Tuesday 28 February 2012

Pseudoscience

I recently finished reading a curious book called "Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman!": Adventures of a Curious Character. It’s a collection of memories and funny stories by the Nobel Prize-winning physicist Richard Feynman, who tells about all kinds of things: from fixing radios as a child, over his involvement in developing the atomic bomb, to his many adventures with beautiful blondes – the typical life of the average academic, quoi. (Not.)

Now if there was one thing Feynman couldn’t stand, it’s pseudoscience. In his last chapter of the book, he explains why:

During the Middle Ages there were all kinds of crazy ideas, such as that a piece of rhinoceros horn would increase potency. Then a method was discovered for separating the ideas--which was to try one to see if it worked, and if it didn't work, to eliminate it. This method became organized, of course, into science. And it developed very well, so that we are now in the scientific age. It is such a scientific age, in fact that we have difficulty in understanding how witch doctors could ever have existed, when nothing that they proposed ever really worked--or very little of it did. But even today I meet lots of people who sooner or later get me into a conversation about UFOS, or astrology, or some form of mysticism, expanded consciousness, new types of awareness, ESP, and so forth. And I've concluded that it's not a scientific world.

On the one hand, it’s really quite fascinating to see that Feynman reacted so heavily against pseudoscience because of his unshakable belief in science itself. On the other hand, it’s quite tragic that what Feynman complained about decades ago (the above was written in 1974), still applies today.

Indeed, it’s tragic how much pseudoscience is still around these days. One very clear example of this is what is known as post hoc ergo propter hoc. Confusing an event that preceded another event with one the cause of the latter event. Indeed, only today there was a very clear example of this kind of mistaken logic in the papers.

Four hours of sport a week reduces your chances of having a burn-out by half the article in question said. An Israeli study had studied workers for nine years and observed that the more people did sports, the less their chances were of getting a burn-out. Ergo: doing sports prevents a burn-out.

But this is faulty logic. It’s not because event A is followed by (post hoc) event B, that event B is caused by event A (propter hoc). It’s not because you do sports, that you don’t get a burn-out; just like it’s not because you don’t do sports that you do get a burn-out. Think about it. Isn’t it much more logical that people who exercise for four hours a week have energetic personalities and are therefore (either genetically or psychologically) less prone to get a burn-out anyway? At the very least the Israeli experiment does not prove that exercise is the cause of the lack of the burn-out.

The same is true for all the alcohol versus life expectancy research. Every so often there is a study that proves that one or two glasses of beer or wine a day supposedly makes you live longer. Indeed, when you observe a bunch of people, those who drink moderately tend to live longer than those who don’t drink at all. But that doesn’t prove that moderate drinking is the cause of living longer. Isn’t it more likely that most people who drink moderately probably live an easier, a funner, in short a happier life than those who never touch a drop of alcohol? And happy equals less stress equals less cardiovascular disease. But if you’re happy because of another reason, like through having a rewarding job, a good family life, etcetera, I’m sure it’s just as beneficial for your life expectancy. So it’s happiness that makes you live longer, not alcohol.

After all, Feynman stopped drinking very early on in his life and he lived to be 70, which was exactly the life expectancy of a male at the time.

Aha!

Monday 27 February 2012

Pod-heads (6)

It seems like our jobs finally got a grip on this blog. I am not just speaking for myself when I say that Fred's output has been on the low side lately, and this is all because we were too busy working. I wish I could say we were too busy having a life, but that would be a bit of a stretch. We're fighting deadlines, working ourselves through piles of papers and spending (way too much) time in front of - luckily enough - eager students. 

In times like these, when planet Fred seems to be in orbit around the bright sun called our job, I tend to spend time with the usual suspects when looking for comfort: food, friends and erhm... music. Damned, where are the adjectives starting with d- when you need them? Aha! Here. Let's make it fantastic music then. And now that the days are getting longer, as opposed to my shorts (at least during the weekend, damned you ink on the calf), I tend to scroll to the albums listed under 'punk' in my iPod. 

And there, we can find one of the bands that has always been one of my favourites: Pennywise, a Californian punk rock band named after the clown in one of Stephen King's novels. I have a particular liking to this band, because I once shared the stage with them. Well, let me explain: the first time they played at Pukkelpop (2003, if I am not mistaken), they invited people on stage during what is probably their biggest anthem (Bro Hymn, also known as the "Oooh, o-o-o-ooh, oooh, oo-o-o-ooh"), and this Fred was one of them. Jumping up and down, pointing my finger in the air, singing along, enjoying the view: thousands of youngsters moshing around in a giant circle pit. 

Today, I decided to post another Pennywise favourite. As a finger of your choice for everything that prevents you from doing whatever you want to do, because time doesn't permit. Or just because it rocks. Shorts or no shorts...


Tuesday 21 February 2012

The wonders of the world

You know us by now. We Freds wonder about stuff. So here’s a few more things I can’t get my head round.

1) Some weeks ago I passed through Ghent’s busiest shopping street while it was close to zero degrees outside. At once I was reminded of something that has puzzled me forever: why the hell are fashion and shoe shops allowed to keep their doors wide open all the time? You can actually feel the wasted heat against your cheeks as you pass by on the pavement! How much energy and money could we save just by shutting the door like mum taught us to?

2) A while ago my car battery was dead. When I had finally found someone who had jump cables, he wanted to listen to the sound the car made first. He knew cars; so he would  be able to tell if it was a mechanical thing, not an electric one. I put the key in the ignition, turned it and voilĂ , the car started no problemo. Crap, just bothered someone for no reason. But why is it every time something is broken it miraculously fixes itself once the expert has shown up? Think plumbing, toilets, computers, phones and such. Only to break when the expert has left…

3) Also: why do we still have announcements in our railway stations? You know, those announcing stupid stuff like The train for Brussels is arriving at platform 2. First of all, in 99% of the cases, you’ll hear this several minutes before the train arrives. (That just gets me nervous.) Secondly, the volume is usually louder than shit. (I want to listen to my iPod, dude!) And thirdly, it’s not as if I don’t know where to go if I didn't hear these messages. I mean, either you look it up on the Internet or you look at the giant screen in the entry hall, or at the television screens in the corridors, or at the screens on the platforms themselves. We don't need an uninterested woman’s nasally drone announcing which train is arriving or (more often) delayed. (We saw the red +5, thank you very much!)

4) And the most frightening thought: today I realised that I have no idea when the last time was I swam. Suddenly I wondered: on average, how long until you forget how to and drown? 

Holy crap! 

