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“I tried to start a business, but it failed. It must be Obama’s fault.”

People make this sort of argument all the time. They use their own experience (i.e. one data point) to make some generalization about POTUS or Congress or the governor or whatever. But such arguments are, most of the time, completely bullshit.

I’ll go out on a limb: if your business failed, it’s probably your fault.

The fact of the matter is, it’s hard to succeed in business. After about six years or so, over 50% of new businesses have failed. [See here to see where I got my hard numbers, most of which come from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics.] How do you know, if your business failed, that it was x, y, or z’s fault and not your own? Would your business have really survived, even under a perfect utopia of your imagining?

First of all, the consistency of the “current administration” (and by that I mean POTUS and Congress and the governor and your local city council and so on) doesn’t really matter jack squat when it comes to business survival rates. Check out this graph:

jobs

There’s no noticeable difference between Clinton, Bush, and Obama here. 20% to 25% of all new businesses fail in their first year, no matter who’s in charge. (This is a little hard to see from the graph directly, as the x-axis is shifted in a strange way.  I used the hard data here.)  After a decade, roughly two-thirds have failed. You can blame POTUS if you like, or alternatively, blame whoever is controlling Congress, but either way you’re slipping into the No True Scotsman fallacy: “Sure, 25% of businesses fail in their first year, but I am different… I would have succeeded had it not been for x, y, or z. I am not bad at business; I would have succeeded if only…” You get the idea. (By the way, and anecdotally, if I were playing a blame game, I’d be more likely to blame a governor, because in my experience state policies tend to effect businesses more than federal policies.)

Now, I’ll admit that certain laws (passed by Congress) or policies (enacted by POTUS) can hurt businesses in specific instances. If you start the Acme Widget corporation, and there’s a huge Widget Tax enacted, your business might fail, and you wouldn’t be remiss in blaming Congress or POTUS. But I’m more interested in generalizations: given that your business failed, can we estimate (if at all?) whether or not it was your fault, or someone else’s fault?

Here’s where Bayes’ Theorem comes to the rescue. First, let’s make some definitions. Let

P(good) = Probability that a random person is good at business;

P(suck) = Probability that a random person sucks at business;

P(fail|good) = Probability that your business fails in year 1, given that you’re good at business;

P(fail|suck) = Probability that your business fails in year 1, given that you suck at business;

P(suck|fail) = Probability that you suck at business, given that your business failed in year 1.

Bayes’ Theorem can help us calculate that final quantity, given assumptions about the previous four. Let’s start with a pretty arbitrary guess:

P(good) = 20%

P(suck) = 80%

What’s my justification for saying that 4/5 people suck at business? Well, the graph above seems to be approaching 20% asymptotically. Only 20% of businesses survive “for the long haul”. And 20% “feels” right: most people aren’t good at business, but there’re still millions of people who are.

Now, let’s say 1000 people start a business. Based on the assumptions above, 800 of them suck at business, whereas 200 of them are good at it. We’ve already mentioned that (say) 75% of the businesses will survive their first year, and 25% will fail: 750 vs. 250. Let’s further assume that

P(fail|suck) = 30%.

I pulled that percent out of a hat, but it seems reasonable to assume if 25% of all businesses fail in their first year, then more than 25% of businesses run by sucky managers will fail. But not too much more: 75% of businesses still succeed in their first year, no matter who is running the show. With P(fail|suck) fixed, we’re forced to concede that

P(fail|good) = 5%.

Bad luck, that. Some 5% of businesses run by good managers will still fail in their first year. These are the people who can rightly blame the administration. (Where did the 5% come from? Well, 30% * 800 + 5% * 200 = 250 failed businesses.)

Now: on to Bayes’ Theorem! (For a discussion of how to use this handy tool, see here). We find that

P(suck|fail) = [P(fail|suck) P(suck)]/[ P(fail|suck) P(suck) + P(fail|good) P(good)]

P(suck|fail) = [(0.3) (0.8)]/[ (0.3) (0.8) + (0.05) (0.2)] = 0.96

Translated into English, this means that if your business fails in its first year, we can conclude that it was probably your fault. There’s about a 96% chance that you suck at business.

