The end is here! Again!

Spring break is over. I’m heading back to the classroom this morning.

What makes it all sting a little more than usual is that my restful week off was really just a brief interruption in the middle of the semester. I’m only half way through! I should be glad of the reprieve, but today I have to deal with the stress of resuming where I left off.

Oh well. I also spent the last couple of days setting up all of my classes. I’m all ready to go with a lecture on endocrine disruptors, specifically DES and BPA, which at least are interesting. I’ve got so much material here that I’m going to be talking about endocrine disruptors for the next two weeks.

I could have told her that would never work

One of the great questions of the Internet Age is, “Is a hotdog a sandwich?” It has never been satisfactorily resolved, but Talia Levin boldly submitted the question to a battery of academics. You know what the result had to be, but you might as well read it just to witness the chaos for yourself.

The one answer I liked was from Mark Crimmins, a professor of philosophy at Stanford.

Any well-defended answer to that would take many pages and encompass so many (great, interesting) issues about language. Still, I’d like to offer something to your reader. If you think what counts as a “sandwich” is unclear or somewhat arbitrary, then you had better examine in that light whatever principles you take to be important about sandwiches. Similarly for “baby,” “woman,” “conscious,” “intelligent.” Are you sure that the (perhaps unclear) applicability of these ordinary-language terms marks what is crucial to the distinctions carved by your prized principles?

Categorical mushiness, that’s what I like. All the definitions are fine, the only mistake you can make is expecting simplicity from complexity.

44, shhhhh

Today is my 44th anniversary, but I’m not making a big noise about it. You never know, I worry that I might mention the big number, and she’ll look at me with dawning awareness and say, “Well, that’s about enough of that then. Time for me to be moving on!”

I figure if I let her situation slowly ease in, then maybe at some time I’ll mention the years, and she’ll be resigned to it and say, “Might as well stay then, if I’ve been here that long.” Maybe if I hang on to the big 5-O I’ll be safe. You gotta go slow, you don’t want to startle them, or they might just dart away.

But what about Free Speech?

You better not mention Hans Kristian Graebener on Twitter — Elon Musk doesn’t like it when you expose one of his favorite Nazis.

Twitter is nuking every single post that mentions the name Hans Kristian Graebener, even in quotes. Everyone that posts it is getting hit. I’ve never seen sitewide censorship like this done specifically on behalf of a neo nazi.

Gosh. He’ll suspend his support for free speech to help conceal a notorious creep? Maybe his support isn’t that deep.

Have they tried calling him Gräbener? It might sneak past some of the automated blocking.

Time to find out if all my parts still work!

Good morning! I am going to the doctor today! It’s time for my yearly physical exam!

Just a suggestion: there are things you should not see or read before a doctor’s visit, like John Oliver’s report on the ineffectiveness of state medical boards and how incompetent doctors are hopping from state to state to butcher patients.

It’s OK! It’s just a physical! How much harm could a doctor do in a routine examination?

Then I read Chuck Wendig’s account of an irritating examination by his doctor. Fortunately, I can say that my doctor is nothing like his callous, bumbling doctor. Although I have to admit, this part rang true:

So, he then asks, and once again, please wait for it, wait for it —

“What medications are you taking?” And then, you know, have I had surgery, who in my family is alive and how did the dead ones die.

At this point I’m fairly convinced that I’m being punked, like this is some kind of joke, right? They all tell me, ha ha, no masks, also, please give us the same information you just gave to the last three people. Is anybody writing this down? Two of the people seem to be tapping it into a fucking iPad, but at this point I’m pretty sure they’re just playing Wordle. There is literally no continuity of information. I sigh, and I tell him the information AGAIN.

Now that is familiar. I got a long questionnaire in the mail a few weeks ago, and I dutifully filled it out to bring to the clinic today. Then they sent me an email, telling me to fill out an online survey, which was just as long and mostly the same questions, with a few little differences. I filled that out, too. I expect that today when I get there a nurse will sit down with a clipboard and go through the same questions one by one by one, and I’ll sit there in exposed in my gown, nodding.

But that’s just the medical bureaucracy, which we all hate anyway. My doctor is someone I’ve known for many years now, she’ll be helpful and fine, and probably won’t stab me. I think!


I’m back! The good news: blood pressure is perfect, cholesterol & triglycerides perfect, no problems detected in any of my blood work. I guess I’ll have to cancel all my funeral plans.

Unfortunately, there’s always something to bring me down. I’ve been scheduled for a colonoscopy in August.

Oh, also, all those forms I filled out? The nurse immediately ripped out a whole page of densely packed questions and triumphantly threw it in the trash. I didn’t need to fill that out! How silly of me.

Yet another example of our disappointing winter

You may have heard of the Upper Midwestern tradition in some towns* of rolling an old car out onto the surface of a frozen lake, and then taking bets on the date that it breaks through the ice in the spring. If nothing else, you might have encountered the practice in the pages of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods**.

Sadly, we have had such a tepidly warm winter that the practice was discontinued this year. No klunkers this pathetic winter! I don’t know if there’s even been much ice fishing this year — Lake Minnewaska, which usually has a thriving metropolis on its surface every winter, has been strangely barren. Maybe the fish have been enjoying the reprieve?

*Not every town can do this. The lakes in the immediate neighborhood of Morris are rather shallow — we live in the prairie pothole region, where mostly what we’ve got are shallow wetlands. If we did this, the lakes would be dotted with car roofs rising above the water.