Monday 20 February 2012

Hide and seek

Almost two weeks ago, a sperm whale was found stranded on the beach in Knokke-Heist, a small town along the Belgian coastline. It goes without saying that it was obviously found: sperm whales don't really qualify as excellent creatures to play hide and seek with. Especially not when compared with the reigning world champion, a dwarf chameleon living in Madagascar. It's only fair to add that this tiny creature (growing at a maximal length of 30 millimeters, from snout to tail) must have had access to a decent manual on basic hide and seek strategies (damp rain forests are somewhat better than stretches of beach, when plotted on a degree-of-shelter scale), but still: unlike the sperm whale, it took scientists up to a few days ago to discover this peculiar reptile...

As always the stranding of a sperm whale, the biggest mammal known to men - unless there is a creature playing hide and seek to perfection, lead to a bunch of newspaper articles and buses of disaster tourists, staring at zealous biologists cutting the carcass into pieces for further investigation. That, and energy production: the creature will be recycled, in the sense that its body fat will be converted into renewable energy. As a matter of fact, 12 and a half tonnes (roughly half of its total weight) of biomass can produce the equivalent of what 14 families consume in the span of a whole year!

By far the most heart-warming piece of documentation, was an interview with the family of Theofiel De Groote, after whom the sperm whale was named. This man had a name that rung like a bell, even before the unfortunate creature beached itself. Unless you weren't part of the fishermen community in Knokke-Heist, that is, as he was a famous shipowner often setting sail to Iceland. Theofiel passed away in 2010, leaving behind his wife Simonne who declared to be proud that the whale was named after her late husband. I found that rather sweet, especially because it had a rather unconditional air to it. I mean, for all we know this mammal could have been the dork amongst the sperm whales. It's not that I want to ruin the party, but Theofiel De Groote may have been bullied around at Whale School, because he was too fat (don't worry Theofiel, your additional biomass will serve a great purpose) or because he had a strangely shaped head (don't worry Theofiel, your cranium may serve as the topic of a rather mystifying PhD-thesis). As a matter of fact, Theofiel's stranding along the Belgian coastline may have been a final attempt to finally find peace and quiet. In which case his solution, beaching itself in Belgium, can hardly be called a bright solution - can it?

If I ever happen to reincarnate as a bullied sperm whale with a disfigured head and a rather strong inclination towards suicide, I would at least find myself a nice stretch of beach in the Caribbean Islands; being mourned over by a bunch of half-naked locals - trying everything they can to keep me alive, splashing coloured cocktails and lukewarm ocean water over my body, feeding me shrimps from the BBQ, playing chilled reggae tunes to relax me - doesn't seem that bad to me. So yes, I thought the interview with Simonne was heart-warming: after all, who knows how the underwater world thought about what will forever live on as a whale in our minds...

Friday 17 February 2012

Air cats

Yesterday I was in a bar with Fred and his girlfriend. As per usual the conversation meandered in all kinds of directions, until we hit one of my all time favourites: animals. Fred’s girlfriend mentioned that she found it strange that in Dutch we have a product called ‘WC-eend’ (Toilet Duck – I’ve complained about it before), which should really be called ‘WC-swan’ (Toilet Swan) if you think about it. Indeed, the bottle looks much more like a swan than a duck.


Which brought me to the following thought. There are actually loads of animals that have funny names in the sense that they don’t look like the aninal they’re named after. Especially sea animals, it seems.

Oh sure, there’s a sea spider or a sea horse which do look like spiders or horses, but there are others that just don’t make any sense to me.

Like the different kinds of seal-like creatures – you know, those slippery bastards with big snouts and whiskers that shout ‘uh uh uh’ all day and used to stink up your local Aquaworld. They have the most funny names like sea lion, sea cow and even sea bear or sea elephant!

But I don’t get it. What kind of biologist was observing this animal:


and thought to himself: “That kind of looks like a bear! That’s it, I’m gonna call it a sea bear!"? Didn’t it cross his mind that it would be pretty confusing to have a sea bear if we already have a polar bear, which is basically a bear that (partly) lives in the sea?


I mean, it’s almost as if we were out of inspiration when it came to giving names to the sea animals. Instead of inventing something new we just said. Okay that’s a sea eal, that’s a sea spider, that’s a sea turtle, that’s a sea snail. There’s no end to it!

Imagine we’d done that to birds? Look, son, there’s an air cat:

   
Lazy biologists.



Wednesday 15 February 2012

Movie of your life

I had a near-death experience the other week. Not in the true sense of the word, as I wasn't actually floating through the peaceful passageway usually mentioned by people who were clinically death for a while. I didn't see the blinding white lights, nor was I weightlessly hovering towards an eternity of rice pudding in golden bowls with matching spoons (which never appealed to me anyway: I'd rather settle for more copious portions of food, even if these are served in dog bowls and meant to be eaten with my hands tied behind the back). 

So what happened? I wanted to cross the street, one of these streets that doesn't have a traffic light telling you when to go, but for some strange reason my brain told me not to do so. Luckily enough, because the next thing I knew a crazy bad-ass wanna-be rally-driving nutcase raced past my nose. Leaving me gasping, and wondering what could have been no longer. This wasn't the first time something like this happened to me, and the same interesting question crossed my mind: exactly which part of the brain is it, that does this useful trick? I don't know the answer to this riddle (intuition? pre-historic instincts?), but I do know that I felt happy to (still) be alive. Because despite the fact that I am looking forward to seeing the movie of my life (Who will play me? What genre will it be?), I'm not ready for it yet. 

The incident also made me wonder: what did people expect to see when they passed away before the advent of moving images? The play of their life? Just imagine watching the story of your life in a Shakespearian version. Or as a traditional Indian Sanskrit drama performance - the horror... Nothing against drama obviously, but I'd prefer to be able to press pause every once in a while (getting more beer from the fridge, cutting more cheese cubes, going for a little wee), or skip certain passages forward. And backwards, for that matter. 

At least this explains why people claiming that eternal life awaits after we die, are actually right: after all, we will end up watching ourselves, watching ourselves. Ad infinitum. 

Tuesday 14 February 2012

Why I don’t like pie

This morning, as I was fumbling with the three digit number lock for my bike and as I later read some tweets about Valentine cancelling itself out this year (14-2-12=0), I was reminded how much numbers matter in our lives.

For me, however, this has always been the source of much frustration. Indeed, if it had been invented back then, I’m sure I would have been diagnosed as a child with at least a mild form of dyscalculia. I remember having to sit through hours and hours of extra math lessons just to be able to do basic sums and even today I struggle. Honestly, I cannot do something like 15+7 immediately. I have to split it up in 15+5 and 20+2. I’m also notoriously bad at mixing up stuff like 97 and 79, thanks partly to the confusing Dutch system of saying zevenennegentig and negenenzeventig. (Even as I wrote this down I noticed that I had confused them).