This is a fascinating result…and you’ll get similar results no matter what assumptions you make, as long as they are reasonable and consistent. For one thing, you’ll always get that P(suck|fail) > P(suck). If I take a person off the street, they have about an 80% chance of sucking at business. But if I take a failed business owner, someone whose business failed in its first year, then I have some extra data, and their chance of sucking at business has gone up to 96%. (There’s a 4% chance that they are good at business but got unlucky.)  A person whose business fails has no right to complain about their failure. It was probably their fault.

There are two lessons here. One, stop whining. Two, remember Bayes’ Theorem!

Thomas_Bayes

I suck at business, too.

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Google poetry

Inspired by Elke Stangl, whose idea this was (see here for an explanation of the canonical rules), I hereby give my first attempt at Google poetry:

Life is just…life.

OK, so, never mind.

It doesn’t matter.

Therein lies a tale.

It’s winter because we’re far from the Sun.

There’s no place for you in such a conformist world.

Am I doomed?

Insert your own joke here.

tardigrade.jpg

 

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Today is Memorial Day, and while my father did not die in the service of his country, he did serve his country: as both a submarine officer, and later as an engineer working for the DoD.  And he did die, eight months ago.  He didn’t fall to an enemy bullet, or go down with his ship.  He died of ALS.

I am 46 years old.  When my father died last September, on my mother’s birthday, it was the first time I had ever experienced the loss of an immediate family member.  I feel lucky that I made it that far…46 years…before having such an experience.  On this Memorial Day I feel a need to share what I’ve learned, if anything.  Maybe I’ve learned nothing at all.

The pain is less than I thought.  Maybe it’s because of how he died…helpless with ALS…but when I first heard the news, my initial reaction was relief.  I thought, It’s over.  It’s finally over.  I didn’t cry, I didn’t break down; I moved on like the doctors in that Robert Frost poem:  “And they, since they were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.”  All the crying was done months earlier: when I saw him gradually lose the use of his legs; when I learned he really had ALS; when I heard he probably wouldn’t make it to Christmas.  Death is not always an evil, and my dad was finally at peace.

There is guilt.  I have guilt at how much relief I felt.  What right do I have for relief?  My sister and my nephew took care of my father for over a year before he passed.  They are the ones who should feel relief.  Relief, for me, doesn’t seem fitting.  I don’t think I did enough. I don’t think I visited enough.  I sometimes think I failed my family or my father somehow.  On a rational level, I don’t think guilt is a particularly useful emotion, unless it spurs you to change your behavior in some way.  But I don’t know if there’s anything I would have done differently.  And so the guilt remains.

The pain is more than I thought.  Sometimes, at odd moments, I will think of something that I want to share with my father: a good book, an incredible play in football or basketball, an amazing place I have visited.  It takes a second to remember that my father is gone.  And then that something that I wanted to share dies, too; falls away, like ashes, like dust.  It’s bitter.  It’s cold.  Whatever it was that I was going to share, I don’t share with anyone.

I can handle grief.  When you’re a kid, you may imagine one of your parents dying.  In your mind, it’s devastating.  If you’ve never grieved before, you will look to TV, books, movies…anything to give you some context, some framework, some way to imagine what such grief is like.  The lesson is always: grief is an unbearable, unimaginable pain.  It will devastate you.  It’s an abyss.  And yet…I’m 46.  A parent dying when you’re 46 is natural.  It seems like an expected thing.  There is pain, but the world moves on.  A week later, the adoption of my son became official.  Circle of life.

There is no Hallmark moment.  I never had a last talk with my dad.  No secrets were revealed.  I don’t recall the last thing I said to him, or the last thing he said to me.  Life is just…life.  And sometimes, it just…ends. I do remember the last thing I did with my father: we watched the movie Zoolander together.  I challenge anyone to find meaningful allegory in that.

