...or, Why I Just Love Arial to Bits (Preferably Lots of Small Ones).
I had a project that was just big enough to use OCR on rather than retyping before I made changes. It happened to contain the word "kern." OmniPage, of course, read it as "kem."
Oy.
April 21, 2008
April 20, 2008
Duck, Duck, Owl
The earliest sign of spring in Minnesota (since it keeps snowing and covering up all the others) is the activity of the birds. In the past two weeks I've seen the usual suspects: robins, juncos, starlings, grackles, gulls, wild turkeys, herons, Canadian geese, mergansers and coots and more other kinds of ducks than I can differentiate. I've had to work to speak over a yard full of red-winged blackbirds and passed a park with a ring of tall trees and crows cawing from every available branch, wondering how long it would take to understand them if I stopped and listened.
I've also seen a bald eagle perch on the retreating edge of lake ice. I couldn't tell whether it was hoping the fish would have forgotten it over the winter or checking whether the mergansers had all made it through migration in good shape. They all scattered quickly enough when it flew across the water. The geese and trumpeter swans ignored it and its mate.
The hawks are looking plump again, instead of just fluffy. Yesterday, in an hour-long car ride, I saw more than half a dozen, which means I wasn't paying much attention. There was another eagle too, perched in a tree about twenty feet from the edge of the road. The standout of the ride, though, was the barn owl sitting on the fencepost in broad daylight. I don't know why he was hanging out instead of sleeping, but he very kindly spread his wings a bit to aid our identification. I hope he made it comfortably to nightfall.
Despite the dreary weather, I finally feel like spring is here.
I've also seen a bald eagle perch on the retreating edge of lake ice. I couldn't tell whether it was hoping the fish would have forgotten it over the winter or checking whether the mergansers had all made it through migration in good shape. They all scattered quickly enough when it flew across the water. The geese and trumpeter swans ignored it and its mate.
The hawks are looking plump again, instead of just fluffy. Yesterday, in an hour-long car ride, I saw more than half a dozen, which means I wasn't paying much attention. There was another eagle too, perched in a tree about twenty feet from the edge of the road. The standout of the ride, though, was the barn owl sitting on the fencepost in broad daylight. I don't know why he was hanging out instead of sleeping, but he very kindly spread his wings a bit to aid our identification. I hope he made it comfortably to nightfall.
Despite the dreary weather, I finally feel like spring is here.
Labels:
cool
Mixed Messages
I was passing a Victoria's Secret when I saw this in the window.
I think somebody's product development department just got a little more honest than they intended.
I think somebody's product development department just got a little more honest than they intended.
Labels:
rant
April 14, 2008
New Science Fiction Movie
Not that the makers of Expelled have copped to the fact that their film is fiction or that the little bit of science in it is ripped off from an educational video, but hey, it's still science fiction, right? I can't recommend it though. Even the Nazis (yes, there are Nazis) aren't enough to keep it exciting. When even Fox News calls your anti-science film "sloppy" and "not just a little boring," you know you've got problems.
Did I mention it's narrated by Ben Stein? Depending on your reaction to his voice, that makes it either a great cure for insomnia or a recipe for working yourself into a homicidal rage.
Spend the money on good popcorn instead. It'll leave a better taste in your mouth.
Did I mention it's narrated by Ben Stein? Depending on your reaction to his voice, that makes it either a great cure for insomnia or a recipe for working yourself into a homicidal rage.
Spend the money on good popcorn instead. It'll leave a better taste in your mouth.
Labels:
rant,
Skepticism
April 10, 2008
Thanking My Teachers
I've been involved in a few discussions lately in which public school education and teachers got pretty thoroughly dissed. I keep pointing out that good teachers exist and that many teachers play larger roles than they know in their students lives. I say it from personal experience, and I think it's about time I thanked my own teachers rather than (or in addition to) standing up for the profession on principle.
To start, I should point out that I could have been a poster child for recent resilience studies--the ones that say good outcomes are possible for kids with less than stellar home lives, as long as those kids have an involved and interested adult in their life. I should also mention that I'm likely to shortchange at least one teacher before sixth grade, since I really don't remember much before then.