Later on my dyscalculia developed into a very apathetic relationship to numbers in general. For instance, for someone who likes history it didn’t help, I’m profoundly uninterested in dates. I always needed a little trick just to remember them, like 1798 for the French Revolution. But the Battle of Marathon (490 BC) or the one at Actium (31 BC), two of the most iconic dates of Ancient History – a subject I took at university –, will be forgotten almost as I’m writing this down.

The trouble is numbers don’t mean anything to me. Which is a pain in the ass. I mean, there are phone numbers to remember, credit card codes, locks, birthdays, licence plates (I think mine ends in 927 but honestly, I’m not sure), and so forth. So every so often I get into trouble. Like that morning this summer when I woke up, turned on my cell phone and realised I had suddenly forgotten my PIN code. So I tried once, I tried twice and I tried three times… And then you need a PUK code, in the middle of France, in a hotel, at 6 o’clock in the morning. At which point you yell something that rhymes with PUK…

It has always puzzled me why I am so bad with numbers. The only explanation I can think of is that there are too few numbers. Indeed, there’s only 0,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9 and all the rest are combinations of those signs (I have no place in my life for i, e, or Ď€). At least with things and feelings and places and people there are loads of words! And I’ve never had any trouble remember those.

But with numbers, it’s all the same to me. When I use words there is a certain darkness to black and a certain brightness to white (try it, don’t you agree?), but there’s no Constantinopleness to 1453 (The Fall of Constantinople, in my world also dated 1345 or 1354) and 3,14 has nothing to do with pie for me.

Which reminds me. When I was thirteen, I went to a summer camp in Switzerland where one of the guides was an engineer. He was fascinated with numbers and one day even boasted: ‘I can recite Ď€ up to 100 digits after the 3!’. At which point a friend of mine, nowadays a paratrooper and in the army’s special forces, replied: ‘So?’.

Quite.

Friday 10 February 2012

Quotes from the book (10)

I guess that people working in academia are on the official list of "People who are not allowed to envy other people traveling for their job". Apart from the cleaners, obviously. So there goes the introduction I had in mind, when I decided to blog about one of the funniest books I read in a while: The travel diaries of Karl Pilkington. For those of you who are not familiar with Karl: he is a jack-of-all-trades in the media landscape (podcaster, author, television producer), best known for the travel series "An idiot abroad" and his appearances in the Ricky Gervais Show (the world's most downloaded podcast, unless Adam Carolla succeeded in setting a new record), mostly as the butt of Gervais' practical jokes. 

The aforementioned book, spun off the travel documentary television series, describes the adventures of Karl, traveling in Egypt, Brazil, Jordan, China, India, Mexico and Peru. It is written as a diary, including his telephone conversations with the people who sent him abroad in the first place (Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant), and it is downright funny. His one-liners are hilarious, and some entries could have been scripted for a stand-up comedy show. A few examples: 

I had some toast and a bit of papaya. This was the first time I've ever eaten papaya. It was okay, but if someone told me I'd never eat papaya ever again, I wouldn't be bothered. I feel like this about most fruit. There is too much fruit in the world, and I don't like buying a lot of fruit, as it goes off so quickly. Maybe that's why we are told to eat five portions a day, just to get through the stuff before it gets mouldy. 

The odd thing with China is, they like to go out of their way to do things differently. Even something simple like reading a book they mess with. They read books from top to bottom and then back to the top again. It looks like they're agreeing with everything they're reading. 

The thing with announcing funny stuff is that you may end up with people staring at their screen, finding it all but hilarious. In that case, grab the book yourself and read it from top to bottom. You can agree with me afterwards: funny stuff...

Thursday 9 February 2012

Conversationally challenged

This morning I was quietly doing some work at home, when the doorbell suddenly rang. As I live in an apartment building I have that typical phone in my own apartment that allows you to ask who’s there. Unfortunately the phone is broken. So I have two choices: either let the unidentified visitor enter (I can still use the button to open the door remotely) or go down and see who it is.

In this particular instance I wasn’t going to let just anyone in. Call me paranoid, but then again we’ve had somewhat strange visitors before here. So I went down to open the door.

Standing outside was a young guy – perhaps a couple of years younger than I am. He had blackish hair that was combed back with a lot of gel and wore a curious outfit. I guess he’s one of those people who decide, even though it’s freezing, that they don’t need to adapt their outfit to the weather. As if they think: “I don’t care if it’s -5°. A shirt and a summer’s jacket will do just fine”. Strange lot, and the more I keep my eyes open for them on the street the last few days, the more I seem to come across them.

Anyway, there he was. So I open the door and give him a friendly but inquiring look. Eyebrows slightly raised, head cocked to the side and looking slighly upwards. As if to say: ‘Yes?’. At this point the guy doesn’t say anything but just steps into my rather small hallway. Now call me paranoid, but to me that’s odd. Someone rings my doorbell, I open the door for them and they just step inside, without so much as a word. And even though I didn't initiate the conversation, I'm not supposed to, I think. He is.

So I said to him: “Can I help you?”, trying to sound casual and accommodating, but probably not able to erase all notes of suspicion in my voice.

He looked at me sharply and said “I’m here to see my brother. You must know him”. That’s what he said, literally and with the same emphases. Now I found this odd for a bunch of reasons, the most important one being what I subsequently asked him. “So why didn’t you ring his doorbell then?”

At this point the guy was obviously annoyed, as I surmised from his curt answer: “Because his doorbell is broken.” I replied: “Ah, okay, it’s just…” and I left my sentence to trail off. Obviously, I meant to say “Ah, okay, it’s just that I found it a little strange that you ring my doorbell and you don’t tell me why you're there when I open the door”, but I didn’t say it out loud. I mean, that’s the way people handle social situations like that. You leave something unsaid but imply it, rather than being rude by saying it explicitly. It’s called ellipsis. We do it quite often. For instance, why when you accidentally touch someone’s hand in a crowded train you say ‘Sorry’ and not ‘Sorry I touched your hand’. That’s just making things more awkward.

However, this guy wasn’t too socially adept, as I was heavily suspecting by now. And my suspicions were confirmed by his answer to my “Ah, okay, it’s just…”. He said: “It’s just… what?

So I tried a variety of the same technique of ellipsis. I said: “Well... it’s just that I wanted to know”, again leaving out what I wanted to know. And then I made a conversational mistake, I followed the remark by “It’s not as if I don’t believe you, you know”.