I sense that my father lives on.  I don’t believe in any afterlife.  But that doesn’t mean that my father is gone forever.  On the contrary, there are memories and ideas and connections and neural pathways and patterns and dreams and software, inside my own mind, that I would definitely attribute to my father.  He’s not inside my head, like Baron Harkonnen haunting Alia in Dune Messiah.  But there is something in me attributable to him.  That’s not a bad thing, or even necessarily a good thing.  But it is continuity.  And it is fitting.

415680_4306833322495_55176632_o

OBITUARY

James Anthony Rave, 73, of Beaufort, died peacefully Thursday, Sept. 18, 2014, at home. No service will be held. Jim was from Cincinnati, Ohio, and graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 1963. After six years as a submarine officer, he continued to serve our nation as a federal employee with the Department of the Navy, finally retiring after a full career from Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point. During his final years he kept active working as a contracting engineer and avidly reading science fiction and military history. He is survived by his wife of 51 years; four children; four brothers, two sisters; seven grandchildren; and two great-grandchildren.

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I suspect there are hundreds of physics classrooms across the country that have the following poster:

10314603This is the CENCO (Central Scientific Company) poster of the famous 1927 Solvay Conference. I’ve been to at least three universities that have this thing on the wall, including my own institution, Western Carolina University, and my alma mater, Wake Forest University. Strangely, I can’t date the poster, although if you read the descriptions of the 1927 Solvay attendees, the poster lists Dirac as being dead and De Broglie as being alive. Ergo, the posters were printed some time between 1984 and 1987. I suppose CENCO gave the posters away for free as a promotional during the Reagan administration, and I’d guess most of those freebies are still hanging on the wall today. (Physicists don’t update their décor very often.)

I’ve spent a fair amount of time looking at this poster (sometimes, the life of a lab instructor is dreary). And, in all my time staring at these giants of modern physics, I’ve formulated one burning question:

Which of these people was the dumbest?

[Note: I used this site for a listing of the attendees in the famous photo]

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not claiming anyone in the poster is dumb per se. And I would never compare myself to anyone on the list. But logic dictates that one of the people here was literally the dumbest attendee; I feel a moral obligation to identify this person for posterity.

Most of the names on the poster are familiar to physicists, and most of the attendees are therefore out of the running. No one would ever seriously consider Einstein, Curie, Dirac, Bohr, etc. as being the “dumbest.” On the other hand, some of the physicists aren’t so familiar, but they were obviously talented: Guye wrote over 200 papers; Knudsen had a bunch of crap named after him (Knudsen cell, Knudsen flow, Knudsen number, Knudsen layer and Knudsen gases). Piccard and Langmuir fall into this category as well.

And then there are the scrubs flanking Ehrenfest,

Picture1

Henriot, Ehrenfest, and Herzen

and the scrubs flanking Schrödinger,

Picture2

de Donder, Schrödinger, and Verschaffelt

These scrubs are so scrubby that the CENCO poster doesn’t even talk about them.

Surely one of these fools was the dumbest?

Let’s take them in order. Henriot was a chemist, so that’s a strike against him; he discovered that potassium is naturally radioactive, which is cool I guess, and figured out a way to make tops spin at high speeds. Woop-de-do. Herzen was a friend of Ernest Solvay, but didn’t really do anything else of note; I think we know how Herzen got an invite to the conference, don’t we?

Being a mathematician, de Donder probably gets a pass: he also wrote a shitload of books. The final scrub, Verschaffelt, is notable as having the shortest Wikipedia article of any Solvay attendee. Basically, all I can find out about him was that he was a physicist. Period.

Before we decide between Herzen and Verschaffelt, we should mention two other physicists in the poster. Compton once said, “the supernatural is as real as the natural world of Science,” so I’m tempted to list Compton amongst the scrubs. Anyone with so much woo in his veins can’t be listed amongst the top tier of physicists. Compton did win a Nobel prize though, and he was American…we have to disqualify him, then. America, fuck yeah! That leaves Ehrenfest, who was by all accounts a clever guy. But come on, the guy shot his own son and then killed himself. That’s hard to get past. I guess we’ll chalk that up to mental illness, not stupidity, but no one is ever going to make an Ehrenfest action figure.

