Brilling

Greey-tings from Jolly Owlde London. Chilly knickers fouw-lee rumpowle. Right fluff groo-willy chezzwhuff yellowteeth. Eh, what what? Flahrrngwynnwhyth caerphilly whump whump.

I always thought the Jabber Walk was a genuine linguistic innovation, trumpeting the triumph of syntax over semantics. (No surprise, then, that no such poem exists in German.) No. Carroll is a lying fraud, whose legacy deserves to fade like a leering snotty feline grin. That poem is actually a straightforward rendition of how Londoners speak, with only a few minor changes. And you can learn some useful history once it is properly translated. For example, locals complain of low quality lumber resulting from tree rot (flimsy were the borough groves).

I logged many hours listening to the walking locals jabber, and I am learning quickly. My British skills advanced to where my German was after several weeks of exposure in Germany. I think I am learning so quickly because I took four years of English in my American high school, which has some similar roots. I can order food and get basic directions, and even tea and theater tickets. I did in fact manage to order an official British afternoon tea, which I always wanted to do in England.



Good tea. Liked the scone with fresh strawberries. Cute presentation. Worth maybe 8 bucks, not 16 quid. They could have saved quite a lot by giving me about one tenth of that much butter and jam, which would have been plenty. It is a minor strike against my hotel, the Strand Palace. Most of us who attended these meetings in London stayed here because it is across the street from the meeting location. It is certainly not horrid. And they do have a tea kettle in the room. Yes. And they are most assiduous about providing tea. And they sure do have a lot of tea with their breakfast. No complaints about the availability of tea. This can keep you busy while you are waiting for the elevator, which takes long enough that I took to using the stairs (to the 8th floor). But they do warn you in the name. You will be stranded. This is what I get for that zanahorias trick.

The hotel also happens to be near Soho, so I hung out there a fair amount. Saw old Dietrich Benjes, who I last saw in London 10 years ago. Got surprisingly good last-minute tickets to see “We Will Rock You,” figuring that Queen always was intended to go with theater, and I should see it in its proper context. And this did work. Good idea. Essentially, perform their greatest hits CD, with lots of costumes and dancing and visual effects, interleaved with the usual plotline about music and creativity becoming subsumed in the future by an evil corporation. And thus only a prophesied prodigy can restore genuine creativity and spread it amongst an initially unreceptive and doped populace. “Amateur artists imitate; professional artists steal.” Nothing wrong with it. It worked. It worked, in fact, better than anything I can think of. I’m just annoyed that it took me so long to learn that basic truism. Plus, they did rewrite a lot of lyrics to my amusement, and provide some engaging dialog, with talented people and sexy dancers. I wish they didn’t kill Britney Spears at the end of the first act, since he was an amusing dancer, and could sing like Freddie pretty well for a black guy.

I walked back to my hotel to change before going back to jabber walk around Soho. I noticed a lot of other shows – Legally Blonde, The Lion King, Sister Act, Grease. Probably fun shows, but I do wonder how much the level of imitation/theft has changed. It’s less impressive to make a successful show out of something that was already tested and validated. It makes sense. It’s more likely to make money. I have seen many such shows, and enjoyed them. But what inspired Oklahoma! ?

Similarly, most movies are based on 80s shows, comic books, established fantasy genres, and/or the last successful movie in the franchise, often differentiated only by a single Roman numeral at the end of the title. Not sure if this really is a reduction in global creativity, or that the explosion of mass global culture has forced most or all successful themes forward, or it’s just a side effect of me getting older and thus seeing more and more different efforts at creativity. The second hypothesis is hard to reconcile with Joseph Campbell Hero with a Thousand Faces, which lays out the hero myth across so many different cultures that it can be used as a roadmap for new hero myths, from the Seven Samurai to Star Wars to We Will Rock You. Yet some elements are relatively new. Gilgamesh never struggled with massive, faceless, evil corporations. Homer did not see any problems with techno-oppression. Siddhartha was not escaping mall music and boy bands. There is some novelty left out there. You just have to bedrock it with the right amount of inspired adaptation.