At which point he just sighed. And that was that.

I think this easily qualifies as one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had. I mean, I can't for the life of me figure out what the sigh exactly meant. Surely he didn’t realize that my “It’s not as if I don’t believe you” actually implied the opposite (i.e. “Yes, I am suspicious of you”)? He'd react more angry if he realized that. Or did he realize that he had been wrong all along by not telling me why he was there in the first place? But that could hardly have been the case, since he was probably lying to me. Indeed, I could clearly hear him knock on his brother’s door and shout his name in the hallway. His brother wasn’t there though. Instead they met a few moments later back on the street. (Oh yes, I confess. I was spying).

But the strangest thing is that I now feel bad about the whole exchange.

Indeed, who is strange here? The guy who rings someone’s doorbell and doesn’t explain why he’s there, or the guy who has spent the whole day analyzing what was said (and not said) in those 30 seconds?

Right.






Wednesday 8 February 2012

Bananas?

A few weeks ago, one of the Muslim clerics in Europe warned Muslim women not to get too close to bananas, cucumbers or other phallus-shaped vegetables, in order to avoid sexual thoughts. The unnamed cleric, whose directive was featured in an article in a religious publication, added that if women wanted to eat these food items, they should address a third party - preferably a male related to them, such as their husband or father - to cut the vegetables into pieces before serving. 

(a) This could be me being a bit weird, but have you ever walked through the fruit and vegetable aisle at the supermarket, trying not to give in to sexual thoughts? It must be easy though, if fruits and vegetables make you feel horny. Think about all these supermarkets advertising their weekly deals in a glossy, colourful magazines. My life as a 16-year-old could have been a lot easier, with an abundance of free porn magazines getting shoved into the mailbox. 

(b) Why is it that only Muslim women were addressed. Straight Muslim women, to be more precise. To me, it seems pretty obvious that men should no longer be allowed to get too close to melons, grapefruits, tomatoes, oranges and apples. Unless they're gay, I guess. But if you think about it, virtually any piece of fruit or vegetable is either phallic (carrots, corncobs, zucchini, eggplants and French beans, just to name a few) or erhm... yonic. Which makes perfect sense of course, as fruits are essentially the structures of a plant containing its seeds. You'd better not be a bisexual Muslim, if you'd ask me...

(c) Why consider fruits and vegetables only? How about toothbrushes and vacuum cleaners, pens and pencils or brooms and soup mixers? I could be on a roll now, but to me these objects look pretty phallic as well. And I'm not sure there's much room for innovation, as I would not like to brush my teeth with a device that is not shaped like a stick...

Sounds like someone deserves being hit by a baseball bat. Or a medicine ball, depending on his sexual orientation of course...

Monday 6 February 2012

Twitter and God


Judging from the fact that most of you came to this particular page through Facebook, I’m guessing  most of us are no stranger to the social media anymore. Or are you? Today I saw a picture being shared furiously on the aforementioned social network, which explained eight different social media in a funny way. What was less funny to me was the fact that I had never heard of five of them: foursquare, Instagram, Pinterest, Last.fm and G+ are total strangers to me. (Okay, I know G+ stands for Google+ but I have no idea how it works).

So that’s five out of eight, but which three are missing? Obviously the most popular ones, since even I know them. There’s Facebook, duh. YouTube, that’s another one. And finally there’s Twitter – which only last week was in the news.

The occasion was that recently the first major study was concluded as to the relevance of Twitter. As you probably know, this rapidly growing microblogging service enables its users to send and read text-based posts of up to 140 characters. Some use it for personal reasons, as a kind of online version of cell-phone text messages (sms), while others follow or write tweets in a more professional context, like the political media or cultural scene. The conclusion of the study was that a good tweet is relatively rare. It seems only 36% percent of them are experienced by the users as ‘interesting’.

Of course this is a difficult criterion. Suppose I asked you to rate your current email inbox. What percentage would you rate as ‘interesting’? Moreover, if a certain account you follow on Twitter is not interesting anymore, you can easily unfollow it. Indeed, whereas with Facebook you need permission to follow someone’s account, with Twitter you can instantly follow anyone you want. Personally, for instance, I follow @BarackObama, @ParisHilton and even @jesus. The sky is the limit, pardon the pun.

Which brings me to the following. To give you a small sample of how Twitter works, I thought I’d give you a selection of Ricky Gervais’ tweets. Besides an outrageously funny comic, he’s an animal rights activist, a humanitarian and a convinced atheist. Above all, Ricky Gervais is not afraid to speak his mind about what he believes in.

About God and religion, for instance. A while ago Gervais got caught up in a discussion about religious matters. I don’t know exactly when it started, but it seemed to speed up after this tweet:

@rickygervais And this photo is NOT me a dressed as Jesus. It's from The Invention Of Lying. And even if it was, so fucking what? http://pic.twitter.com/DhOD7lF1
20 Jan

What followed was a veritable bombardment of Gervais on Twitter by people who tried to convince him to believe in this or that God or religion. Here’s some of the funnier ones (in quotes “ ”), most of the  time with Gervais’ answers immediately following:

@rickygervais “@HerNameIsDawn: @rickygervais What do you think happens to the mind after you die?” The same as what happens to your voice
24 Jan

@rickygervais “@ckleass: do you have any friends who r Christian?” Yes. & Jewish & Muslim. I've also friends who love GLEE. We don't have to always agree
25 Jan

@rickygervais Ask yourself why you don't believe in all the other gods. Your answer, is why I don't believe in yours. This endeth the religious tweets.
25 Jan

@rickygervais “@jskrew: I believe in Santa Claus and the Easter bunny- what religion is that?" As valid as any other.
29 Jan

@rickygervais “@LeoDukes: Here's a thought! I'm a fan who enjoys your works, but Im sick of you going on about religion. Should I stop following?” Yes
1 Feb

@rickygervais “@ChallonGoodeRVC: @lewisdent @billybasset1 there's heaps of proof of Gods existence!” Go on...?
3 Feb

@rickygervais “@Graeme289: oh man give it a rest about god .....” Sorry for tweeting you all the time Graeme I...oh hold on, YOU'RE following ME. #gorp
3 Feb

Now who said comedy and philosophy couldn’t go together?

Ricky, if we had one, we would award you the 2012 Fred and Fred prize!

Friday 3 February 2012

One gozer, more geezers...

