Good afternoon.
Kathy noticed an article on BBC
about an American couple, upon retiring, that decided to sell everything they
owned and travel around the world. He's
72, she's 62. They've already gotten to
80 countries and 250 cities and "said they spent on average $90 per night,
spread across 163 different Airbnb rentals, to enjoy their different type of
retirement. . . . They have funded their
travels from their savings, and through selling their Seattle home, boat and
cars." Kathy suggested, I assumed
facetiously, that we could consider such an option.
It is true, we could. Anyone doing this would have to have a
reasonable amount of money available ($90 per night x 365 nights = ~$33,000,
and you still haven't eaten or paid for transportation costs or for any other
activity). Assuming that some day you'd want to come "home,"
wherever that might be, you'd need to have a nest egg for renting/buying a
place and furnishing it. Or, as Kathy
observed, you rent a storage unit and keep your flatware and dishes and the
like.
Speculating about this is like
speculating about winning the Powerball lottery: it can be amusing but it ain't ever gonna happen. The BBC article makes no mention of children
or grandchildren; most people who have them would not want to be away
permanently. I am also enough of a
creature of habit that I wouldn't want to be away from my house and my friends
and my regular activities in life. Can I
be gone Jan-Mar somewhere warm? You
betcha. Indefinitely? Nah.
* * *
When was
the worst year to be alive? Arguing for
one year versus another is one of those interesting parlor games we can
play. To make a persuasive case, of
course, you need a decent grasp of the entire span of human history. One Harvard historian and archaeologist,
Michael McCormick (chair, Harvard University Initiative for the Science of the
Human Past), argues that the worst year was 536. Or at least 536 began a period when life was
a challenge.
A mysterious fog plunged Europe,
the Middle East, and parts of Asia into darkness, day and night—for 18 months.
. . . Temperatures in the summer of 536
fell 1.5°C to 2.5°C, initiating the coldest decade in the past 2300 years. Snow
fell that summer in China; crops failed; people starved. . . . Then, in 541, bubonic plague struck the Roman
port of Pelusium, in Egypt. What came to be called the Plague of Justinian
spread rapidly, wiping out one-third to one-half of the population of the
eastern Roman Empire and hastening its collapse.
That the
mid-sixth century was a dark period (both literally and figuratively) has been
known to historians for a long time. It
was the analysis of ice cores that gave away the story: volcanic eruptions. McCormick says the evidence suggests Iceland;
there are other data points that hint at North America. In McCormick's view,
a cataclysmic volcanic eruption in
Iceland spewed ash across the Northern Hemisphere early in 536. Two other
massive eruptions followed, in 540 and 547. The repeated blows, followed by
plague, plunged Europe into economic stagnation that lasted until 640, when
another signal in the ice—a spike in airborne lead—marks a resurgence of silver
mining. . . . When a volcano erupts, it
spews sulfur, bismuth, and other substances high into the atmosphere, where
they form an aerosol veil that reflects the sun's light back into space,
cooling the planet. [Another research
team] found that nearly every unusually cold summer over the past 2500 years
was preceded by a volcanic eruption.
The result was that 536-545 was the "coldest decade on
record in 2000 years."
Earlier
research had discovered that lead also disappeared from the atmosphere from
1349-1353, a period of the Black Death (bubonic plague returned), "revealing
an economy that had again ground to a halt."
I don't
have any point to make in telling this story, other than to be impressed with
the combination of historical records with meticulous scientific research. Given the prospects for global climate change
(i.e., warming), perhaps we need a few more volcanic eruptions.
* * *
I have
played bridge since the summer of 1967, when three high school friends who
played needed a fourth—so they spent quite a few evenings with me during summer
break teaching me to play. For several
years thereafter I was a "slop" bridge player—I didn't know about or
learn the various bidding conventions or the logic and percentages of
play. In the mid-1970s I came to know
(through work at the University) Bob Geary, in the Department of Men's
Intercollegiate Athletics (who was an excellent bridge player), who had
prepared a "cheat sheet" on bidding.
Encountering that summary made me explore and think about the game more
thoroughly. And so I've played the game
with varying frequency over the years, sometimes more often, sometimes only
6-7-8 times annually. (I can attest that
your bridge skills deteriorate when you play so infrequently.)
In recent
years I have, on occasion and not terribly seriously, urged Elliott to learn to
play. His natural retort was "who
would I play with other than you?"
His point was well taken; there are few people in his age cohort, few
Millennials, who play bridge. Alas. Elliott would also reply that he'd learn to
play bridge if I'd learn to play "Magic: The Gathering," an
incredibly complex "combat" card game that now has about 20,000
different cards. New cards are issued
every year. I did sit for one session
with him to learn how Magic is played; I told him afterward that it was too
complicated for me—and besides, "who would I play with other than you?" There are few among Baby Boomers who play the
game.