And so kudos to whoever the hell thought of making a musical to mock Enron. This is not uncreative, since they are not really ripping off anything adaptable to the stage. Enron, to my knowledge, did not produce any audience-tested dances, music, catchphrases, or costumes. It is hence relatively brave to invent a musical to mock a tragedy that harrowed my home state and paved the way for its Schwarzennegerization.




I’d see it, but it doesn’t play today. They also have Macbeth in the park. This sounds fantastic – Shakespeare in the Park in Regent’s Park in London. I hope I can make it. But, if not, I’m sure they will be there tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow….

I also found where you can go if you want to change your hairstyle to a long beard and really long curly sideburns:

Zanahilarias

Zanahorias are Mexican carrots. These are less well known than refried beans, tamales, tacos, and burritos, which are already quite obscure out here. I brought back a few bags along with all the other Mexican food, and gave them to some locals. I would typically hand them one, then (while they turn it over and sniff it) warn them that they are spicy, then casually eat one, and watch them seal their fate with one bite.

This is precisely what I was going for with Pop Rocks. Didn't work, cause they have Pop Rocks out here. Fortunately, Mexican capitalism and distribution is somewhat less aggressive, and they do not have zanahorias out here. They do have carrots, of course. And since 100% of the many, many carrots that 100% of Austrians have ever eaten were not remotely spicy, they assume that zanahorias aren't either. Even after I warn them. Even after I explain that zanahorias are made by pickling carrots in vinegar and chiles. Oh, how many eyes I've seen widen, the confused and vaguely accusatory look toward me, the rapid grab of whatever drink is available.

"Oh!"

"Yes?" Calmly munch another one.

"These are spicy!"

"I told you."


Our Tuesday Pub Quiz team, Rabbits on Fire, lost in the semifinals. Perhaps it was zanahoria-induced trauma, or torpor from the chicken enchilada feast I brought to make sure nobody exiled me over the zanahorias. Maybe it's cause we did not seek the endorsement of the increasingly visionary Paul the Octopus. Could be cause we had half as many people as the winning team. But our team was never so appropriately named.

Pablo El Pulpo

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/world/europe/10521867.stm

I want it noted that I sided with Paul the Octopus in his upset prediction that Spain will beat Germany BEFORE the game began. I even put money on it, thereby beating a native German speaker who (sorry to be redundant) must be obsessed with soccer. Actually, he never talks about it, or plays it, or wears soccer clothes, or wears shin guards to work. But Europeans love soccer, and indeed I can hear some exceptionally huge speakers and a really big crowd from my office here, even though the closest place where such a crowd could gather is about 1 km away. They're really into it.

The decision to support Paul was not based on any sincere belief that the octopus is, in fact, psychic. Come on. I am a scientist. A brain scientist, no less. I based it on simple psychoanalysis of the octopus. Everyone knows that the Spaniards eat odd squiggly seafood, including a lot of pulpo. And the octopus has an owner that says he has nine brains, which is seven more than even Steve Martin ever managed. Therefore, octopuses must be several times smarter than humans. A human might throw the game to Germany out of annoyance at all his eaten relatives. And even more pathetically, seeing all the little baby octopi struggling around the Thanksgiving table, trying to hold the requisite 8 utensils when some of their tentacles have been cut off by bastardly Barcelonans. Poor little squidlies, to young to even squirt some defensive ink, forever detenticated. It makes me mad, and I'm not even the same species. But Paul, being smarter and wiser, realized that throwing the game to Spain would make millions of Spaniards feel extremely guilty.

Or, it should. I mean, be reasonable, you ingrates! You love soccer, you think it's the golden age of Barcelona soccer, and you STILL EAT OCTOPUS? You're really tempting fate.

I predict the upcoming end of the Spanish soccer supremacy. They may have some fun for a while, but that's it. You guys ate one pulpo de gallega too many. You, specifically, Bill Tortora. It is your fault. Also, the Spanish economy will not do so well in the near future. And lots of immigration problems from Africa. All because you bit the tentacle that feeds.