Yesterday, I went to the latest show of whom I consider to be Belgium's finest stand-up comedian: Bart Cannaerts ('Waar is Barry'). With his mix of clever puns, funny observations describing the connection between our language and everyday life, neurotic stories and a sheer amount of visual humour, he had me going through the complete spectrum: from chuckling over smiling to laughing out loud. One of the nice things about his show was the fact that it actually carried a message. Without giving too much away, as I do recommend you to check him out yourself, I can share a particularly interesting reflection of his, concerning photographs. "Photographs", he said, "are usually taken under the pretext of giving you the opportunity to live the moment again, at home. This is bullshit, as you didn't actually live the moment, since you were too busy taking the picture in the first place."

This reminded me of a particular experience I had this weekend, not to mention all the previous times (notably whilst traveling). I had one of these moments that will sound quite familiar to keen photographers, in which the only thing you can think is "Damned, where's my camera when I need it?". On my way home, cycling along a riverbank in Ghent, I noticed a flock of birds (geese, I suppose) flying in what can safely be described as a fractal formation. You are probably familiar with the typical V-shaped form, but this was different, almost like a binary tree - if that makes sense to you. Halfway one of the legs of the bigger V, another leg branched off, generating a smaller version of the original shape. This repeated itself at several places, including the smaller branches, generating something which essentially resembled a river delta. Quite fitting, I thought, as they are probably on their way to a river delta, somewhere near the equator. 

This particular view of the sky was mesmerizing: the mathematical pattern, the actual colour of the sky, the birds following each other; it made me realize that I was missing a perfect shot. And yet, in retrospect, I feel quite happy that I did not have the opportunity to capture it on film, as this might have ruined my recollection. The mental image is firmly etched into my mind now, making it way stronger than the 4.6Mb image I could have extracted with my camera. As cheesy as it sounds, I really enjoyed riding my bike whilst looking upwards, seeing these magnificent creatures head towards their friends in the South. They were probably completely in panic "What the duck is going on here? Weren't we supposed to leave like... I don't know, a month or two ago?". I envisioned families of geese, switching heads from thermometer to calender, staring at the not so freezing temperatures in utter disbelief, fearing that the annual barbeque party in the backyard of their African friends would no longer be an option. 

But look, it's one week later and the situation drastically changed. Hundreds of people frozen to death as temperatures keep plunging (reasons to stop complaining about trivial shit: plus one), political turmoil over the fact that homeless people have to spend the night outside, and there is more to come. I am safely inside now: nicely warm on the outside - thank your local deity for sweaters and heaters, nicely warm on the inside. Because I saw them geezers on their way to normality, minding their own aviary business. I wished them good luck, I do hope they'll drop me a postcard... 

Wednesday 1 February 2012

LinkedIn: TED (The Surprising Science of Happiness)

For various reasons I have been studying cognitive literary theory over the last few months. And although I find it fascinating, I'm not going to bore you with it. However, it did remind me to get you Fredians acquainted with one of my favourite websites: www.ted.com.

TED, which stands for Technology Entertainment Design and which uses the subtitle Ideas Worth Spreading, is a nonprofit devoted to just that: its website is full of passionate talks by the world's most inspired thinkers. And although the three domains seems somewhat limited, there's really no end to the variety of subjects and speakers. From performance artists over business men to mathematics professors.

But I'm dragging on and I wanted (have to!) keep it short today. So here's the reason I was reminded of cognitive literary theory. One of the talks featured is called The Surprising Science of Happiness and is delivered by cognitive researcher Nancy Etcoff.

It's fascinating stuff. Not only does it show how profound the impact of cognitive research is, but also (and much more importantly) it is the most intelligent thing I've ever heard anyone say about the most difficult topic out there: happiness.

So if you can spare 14 minutes and 22 seconds, you won't regret it...

http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/en/nancy_etcoff_on_happiness_and_why_we_want_it.html 


Tuesday 31 January 2012

Dictionary for aliens (3)

It's been a while since the previous entries, see here for an example, but we are finally back with another episode of the dictionary for aliens...

Baseball: This is a popular ball game played by earthlings, especially in the United States, Japan and Cuba. It is played with a bat and a baseball. The latter is modelled on fossilized remnants of so-called Flurkimons, a type of rodent which once inhabited the planet Flurkistan in the Mice Galaxies, next to that gigantic hypermarket where they used to sell vintage sponge umbrellas. 

Flurkimons (Leporidae Ceruminis) became famous in the year 27915AR, when two Flurkinese scientists (Wofflidop and Zondistrop) solved a famous, long-standing problem in Textile Engineering for Creatures with Ears: "Does there exist a way to cross earplugs with ear warmers?". The answer turned out to be the Flurkimon itself: this fluffy animal was found to feed on earwax, and it therefore became common practice amongst creatures with ears to balance two of these hairy rodents on top of their head: the fur itself protected the ears against extreme temperatures, whereas the tongue of the Flurkimon (instinctively inserted into the ear, to feed on earwax) protected the bearer against excessive noises. In exchange for some gentle slurping noises. Or gnawing noises - depending on the consistency of the creature's earwax...

Legend has it that the first visitors to planet Earth had Flurkimons on board, but they soon got bored by the deafening silence in the spacecraft (which was built according to advanced noise-reduction techniques developed a few decades earlier for vacuum cleaners) and so they wanted to know what would happen if they put the tongue of a Flurkimon inside its own ear. This turned out to be a complete disaster: as biologists have later confirmed, the saliva of a flurkimon triggers the production of its own earwax, causing this creature to get trapped in an almost sadistic consequence of what the laws of evolution predicted. Its tongue and ear continued to grow, as the production of saliva and earwax ran out of control, whereas all other body parts shriveled away and in the end disappeared completely. During the penultimate phase of its existence (the Red Giant phase), the Flurkimon expanded as a throbbing ball of earwax-slurping, heavily pulsating tissue, after which it imploded into a little white spherically-shaped object of incredible density (the White Dwarf phase). This object was left behind on the Earth, not in the least because of its smell.

We believe that the inventor of the baseball must have picked up the fossilized remnants of this particular unfortunate Flurkimon, but decided to throw it away immediately. Because of its smell, obviously. This also explains the strange rules according to which this game is played: one earthling throws the ball away, as fast as possible (the smell!), another earthling then hits the ball as far away as possible with a bat (I am telling you, the smell!) and a third earthling then tries to catch this ball, only to throw it back as quickly as possible (yups, the smell). 



Wofflidop A.,  Zondistrop, A., On a remarkable connection between Flurkinese rodents and Textile Engineering, Journal of Edible Excrement 15, pp. 12-9038 (27915AR).

Gorilkouftimon, G. Is it possible to build a perpetuum mobile with Flurkinese earwax and saliva, Journal of Unlikely Answers to Difficult Problems 9 No. 78, pp. 12-13 (27911AR). 