The first teacher I remember who made a difference was my third sixth-grade teacher, Ms. Becker. She was my third teacher because we moved twice that year. I was pretty traumatized by the family drama that prompted the moves and was dealing with multiple culture shocks. To make a long story short, I made no friends that year, except my teacher. She had a place in the country to which she invited groups of students on weekend afternoons. She spent even her spare time on her students. I'll never forget picking watercress in the near-freezing stream that ran through her property or being talked to like a human being instead of a responsibility.
The next year, I had several very good teachers. Mr. Foley, who taught life sciences, was memorable for keeping a piranha--and our attention, even when there was a goldfish sharing its tank. But the real standout was my math teacher, Mr. Neuenfeldt. I'm not sure what made him so special. He got so exasperated with us sometimes, but it was always obvious that he just wanted us to learn--not to absorb his lessons, but to learn. He was the teacher who introduced me to the cool puzzle game that is identities. I joined the drama club because he ran it, and I took two years of math from him. I was already starting to work ahead in the second year, and he was always happy to take the time to help me through the tough spots, even though he'd be covering them for everyone else in a week or two.
I had to give up Mr. Neuenfeldt when I moved on to high school. I had a very good English teacher, Ms. Lammers, who was lovely about not freaking out when budding goths chose Millay at her most self-destructive for their poetry readings. And a great grammar lab teacher who started the year by telling us, "It isn't your fault you think grammar is hard. People insisted on trying to teach you before your brains were ready to take it in. Forget all that, and let's start again." We did. It worked, at least for me.
Doc Wilson, who taught choir, demanded more of me than any other teacher but not more than I could give. I learned a lot from him about singing, more about not deciding beforehand what I couldn't do. And there was the math and programming teacher, whose name I have no business blanking on, who never blinked when his quickest pupil was one of the few females.
Then came Mr. Bauer. I took three years of physics from him. He was my second teacher to make science really cool. Physicists have some of the best toys, and Mr. Bauer collected great demos. He could flick our homework at us from ten feet away and the pieces of paper would head straight for us. He assigned quarter-long, independent study projects for one class despite the chaos and despite the extra work it must have taken to keep us all on track. He threw erasers and turned the fire extinguisher on us when we got too rowdy and patiently wrote on the board for us as we collectively worked problems in class. He took a small lab/large storage space and turned it over to the physics club for use during lunches and study hall. We installed a coffee maker and stereo. It was our geek haven and so was he. Not surprisingly, he was awarded a Presidential Award for Excellence in Science and Mathematics Teaching.
There were more great teachers in college, but they'll get their own post at some point. To all the teachers mentioned above, and to the others who taught me well even if they didn't save my life, thank you. I was a self-centered brat in school so I never said it then. I say it now. Thank you.
To start, I should point out that I could have been a poster child for recent resilience studies--the ones that say good outcomes are possible for kids with less than stellar home lives, as long as those kids have an involved and interested adult in their life. I should also mention that I'm likely to shortchange at least one teacher before sixth grade, since I really don't remember much before then.
The first teacher I remember who made a difference was my third sixth-grade teacher, Ms. Becker. She was my third teacher because we moved twice that year. I was pretty traumatized by the family drama that prompted the moves and was dealing with multiple culture shocks. To make a long story short, I made no friends that year, except my teacher. She had a place in the country to which she invited groups of students on weekend afternoons. She spent even her spare time on her students. I'll never forget picking watercress in the near-freezing stream that ran through her property or being talked to like a human being instead of a responsibility.
The next year, I had several very good teachers. Mr. Foley, who taught life sciences, was memorable for keeping a piranha--and our attention, even when there was a goldfish sharing its tank. But the real standout was my math teacher, Mr. Neuenfeldt. I'm not sure what made him so special. He got so exasperated with us sometimes, but it was always obvious that he just wanted us to learn--not to absorb his lessons, but to learn. He was the teacher who introduced me to the cool puzzle game that is identities. I joined the drama club because he ran it, and I took two years of math from him. I was already starting to work ahead in the second year, and he was always happy to take the time to help me through the tough spots, even though he'd be covering them for everyone else in a week or two.
I had to give up Mr. Neuenfeldt when I moved on to high school. I had a very good English teacher, Ms. Lammers, who was lovely about not freaking out when budding goths chose Millay at her most self-destructive for their poetry readings. And a great grammar lab teacher who started the year by telling us, "It isn't your fault you think grammar is hard. People insisted on trying to teach you before your brains were ready to take it in. Forget all that, and let's start again." We did. It worked, at least for me.