De-NEINED

Quite unexpectedly, the security people in Los Angeles were far kinder than in Frankfurt. I learned this through a tale of cultural differences during my flight.
At LAX, I got some Mexican food for lunch. I enjoyed it with no small amount of whimsy, even though I have enough Mexican food in my luggage to quite literally feed me for 2 weeks, and will be in Cali again in 2 months. I talked them into giving me a salsa container, then filled it with really good roasted tomatillo salsa and tried my luck at security. It was not what I expected at all.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m trying to take this delicious salsa to Graz. But, this container looks like more than 100 ml. Can you tell me how much I can take?”
“You cannot take liquids on board, sir.”
I repeated exactly what I just said, verbatim.
“OK, sir.”
“Can you please tell me how much I can take?”
“100 milliliters, sir.”
“Right. So, of this container, how much can I take?”
This went on for a couple minutes until I worked out that they actually had no way at all to measure out 100 mL. This seems pretty basic, since it is a fundamental unit of measurement in a modern airport security line. I tried to bribe her with two Mozartkügeln, no luck. Then a female supervisor came over with a totally unexpected announcement.
“Sir? If you like, we can test it for you.”
“Go ahead. It’s pretty good.” I drank a little to demonstrate.
“No, sir." She smiled a little. Promising. "That's not what I mean. We can test it for you. To make sure it is safe.”
“And then I can take it through security?”
“Yes, sir.”
Huh. I had no idea that was an option. It worked. They took my salsa, tested it with a little wand that presumably said “no nasty nitrates,” and then they let me through with at least a half pint of salsa. After confirming with the security people, and bribing the cute supervisor with my last remaining Mozartkügeln, I went back and purschased lots more salsa, which they tested, and approved. This struck me as a totally novel paradigm in airline security. I was so inspired that I hit on the TSA security supervisor there, but got denied. Some things never change.
I mentioned many times that Frankfurt is a good airport, and I never had any problems there. No longer true. I disembarked and the line through customs and passport control was fairly bad, though not exceptionally so. I went to terminal B and they no longer have free tea and coffee there, though they still have newspapers for free. Worst of all, they renovated their bathrooms and they got rid of the little flies!!! Every time I go through here, or Munich, the high point of my trip is going after those little flies that the Germans paint in to the urinals. I blogged about it repeatedly. I was sure that the fly population had probably reproduced since I last said hello during my trip out to California, and I might have to visit a few different urinals just to keep them down. But no, the “new and improved” urinals just have regular white porcelain. Boo! I should write a letter to the airport people, or better yet, the local fly king. They have to have some leader, perhaps called the Lord of the Flies or Frankfurt FührerFliege or something. Maybe I could even taunt him into bringing his posse out to San Diego, where they can try their luck taking over the urinals in my home town.
But then I hit security, which predictably followed cultural differences. To my great annoyance, I had to go through security again, which was also a problem in LA. I boarded in San Diego, went through security, connected in LA, had to go through security again, then connected in Frankfurt, and had to go through security again. Even Stapleton airport, amidst a famously delayed and thoroughly corrupt construction effort, manages to stick some long underground tunnels (or shuttles) so people, especially international travelers, don’t have to go through security every time.
Anyway. There was no line at security, so I figured I would have some flexibility cajoling them. First, of course, they did discover my roasted tomatillo salsa. The Frankfurters were, well, frank, as well as attentive and thoroughly inflexible. “Sir, what is this?”
“This is Mexican salsa.”
“Where did you get it?”
“At a Mexican restaurant at LAX. It then cleared security and-“
“You took this through a security checkpoint?”
“Yes. They said they could test it to confirm it is safe. They did. Then, they said the salsa was OK to take onboard. So, it is definitely clear.”
“It is clear in America. Not here.”
“Please?”
“I am sorry, sir.”
“I will give you some very nice Austrian chocolate.”
“We are not allowed to take anything, sir.”
“Can I take 100 mL of this salsa?”
“No.”
“Can I buy a 100 mL bottle at the store, pour out the contents, fill it with salsa, and discard the rest?”
“No.”
"You can have the rest of it." Bad move. Probably less appealing than Mozartkügeln. Sure enough:
"We are not allowed to take anything, sir."
“Do I have any other options? Can I put it in my checked luggage?”
The resulting procedure was clearly beyond the available time, so I asked if I had any other options. “You can drink it now,” he replied helpfully.
“This is Mexicanisch salsa. Sehr scharf. Is there water nearby?”
“Yes.” I noticed four other people were now watching, clearly amused.
“Have you ever had Mexican salsa?”
“No.”
“Have some.”
“I am sorry, sir, I cannot drink it. It is not allowed.”
“Do you have any tortilla chips, or maybe a burrito or quesadilla to go with it?”
“No.”
I really wanted the salsa. Or at least that salsa flavor. One last taste of roasted tomatillo to keep me going. And 2 of the now-five people watching me were female.
”OK. Just to entertain you, I will drink it.”
“OK.”
So I did. Managed to keep a straight face, and smile. Six people applauded. I bowed and tried not to puke, retch, or wince. As I mentioned, it was a really slow day at that checkpoint.