Wikipedia tells me: "Released in 1993 by Wizards of the
Coast, Magic was the first trading card game created and it continues to
thrive, with approximately twenty million players as of 2015, and over twenty
billion Magic cards produced in the period of 2008 to 2016 alone." (Prize money for national and international
tournaments (first place) reaches $50,000.)
Elliott recently told me that he'd gone back to the rules for Magic to
refresh his memory and reported that the glossary of terms alone totals 39
pages. Here's a picture of one Magic
card.
This isn't
about Magic, however, it's about bridge.
Elliott recently agreed to learn to play. He's doing it as a favor to me; in the
6-couple bridge game I've played in since 1978, my long-time partner now spends
much of the year in Florida, so I must continually find a sub. I renewed my request to Elliott, this time
telling him I needed a regular partner.
He said he'd play and has taken to the game with enthusiasm. So if things work out, he'll become a "regular
sub" in our group, the youngest member by far. *I'm* the youngest of the 12 members (by
about 12 hours), so Elliott will be younger by nearly 40 years. (In the case of one of the other players,
Elliott will be 63 years younger.)
Fortunately, the other members of the group think it's marvelous that
Elliott's learning the game.
Several
bridge-playing couples who are friends of mine have been kind enough to have us
over so that Elliott can sit at a table and actually play the game. Teaching the game (with only two people) is
boring; reading to learn how to play ranks as one of the most dreadfully boring
tasks I have ever encountered. I am
grateful to those who are good at the game who are willing to go back to basics
and teach a beginner.
* * *
Sometimes I stumble on research,
the usefulness of which even I wonder about.
Psychologists at the University of Alberta have determined that upchuck,
bubby, boff, wriggly, yaps, giggle, cooch, guffaw, puffball, and jiggly are the
"10 funniest words in the English language." Just as American legislators—both state and
federal—sometimes take potshots at (apparently completely useless) research
conducted with public funds, I wonder if there are parallel criticisms from Canadian
legislators. The little article I read
about these funny words did not suggest any useful application of the findings. Often, I will argue, legislative potshots are
misguided, or political, because the legislator(s) in question do not
understand basic research or how sometimes goofy-sounding research can lead to
useful improvements in human or other life.
In this case, however. . . .
It seems there are two factors that
make a word funny: the form of the word
-or- the meaning of the word. The form-funny
words are funny for reasons that have nothing to do with their meaning. So, for example, probably wriggly and cooch.
(I have to confess: after I keyed the word "cooch," I
had to look it up. I was not familiar
with it. Oh. I guess I don't get out enough or don't move
in company that uses the word. The Urban
Dictionary, (1): "A vagina. This is
where a penis would normally be inserted (although there are other points of
insertion). In other cases, it is where a woman inserts her vibrator, or where
someone inserts their tongue, or fingers, etc. Lots of things can go up there,
but they're all working towards the same goal." (2) "That very special place on a woman
that men spend their lives striving to visit over and over and over again.")
Anyway, "the purpose of the
study was to understand just what it is about certain words that makes them
funny." The predicted humor in the
meaning of a word "were taken from a computational model of language and
measure how related each word is to different emotions, as well as to six
categories of funny words: sex, bodily functions, insults, swear words,
partying, and animals. . . . It turns
out that the best predictor of funniness is not distance from one of those six
categories, but rather average distance from all six categories. This makes
sense, because lots of words that people find funny fall into more than one
category, like sex and bodily functions -- like boobs." Did you know that there are six categories of
funny words?
So there you have it: why words are funny. And I learned a new one—that won't be useful
in any venue in which I speak or write.
* * *
The student
newspaper at the University, the Minnesota Daily, reported that the "mechanical
engineering department received a wind tunnel last month that will provide a
new way to gain experience and learn new skills in agriculture research for
undergraduate and graduate researchers."
It's another one of those cases when (at least for me) the first
reaction is "who'd have thunk it?" and then, on reflection, realize
that "of course!" It's "23
feet long and can produce wind speeds of up to 12 miles per hour."
What use is
this? One is that it "allows aerosol
researchers at the University to better understand the use of sprays in agricultural
settings and minimize over-spraying in fields." A researcher at the company (a Land O'Lakes
subsidiary) was a research assistant at the University as well as an alum; he
arranged the donation. So now faculty
and students can play with breezes and aerosols. I would think the Mechanical Engineering
faculty and students would find this a wonderful addition to curricular and
research possibilities. One research
agreement with the company that made the donation is aimed at "understanding
droplet transport in agricultural settings."
This kind
of work is what defines a land-grant university, which Minnesota is.
No, I don't have anything to say about the nomination of
Joan Gabel to be the University's next president. Her CV looks good, as does her
experience. My only (tiny) regret is
that she apparently has no connection whatever to the University or the State
of Minnesota. Such a connection isn't
essential, but it adds an element to the understanding of the place. (Yes, Eric Kaler had such a connection; he
earned his Ph.D. in Chemical Engineering at the University.) If finally selected, her previous
accomplishments suggest she'll do well.
I certainly hope so, for the sake both of the institution as well as the
state.
My best—
Gary
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