Yay, The New Yorker

I felt a burst of joy when I logged in and saw for the first time the new digital edition of The New Yorker. It looks good and it works. The ads are still there — good, the magazine needs the revenue. The simulation of page-turning has a calming effect. You can easily print stuff to read later — while waiting for BART, say. You can easily go from the table of contents to the articles. You can easily look in back issues.

In Beijing I read The New Yorker online (the free stuff). Mail from America to China is so slow and error-prone it was pointless to have stuff forwarded. It felt fine. Sure, I couldn’t read some of the articles but there was plenty of other stuff to read. My subscription felt worthless. Now it doesn’t.

Maybe magazines aren’t dead.

More When I tried to read an article, big problems arose. 1. It wouldn’t work with Firefox, no matter how many times I reopened it. 2. After reading several pages with internet Explorer, it got into a state with two pages superimposed, making the whole screen unreadable. I couldn’t fix it. I gave up and went to the paper version.

Why Blog? Ask American Idol

From David Osmond, a failed contestant on American Idol: “I wish I had the opportunity to share what’s inside of me.”

I think that’s exactly the driving force behind blogging.

I used to teach introductory psychology. Large lecture class. I found I could often put whatever I was thinking about in the morning into my lecture. Blogging is easier.

More Jonathan Schwarz puts it like this: We have “desperation to express what our existence is like. Sometimes this comes out literally as singing, sometimes metaphorically.”

Bill Gates Completely Wrong

In a Time article about the future of journalism — the problem of course is that it is free online — Walter Isaacson writes:

Others smarter than we were had avoided that trap. For example, when Bill Gates noticed in 1976 that hobbyists were freely sharing Altair BASIC, a code he and his colleagues had written, he sent an open letter to members of the Homebrew Computer Club telling them to stop. “One thing you do is prevent good software from being written,” he railed. “Who can afford to do professional work for nothing?”

Many people do professional work for nothing: the creators of open-source software, for one. Not to mention bloggers who write about their professional expertise (such as me) or my friend Carl Willat (who made a commercial for nothing). Many book writers do professional work (in the sense that what they write is based on their profession) for next to nothing.

According to my theory of human evolution before occupational specialization came hobbies — skilled work done for nothing. The mental tendencies that led us to do hobbies are still within us

Superhobbies.

Interview with Leonard Mlodinow (part 6)

ROBERTS Did you write in high school or in college?

MLODINOW I started writing in third grade for my school librarian. All I remember about that was they were short stories about dinosaurs and she claimed to love them and that gave me lots of encouragement. I used to love writing little stories; I didn’t do that in college very much, I do believe I did in high school. In college I was just too busy– I had three majors and also got my master’s degree, and I was only there three and a half years.

ROBERTS I didn’t know that. Where did you go to college?

MLODINOW To Brandeis University.

ROBERTS What were your three majors and master’s degrees?

MLODINOW Chemistry, physics and math.

ROBERTS What was the master’s degree?

MLODINOW In physics.

ROBERTS In three and a half years you got a master’s degree?

MLODINOW Yes. I took about double the normal course load. I had to get special permission for that. In the end I was one course short; I had to choose between the master’s and the chemistry. I think I made the wrong choice, I chose the master’s, so I ended up with a double major but I did every chemistry course for a major except one.

ROBERTS Why did you do this?

MLODINOW I didn’t do this to try and break records; I was tremendously interested in things and if I saw a course I liked I wanted to take it. I was like the cliché of a kid in a candy store stuffing his face. I was stuffing my face with knowledge.

ROBERTS Why didn’t you stay longer? Why three and a half years? Why not four and a half years?

MLODINOW Normal is four years and I took a semester off to live in to Israel during the Yom Kippur war, so that made it three and a half. I didn’t think about staying an extra year. I went on to graduate school next so I didn’t leave school. And I’m still doing that–that’s what I do by writing books is just learn things and then write about them.

ROBERTS Yes, I know what you mean. Why did you choose physics rather than math or chemistry?

