Placebo Buttons

A placebo button is a button that, when pushed, does nothing other than make the button pusher feel like he has effected change.

A famous example is the "close door" button in an elevator. Does pushing it actually close the doors, or do the doors close according to their programmed cycle, anyway? Certainly, pushing the button makes you feel like you have done something, but whether you actually have or not can only be determined by experimentation.

The Museum of Hoaxes blog busts the myth that all cross-walk buttons are placebos. Some are, some aren't, some never were but are now.

This whole thing got me thinking: What other things do we do that are really just placebos, dummy deeds we do to make ourselves feel in control? Just how much of our lives is rigged? Are we all being manipulated? Is there some great super-governmental force out there giving us the illusion that our opinions count?

Here's a few things that might really be placebos:

• Half the operations we do in MS Windows:
  Ever tried to force a "hanging" program to close using the task manager?
  
  
• Filing papers at any government office:
  It's a fun exercise, but do they do whatever they want, despite your requests?
  
  
• Voting in an election:
  Aren't they all rigged?
  
  
• Paying taxes:
  You pay a certain amount of tax. Your tax money doesn't go to schools and hospitals. Someone else's does. Your money goes to fitting that new executive bathroom in some fancy government building somewhere.
  
  
• Ordering a steak at a restaurant:
  You order rare, it comes out well-done, but you felt decisive and powerful telling the waitress exactly how you would like it.

So how much control do we have over our own decisions, and do they mean anything? To test this theory, I've spent the last month making random choices, spur-of-the-moment, sometimes illogical decisions about lots of different things. The idea was to see whether any decision I made would ultimately lead me to the same end, proving the theory that everything is placebo and your choices don't matter, or whether my decisions actually had an effect on things.

Without going into too many details, Hugo Chavez is still in power. I ate raw dog meat in a Chinese restaurant. I filed the requisite forms and am now receiving financial assistance from Aboriginal Business Canada. I know the names of prison guards in four different African countries. I owe money to an Atlantic City loan shark. I don't have any clothes aside from those I'm wearing, but I do have all of my fingers, some of which are in an ice-pack in my rucksack.

Mid-Life Crisis

I just want to know when I am entitled to have a mid-life crisis. Is it possible to actually calculate how long I am going to live and then time my crises to occur exactly at middle age?

According to Wikipedia:

Middle age is the period of life beyond young adulthood but before the onset of old age. Various attempts have been made to define this age, which is around the third quarter of the average life span of human beings.

So I looked up the average life-expectancy of males and found that in Israel, that age is 76.46, at least according to the CIA World Factbook Estimates, 2008, as quoted in Wikipedia. So that schedules my mid-life crisis at between 38-57 years old.

I don't know if I can wait that long. I'm quite stressed out now and only 35. Actually, it's worse than that. Since I am from Australia, where the average life expectancy of males is supposed to be 77.8 years, I shouldn't have my mid-life crisis until I'm between 39-58 years old.

So this begs the question: what if I move countries? Do I take on the average life-span of males in that country, or am I stuck with the average life-span of my birth country? I'm guessing that since the average life span is a product of genes, environment and diet that it is a mixture of both. However, for the sake of argument, let's suppose that when you move to another country you adopt their average life-expectancy. It's only fair since you are also adopting their climate, health care system and crime-rate.

If I wanted to have my mid-life crisis earlier, I could move to any number of countries with lower life expectancies than Israel. New Zealand, UK, US, France and China all fit that criteria.

Swaziland has the lowest life expectancy, meaning that I could have had my mid-life crisis from when I was 15-23 years old. A bit early - I was married at 22 and hadn't even had the time to build up to it. I don't know how I would have managed to cope with a mid-life crisis at 15. That's just cruel. But according to the CIA, my next opportunity will be in Rwanda or Sudan, both of which will allow me to succumb to the pressures of life before my next birthday. Joy.

But what happens when you overshoot the average life expectancy of your country? By that stage you have already had your mid-life crisis, albeit too early. That could be a problem - what if you wanted another one? If you are still cranky between the ages of 47 and 71, does that automatically mean that you are going to live to be 95? Such questions should be left to the philosophers of the world. I undertook an extremely unscientific study of philosophers and found that the majority were German males who probably only have 75.96 years to figure this out.

But it really is comforting to know that I have the option to choose when I am going to break down under mountains of stress, and when I am not. Think about it, how much easier is it now that you know that you have a few years to save up for all of those expensive therapists? You don't need to spend time on the couch now, wait until you are close to the third quarter of the average life expectancy of people in your country and then pay a shrink to watch you go to pieces. Very economical.