Monday 30 January 2012

Mondays

I’ve referred to the 1979 song I Don’t Like Mondays before – you know, the one Bob Geldof wrote after the 16-year-old shooter of the Grover Cleveland Elementary School massacre explained her actions with ‘I don't like Mondays; this livens up the day’ (full story here). But actually, I quite like Mondays. For me, there’s something refreshing in the start of a new week, but I guess we all suffer from a bad Monday once in a while.

Today, for instance, isn’t a particularly good one. My head is a bit foggy from a persistent cold and I’m in no mood to do any serious work. My brain sputters like an old lawn mower and my legs feel like sand. So imagine my surprise (and horror!) when I read that today should be the happiest Monday of the year!

That’s right. According to the Daily Mail (read the story here), psychologists are hailing today, 30 January, as ‘Happy Monday’. Apparently by the last weekend of January many people have recovered from the financial stress Christmas and New Year caused and therefore start thinking about the annual summer holiday. (Incidentally, two people told me about their travel plans last weekend.) The result is that today should be the happiest Monday you’ll spend in 2012!

It is, on the other hand, quite curious that only last week, you’ve gone through your worst Monday of the year. Indeed, the third Monday of January is known as ‘Blue Monday’ and is reputed to be the most depressing day of the whole year. (For Fred's jeans-related Blue Monday, click here) According to the Telegraph (read the story here) the reasons are post-Christmas blues, cold dark nights and the arrival of unpaid credit card bills.

Therefore, the researcher in me concludes, in only a week’s time our lives have apparently gone from zero to hero. Hooray for us. But for me personally, the conclusion is radically different. If this is the best Monday I’ll have in 2012, I’m in for some rough times… 

But wait, I almost forgot. I didn't factor in that all this BS (acronym for a large animal's faeces) about Mondays is pseudoscience. Indeed, I've had three splendid Mondays already in 2012. Besides, who are you, dear Telegraph, to tell me that today should have been my best? Or perhaps your editor was just having a bad day?

Thursday 26 January 2012

Keep on Rollin(s)



According to the Wikipedia entry on amor platonicus, genuine Platonic love means that 'the beautiful or lovely other person inspires the mind and the soul and directs one's attention to spiritual things'. Assuming this is a good definition, I can safely begin this blogpost by saying that I am Platonically in love with Henry Rollins. Born as Henry Lawrence Garfield in 1961, an American singer-songwriter, spoken word artist, writer, comedian, publisher, actor (Sons of Anarchy, for example) and radio DJ. Make your own acronym with the following words: disorder, attention, hyperactivity and deficit...

I've seen him on the Arenberg stage on Tuesday, performing his spoken word show "the Long March", and I was (once again) completely blown away. From the moment he comes on stage, wearing his standard uniform (black trousers and a black t-shirt, although not wearing Vans this time), until he leaves the stage three hours later: the man just doesn't stop talking. His mouth doesn't even stop for the smallest sip of water, he is a verbal muscle machine on a roll... Early Black Flag memories, provocative rants on American politics and global economy, flashes of auto-critique, funny travel stories and an insight into his ever-positive (and highly contagious) attitude in life: he kneads it into an entertaining show which somehow combines his humour ('uma', referring to one of his travel stories) with an amount of energy which could easily help a few countries through the winter months. Based in the Northern hemisphere, du-uh.

As today is National Poetry Day (not the international one, mind you, that would be March 21), I decided to add two particular pieces by Rollins. First of all, a quote: The only difference between me and others is that they think they can change something with cute little poems, nice cards or embracing trees and being nice to little lapdogs. From a man who is as active as he is (check the internet), I can take this.

Secondly, a cute little poem. By Mister Rollins, of course.

ADVENTURES IN THE GREAT OUTDOORS
 You climb, and climb.
Hand over hand.
 You reach the top.
 You stand on the shaky edge of your heart.
 You look in her eyes.
 You hold your breath and jump.
 You Leap into her arms.
 Her arms fall at her sides.
 You fall past her window.
 You hit the ground.
 You are shattered.
 All broken up, like someone taking a bottle, and dropping it onto the ground.
 All busted up.
 Sharp jagged broken pieces of yourself lying on the ground. 
You put the pieces back together again.
 They never go back quite the same.
 The outside is seamless and smooth.
 But inside, broken glass, mind and soul with little cracks in the sides,
 and loose splinters at the bottom. 
They stay to remind you.
 At times the soul glass splinters will give you a jab to remind you of your leap.
 After a time when you start climbing again you will forget about the soul glass splinters.
 She can break your fall, or let you fall and break.
 And every time you jump
 You just know she’s going to catch you.

Ah, it feels good to 'know' people making you feel less afraid to turn 51...

Wednesday 25 January 2012

Pippa

A few days ago an item came by in the news that reminded me to complain about something (lol). The segment was about the most popular names for baby girls in Flanders in 2011 (big sigh). The list is as follows: 1) Emma, 2) Julie, 3) Lotte, 4) Marie and 5) Elise. Yet the most interesting fact, apparently, was that there was a remarkable surge of one other name: Pippa. And of course Pippa Middleton’s popularity explains the phenomenon.

Now while you are reading this, ask yourself: why do I know Pippa Middleton? (Notice that I’m not even considering the possibility you don’t know her)

That’s right. Pippa Middleton is Kate Middleton’s sister and you know her because of these pictures:

At the royal wedding between Prince William and Kate Middleton she made quite an impression, it is said time and again, for wearing a nice dress (some say nicer than the bride’s) and for being, well simply put, a nice-looking girl. Understandable, isn’t it?

I agree, but that’s where it stops for me. What happened after the wedding is sheer insanity.

Some facts. Pippa is photographed somewhere between 300 and 400 times a day (link). Pippa has recently signed a £400,000 deal to write a guide to party planning (link). Pippa’s ass is set to get its own YouTube online series (link). I kid you not.

And why, I ask you?

Why is this Pippa so famous? Does she have a lovely personality? We don’t know. Does she have a nice voice? We don’t know. What are her talents? We don’t know.

Apparently, we don’t know anything about this woman, but she’s world famous nonetheless. At least Paris Hilton has a sex tape and shows her knickers once in a while in some nightclub. But Pippa? The ‘news’ media watchers publish about her is often so boring (Pippa loans Kate’s coat. Pippa goes running a half-marathon), that I seriously suspect Pippa to be boring as well.

Surely it can’t be all explained by the bum, can it? I mean, sure the woman is blessed with a beautiful behind, but let’s be honest, it ain’t that fabulous. Seriously, let’s hand out a weirdly anonymous compliment, but I’ve dated at least three girls who had much better bums than Pippa. In general, I honestly think that many girls and women I know in person are more beautiful than this Pippa character.