Parents snub traditional action figures in favour of such as historical icons as Einstein and Van Gogh

None of these for Ehrenfest.

So who was dumber, Herzen or Verschaffelt?

Herzen wrote a book or two, and supposedly played a “leading role” in physics and chemistry. So I’ll give him the nod over Verschaffelt. Thus we can tentatively say:

Verschaffelt was the dumbest attendee of the 1927 Solvay Conference.

Scrub

“I’m still smarter than you.”

You’re welcome.

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Physicist or not a physicist?

In the film Amadeus, Salieri wonders what Mozart looks like.  He knows Mozart by reputation, but has never met the man.  He says:

“As I went through the salon, I played a game with myself. This man had written his first concerto at the age of four; his first symphony at seven; a full-scale opera at twelve. Did it show? Is talent like that written on the face?”

Good question. Decide for yourself:

Is this genius?

Which brings me to a game we can play: Physicist or not a physicist?

Look at the following portraits, and see if you can see the spark of genius in them.  Which ones are as smart as Einstein?  And which ones are merely composers, economists, or chess players?  [Answers follow at the end of the post.]

Picture2

#1

Picture3

#2

Picture4

#3

Picture5

#4

Picture6

#5

Picture7

#6

Picture8

#7

Picture9

#8

Picture10

#9

Picture11

#10

Picture12

#11

Picture13

#12

[A quick note on the formatting of this post.  Yes, I know it sucks.  And it took me 2.5 hours to get to this level of suckiness.  Thanks, WordPress, for forcing the broken Beep Boop Boop editor on me, and disabling classic mode!  In the Beep Boop mode, not only is everything slower, but (1) you can’t center text in picture captions, (2) the visual editor doesn’t accurately display what’s in the HTML editor, (3) the visual editor doesn’t accurately display what’s in preview mode, (4) if text is left justified, then it wraps around automatically, even if you didn’t choose this option, (5) you can’t change font size of the text, or caption, (6) you can’t even change the fucking FONT, (7) tags are now buried under several levels of drop-down menus, slowing things down immensely, and (8) there’s an annoying pop-up asking me after every edit if Hey! Do I want to Preview?  No, I don’t want a preview, WordPress, and your removing the “switch to classic mode” button was frankly just malicious.]

Answers [highlight to reveal]: #1 Physicist Emmy Noether.  #2 Composer Bela Bartok.  #3 Chess champion Mikhail Tal.  #4 Economist John Maynard Keynes.  #5 Physicist Shirley Jackson.  #6 Physicist Lise Meitner. #7 President John Tyler.  #8 Physicist Chen Ning Yang.  #9 Physicist Michael Faraday.  #10 Physicist Emilie du Chatelet.  #11 Swordsman Miyamoto Musashi.  #12 Physicist Michael Binger.

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Graffiti

Gigolo

History X

Pie

Beauty

Psycho

Splendor

Gangster

Hustle

Sniper

finster2

Art by Howard Finster.

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I once wrote a palindrome. I think it’s a good one. Here it is:

I maim Nigel’s leg in Miami.

I’ve googled this palindrome; I’m reasonably certain no one else has thought of it. But I can’t be sure. That’s because the process by which I wrote the palindrome seems so simple and inevitable in hindsight.

How on Earth did I ever come up with this? Was it a moment of inspiration? Hours of toil? Therein lies a tale.

Here’s a secret of mine: I automatically reverse words, in my head. Not when I’m reading a book, and not when I’m writing, but when I see a word on a sign, or displayed prominently somewhere. If I see a stop sign, I immediately (and subconsciously) notice that it says “POTS” backwards. When I see the jar in a restaurant that says “tips”, I instantly notice that it is “spit” backwards. And so on. I don’t know how common this is, but I’ve always done it. It’s a sort of “word-dyslexia” although it has never inconvenienced me in any way.

Tip-Jar-Rehoboth-DE

Spit on no tips!

Just the other day, I saw the word “Avalon”. Immediately, I saw that it is “no lava” in reverse. As a mental exercise, I tried to make a palindrome using Avalon. After 30 seconds, I had composed the lame “No lava tub, but Avalon.” Hardly impressive.