But, of course, as long as you are at an age below the third quarter of your life expectancy there is nothing stopping you from practicing. Anything above that and, sorry, but I can't help you.

Things That Make You Go Boom

A non-exhaustive list of flatulence-causing foods. Add more in the comments! Looks like nothing is safe!
Source: The Internet

Apricots
Artichokes
Asparagus
Baked beans
Bananas
Bagels
Bean salads
Beer
Beets
Black-eyed peas
Bog beans
Bread
Broad beans
Broccoli
Brussel sprouts
Cabbage
Carrots
Cauliflower
Celery
Cereals
Cheese
Chickpeas
Chili
Corn
Cucumbers
Dressings
Eggplant
Field beans
Fruits
Garlic
Ice cream

You fall within the normal scale if you produce between 1 to 4 pints of gas per day.

Kohlrabi
Leeks
Lettuce
Onions
Parsley
Peppers, sweet
Seeds
Lentils
Lima beans
Mung beans
Peanut butter
Peanuts
Peas
Pinto beans
Most individuals release a little burst of air through the rear quarters approximately 14 to 23 times each and every day.

Potatoes
Pretzels
Prunes
Raisins
Red kidney beans
Sauerkraut
Sodas
Soybeans
Barley
Breakfast cereals
Granola
Oat bran
Oat flour
Pasta
Pistachios
Rice
Rice bran
Rye
Sesame flour

Cows actually burp and toot so frequently that they are responsible for about 15 percent of all the methane gas produced worldwide. This would mean that they are really not very environmentally friendly critters.

Sorghum, grain
Soy milk
Split-pea soup
Stir-fried vegetables
Stuffed cabbage
Sunflower flour
Tofu
Tuna
Wheat bran
Whole grain bread
Whole wheat flour

Relaxing, the Hard Way

In the movie "The Pursuit of Happyness" [sic] the protagonist describes a period of his life as "Riding the Bus", where he seems to constantly be going somewhere on the bus or chasing after it as it pulls away from the curb.

Right now I am writing this blog while on a bus. And I am also running up against a deadline - my battery is only at 17% and I have to finish this before the battery light flashes orange and the short, determined beeps signal an imminent shutdown.

But is forcing a shutdown so bad? Sometimes, during the hectic life I seem to lead, it is good to "shutdown" once in a while. By that I don't mean collapsing in a heap on the couch, unable to move because every bone in your body aches. Nor do I mean the type of shutdown that comes at the end of one's life. I'm talking about the type of shutdown that is followed by a "restart".

Thinking about it, it is probably a good idea to turn off, once in a while; to detach yourself from life for a short period of time - recharge your batteries, if you will.

13%

I do that sometimes by watching movies. Just sit back, relax and watch other people run around the screen, solving the problems of the world. But actually, that type of relaxation is not entirely beneficial. Heart-racing thrillers, intense drama, suspense-filled action - movies that leave you breathless until the last scene. It doesn't seem so relaxing now, does it?

10%

So how can you safely switch off from the world? How about renting a yacht and sailing into the deep blue? Extricate yourself from the world, disconnect from all forms of external stimulation. Sound idyllic? Not really. What happens when the ocean swells suddenly overtake the boat - or you run out of food and have to spend all day fishing with a broken line and a single Doritos for bait, just to stave off hunger? What if you are overrun by pirates who steal your compass and so you end up sailing to some unfriendly country where they strip you of your yacht and sell you to wealthy landowners who use you as a whipping boy for their recalcitrant child? How relaxing could that be?

7%

Here's an idea - stay home. You can spend your time sleeping, and hope you don't get a cramp from not moving enough. Or you could sit and play online games against strangers in another country who will ask no questions before violently slicing thorough your avatar with magical swords. Or you could just sit on your balcony and hope that you don't get skin cancer from the UV rays that apparently shine through the clouds, only to penetrate deep into your cells.

3%

So it seems that the only real way to relax without any negative consequences is to-

The Man from Down Under Goes Down Under

I went kayaking the other day. Although the circumstances around how the boat capsized may be entertaining, I will keep them aside in my dubious collection of heroic stories to tell my children and grandchildren.

But the truth of the matter is that the kayak overturning took me completely by surprise. One moment I was quite happily paddling along in a boat with a crew of four and the next moment I found myself under the water. Thinking back on that event, I realize that when accidents happen you really are quite unprepared for them.

