The Ig Nobel Prizes

You might have read about them in the paper today, but obviously there is only one source that you can trust on a topic like this: your faithful Fred and Fred. If ever something was right up our alley, it’s the Ig Nobel Prizes.

In case you missed it: the Ig Nobel Prizes (a pun on ignoble and Nobel) are awarded each year in October for ten unusual or trivial achievements in scientific research. The stated aim of the prizes is to ‘first make people laugh, and then make them think’.

Yesterday the 21st award ceremony took place at Harvard University, and a Leuven professor was on the receiving end. Indeed, Luk Warlop, together with a number of colleagues, received the prize for demonstrating that people make better decisions about some kinds of things – but worse decisions about other kinds of things – when they have a strong urge to urinate.

Funny, innit? And it gets even better if you remember that the Ig Nobel Prizes are almost always presented (by genuine Nobel laureates, by the way!) to actual researchers who have been labouring for years on extraordinarily difficult, but seemingly trivial or absurd topics. Just imagine what some academics apply themselves to. Here’s a small sample of the prizes over the years:

• Literature (1995): David B. Busch and James R. Starling, for their research report, ‘Rectal Foreign Bodies: Case Reports and a Comprehensive Review of the World’s Literature’. The citations include reports of, among other items: seven light bulbs; a knife sharpener; two flashlights; a wire spring; a snuff box; an oil can with potato stopper; eleven different forms of fruits, vegetables and other foodstuffs; a jeweller’s saw; a frozen pig's tail; a tin cup; a beer glass; and one patient's remarkable ensemble collection consisting of spectacles, a suitcase key, a tobacco pouch and a magazine.
• Chemistry (1998): Jacques Benveniste, for his homeopathic discovery that not only does water have memory, but that the information can be transmitted over telephone lines and the Internet.
• Physics (2000): Andre Geim and Michael Berry, for using magnets to levitate a frog. Geim later shared the 2010 Nobel Prize in physics for his research on graphene, the first time anyone has been awarded both the Ig Nobel and (real) Nobel Prizes.
• Physics (2001): David Schmidt, for his partial explanation of the shower-curtain effect: a shower curtain tends to billow inwards while a shower is being taken.
• Biology (2003): C.W. Moeliker, for documenting the first scientifically recorded case of homosexual necrophilia in the mallard duck.
• Economics (2005): Gauri Nanda, for inventing Clocky, an alarm clock that runs away and hides, repeatedly, thus ensuring that people get out of bed, and thus theoretically adding many productive hours to the workday.
• Mathematics (2006): Nic Svenson and Piers Barnes, for calculating the number of photographs that must be taken to (almost) ensure that nobody in a group photo will have their eyes closed.
• Medicine (2010): Simon Rietveld, for discovering that symptoms of asthma can be treated with a roller coaster ride.

Now say for yourself: surely it’s any academics dream to receive an Ig Nobel Prize one day? Therefore we from Fred and Fred are already hard at work for next year’s edition. Just imagine the possibilities…

• Cosmology (2012): Fred and Fred, for proving the possibility that parallel universes exist in which even numbers cannot be divided by 2.
• Linguistics (2012): Fred and Fred, for their study ‘Fly, Feel and Fall’, a list of 1,000 words which become very funny when pronounced with a Japanese accent (which turns every f into an h and every l into an r).
• Marketing (2012): Fred and Fred, for definitively disproving that cleaning products which feature animals (ducks, frogs, bears, etcetera) clean better than those which do not.
• Philosophy (2012): Fred and Fred, for (the title of) their paper ‘Does Existentialism Really Exist?’.
• Sports Science (2012): Fred and Fred, for discovering the constant h, representing the relation between the size of the ball and the size of the hole (basketball, snooker, golf, …).
• Medicine (2012): Fred and Fred, for their decennia-long research ‘Is it really impossible to lick your own elbow?’.
• Communication (2012): Fred and Fred, for talking for a whole night about the infinite monkey theorem, which states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type the complete works of William Shakespeare.

