InterpolateGrowth[1.0, 0.03, 0.0, 100][x]},
{x, 1, 20},
Filling -> {1 -> {2}},
AxesOrigin -> {1, 1},
AxesLabel -> {"Years Downrange", "Growth Rate"},
PlotStyle -> {Thin, Thin, Thick,
   Directive[Thick, Dashed],
   Directive[Thick, Dashed]}]


The Promise of Growth v1.png

and

Plot[{InterpolateGrowth[1.0, 0.02, 0.0, 100][x], Map[#[x] &, fuzzyTwoPercent]},
{x, 1, 20},
AxesOrigin -> {1, 1},
AxesLabel -> {"Years Downrange", "Growth Rate"},
PlotStyle ->
{Thick,
Thin, Thin, Thin, Thin, Thin,
Thin, Thin, Thin, Thin, Thin}]


The Alternatives to Growth v1.png

I hope you enjoyed this exercise in computational therapy.

Gut Punch

centaur 0
inversion.png Welp, that took a nasty turn. The week leading up to my birthday went great: a surprise business trip to Atlanta, a great research talk, a wonderful visit with friends, a nice cake and gift from my teammates on the occasion of my tenth Google anniversary, a great card from my Mom, calls from my Mom and friends, a wonderful birthday dinner with my wife, and then an outpouring of well wishes online - half a dozen via email, and over 70 on Facebook. I was riding high. What a great birthday! A few hours later, I was seriously considering deleting my Facebook account. And this blog. For context, the original title of this post was “worst birthday of my life.” The particulars are, sorry, not your business. But just so you know, no-one involved did anything wrong. It was all a simple series of misunderstandings. And everyone involved managed to fix the problem with a couple of hours of work. But, still, a sequence of simple thank-yous online and the cascading reactions that followed on from that quickly turned a glorious day into a life-changing gut-punch. Facebook itself isn’t the problem, but deleting my Facebook account would help. But as I step back, I now find myself needing to reconsider, well, everything - not just Facebook, but whether I should have an online presence at all, and my involvement with every single job, relationship and project. I know a few other people going through similar things right now - a close friend is rethinking their life, and it’s happened to a few bloggers I follow. I know, rationally, that artists have these impulses, I’ve had them since I was a kid, and it’s just a pointless self-destructive exercise. You feel like the particular events that have happened are the cause, but they’re really not. You’ve entered a mood, or a depression, and while it has a trigger, it’s the emotional state that feels forever. Still, for a moment, I felt like deleting my Facebook account, smashing my computer, and loading the library up into a Dumpster. To give you a scale of the seriousness of the problem, I am actually still thinking about getting a PODS unit and loading up much of the stuff in the library to get it out of the way and putting all my projects on hiatus while we deal with the shattered windows, the damaged floors, and all the other crap going on at the house. Now, while all that other crap is real, I said it the way I just did to exaggerate the problem. That crap has nothing to do with the gut punch, is all ongoing - the shattered window was from a ladder that fell during some work, the damaged floor behind the fridge was a discovery by my wife when she was doing cleaning. But when the gut punch happened, it made me step back and look and everything to ask, "is this working?” So I don’t know what I’m going to do. I might put this blog on hiatus. I might declare a mulligan on some projects. I might rework some habits, make some changes, do things differently. Or I might just draw a breath, take the gut punch, and move on - the way I did in the shower this morning, at which it all hit me again, hard enough to make me draw a breath; then I thought of the Avengers movie, that quote from Bruce Banner, the thing he just said before going green and tearing off to kick ass and take names: “That’s my secret. I’m always angry.” Anger is an alarm, a sign of a problem. And the first thing you do with an alarm is to turn it off. Then deal with the problem. So, this morning, when I felt the gut punch, I drew a breath, straightened up, killed the shower, got dressed, and left for work to go do my fucking job. I had an onsite interview to conduct, I have deep learning techniques to research, I’ve got to reinvent the foundations of mathematics for my latest urban fantasy novel, and I have eighteen more books to write in my main series. Time to get cracking. -the Centaur Pictured: me on my birthday, Photoshopped to illustrate my state of mind when the gut punch arrived.

Okay, now that was a birthday cake …

centaur 0

googleversary.png

Well, I spoke too soon: as a surprise during my team’s offsite yesterday, they gave me a real Googleversary birthday cake. And a gift card to Cafe Romanza, one of my favorite coffeehouses (the other two top faves being Coupa Cafe and Cafe Intermezzo). I don’t think I could have been happier at that moment:

centaurwithcake.png

But I was sure happier today, having a nice dinner with my wife at our mutual favorite restaurant. We could have gone somewhere “special”, but I wanted to go to Aqui, the place that has the best memories of eating for me, not because of all the time I spend there writing, but of all the wonderful conversations I’ve had there with the love of my life, my wife.

der-ring.png

She didn’t let me take a good picture of her, but she certainly got good pictures of me.

20160210_202231(0).jpg

Now off to Facebook - I got over 50 well wishes from people on the occasion of my birthday, so as far as I am concerned the people who think that computers are making us less connected to other people can just go Like themselves. Gotta dash - the longer I spend saying thank you, the longer I put off my birthday spanking. (Actually, I already got that, but it’s the principle of the thing).

-the Centaur