Let's analyze my little dip in the river. Firstly, I remember very clearly that the boat was suddenly no longer underneath me, the place where it was supposed to be. In a few microseconds my brain processed the fact that I was under water and so my eyes shut automatically, like "shields up" on the Starship Enterprise. I held my breath and I kicked my legs, expecting to surface. I shot myself upwards, my head colliding with the upturned boat. That's when I started panicking - I was under the water, stuck under a boat. Looking back, I would have expected my life to flash before my eyes. Perhaps some last thoughts or images of family or a prayer or two would skim across my brain.

Not so.

In that moment of panic, a big red flashing sign lit up in the electric pathways that comprise my brain, which read, "Survival Mode!" All thoughts, subconscious processes and unessential activity instantly snapped closed like a safety switch to a short circuit. All energy was immediately routed to the parts of my mind and body dedicated to getting me out from under that boat.

Using the palms of my hands, I pushed up against the capsized boat, propelling myself further underwater. I scrambled to the left. My eyes were shut tight and I was aware of, but could barely hear, my fellow boaters flailing similarly beside me. In a matter of seconds I had cleared the obstruction above. My head broke through the surface of the water and my arms worked overtime to free me of the current that had seemingly wrapped itself around my legs, still trying to pull me down.

And then the flashing light stopped flashing. Power was restored to all parts of my brain, which was now functioning within normal parameters. The electrical signals resumed their usual course through the gray matter. Eyes open, I could finally take stock of my situation and once again use rational thinking and logic to plan my next move.

I almost want to do it again just to see if I would react differently the second time around. Life-jacket, anyone?

POSTSCRIPT: 6 May 2009
I just heard on the radio that Israel kayaking champion, Yasmin Feingold, is recovering after a serious accident on the Yarkon river. We all wish her well. See this Jerusalem Post article for more information.

The Soft Sell

I remember that when I was a kid we were honored by a visit from an encyclopedia salesman. One evening he came to our house and sat himself at our dining room table. I remember thinking that he was a young fellow, or at least he seemed so. Clean cut, jacket and tie, pearly white smile and shiny black brogue shoes. I also remember that he was a smooth talker.

He was a great salesman. Pitching the Encyclopedia Britannica couldn't be easy, but it was the 1980s and Wikipedia didn't yet exist. He spoke with great honesty about all the benefits of the 20-volume set to a family with teen and pre-teen kids. "And what would you use it for?" he asked me as I leaned awkwardly against the piano, fidgeting the way a 9-year-old does. "For school work, I guess". The salesman smiled and spread out his hands, palms open, gesturing at the children. He beamed.

I'm sure that my parents didn't hear the spiel. I'm positive that they were oblivious to the salesman's statistics of how many of his customers ended up as Nobel Laureates. I think their mind was on the price.

I don't remember the going rate for the set, but if you take the current price of $1,200 and convert it to Australian currency (which is where I am from), it would be approximately $1,675AU. According to McCrindle Research (pdf), the average wage in Australia in 2008 was, conveniently, $1,000AU per week. Rounding it off, that makes the cost of the encyclopedias about 1.675 weeks salary. According to the same study, the average weekly Australian salary in 1983 was $324AU, making the cost of the set approximately $543AU. So that would be my guess (see "Creative Journalism").

When the salesman left the house, I wondered why our bookshelf was not adorned by the 20 magnificent volumes of the famous Britannica. My parents most likely breathed a sigh of relief. The salesman was good, but not that good.

Today I answered a knock at the door. It was an encyclopedia salesman. I almost called the Israel Antiquities Authority to make sure this guy is put in a glass box on display in some museum. I just could not believe that they still existed.

My salesman was not as smooth as my parents' was. My guy was dressed in ill-fitting navy blue track-pants, a plaid shirt and a coat that, from its length, looked more like a bolero than anything else. Sporting a bushy moustache, he breathed out heavily through his nose after each sentence. And he never stopped talking. One sentence ran into the other and I couldn't understand what he was saying half the time.

All of a sudden the price dropped by 30 shekels, and I hadn't said a word. I decided to keep mum, maybe I could bargain him down some more. I just looked at him as he kept jabbering on. After he dropped the price by another ten shekels, I decided to put the guy out of his misery. "After all," he sputtered, "I'm selling this at a loss".

Unlike my previous experience, this time when the salesman walked away, I didn't have to eye the empty space on the shelf. We bought a ten-volume set of the childrens' encyclopedia. They are actually very good and come with nice glossy pictures. Just my style.