MLODINOW Chemistry was my love; chemistry and math since I was little and I had the clichéd chemistry set in the basement–blew up myself, burned myself, burned down the house (well, caught the house on fire) and all sorts of things and I thought ’I will be a chemist’ from the age of, I don’t know, ten. When I got to college what happened was more and more I realized there wasn’t enough math in the chemistry for me so I started out with a math and a chemistry major and I thought the math was so Mickey Mouse in chemistry that I added . . . I learned about physics while I was in Israel in the kibbutz–I talked about that experience in Feynman’s Rainbow–and came back and added the physics and ended up in physics. I’ve always loved math but was not excited by pure math where you’re just exploring mathematics or its own sake. I always liked the applications. When I started learning about curved space it was not because the idea that Euclidian geometry isn’t the only one that excited me. It was the idea that physical space might not satisfy Euclidean axioms that really excited me. That was my proclivity in that direction.

Interview directory.

Interview with Leonard Mlodinow (part 5)

ROBERTS I liked your line in The Drunkard’s Walk about lotteries: “What would you think of a system where one person wins a million dollars; for hundreds of thousands of people nothing happens; and one person dies a violent death.”

MLODINOW Would you participate?

ROBERTS Yes, would you participate? That was great.

MLODINOW Most people would, it turns out. But you can’t quite phrase it that way.

ROBERTS I thought, ’Well, you’re not going to read that line in many descriptions of lotteries.’ That’s just not the way the average professor of statistics would describe a lottery. But it’s so much more interesting than the average way a lottery is described. I thought, ’This is brilliant science writing. This person isn’t just copying or popularizing.’

MLODINOW That’s a creativity that comes into writing as well as science. Science research takes a lot of creativity and the ability to look at things from a different angle and I think writing does, too. I think one of the things that sets this book apart from other books on probability is that sort of thing; I looked at a lottery and didn’t just say ’Here are your chances of winning and look how small they are,’ but I think I looked at it from a unique, somewhat amusing, surprising angle. That’s where the work comes in writing the book, is to find those angles rather than just explaining things.

ROBERTS I think the average science writer would grasp that if you’re going to write about the lottery, you’re going to have to find some interesting stories, but I don’t think they’re going to be bold enough or creative enough to think of the way that I just said–the part I quoted. That’s kind of a writer who’s more sure of himself. You should be sure of yourself–you have all these credentials–you did all this stuff in science but I don’t think the average writer is that confident. You know, Malcolm Gladwell tries to do this sort of thing. He does these slightly counter-intuitive ideas but it’s less successful, I think.

MLODINOW An idea like that would have been hard for someone who isn’t trained in the field; someone who is trained in the field I think would have confidence, if they thought of that idea, to use it. Also, that’s the two areas of confidence you need. You need confidence in the field, and you also need confidence as a writer. You build the latter by writing. Sometimes I’ll write sections of the book or I’ll go on for a while in a somewhat absurd–I’m thinking–direction and I know enough now to know that it sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t work. I think I know enough now to tell the difference.

When I was first writing, I was being a bit more hesitant about getting a wild idea and going there, thinking it was going to be silly and I’m going to embarrass myself. Then I learned, well, it’s good to just do that and don’t worry if you waste a day or two in that direction; you can just cut it and keep going but it’s a good investment because sometimes it works and you get something really interesting. I also learned with time that I can tell the difference. If it really is silly and not working, I won’t embarrass myself by leaving it in the manuscript; I will notice it and cut it and not fret over the lost day or two and I’ll go on and write something else to take its place. Those are all lessons that you have to learn but it is interesting that you brought up the notion of confidence because I think that’s something that you do learn as you write. It’s really a dual lesson of confidence–that it’s okay to go ahead and take chances with the writing–and the letting go of the possible wasted time you’re going to have. So the confidence to know that you won’t embarrass yourself because if it’s really stupid, in the end you’ll cut it and also that you’re not going to fret over the wasted time are two lessons that I think you might not know your first time you’re writing a book. In letting go, you have to be naked and just let yourself go and not worry about what you’re saying and how it comes off.