**If you’ve read the book, you’d know it’s for the best, since we also don’t have murdered girls in the trunks of the klunkers.

It’s officially the first day of spring break!

And that means I have to go into work — a bit later than usual, but that’s my only benefit. I have to go in and feed the animals, autoclave a bunch of fly bottles, and also, because we had a safety audit last week, I have to rearrange some boxes cluttering up the place to provide better access to the fire extinguisher and first aid kit. Today’s the day for doing mundane stuff that I put off because my teaching obligations come first.

The rest of this “vacation” week I plan to use getting one step ahead of lecture prep. It’s not so much a vacation as it is a temporary reprieve.

The photo is not an accurate representation of what spring break looks like in Minnesota. We have no snow, but we do have brisk temperatures and wind. I’ll leave my bikini at home when I walk over to the lab.

In my prime!

Today’s my birthday! Guess how old I am.


Old ’67 what a time it was
What a time of innocence, what a time we’ve lost
Raise a glass and have a laugh, have a laugh or two
Here’s to old ’67 and an older me and you

It was very nice of Elton to write that song just for me.

It is also the first day of spring break, so I should probably do something fun, like take a nap.

We’re also having a grand get-together of the gang at FtB, throwing a podcast to celebrate.

Whoa, that’s the worst party theme ever. I think maybe it’s not going to be about me at all. At least, I hope not.

They’re not sending their best

Joe Rogan needs to do a better job screening guests on his show. Here’s one of his interesting guests.

Sheldon Johnson – a 48-year-old youth counselor for the Queens Defenders who spent 25 years in prison for attempted murder and robbery – was introduced on the Joe Rogan Experience in February by his friend, Perlmutter Center for Legal Justice executive director Josh Dubin, as “a marvelous human being” who was wronged by “the system.”

Johnson was also photographed shaking hands with Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg.

He sounds better than Jordan Peterson or Alex Jones or Elon Musk or Gavin McInnes. Except…

However, less than a year after his release from prison, Johnson was arrested in New York on Thursday after police found a severed head in an apartment freezer and a torso stashed in a bin.

What kind of life puts you on a trajectory that leads to stuffing decapitated heads in a freezer?

Oh, wait. Never mind.

AI making the void look shiny, bright, and appealing

Last week, everyone was talking about this scammy entertainment fiasco in Glasgow — someone had thrown together an event built around the Willy Wonka IP called Willy’s Chocolate Experience, charged $45 admission, and then thought they’d sit back and rake in the money. Instead, they were laughed at and despised. It was such an obvious failure — they rented a warehouse, put up a few plastic props, and hired a couple of actors with no script and no plan to stand around and improvise. Where they figured they could really cut costs even further was to use AI to generate the advertising and some of the displays in the warehouse.

They didn’t even copy-edit their ads. It was a zero-effort effort that they thought they could mask with some garishly colored AI art. The appalling thing was how little substance there was behind the glitzy facade — kids showed up and instead of smorgasbord of chocolate they got one jelly bean and a cup of lemonade. That’s how I’ve felt about all the AI stuff being churned out right now. It’s mostly empty hyper-stimulus where the fantasy gets dressed up in an excess of colorful noise. The Glasgow thing was just an example of a few profiteers thinking that was sufficient. It’s not.

Then I encountered another illuminating example. Product photography is a whole genre unto itself, where you have to take photographs of things that are being sold in a way that makes them revealing and enticing. Food photography is a difficult art, because you have to take something that is kind of gross and drab if you think about — a lump of meat with sauces gooped over it, for instance — and make it look crisp and shiny and delicious and colorful (but not too colorful). The food photographed for menus and ads is already mostly fake, with condensation made of glycerin, foamy heads made with soap, cardboard padding to make a stack stand up, and ice cream made out of mashed potatoes.

Commercial food photography is actually pretty hard to do well, as you can discover on Instagram where amateurs are constantly taking photos of their luxury meals, and making them look generally ick. It’s expensive because that photograph of a plump hamburger covered in slightly melting cheese and bright red tomatoes and crisp green lettuce actually takes a team of designers and lighting experts and good photographers to shoot. So why not cut out that expense by using AI to assemble an image from all the hard work of real artists? It’s mostly fake anyway.

These mass market ghost kitchens are doing exactly that.

Dozens of Ghost kitchens, restaurants that serve food exclusively by delivery on apps like DoorDash and Grubhub, are selling food that they promote to customers with AI-generated images. It’s common for advertisements to stage or edit pictures of food to make it look more enticing, but in these cases the ghost kitchens are showing people pictures of food that literally doesn’t exist, and looks nothing like the actual items they’re selling, sometimes because the faulty AI is producing physically impossible food items.

In a way, it’s kind of cool. I look at their products with the eye of a biologist, and their crustaceans and molluscs definitely seem to be alien.

The more I look at those things, the weirder they are. What’s going on with that shrimp’s terminal segment? Those telsons don’t make any sense. Would you eat meat that looked like it had been recently imported from Arcturus, or came from animals cultured downstream from a nuclear power plant?

I guess it may not matter, because we don’t generally scrutinize the photographs in a menu that carefully. They’ve got the color and shininess and appearance of an expected plate of food, so that’s good enough. I might be the only person who’d send the meal back, complaining that these are mundane terrestrial bits of cooked animal flesh.

They better not disappoint me with the beverage, though. I really want my glass of radioactive diet Sprite.