Doc Wilson, who taught choir, demanded more of me than any other teacher but not more than I could give. I learned a lot from him about singing, more about not deciding beforehand what I couldn't do. And there was the math and programming teacher, whose name I have no business blanking on, who never blinked when his quickest pupil was one of the few females.
Then came Mr. Bauer. I took three years of physics from him. He was my second teacher to make science really cool. Physicists have some of the best toys, and Mr. Bauer collected great demos. He could flick our homework at us from ten feet away and the pieces of paper would head straight for us. He assigned quarter-long, independent study projects for one class despite the chaos and despite the extra work it must have taken to keep us all on track. He threw erasers and turned the fire extinguisher on us when we got too rowdy and patiently wrote on the board for us as we collectively worked problems in class. He took a small lab/large storage space and turned it over to the physics club for use during lunches and study hall. We installed a coffee maker and stereo. It was our geek haven and so was he. Not surprisingly, he was awarded a Presidential Award for Excellence in Science and Mathematics Teaching.
There were more great teachers in college, but they'll get their own post at some point. To all the teachers mentioned above, and to the others who taught me well even if they didn't save my life, thank you. I was a self-centered brat in school so I never said it then. I say it now. Thank you.
Labels:
history
March 31, 2008
March 30, 2008
Intelligent Design for Smart Alecs
Somebody putting together the Enrolled Actuaries Meeting schedule had fun with this one.
Who says actuaries don't have a sense of humor?
Intelligent Design After 409A
Section 409A was added to the Code by the American Jobs Creation(ism) Act of 2004. As regulations have gone through an evolutionary process, employers have struggled to comply. A diverse group of speakers show you how job creation has evolved into intelligent design.
Who says actuaries don't have a sense of humor?
Labels:
cool
Statistics for Fun
I got into a little slapfight on a blog this week with someone who claimed, among other things, that, "We do know that rates of young men entering college these days is in the toilet". There were no citations, of course, because that isn't the point of a slapfight, but it made me curious. So as long as I was avoiding some particularly tedious work this weekend, I thought I'd find out.
Answer: um, no.
And no.
Sure, enrollment rates among males aren't growing as quickly as among females, and achievement among females has finally caught up. There was perhaps reason for concern when male enrollment dropped from 1970 to 1980, although there were extra incentives for young men to be in college in 1970 that didn't apply in 1980. All in all, though, it's a bit much to be calling record-high levels of enrollment and achievement "in the toilet."
Next time, I'll tell him so.
Sources
U.S. Census Table A-1. Years of School Completed by People 25 Years and Over, by Age and Sex: Selected Years 1940 to 2007
U.S. Census Table A-6. Age Distribution of College Students 14 Years Old and Over, by Sex: October 1947 to 2005
U.S. Census population data by age and sex
Answer: um, no.
And no.
Sure, enrollment rates among males aren't growing as quickly as among females, and achievement among females has finally caught up. There was perhaps reason for concern when male enrollment dropped from 1970 to 1980, although there were extra incentives for young men to be in college in 1970 that didn't apply in 1980. All in all, though, it's a bit much to be calling record-high levels of enrollment and achievement "in the toilet."Next time, I'll tell him so.
Sources
U.S. Census Table A-1. Years of School Completed by People 25 Years and Over, by Age and Sex: Selected Years 1940 to 2007
U.S. Census Table A-6. Age Distribution of College Students 14 Years Old and Over, by Sex: October 1947 to 2005
U.S. Census population data by age and sex
Labels:
Skepticism
March 24, 2008
Speaking Out
I walk to work. A mile and a half each way, mostly downtown. I've been hit before, although it wasn't serious, and the close calls have replaced coffee as a stimulant some mornings. Too many people are just too intent on where they want to go to look around and see who may be affected.
In order to counteract this, I make a lot of eye contact with drivers, not all of it friendly. If someone creeps up on the crosswalk as I'm crossing, their bumper gets a dirty stare. If they do it again, they get a special, just-for-drivers, WTF look. Someone who's already in the crosswalk (even though no one ever manages to turn there against the light) may get a knock on the hood to let them know I'm there and using my right of way.