ROBERTS And you know that you understand the subject. You know that there’s not going to be some other person out there who’s going to say, ’This is all wrong.’ That’s just not going to happen.

MLODINOW Right. You can make mistakes in details–everybody makes misstatements sometimes. There’s so much in a book that it’s hard not to have anything come about wrong. Even Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, the original, gave the wrong relation at one point between wave length and energy for photons. He knows the difference, but unless you’re a computer you do make errors, so another lesson you have to learn is not be too embarrassed if something does come out that is a detail that you get wrong. Obviously not an important concept you get wrong.

interview directory.

If Commercials Told Emotional Truth

…many of them, maybe all of them, would be unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Thanks to my friend Carl Willat, you can now see such a commercial.

Carl makes commercials for a living but he made this one for fun. A labor of love. Not only did he (a) care about the product (Trader Joe’s), he had (b) great skill and (c) complete freedom. I think this combination is extremely rare and is why this commercial is utterly different from all other commercials I’ve ever seen.

My self-experimentation combined these three things, too. I studied (a) problems I cared a lot about (such as my poor sleep) with (b) the skills of a professional scientist and (c) total freedom. This combination, just as rare in science as in commercial art, explains to me why my self-experimentation seems so different than other research.

More superhobbies.

Interview with Leonard Mlodinow (part 4)

ROBERTS You learned stuff from writing TV scripts that transferred into book writing?

MLODINOW Yes, I think you do. It’s odd because there’s in many ways very little similarity. Pacing, for instance, is very different on a TV show and when you’re reading something but you do get a feeling for it and its importance. All those years of comedy writing certainly I think translate to having a real sense of humor, so there are certain things that do translate.

ROBERTS I think there’s one remarkable thing that makes your books different from other books. Your books give the impression that they want to be entertaining–the author, you, is trying to meet the reader halfway. When you’re writing a TV show, it’s got to be entertaining because otherwise people won’t want to watch it. They’re not required to watch it to get a job or to get a good grade in their class; they’re watching it because they enjoy it. So you’ve got to make it enjoyable. Whereas a lot of books written by professors seem to be saying, “Well, I’m so important and you’re going to read my book because this is an important book to read, so I’m not going to even try to make it interesting; I’m just going to do whatever I want.” Your books are more reader-friendly in that sense.

MLODINOW I think that’s true. A lot of people who are very serious about their topic have a hard time seeing why you need to make it interesting or knowing how to make it interesting for people who aren’t automatically interested in that topic. To me that’s one of the joys of writing. One of the satisfactions is when I go, ’Wow, I made that really funny’ or ’I made that really interesting,’ and then I get excited by that.

ROBERTS That talent–it really helped you to have written for TV because it’s kind of a fresh voice.

MLODINOW I think it helped to develop my voice, too, especially the comedy part, you know? And what my credits show is obviously a small part of what I write. For example at one point I was thinking that maybe I wanted to get on Leno or one of those late night comedy shows and we never really went that far with it, but I did spend some days writing stand up lines and pure joke writing to try to get some material together for my agent to show around. Probably very few other science writers have gone through an exercise such as that. That all, I think, contributes to being able to write with a sense of humor. Of course, you have to have a personality that gravitates in that direction in the first place.

Interview directory.

Beyond the Shangri-La Diet

On the Shangri-La Diet forums is a very interesting discussion:

It’s a way of life when SLD is working, that is… And, to be honest, over the past few months it’s not been working as much as it once did. Or, rather, it’s has been working, but I only lose weight when SLD is strong. It was strong to start with and it’s strong right now, but it’s been 50% or less in between.

My breakthrough came a week or two ago when I started to control my IBS with Colpermin tablets. That helped enormously because it stopped my stomach churning and grumbling so much. But the hot sugar water I was drinking didn’t work 100%. I could manage a few days of decent SLD, but then the hunger fell on me like a heavy weight and I would binge. They were small binges, because SLD was still working and I just couldn’t eat a lot. But the total calorie intake was enough to stop me losing weight.