But the one about Nigel’s leg…I think it’s a grade-A palindrome. Up there with “A man, a plan, a canal, Panama!” and “Dog food lid: dildo of God.” How, exactly, did I write the palindrome?

One day, I saw “Miami” on a sign. I thought: “I maim”. Hmmm. Looks like a palindrome is possible. Here, then, are my attempts, palindromic at every step:

I maim Miami.

I maim Ni in Miami.

[Ni is not really a name. What names begin with Ni? Nikita, Nick, Nina, Nigel. Hey!]

I maim Nigel leg in Miami.

I maim Nigel’s leg in Miami.

That’s it. The whole process took maybe 3 minutes, and was triggered by seeing a sign with the word “Miami” on it. Nigel is not a common name in the USA, so maybe the palindrome gets an A- as opposed to an A. But hopefully my 3 fans in the UK (including chess grandmaster Nigel Short?) will give me a top score.

I’ll keep working on writing new palindromes. My latest observation is that “Pacer” is “recap” backwards. So I wonder if sports writers in Indiana give a “Pacer recap” after every game. If they don’t, they should. The world needs more palindromes.

1881906_orig

Leg (in Sparta) traps Nigel?

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Many Worlds Puzzle #3

Today there are really 10 puzzles. Can you figure out the significance of each number below? I’ve answered the first to get you started.

1.   681472

This number has a prime factorization of 2^9 x 11^3, which indicates that it equals 88^3. There are 88 keys on a piano…so one obvious interpretation is that the number 681472 is the number of possible three-note permutations that could start any piece on a piano (not counting rests, and ignoring duration). I wonder how many of the permutations have actually ever been played over the years?

2.   3927.27272… seconds

3.   23.14069…

4.   2.1656 x 10^185

5.   1.03 light year/year^2

6.   133956

7.   About 19.5 million people

8.   0.739085…

9.   1.72048 m^2

10.   0.004295 %

Because many of these problems are challenging, I will post hints in a week or so.

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Here I present three new mathematical discoveries for your edification.

1. According to Alexander Pope, “The proper study of mankind is man.” Symbolically,

S(mankind) = man,

where S(x) is the study of x. Now, Aldous Huxley tells us that “The proper study of mankind is books,” or

S(mankind) = books,

from which we can use the transitive relation to see that

man = books.

Of course, “Man is the measure of all things,” [Protagoras] so we immediately find that

man = books = μ(ξ).

Recall that μ(x) is the notation for the measure on a set, and we’ll use ξ to denote the universal set (ignoring Russell’s paradox as being too annoying). We already have a number of new apothegms, including

  • The proper study of mankind is the measure of all things
  • Books are the measure of all things
  • Women are books

where in the final example we have used Henry Adams’ quote “The proper study of mankind is woman”. Of course, the astute reader will note that Cicero’s quote “So many books, so little time” then takes on a whole new meaning, as noted by the Robert Cray band.

2. We now move on to the observation that theology is the study of theology, a fact which is self-evident. In our notation this becomes

S(theology) = theology.

We can then do multiple substitutions to learn that

theology = S(S(S(S(S(S(S(···))))))).

It is now evident that theology, at its core, is the study of an ellipsis; it’s turtles all the way down.

Barney-The-Dinosaur-Creator-Malibu-Shooting-by-son3. We end with the following logical proof. Consider Nietzsche’s observation that “that which does not kill you makes you stronger.” Let

K = something which kills you,

                   S = something which makes you stronger.

Then Nietzsche’s quote is simply

~KS.

Applying the contrapositive, we see that

~SK,

meaning that anything which does not make you stronger must kill you. Barney the dinosaur certainly doesn’t make anyone stronger; therefore Barney kills.

You’re welcome.

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I liked this post so much (from Sean Carroll at CalTech) I couldn’t help sharing:

http://www.preposterousuniverse.com/blog/2014/06/30/why-the-many-worlds-formulation-of-quantum-mechanics-is-probably-correct/

multiverse-4

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