I asked one of them for her contact info, telling her I would be back through Frankfurt soon. “I am sorry, sir.” Some things never change.

For Why The Bell Tolls

We returned from the beach pretty tired, or at least I was, after thrasing about for 3 hours after 3 weeks of no exercise. I turned on the television and started hitting the up buttong. The fourth one was the Military Channel, showing a commercial for the Military Channel. "Hey Josef, check this out! One of the first channels I hit is the Military Chennel. That is very American. And it's a commercial, and I have no idea what it is on, but I bet it is somehow about America winning World War 2." Now you have to admit, that is a pretty specific prediction. "The Military Channel" could be quite broad. The show promptly returned as the announcer said, "That left three American carriers ready for action at Midway."

We then met more labbies at a local Outback Pub to watch the Celtics beat the Lakers in (one of the seven games of) the Finals. Markus gloated. See later headlines.

The rest of the week was progressively less busy. On Monday, we visited the impressively upgraded Makeig lab at the UCSD Supercomputer Center, which looked good before they moved. Christa gave a talk and we had lunch at the also-renovated Faculty Club. On Tuesday, all my labbies returned to Austria except Josef, with whom we visited a couple producers at Blizzard, and then the following day we visited the Polich lab, where Michael Tangermann and I gave talks.

Since Josef stayed an extra week, he got a fuller palette of San Diego food and culture. The Blizzard people took us to Claim Jumper, which I called the Artery Jumper and explained was all American consumerism double plus. They delivered, with an absurd burger called the WidowMaker and aggressively unlimited iced teas. We noticed a lot of other Blizzard people there, easily identifiable by their black Blizzard T-shirts. Some evil competitor could just bug the local Claim Jumper and get all the info they need, plus enough saturated fat to survive the winter. John Polich fed us from the local Berto's, so I got Josef and Michael a fine selection of taco shop fare including California burrito, al Pastor burrito, taquitos, and nachos. Josef later had a machaca breakfast, replete with tortills, salsa, refried beans, and good ol' American style hash browns, with a helpful explanation of hash brown cooking by the waitress. (It was a short conversation. Shred potatoes, cook over vegetable oil, maybe cover to trap moisture.) We went to a Padres game at Petco park with a couple friends of mine, and 2 random chicks in line gave me 2 free tickets. I tried to pay them, but there was a Padres ticket agent standing there. So I said I would just share my 5 dollar bag of kettle corn, and gave it to them, plus my card and a smile, and never saw them again. Still a good deal overall. It was a gorgeous, sunny day, with a nice view of the ocean and ample overpriced ballpark crudites. I instead brought Peanuts and Cracker Jacks from outside, since I knew they would play that song some time, and thus completed my cultural grand slam. We did root, root root for the home team, but the Padres failed to deliver. Josef later saw another Finals game at another pub. In all three cases, the Padres or Lakers lost. Lesson: send Josef to see home games of enemy teams.