Fingers crossed!

PhD peculiarities

Last Sunday Fred came over to my place and we had a healthy discussion about stuff only Freds can have discussions about. The matter at hand was Latin alliteration and assonance and its relation to independent and conditional probability. But rest assured, I won’t bother you with the details…

However, at some point in the conversation a strange fait divers came up, which I am sad to say I can’t recall anymore. What I do remember is that I could proudly refer Fred to the passage in my PhD thesis where said fait divers was mentioned. Which reminded me how much strange stuff there actually is in my PhD! For a thesis about one year (1598) of a humanist's correspondence, there sure is a lot of unexpected information in there. Only recently, for instance, I told my friend E. about the fact the Romans collected taxes on pee (the urinae vectigal) as it could be used in the leather industry…

Indeed, this is only one titbit of the gazillion strange little pieces of information contained in the 911 pages of PhD I worked on from 2003 to 2009 (yes, I had no life then, thank you). As I was able to do so by your hard-earned tax-euros, I thought it only fair to give you a small sample of such PhD peculiarities.

My PhD will inform you about:

1. The precise name of the Roman gladiator who fought wearing a helmet without any openings for the eyes and who therefore competed completely blind (Andabata).
2. The way the 1598 peace talks between the Spanish and the French at Vervins almost didn’t start because of a row about the exact formation in which the different diplomats would be seated during the negotiations.
3. The different sources and opinions about the life span of the Phoenix, the mythical bird that rises from its own ashes (500 or 1000 years depending on whether you believe the Greek or the Roman tradition).
4. The title of a book in which you can check what the weather was like in the Low Countries (Belgium and The Netherlands) from 1000 AD to the year 2000 (J. Buisman, Duizend jaar weer, wind en water in de Lage Landen, Franeker, 2000).
5. The fact that the Greeks seem to have been more afraid of the sea than the Romans. (If you don't believe me, see De Saint-Denis, Le Rôle de la Mer dans la Poésie Latine, pp. 300-302).
6. The differential diagnosis (yes you know this term from House MD) for an oedema (which can be caused by anything from small bruises to serious infections, heart failure, nefrotic syndrome (kidney failure) or non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma (cancer of the lymphatic system).
7. The fact that Spa water was already sold in bottles in 1598.
8. The mathematical problem of the quadratura circuli, the challenge of constructing a square with the same area as a given circle by using only a finite number of steps with compass and straightedge (it took people until 1882 to realise that it’s actually impossible).
9. Who brought the tulip to Europe, who popularized its cultivation, and when the Dutch tulpomania reached its zenith (Augerius Busbecquius, Carolus Clusius and the 1630s)
10. The phrase: “Can I have another gin-tonic?” in Modern Greek (και άλλο τζιν τόνικ)
11. A lengthy discussion of the correct surname of Thomas Rhediger (Rhedigerus, Redingerus, Rehdiger, Rudinger, Rudiger, Rüdiger, Rediger, Redinger or Rehdiger?)
12. The fact that horridula virtus (‘the hard virtue’) is a strange expression because the adjective horridulus is usually employed in Latin in connection with nipples.
13. That Pliny the Elder knows a plant that will give you difficulties peeing, which is strangely called chamaeleon (see Plin., hist. nat., 22, 18, 21)
14. Some considerations on why the Persian imperial messengers called Peichi (Peykān-i Hāsṣṣa) could have carried a small axe and a flask of perfume with them (perhaps the perfume was a gift, emergency payment or just good manners when they had travelled for miles on end to deliver the message?)
15. That the 41st abbot of the Benedictine monastery of Liessies near Avesnes was a naughty man because he drank and partied at the monastery.