So why is she famous? The truth? Pippa is famous for being famous. That’s how weirdly empty we’ve become as a society. And you know what is the weirdest part? 

I’m pretty sure Pippa hates it.

Tuesday 24 January 2012

Length (sometimes) matters

I love it when I see my English vocabulary expanding. This, of course, in sharp contrast to my abdominal circumference or the occasional pimple on the inside of my ear. Today, I bumped into a word I hadn't met before: somnambulism, which is basically a synonym for sleepwalking. Once again, it made me realize how lucky I am not to suffer from fear of long words.

Yes, fear of long words. Chances are you didn't know this, but this is an actual phobia. Some of the known symptoms of this form of fear are rapid breathing, sweating, overall feeling of dread, shortness of breath, irregular heartbeat and nausea. Ironically enough, the official medical term for this phobia is (and I swear, this is real, I am not kidding you) hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia (or 'sesquipedalophobia' for "short"). Say what?

Now, imagine your name is Christopher-William and that you were born in a lovely village in Wales called Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. By the time you shared your personal details with the specialist investigating your condition, you might be vomiting the shit out of yourself in a corner of his office. And I'm afraid you don't even want to hear what you're suffering from: by the time the conclusion of the investigation is communicated, you could actually be dying...

What intrigues me, is the following question: would there be a maximal amount of letters people suffering from sesquipedalophobia can handle without getting sick? This might seem like an irrelevant question to you, but think about this: one year you're having your birthday party (although it's not very likely that the actual Dutch word for it, verjaardagsfeestje, was mentioned on the invitation), safely enjoying your pancakes (pannekoeken, which was a valid way to spell this word before 1995). Next year however - after the Dutch spelling reform - pancakes make you sick because you have to add an extra letter! The other option is that sesquipedalophobia symptoms arise through a gradual process, starting with a mild headache for words containing between 5 and 8 letters, shortness of breath between 9 and 16 and an irregular heartbeat for words containing at least 17 letters. Which is pretty cruel, don't you think? The more points you score in Scrabble, the sicker you get...

Also: how do you organize your life? I mean, what kind of job can you do when you have a phobia for long word? Nowadays, with all the neologisms they are inventing to mask the true nature of a job (head of the logistics department in a waste service company may in reality stand for 'driving the waste truck'), reading job ads may already be quite a hazardous situation. Obviously, anything related to chemistry is excluded, especially when your childhood dream was to investigate titin (the largest known peptide): the chemical name for this protein is Methionylthreonylthreonylglutaminylarginyl...isoleucine, a word (well, people are debating this - as it is a technical term, it is not in the dictionary) containing 189,819 letters! Yes, Wikipedia is your friend; unless of course 9 letters or more make you sick... The only option I see is to become a crossword puzzle maker, so that the maximal amount of letters you are confronted with on a daily basis is bounded. But that is pretty uninteresting, don't you think? Sorry, I mean 'dull'.

Next time you want to use a long word to impress people, I suggest you think twice and consider using an easier synonym. Because length sometimes matters...

[We would like to point out that this post is not meant to make fun of people suffering from fear of long words: we don't like floccinaucinihilipilification...]


Monday 23 January 2012

Quotes from the book (9)

… or rather: ‘Quotes from the books’, double plural.

Indeed, it seems I have grossly neglected, dear reader, to keep you posted about my reading habits. Instead, for a long time I let on (in the box on the right) that I had been reading Dave Eggers’ complex novel A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, but that was far from the truth.

So while I may have given the impression that I was knee-deep in a bulky book of high-brow literature, I was in fact reading some pretty pulpy stuff. Common cultural practice dictates that I should now start to justify this, by saying, for instance, that I’m doing this as a kind of experiment, in order to ‘contextualize my reading praxis through an explicit anti-canonism’ or some academic mumbo-jumbo. However, the truth is that I just like reading pulp too, plain and simple. In my case, that means things like glossy magazines (OK magazine! Dag allemaal!), gossip websites about Hollywood celebrities (TMZ! Perez Hilton!), autobiographies of sports’ or TV personalities, adventure tales, vulgarizing history, and of course fantasy literature. Aside from anything else it also makes me quite good at knowing all types of strange stuff at quizzes!

So, instead of offering you quotes from a Dutch classic like Lijmen / Het Been, or an impressionistic English novel like Eclipse, as I did in the past, today I’ll offer you some citations from stuff I’ve read in the past year with just as much lip-licking pleasure as the other high-faluting books. Enjoy (I certainly did!)

1) Bear Grylls, Mud, Sweat and Tears:
(or how the adage ‘know thyself’ is important even for hosts of TV survival shows)


Climbing. Hanging. Escaping. I loved them all.
Mum, still to this day, says that growing up I seemed destined to be a mix of Robin Hood, Harry Houdini, John the Baptist and an assasin. I took it as a great compliment.
*
           (* not sure that was really wise, Bear)



2) Dave Eddings, The Redemption of Althalus
(or how 900 pages of previous story can prepare you for even the worst of melodrama)

‘Are you serious?’ he exclaimed.
She stroked her tummy again. ‘If I’m not, this is. We’re going to have a baby, Althalus’.
He stared at her in absolute astonishment. Then he suddenly felt his eyes fill with tears.
‘Are you crying, Althalus? I didn’t think you knew how.’
He took her in his arms then and held her with tears of joy streaming down his face. ‘Oh, I do love you, Em!’*, was all he could say.
(* When the story starts, Em or Emmy or Emerald is a cat. No kidding.)

3) Sean Michael Wilson, Hagakure. The Code of the Samurai
           
            (or how I know that even samurai can be pussies)

It’s good to carry some powdered rouge in one’s sleeve. It may happen that when one is sobering up or waking from sleep, his complexion may be poor. At such a time it is good to take out and apply some powdered rouge.*
(* Bought this one together with Fred at Narita airport with our last 1000 yen. Money well spent.)

Thursday 19 January 2012

Pissed off

Ah, the news. Always new opportunities to get irritated, frustrated or downright angry. During the past few days, a particular article had me raise my eyebrows...

You might have seen the video featuring American soldiers urinating on dead Afghan bodies. The 40-second clip, showing four men in combat gear exposing their genitals and relieving themselves whilst making bad jokes ("Have a great day buddy, golden like a shower!"), went around the world quickly and sparked outrage and a possible diplomatic row between Washington and Kabul. Even the Pentagon spokesman said the video was deeply troubling, and added "Whoever it was, and whatever the circumstances, it is egregious behaviour." Understandable, right? 