This may not make me the most ingratiating spokesperson for pedestrians. But as long as my life and other things I hold dear (my legs, my mobility, my independence...) are at stake, I don't care. I'm much more concerned that people know there's someone between them and their destination, someone besides them who has a stake in what they're trying to do.
In order to counteract this, I make a lot of eye contact with drivers, not all of it friendly. If someone creeps up on the crosswalk as I'm crossing, their bumper gets a dirty stare. If they do it again, they get a special, just-for-drivers, WTF look. Someone who's already in the crosswalk (even though no one ever manages to turn there against the light) may get a knock on the hood to let them know I'm there and using my right of way.
This may not make me the most ingratiating spokesperson for pedestrians. But as long as my life and other things I hold dear (my legs, my mobility, my independence...) are at stake, I don't care. I'm much more concerned that people know there's someone between them and their destination, someone besides them who has a stake in what they're trying to do.
Labels:
rant,
Skepticism
March 19, 2008
A Second Look at Childhood Friends
You grow up with them. They're what you know, so they're normal, right? Then, after years have passed, you look back and blanch.
The whole thing is here. Quite entertaining.
Edited to add: Found via Podblack. Lots more good stuff there, too. I'd have credited it earlier, but tabbed browsing is a great way of losing sources.
We acknowledge that Tigger is gregarious and affectionate, but he has a recurrent pattern of risk-taking behaviours. Look, for example, at his impulsive sampling of unknown substances when he first comes to the Hundred Acre Wood. With the mildest of provocation he tries honey, haycorns and even thistles. Tigger has no knowledge of the potential outcome of his experimentation. Later we find him climbing tall trees and acting in a way that can only be described as socially intrusive. He leads Roo into danger. Our clinical group has had its own debate about what the best medication might be for Tigger. Some of us have argued that his behaviours, occurring in a context of obvious hyperactivity and impulsivity, would suggest the need for a stimulant medication. Others have wondered whether clonidine might be helpful, or perhaps a combination of the two. Unfortunately we could not answer the question as scientifically as we would have liked because we could find only human studies in the literature.
The whole thing is here. Quite entertaining.
Edited to add: Found via Podblack. Lots more good stuff there, too. I'd have credited it earlier, but tabbed browsing is a great way of losing sources.
Labels:
cool
March 16, 2008
Community for Loners
I joined Facebook last weekend. There are folks I'd like to spend time with who are using it to arrange meetups, and I want to be a part of that. But I'm still ambivalent.
I've spent most of my life resisting community. I was miserable in Girl Scouts (really, who packs nail polish and cute outfits to go to camp?). School was one arcane set of rules and expectations after another, very few of which actually involved learning. Freedom finally came with a transfer to the U of M, which was big enough to pull communities apart into individuals. Every job I've had I've shredded the fixed job description, so I'm the only person doing exactly what I'm doing, and I'm working with people across the company.
Some of my disinclination toward community is natural introversion. I can spend days on end alone without noticing. I can go months or years without talking to people I really like. I read and appreciate blogs while rarely needing to contribute my opinion. None of this is community-building behavior, and communities reward active membership.
Some is contrariness. I don't know how much is natural and how much is survival strategy, but I have an unholy love of argument, counterexamples and logical loopholes. The more time I spend as part of a group, the more I emphasize me/them differences, the more I pick at the underlying basis for cohesion. (Strangely, I often don't hit this point with individuals.) This does not always make me popular with the group.
Some is a really strong identity. I've spent years figuring out what I like, what I want and what I'm capable of. Yes, my identity evolves, but the parts that aren't in flux are quite solidly fixed. Even the most diverse community, over time, tends to develop its own identity. "We think..." "We believe..." Swinging off the ends of bell curves as I often do, it can come down to a choice between the group identity and my own. Which do you think I'm going to go with?
So I tend to drift into and out of communities. When I enter, I do so gingerly. When I leave, I generally keep in contact with one or two individuals. Facebook could be a great way to hang onto these people. But its purpose is to build community, so I'm a little twitchy at the moment.
I've spent most of my life resisting community. I was miserable in Girl Scouts (really, who packs nail polish and cute outfits to go to camp?). School was one arcane set of rules and expectations after another, very few of which actually involved learning. Freedom finally came with a transfer to the U of M, which was big enough to pull communities apart into individuals. Every job I've had I've shredded the fixed job description, so I'm the only person doing exactly what I'm doing, and I'm working with people across the company.