Phew! And still the papers are saying that university education in Belgium needs to be of ‘more general’ interest.
Of course, this wouldn’t be a blog on Fred and Fred if there weren’t a little twist to it. Of the aforementioned fifteen peculiarities, one is not really mentioned in my PhD. Can you spot which one ? It’s number -1000+8371-7359 (just a calculation as a spoiler alert…). But mind you that’s only because I struck it out at the last minute. It’s still the God honest truth!

PS: if ever you would feel the need to learn more about which plants cause difficulties peeing or about Latin adjectives usually associated with boobies, you can read the full version of my PhD through this link. Enjoy!

Damnedness

• boarding your flight from London to Sydney, having to spend more or less 24 hours next to a smelly, snoring guy whose layers of body fat cross your side of the armrest, like a muffin balancing its cake'ish mass over the paper cup

• missing your favourite band's encore because you need to catch the last train back home

• a mosquito bite between two toes

• finding out you are not carrying a plastic bag when walking a dog with diarrhea

• being addressed by two purple-haired, French-speaking ladies who drew their own eyebrows, demanding you to get up and have respect for older people

• realizing you took the wrong keychain while hearing the front door close behind you

• missing the last train back home, despite your early departure from the concert hall

• arriving at the bakery together with a beautiful guy/girl, nodding your head to let him/her enter first, only to see the last 4 croissants disappear into his/her shopping bag

• running out of hot water after you shampooed your head

• seeing dark clouds gather ten minutes after you finished cleaning your car

• buying a new shirt to wear at a party and seeing someone wearing exactly the same clothes.

Quarky behaviour

Let's be honest, if this isn't our first blogpost you are reading, the word 'nerd' must already have crossed your mind. On several occasions, I guess. Not that either one of the Freds considers this to be an insult. As a matter of fact, 'writings having a touch of nerdiness' was more or less what we had in mind when we came up with the idea to start a blog. Right from the beginning.

But does anyone know what a nerd really is? My dictionary says: an unstylish, unattractive or socially inept person, slavishly devoted to intellectual or academic pursuits. I cannot speak for myself, but I can definitely say that the other Fred does not qualify as a genuine nerd if this is the definition. Don't get me wrong, he enjoys intellectual and academic pursuits, but that's it.

The thing with definitions is that they are like wedding shoes' laces: way too rigid to be useful. It might be easier to think of a list of easy questions which may help you to determine your degree of nerdiness.

Who is your idol?

Now this would definitely be my giveaway. Albert Einstein. I do have a back-up answer, every once in a while it's just easier to say Mike Patton, but my idol is a physicist. I read more books on Einstein than an average family can handle in a lifetime, I sign my emails with one of his quotes and I have at least one ex-girlfriend who will happily admit she fell in love with me the day I (successfully) explained to her what the special theory of relativity exactly says.

Why am I sharing this? Well, I guess you all saw the news this week. An international team of scientists said on Thursday they have recorded sub-atomic particles travelling faster than light. Neutrinos, to be more precise, arriving 60 nanoseconds earlier than predicted. A nanosecond, people, that is one billionth of a second. Compared to this unit of time, a blink of an eye takes ages. And yet, according to connoisseurs, this is a finding that could overturn one of Einstein's long-accepted fundamental laws of the universe.

Just in case you feel this burning desire to send Fred (or Fred) an email, with the question 'How do you feel about this discovery, that could imply that Einstein was wrong?', here's an answer: this will not affect my adoration. Fred makes mistakes too. Usually having effects lasting a wee bit longer.

Too bad they focused on neutrinos by the way. I would have loved to see my train arrive a few nanoseconds earlier than expected. Although I am not sure I would have noticed, I'd probably be blinking my eyes...

Nuts

Imagine a piece of literature. A poem perhaps. For instance:

Roses are red, violets are blue
Sugar is sweet, and so are you.

This is literature. You might not think it is very good literature, but it’s literature nonetheless. So far so good. Now for the tricky part: can you tell me why this is literature?