Encyclopedia salesmen are a rare species. How could I refuse a bushy moustache and a jovial, albeit, unshaven face? The swanky suit and tie, smooth-talking thing was unnecessary. All through the sale I had no idea what he was talking about, but I smiled respectfully, looked concerned as appropriate, and laughed heartily when he laughed as I handed over my credit card.

Playing With My Mind

G-d is playing with my mind.

A few months ago my wife and I decided to buy a lottery ticket. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. What irked me was knowing, not so very deep in my heart, that I was flushing money down the drain. I mean, what are the odds?

According to this site on Lottery Math,

The odds of a "Lotto" style lottery can be found with the formula: n! / (n - r)! r! where n is the highest numbered ball and r is the number of balls chosen. This is called in math a combination. An easier way to think about it is if there are 40 balls and 6 are chosen, there are 40 possible numbers that can come up first, leaving 39 that can come up second, then 38, 37, 36, and finally 35 on the final number. To find out how many numbers that is you multiply 40 ×39 ×38 ×37 ×36 × 35 = 2,763,633,600 making the odds 2 and a half billion to one.

Two and a half billion to one?! The money spent on the ticket could easily have gone to purchasing at least one bottle of beer with a 100% chance of satisfaction, assuming sufficient saltiness of the pretzels, sunflower seeds or peanuts.

But we hadn't yet read this site that says there is a better chance of dying from flesh-eating bacteria (1 million:1) than there is of winning the lottery (2.5 billion:1). So we played.

We won...

..our money back.

"Alright", said G-d, "I'll let you get away with it this time. Next time buy the beer".

Not too long ago I experienced another weak moment. I bought a lottery ticket, letting the machine pick the numbers so I could have someone to blame. I put the ticket in a drawer at home and forgot about it.

Yesterday, while searching for something else, I came across the lottery ticket. The vain hope of fortunes beyond my wildest imagination coaxed me into putting it in my pocket. Later on I found an excuse to wander down to the shops. I did a few errands, purposely eying the lottery store from across the way. Eventually, I found the wherewithal to actually enter the store, knowing that in a few moments a teenage service rep would shatter my dreams with a dismissive shake of his head.

He scanned the ticket.

We won...

...our money back.

G-d is playing with my mind.

The Only Thing In My Life That Isn't Hard Is My Abdomen

Life wasn't meant to be easy. It really wasn't. Well, not for most people. There are those people (who don't really exist, because you don't know any and you don't know anyone who knows any) who have charmed lives. The concept of a charmed life is just that, a concept. Like winning the lottery and paying off your mortgage are concepts.

If one seems to have a charmed life, they should be living in fear of the inevitable difficulty or tragedy which will uncharm their charmed life. It happens all the time in books and movies, which are reflections of real life. The princess lives a happy, care-free existence in the glittering palace. The attendants take care of her every need. Even the elephants in the nearby forest seem to trumpet in tune with each other. Birds, butterflies, sunshine and all that. Then, while she is taking tea on the north balcony, the monster sneaks up behind her and devours her alive. It's going to happen. No surprises there.

If its going well, fear the worst.

You are having the perfect day. Work is flowing smoothly and everything is falling into place. All your private phone calls have been for good things and you had very few work-related conversations. You got out of attending 3 meetings and the cafeteria even served your favorite dessert. Can't you see that you are heading inexorably towards a homeward-bound car crash? Isn't it obvious that something is going to go wrong? Why didn't you prevent the accident by giving yourself a paper-cut on the way out of the office? While uncomfortable, it is much less painful than rolling your car down an embankment. Face it, life wasn't meant to be easy.

Still don't believe me? Here's a real-life case in point. "I thought it was a dumb way to die", was Jeff Bezos' recollection of his could-have-been-last-thoughts when he was the passenger in a near-fatal helicopter crash. Money.cnn.com views the helicopter crash as a metaphor to Bezos' "charmed life" - oh yeah, "But then came the dot com crash" they write. If everything is going perfectly then expect that dot com crash because, baby, life wasn't meant to be easy.

Then you have it going the other way, too. You are down in the dumps and, suddenly, you make it big. Rags to Riches. According to a Forbes.com article in 2007, "Almost two-thirds of the world's 946 billionaires made their fortunes from scratch, relying on grit and determination, and not good genes" So most of the wealthiest people in the world started off poor and then made it into the big-time. Not so charmed before; plenty charmed after, but still doesn't qualify as a "charmed life"because of the first bit. Points earned only later in the game don't make a perfect score.