Some of my disinclination toward community is natural introversion. I can spend days on end alone without noticing. I can go months or years without talking to people I really like. I read and appreciate blogs while rarely needing to contribute my opinion. None of this is community-building behavior, and communities reward active membership.
Some is contrariness. I don't know how much is natural and how much is survival strategy, but I have an unholy love of argument, counterexamples and logical loopholes. The more time I spend as part of a group, the more I emphasize me/them differences, the more I pick at the underlying basis for cohesion. (Strangely, I often don't hit this point with individuals.) This does not always make me popular with the group.
Some is a really strong identity. I've spent years figuring out what I like, what I want and what I'm capable of. Yes, my identity evolves, but the parts that aren't in flux are quite solidly fixed. Even the most diverse community, over time, tends to develop its own identity. "We think..." "We believe..." Swinging off the ends of bell curves as I often do, it can come down to a choice between the group identity and my own. Which do you think I'm going to go with?
So I tend to drift into and out of communities. When I enter, I do so gingerly. When I leave, I generally keep in contact with one or two individuals. Facebook could be a great way to hang onto these people. But its purpose is to build community, so I'm a little twitchy at the moment.
Labels:
navel gazing
March 08, 2008
I Have a New Friend
I don't know his name, but he's awfully cute.
On our way to work, Ben and I pass a tiny fenced yard. Every month or two, there's a very large German shepherd hanging out, deafeningly defending his territory. We greet him when we pass, saying, "Hello, puppy." in the tones reserved for the cutest dogs, and offering him our hands through the chain link fence. He always sniffs and settles down.
On Thursday, instead of settling down, he pawed at the chain link. Then he reared up and came down on both forelegs, rubbing his nose on the snow. Puppy wanted to play.
We were tempted. We really were. But even if we hadn't needed to go to work, something tells me the owners--the people who keep an oversized shepherd in their tiny yard on the edge of downtown--wouldn't be thrilled if we showed up on their doorstep saying, "Your guard dog just invited us to play. Do you mind if we hang out in your yard for a little bit?"
So we just won't tell them. But I still have a new friend.
On our way to work, Ben and I pass a tiny fenced yard. Every month or two, there's a very large German shepherd hanging out, deafeningly defending his territory. We greet him when we pass, saying, "Hello, puppy." in the tones reserved for the cutest dogs, and offering him our hands through the chain link fence. He always sniffs and settles down.
On Thursday, instead of settling down, he pawed at the chain link. Then he reared up and came down on both forelegs, rubbing his nose on the snow. Puppy wanted to play.
We were tempted. We really were. But even if we hadn't needed to go to work, something tells me the owners--the people who keep an oversized shepherd in their tiny yard on the edge of downtown--wouldn't be thrilled if we showed up on their doorstep saying, "Your guard dog just invited us to play. Do you mind if we hang out in your yard for a little bit?"
So we just won't tell them. But I still have a new friend.
Labels:
cool
February 28, 2008
The Strangest Trip
Yesterday, one of my nightmares came true. It wasn’t so bad.
As long as I can remember, I’ve been afraid of heights. My first memory that I can date happened when I was two and involves being terrified of a long, open flight of stairs. I’ve worked on it, and it rarely gets in my way anymore, but it’s still there, lurking.
About five years ago, I took a job in a tall building. I’ve never worked somewhere where I’ve had to use the elevator before, so I’d never noticed how much I avoid them. I thought taking the stairs was just a health choice. But five years is plenty of time to notice how my stomach drops when the door opens before the floors are quite lined up or when the elevator lurches into motion instead of accelerating smoothly. It’s plenty of time to ponder all the ways in which elevators can misbehave, plenty of time to dwell on being trapped in a misbehaving elevator, to imagine how terrifying that would be.
Yesterday, it happened. Someone got out of the elevator on the twentieth floor, the floor below mine. The doors closed unusually quickly (greedily, I thought) and I had it all to myself for the long ride down. I reached the first floor without incident, as usual. Then the door didn’t open. Then the elevator started going up again, back to the twentieth floor. The doors still didn’t open.