(the sound of a rusty rattling brain)

Some say that literature consists of texts that employ certain poetic functions of language, like alliterations, rhyme and a metre in the case of a poem. Like in Róses are réd, viólets are blúe / Súgar is swéét, and só are yoú. However, if you read in a manual of pharmacy that The main tranquilizers are benzocaine, lidocaine and novocaine, is that poetry or even literature?

Others say that literature consists of texts that tell certain stories. They’re often a story about a hero, faced with a difficulty which (s)he needs to overcome, helped by certain people and hindered by others. Think about it: if you don’t take this literally, you’ll probably be able to fit just about any book you’ve ever read into this scheme. However, can you fit Roses are red into it? And even if you think you can, what about Lewis Caroll’s famous nonsense poem Jabberwocky (1872)?

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
(…)

Still others would say that literature consists of texts that are the product of literary acts. In other words: whenever someone declares ‘This is literature!’, it is. Indeed, Roses are red… was published by someone who definitely would have called it literature. That seems to solve a lot of problems, doesn’t it, as it can account for even the most absurd forms of literature around? However, if I stand on a chair shouting ‘This is literature!’ while holding up a cell phone manual, what does that mean? I might be a performance artist (or out of my mind), but has this text, this cell phone manual, now become literature?

(the sound of people thinking "Where the hell is this going?")

Congratulations! You have just been introduced into formalist, structuralist and functionalist literary theory. Why? Well, I thought I should prove Fred wrong and show you there are even stranger people than mathematicians.

Indeed, ever since people devised an alphabet to write down literature, they have been thinking about the question What is literature? Of course this has to do with the fact that literature and the way we look at it, changes all the time. Most of you wouldn’t consider an anatomic book about the eye to be literature, but two hundred years ago people did. Most of you wouldn’t consider a song to be literature either, but two thousand years ago people did.

Literary theorists.

Will we ever solve the problem of what literature is? Absolutely not. On the other hand, I’m sure someone (perhaps it will be Fred?) will eventually know how hyperfloors in 7 dimensions behave. So you see, we’re definitely stranger, looking for answers that do not even exist…

Perhaps you’ll say this is insane, or you’re more practical and think: ‘Thanks a lot, then, Mr. Academic Asshole, for squandering my tax money!’. But ask yourself this question. Will the squirrel in Ice Age ever get the acorn? Absolutely not. But will he ever stop trying?

So you see: we might be strange, we’re not nuts!

Hyperproblems

Everyone knows what squares are, right?

Imagine you have an infinitely large kitchen. If that doesn't really make sense to you, imagine a kitchen which is larger than the largest kitchen you can think of.

And now repeat that.

Suppose also that the kitchen floor needs to be tiled, with an infinite collection of equal squares. Wait, their colours may vary. But not their size: they must all have the same area. No matter how hard you will (or - more likely - will not) try, you will always end up with a kitchen floor in which every square has at least one complete edge in common with one of its neighbours.

Can you see that?

Either your kitchen floor ends up looking like a chessboard (see the picture above) – in which every square only shares complete edges, one with each of the neighbouring tiles – or it ends up like a kind of deranged chessboard, in which every row is slightly translated with respect to the neighbouring rows. Which still means that every square has two complete edges in common with its neighbours.

The upshot is that these are the only possibilities. Any other arrangement will have 'holes', which cannot be filled up with the tiles at your disposal, as they're all equally big. Think of the kitchen floor: if you try anything different from what I just described, you'll have to start breaking and cutting tiles, to fit them into the holes you created.

(the sound of a rusty rattling brain)

You still here?

Good.

Infinitely large kitchens: way too much dishes to be washed, an infinitely large cupboard underneath the kitchen sink – most likely housing an infinite collection of plastic bags – and a huge fridge.

Bigger than any fridge you can think of.