I am now at the Neural Interfaces Workshop in Long Beach, where a lot of interesting work is getting attention. A few people who are here were also at Asilomar. The Long Beach conference center is flanked on all sides by fashionable entertainment, with an amusement park and well manicured lawns by the harbor and booming upscale restaurants everywhere. One of the most memorable facets of this conference, though, is the way they tell people to move along. Usually, when a poster session or coffee break or whatever is ending, and it's time for people to move along, they dim the lights or make an annoucement or something a few minutes early. Only when people really linger past the deadline do they send in their squat blue-suited security personnel to shoo you.

But here, the convention center operators send their security goons out into the poster area a full 10 minutes before the session ended. Their method of announcing the upcoming end of the session? Ringing bells. Everyone brought an antique looking bronze bell with a black handle, like something a schoolteacher would use to tell Tom and Huck and Ben Harper to shut up and sit down. Security walked around the room, following clearly preplanned lines, ringing bells. They were obviously moving around the room to deliver their sonic assault as widely as possible throughout the room. Whenever they hit the edge of a carpet or something, they sharply turned 90 degrees, as if they were trained at marching and trying to show off. They avoided eye contact. They said nothing about why they were doing this.

All of this began while I was talking about my poster. None of us had any idea what was going on. "Yes," I said, "We have a website here, with some articles available for free. And also - pause - do you know why they are ringing bells like that?"

Three other people: "No."

Long Pause.

Me: "Well, maybe they will stop soon."

They didn't.

Ring ring.

"OK, well maybe, we can talk more later. Here are a few flyers, and my card."

Ring. Ring Ring. One of them tried to say something, then gave up. Someone else walked by, who I knew had a Psychology background. "Hey." She stopped. "Do you know why they are ringing bells like that? Is a Russian psychologist going to feed us dog food?" She laughed. The three other people didn't. Damn engineers. Maybe they didn't get the joke, or maybe they had no sense of humor. Can't tell with them.

Ring ring.

I don't understand ring ring. Fire alarm? Happy New Year? Chow time? Austrian religious holiday? Cable car stop? Donate to the Salvation Army?

Ring ring.

Santa is coming!! No? Jesus? No. Stop, drop, and roll? Burglars? Exit, stage left, from The Gong Show? Somebody died, and the funeral procession cuts through Exhibit Hall B of the Long Beach convention center?

Ring ring.

This is not effective communication!

Ring ring.

Then a bell ringer walked by. RING RING!

"Excuse me." No reply. No eye contact.

"Ma'am, you, with the bell? Excuse me."

Nothing.

I asked a bell-less security person: "Why are they ringing bells like that?"

"That is to inform the guests there are 5 minutes left."

"There were 10 minutes left when you started."

"That is to inform the guests that the event is ending soon."

So they didn't communicate very well either. Important note: if you ever organize a conference, no bell ringers.

Millions of beaches. Beaches for free.

After the drive down the coast, we made it to San Diego for a weekend of not-working before our visit to Scott Makeig's lab on Monday. The freeway system in San Diego exposed a source of confusion that had nagged me since Santa Barbara. As we were driving around on Saturday the 5th, Josef asked me if we could go to West Beach. He had also asked, in Santa Barbara, if we could meet someone at West Beach there. I told him that I wasn't positive, but I didn't think Santa Barbara had a West Beach.

But now, I was pretty sure. There is no West Beach in San Diego. Plenty of communities around here named "Beach" - Pacific Beach, Ocean Beach, Mission Beach, Solana Beach, etc. But no West Beach.

"Josef, I don't think there is a West Beach in San Diego."

"There is. I saw it on the freeway sign."

"But I never saw it anywhere, and you keep reporting West Beach everywhere. I mean, it would be kind of a redundant adjective, right? We're on the west coast. Where else would a beach be? I know of North Beaches, and South Beaches, but no west beaches around here. Or east beaches, for that matter."