That was when the really stunning thing happened. I didn’t panic. I clearly and rationally decided that if the elevator was going to move again without letting me off, I wanted to be in charge of where it went. I pressed the first floor button again. We went back down. (Yes, the elevator was a person by then--not a very nice person, but a person.) Since the buttons were still responding to me, I held my finger poised over the door open button. As soon as we registered being on the first floor, I leaned on it. The door opened and I got off. The end.
It was so anticlimactic that I completely forgot to warn the guy waiting that he might want to keep waiting for a different elevator. I did realize I should tell the security guard, so I did. Then I left. I waited for the reaction, but it never caught up to me. No shakes, no hyperventilating, no nothing. Not then. Not later. Weird.
I know the outcome was good and all, but I have the strangest case of cognitive dissonance right now.
As long as I can remember, I’ve been afraid of heights. My first memory that I can date happened when I was two and involves being terrified of a long, open flight of stairs. I’ve worked on it, and it rarely gets in my way anymore, but it’s still there, lurking.
About five years ago, I took a job in a tall building. I’ve never worked somewhere where I’ve had to use the elevator before, so I’d never noticed how much I avoid them. I thought taking the stairs was just a health choice. But five years is plenty of time to notice how my stomach drops when the door opens before the floors are quite lined up or when the elevator lurches into motion instead of accelerating smoothly. It’s plenty of time to ponder all the ways in which elevators can misbehave, plenty of time to dwell on being trapped in a misbehaving elevator, to imagine how terrifying that would be.
Yesterday, it happened. Someone got out of the elevator on the twentieth floor, the floor below mine. The doors closed unusually quickly (greedily, I thought) and I had it all to myself for the long ride down. I reached the first floor without incident, as usual. Then the door didn’t open. Then the elevator started going up again, back to the twentieth floor. The doors still didn’t open.
That was when the really stunning thing happened. I didn’t panic. I clearly and rationally decided that if the elevator was going to move again without letting me off, I wanted to be in charge of where it went. I pressed the first floor button again. We went back down. (Yes, the elevator was a person by then--not a very nice person, but a person.) Since the buttons were still responding to me, I held my finger poised over the door open button. As soon as we registered being on the first floor, I leaned on it. The door opened and I got off. The end.
It was so anticlimactic that I completely forgot to warn the guy waiting that he might want to keep waiting for a different elevator. I did realize I should tell the security guard, so I did. Then I left. I waited for the reaction, but it never caught up to me. No shakes, no hyperventilating, no nothing. Not then. Not later. Weird.
I know the outcome was good and all, but I have the strangest case of cognitive dissonance right now.
Labels:
Difference
February 21, 2008
The Good Life
Yesterday I wrote five hundred of the hardest working words I've ever strung together. I left a document open in the background and dropped in a line or two whenever I was waiting on a remote database. I added more at lunch, made some important decisions while sitting in a training session that turned out to be mostly review, and stayed a little late to finish and clean it up.
It's not quite as brilliant this morning as I thought it was yesterday, but it's still a good story. Even at that length, it's only superficially simple. Some of the language hits directly at the reflexes. Backstory is hinted at but left largely to the reader. There is conflict without a villain. I'm a happy writer.
Then I got to lie on the floor upstairs with Ben and watch the lunar eclipse. How does it get better than this?
It's not quite as brilliant this morning as I thought it was yesterday, but it's still a good story. Even at that length, it's only superficially simple. Some of the language hits directly at the reflexes. Backstory is hinted at but left largely to the reader. There is conflict without a villain. I'm a happy writer.
Then I got to lie on the floor upstairs with Ben and watch the lunar eclipse. How does it get better than this?
Labels:
Art
February 14, 2008
Fun With Marines
If you know an officer or NCO in the Marines, here's a fun trick. Ask to see his sword. Look over the scabbard, then pull the blade out a bit. Hold it up to the light and take some time to admire how pretty it is. Then let your eyes wander to the point where the blade meets the guard and frown. Making sure you can see the fellow, say, "Dude, your sword wasn't even made in the U.S.!"
Then you can sit back and watch his face as justifiable pride in owning a lovely piece of Toledo steel wars with finely honed patriotism. It's quite the sight to see.
Then you can sit back and watch his face as justifiable pride in owning a lovely piece of Toledo steel wars with finely honed patriotism. It's quite the sight to see.
Labels:
Skepticism
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