Suppose this fridge needs to be filled with an infinite amount of identical cubes. Yes, you may put different things in these boxes and they may have different colours, but they must have equal measures. Do you see it coming? No matter how hard you try, you will always end up with a configuration in which every cube has at least one complete square in common with one of its neighbours.

Either they are perfectly stacked, so that each cube shares its six squares with the neighbouring boxes (up, down, left, right, in front and behind), or you start messing around with the layers of boxes. At worst, each cube has only two squares in common with direct neighbours in one direction. Can you still picture that?

(the sound of people thinking "Where the hell is this going?")

Proceed with caution now, as this is the point where a stretched mind might end up being a strained one. Because you can repeat this idea in any dimension. 'Hypercubes?', you're asking. Yups. Hypercubes.

I will introduce you to the secrets and delights of higher-dimensional objects in a future post. As for today – and the sake of not making this post (or your coffee break) too long – you'll have to believe my word: you can define the analogue of squares and cubes in 17 dimensions. Or 85, if that suits you better. And infinitely large 17-dimensional kitchen floors need to be tiled too. The only difference however, is that hyperfloor tilings in 17 dimensions behave rather peculiarly: 17-dimensional tiles can be rearranged in such a way that each of these tiles has absolutely zero “complete sides” in common with its neighbours. Only pieces of "sides".

An abstract sense of freedom, envied by squares and cubes.

In case you're having a hard time trying to picture this: don't. It's impossible for our human brain to actually picture this, unless you're willing to trust your mathematical abstraction skills.

The weirdest thing of all, is the following: the tiling property which holds for squares and cubes holds in dimensions 4, 5 and 6 too. It does not hold in any dimension bigger than or equal to 8. Which leaves one case, right? Well, the case of 7 dimensions is still a highly non-trivial mathematical problem. People still don't know how hyperfloors in 7 dimensions behave.

(all together now)

Who cares?

Mathematicians.

Yes, they are strange people.

Never content with partial answers, always looking for problems which may or may not be in need of a solution, unable to rest before all details are completely comprehended, categorized and classified. And even if they succeed, that merely brings them back to square one.

Cube one.

Hypercube one.

You get the picture...

LinkedIn: Share a secret

A few days ago I had something I wanted to say. Badly. Fortunately for me, I have a forum to do so, which is, of course, the little corner of the Internet you are currently looking at. So as usual I started typing away during my commute and before long I had finished the piece. I devised a title for it (it was to be called All the world’s a stage), it tied in with previous subjects (for instance, the idea of hyperreality) and it was about something most people could relate to. So from an objective point of view there was nothing wrong with the blog entry. Still, for some reason it felt wrong to post it. And after long deliberation I decided to do something I had never done before: I decided to self-censor and not publish the piece. At the time I didn’t quite know why, but today I suddenly figured it out.

It came to me when I was thinking about the very first sentence of this piece (yes, please have a second look at it). While typing it, I hesitated for a moment between the verbs say or tell. Which made me realise that I should not have written 'I had something I wanted to say', but 'There was something I wanted to tell someone'. Indeed, there’s a big difference.

The problem was that I didn’t have the nerve to tell the person in question. I still don’t. So I was faced with an impasse: I couldn’t say it on our blog and I couldn’t tell it in person. Which basically comes down to having a secret. Usually people define a secret as something you shouldn’t tell anyone. But think about it, isn’t the worst secret the kind you can’t tell anyone?

Luckily there is a solution. During one of my nocturnal wanderings along virtual shores, I came across this site: http://coloresque.net/secrets/. It’s actually a virtual art project called Share a secret, which consists of a very simple premise. The site offers you a text box, through which you can share whatever secret you like. You won’t get a response and it’s completely anonymous. The only condition, the site states, is that you tell something that’s true.

Try it. (And be truthful.) I did it, and there’s something quite remarkable about it.

What, you may ask? I won’t tell you. As I learned from this experience, some things are best left, indeed, a secret.