"There it is. On the sign!"

"Ah. That's 8 West. Beaches. The "West" matches the freeway direction, not the beaches."

I had to admit, it was a reasonable misunderstanding. Whle we're at it, I wish they would make up their minds on whether PCH is a freeway, highway, Scenic drive, road, Carlsbad Blvd, etc. All the "Begin freeway" and "End freeway" signs along PCH in central California are unhelpful. Tourists don't really care about the technical details of when and why and where a road can be designated a highway or freeway. If you wanna sneak in some cross streets, fine; just leave it as a highway then.

But, of course, the beach needs no name to shine. The beach, by any other name, would not only smell as salty; it would instantly turn the foulest word pure. The brightness of the beach would shame that term as daylight doth a lamp; her skies would through the airy regions stream so bright that birds would sing and think it were not night!

On Sunday, we met up with others from our lab and I guided them to Garnet Street on Pacific Beach. I had promised a day with no clouds, or maybe one or two. Indeed, I trained Josef to play the fun San Diego game "Count the Clouds" in La Mesa, which is typically cloudless. His take: "Have you played Count the Clouds, Clemens? It is an easy day, and does not take very long." But the beach was entirely cloudy, with no sun at all, on an early afternoon! I was flabbergasted. Actually, the clouds were kind of pretty, but I didn't think labmates would agree. So we forged ahead anyway. Then, they deemed the water too cold, although it seemed fine to me. So we had to rent wetsuits, and I said we should get some boogie boards too, since it was their first surf lesson. Also, the waves were iffy.

We went to the beach and geared up. I pointed out how there was a line of surfers out there, and that was where the best waves are. I explained that we will first go to the line of smaller waves to practice and learn when to catch waves, and then we can get more aggressive. Markus was not convinced, eager to rent some shortboards and go rip it up with Kelly Slater in a tsunami somewhere. I said, dude, one step at a time. I also warned the lifeguards that I was launching gremmies, and he said thanks, be sure you surf right in front of our tower, and I said, yup, that's why we put all our towels right there, in front of your lifeguard tower. I also told them we would stay away from the line of board surfers, and I would just teach them whomping around the shore.

This plan worked out exceptionally well. There were surprisingly few kids whomping that day, and boogie boards are made for those cute little 3 footers. I had to admit, it was more fun than I remembered. Günther and Markus caught on pretty well, and Günther caught a pretty impressive 5 footer. We rested, went back, and repeated until we were pretty well beat. Nobody got any major sunburn, nobody got hurt, no equipment damaged; not a bad recovery from a beach day that, literally at least, started quite gloomy. The final comment of the normally laconic Günther as we left the beach nailed it. "That was great."


"Millions of peaches. Peaches for me. Millions of Peaches. Peaches for free. Lookout."
--The Presidents of the United States of America.


"You see, Clemens? All of this beach is a huge playground. It is huge, free, safe, healthy, fun, social, relaxing, and enriching. And kids love it."

"Don't they clean the seaweed?"

"Huh?"

"All the seaweed on the beach. Do they clean it?"

"Uh. No. What's wrong with the seaweed?"

"It is just sitting there and rotting."

"Um. Well, sure. I mean, what else would it do?"

"They should clean it."

"Who is they? Besides, it washes up all the time. Nobody has any problem with it. Kids play in it all the time. I used to. Look how I turned out."

Rufless

I should temporarily advance the recollection of my Cali adventure with some telephonic musing.

The Lakers and Celtics have been grinding out a really competitive Finals series. And every time the Celtics won, I would get a phone call from Markus Neuper. He is a Celtics fan. Yes, an Austrian Celtics fan. Deal with it. Anyway, he would call me whenever the Celtics won. He likes taunting. I never called him when the Lakers won. But, he definitely liked letting me know when the Celtics won.

But I am checking my cell phone, and I see no call.

Hm.

Maybe my office phone?

Hm.

I wonder why he didn't call?

The game is over.

It just ended.

I'm sure he saw it.

I don't see any email from him either.

Huh.