In a sense - a very weird one, that is, because the comparison I am about to make is more farfetched than a massive cruise ship running aground off the Italian coast, because the captain felt like waving his family (and a few other people, may they rest in peace) goodbye - this all reminds me of a discussion I had when I was 21 years old. I used to be a member of WINA at that time, the student organization associated to our mathematics department. As a matter of fact, I was in charge of taming the freshmen at our cantus activities (schachtentemmer, if that makes sense to you). 

To be more precise, this also implied that I had the final responsibilities over the student initiation ceremony (for those of you who are not familiar with this: it's a kind of passage rite, involving lots of beer, some nudity, oodles of ingredients to make pancakes and, of course, even more beer). Even today, I can still clearly recall that one particular moment when some of my fellow WINA members asked me whether they were allowed to 'wash' the students that very night. When I asked them what they meant by that, they gave me a 'you-idiot, isn't-that-plain-obvious'-look and added "Spit on them, of course!". I wasn't shocked, I knew far worse stories from other student organizations, but I obviously answered that they weren't. Because to me, student initiations were (and still are) all about recruiting people, engaging them in social activities and offering them a night of fun to remember for the rest of their lives - despite the alcohol. As opposed to what some people believe, it is not about humiliating people. 

So why am I telling you this? What does it have to do with US soldiers urinating on Afghan war victims, facing severe punishment because of (and I quote) this apparent desecration of the dead as a violation of our nation's military regulations and of international laws of war prohibiting such disgusting and immoral actions? I will tell you why: because this reasoning pisses me off badly. I find it very ironic - in a bad sense of the word - that people are judged as immoral because of something they did during a fucking war. It wasn't a cantus, nor a social activity meant to bring people closer together or to offer them an experience to remember forever (I am afraid that soldiers are returning with enough experiences they'd rather not remember). It happened during a conflict which, by its very definition, leads to mortality and human behaviour defying what we consider to be 'right'.

I am no expert, nor a philosopher - merely a pacifist with a humble opinion I feel like sharing - but according to me it doesn't make sense to make rules about what is okay and what is not during a war. Because the act of declaring and fighting a war itself is not okay. Period. Who are we to judge people who were actually trained to kill other people, from behind our desks or the comfort zones we tend to call 'houses'? Do not get me wrong (repeat twice!), I am by no means saying that what these soldiers did is morally right, but I am questioning the very concept of making rules about something that should not be in the first place. Amen. 

Wednesday 18 January 2012

Do the Test!

Some time ago already the winner of our prize contest at the occasion of our 111th post, suggested that we should write something a bit ‘introspective’. So after introspecting for way too long by now, I finally came up with a fun way to grant you a peek into my soul: a little test designed to estimate how much of a Fred you are.

Of course the test will be followed by the answers (with explanations) and a way to calculate your degree of Fredness.

So here it goes!

Question 1
You have been cueing for ten minutes in a supermarket when you notice you are in the ‘Ten items or less’ aisle and you have twelve items in your basket. What do you do?

A: You proceed to the cashier, hoping that she won’t notice and preparing a witty reply in case she does. Something lame like: ‘Ah, but the more the merrier right?’

B: You throw away the two items you deem least necessary, but when you come home you write a blog post about how unfair the system is, because with a low number like 10 or 12 items it’s more how fast the cashier works that determines how fast the cue goes.

C: You forget all about the two items because you’re getting worked up about the fact that the sign should actually read ‘Ten items or fewer’. Items are countable, so we use fewer, not less!

Question 2
If a tree falls in a forest and there’s no one or nothing around to hear it fall, does it make a sound?
A: Yes.

B: No.

C: Well, it depends, doesn’t it?

Question 3
You have decided to be a couch potato for a night and spend an evening in front of the TV. Which action movie do you watch?
A: The Last Boyscout with Bruce Willis

B: Under Siege with Steven Seagal

C: Mad Max with Mel Gibson

Question 4
One day you decide you would like to write a book. But what would the book be about?

A: About odd facts and strange questions.

B: A fantasy story of dungeons and dragons, and a hero’s tale from rags to riches.

C: About nothing, really.

Question 5
The famous stranded-on-a-deserted-island question: what would you take if you had to choose?

A: The Bible

B: A guitar

C: 1 liter of distilled water, 20mg of copper and 25 grams of sodium bicarbonate



!SPOILER ALERT! !SPOILER ALERT! !SPOILER ALERT! !SPOILER ALERT!



Question 1
The correct answer is C.

A would imply that Freds are smooth talkers which ain’t the case. B gets one point but that would lead to a pretty boring blog post, don’t you agree?

A: 0, B: 1, C: 2

Question 2
The correct answer is A.

Of course the falling tree makes a sound. Sound is physics and physics don’t need people to apply. In fact physics have been around quite a bit longer than people have. C gets a point as well, because it is possible to argue that to make a sound is usually defined rather anthropocentrically, or that you could interpret this case as a philosophical question. Unfortunately, this does mean you are a bit of a twat.

A: 2, B: 0, C: 1.

Question 3
The correct answer is B.

Both A and B are acceptable movies, though. A because of the very funny jokes in it (and a Fred is a bit of a joker) and B because it has Erika Eleniak’s boobies in it (and a Fred is a bit of a - never mind). Because of the boobies, though, B is also the best answer, getting two points (duh). C is just a bad movie.

A: 1, B: 2, C: 0

Question 4
The correct answer is C.

You could have known that I admire well-written books that basically do not have a story, as I wrote about it here. Answer B, another favourite of mine, gets one point. Answer A is basically what we’re doing right now, so that would be a bit pointless, wouldn’t it?

A: 0, B: 1, C: 2


Question 5
The correct answer is A.

Obviously boredom would be the key problem on a deserted island. And, however strange it seems, the Bible is the best choice. It may not be that interesting, but trust me, you’d read it from front to back if it were the only thing you had. Besides, it’s a big book, full of strange stuff to think about, and that’s quite Fredian really. The second-best choice is the guitar. Yes, both Freds play the guitar, but eventualy it would break or you’d start talking to it and call it Wilson and stuff. Option C was just meant to confuse you. You probably thought that mixing those together would give you something super useful, didn’t you? In fact, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’d get. Maybe something bubbly.

A: 2, B:1, C: 0


NOW CALCULATE YOUR TOTAL SCORE!


7-10 points: Right on! You’re just like us. Congratulations! (not).

3-7 points: Almost there. You just need to learn to listen to your inner Fred some more.

0-3 points: Paris Hilton, stop visiting our blog. Honestly.