So, a few days ago I went back to basics. For me, that means back to those nose-clipped cans of Coke Smile And strong SLD is back. To be brutally frank, I feel humiliated that Coke is the only thing that seems to produce conclusive results for me. Even Pepsi doesn’t seem to work as well, or the various clones of Coke that (frankly) cost less Rolling Eyes I wish oil worked, or sugar water, I really do.

But there’s something weird about Coke… We’ve speculated about it’s stomach calming effects in other threads.

However, the fact is that I’m back in what I might call the SLD zone. It’s a lovely place to be, but it’s so terribly hard to describe. Today I ate one meal. And I’m fine. Tomorrow I go out for lunch, and I’m looking forward to it—a chance of have some nice food. But… that’s the difference between strong SLD, and normality. I can wait for that nice food. It’s just less important. I absolutely LOVE feeling this way. My life is my own.

Nose-clipped Coke worked much better than sugar water. Fascinating. When I did SLD — when I lost about 3 pounds/week drinking fructose water — I also started craving flavor. I started drinking tea and haven’t stopped. I started chewing gum and haven’t stopped. I became far more interested in supermarket samples, which are always flavorful. A later comment in that thread:

I once read a newspaper report about a woman who was going slowly blind through an eye disease. She heard about the raw food diet and tried for a few weeks, thinking it might help her. Her eyesight did marginally improve, but she decided she’d rather go blind than face any more raw foods.

Raw food has flavor, but it doesn’t have complex flavors — that’s why people ferment it, even when they don’t need to preserve it. Compare cabbage with kimchi, for example. Cooking food usually increases complexity of flavor. Coke has a very complex flavor. Sugar water has no flavor.

Why do we like unami-tasting foods? Why do we like sour-tasting foods? Why do we like complexity of flavor, including unfamiliar complexity? I think the answer is these likes were built into us to because they caused us to eat more bacteria-laden food, which kept our immune system functioning well. Just as a taste for salt causes us to eat more salt, which we need.

This story suggests that the desire for certain tastes (supplied by nose-clipped Coke but not sugar water) can be strong enough to interfere with weight loss. Future versions of SLD should take account of this

The Twilight of Expertise (medical doctors)

Long ago the RAND Corporation ran an experiment that found that additional medical spending provided no additional health benefit (except in a few cases). People who didn’t like the implication that ordinary medical care was at least partly worthless could say that it was only at the margin that the benefits stopped. This was unlikely but possible. Now a non-experimental study has found essentially the same thing:

To that end, Orszag has become intrigued by the work of Mitchell Seltzer, a hospital consultant in central New Jersey. Seltzer has collected large amounts of data from his clients on how various doctors treat patients, and his numbers present a very similar picture to the regional data. Seltzer told me that big-spending doctors typically explain their treatment by insisting they have sicker patients than their colleagues. In response he has made charts breaking down the costs of care into thin diagnostic categories, like “respiratory-system diagnosis with ventilator support, severity: 4,” in order to compare doctors who were treating the same ailment. The charts make the point clearly. Doctors who spent more — on extra tests or high-tech treatments, for instance — didn’t get better results than their more conservative colleagues. In many cases, patients of the aggressive doctors stay sicker longer and die sooner because of the risks that come with invasive care.

Perhaps the doctors who ordered the high-tech treatments, when questioned about their efficacy, would have responded as my surgeon did to a similar question about the surgery she recommended (and would make thousands of dollars from): The studies are easy to find, just use Google. (There were no studies.)

It’s like the RAND study: Defenders of doctors will say that some of them didn’t know what they were doing but the rest did. But that’s the most doctor-friendly interpretation. A more realistic interpretation is that a large fraction of the profession doesn’t care much about evidence. In everyday life, evidence is called feedback. If you are driving and you don’t pay attention to and fix small deviations from the middle of the road, eventually you crash. You don’t need a double-blind clinical trial not to crash your car — a lesson the average doctor, the average medical school professor, and the average Evidence-Based-Medicine advocate haven’t learned.