But my strongest argument that a "charmed life" is nothing more than a popularized quote from Shakespeare is that people are human. That means they die. So even if the person's entire life is going great and they make it to 100 years old with nothing but good luck, success and happiness under their belts, they will still inevitably die. "He was doing great until a sudden heart attack killed him dead in a stalled elevator between the 14th and 15th floors during an electrical outage when an errant cigarette-lighter delivery van collided with a petrol tanker, which rolled into the lobby of his building, setting it on fire." Just one small incident can ruin such a perfect record. How charmed can that be?

So if things seem to be difficult and if life seems to throw you punches that you have trouble avoiding or absorbing, then just remember that those troubles are a blessing in disguise. Imagine if you had a "charmed life", you would do nothing but live in agonizing fear until something bad happened, petrified of the inevitable upsetting of the apple cart. Who wants that? Which is why I'm not so worried when sometimes it seems that the only thing in my life that isn't hard is my abdomen.


This post in in response to a challenge to write about "the only thing in my life that isn't hard is my abdomen".

It's Good I'm Not A...

I'm scared of heights, so it's good I'm not a professional hang-glider. That knocks out one profession. Given that there are possibly hundreds and thousands of different professions, and variations thereof, I suppose it isn't really practical to decide your future career by process of elimination. There are other ways to choose the direction of your career.

I like straight lines, so it's good I don't design modern office buildings.

I guess the easiest way to decide what career you want to have is to create categories of professions and strike out the categories that don't suit your personality or abilities. This way you can eliminate entire blocks of careers. For example: outdoor jobs, indoor jobs, computer jobs, scientific jobs, jobs involving animals, community jobs, finance jobs and so on.

I faint at the sight of blood, so it's good I'm not a professional hit-man.

So once you have knocked out the categories of jobs you don't like, you can then focus on the careers that seem appropriate. Try to think of things you like doing and see what professions fit. While doing this, it is important to keep in mind that some hobbies don't translate so well into real paying jobs. For example, just because you beat the heck out of your opponent on your PC kick boxing game, it doesn't mean that you will be any good inside a ring. You have to be realistic.

I like my tongue moist, so it's good I'm not a philatelist.

Also, think of the special skills you might have that will come in handy in your chosen profession. For example, if you are good with numbers, an accounting or finance job might be interesting for you. If you get on well with animals, taming lions might be your cup of tea. Or not. It all depends on you, your personality, your skills and whether or not you have a death wish.

I have a memory like a sieve, so it's good I'm not a doctor.

So you really have to take into consideration all of the factors, make informed choices, research, ask questions, talk to people and decide carefully. Once you have done that you will finally realize that nothing you choose will be exactly what you want, you don't know yourself as well as you thought, circumstances are limiting and so you will probably end up wherever life takes you.

According to this article:

"The statistics show that workers between the ages of 18 and 38 change jobs an average of 10 times"

That doesn't necessarily mean that the 18 to 38 year olds change careers, they just change employers, but sometimes they change careers, too. So, you see, no matter how hard you try to plan, you are almost guaranteed not to get it right.

...and it's good I'm not a career counselor.

Do We Eat Too Much?

I have been mulling over the question of whether or not we eat too much. Do we really need three meals a day, or will one or two suffice? Even if we eat healthily, are we being wasteful by eating too frequently? And is there too much emphasis on food in our lives?

Do a quick Google search for "eat too much" and you will find all sorts of sites about eating too much meat, not eating enough meat, eating too much salt, and not eating enough salt. It seems like every few years something on the "do not eat" list becomes healthy and vice versa. So don't despair, in ten years scientists will announce that gorging oneself on salty, oily, sugary, snacks is good for you - only, gorge in moderation.

A rather long article in Time magazine boils it all down to society and culture: "We eat together when we celebrate, and we eat together when we grieve; we eat together when a loved one is preparing to leave, and we eat together when the loved one returns. We solve our problems over the family dinner table, conduct our business over the executive lunch table, entertain guests over cake and cookies at the coffee table."

We have moved food from being merely a means for survival into a social ritual. But, nutrition and parties aside, food has unquestionably infiltrated itself into other aspects of our lives. So much so that even our lexicon is overflowing with gastronomically related expressions:

- to chew the fat
- too much to stomach
- spews forth information
- hunger for knowledge
- thirst for the truth
- bit off more than he could chew
- bite sized pieces of information
- eating her words
- have his cake and eat it, too
- to eat humble pie

...and so on and so forth. No wonder we are all so food-focused.

As interesting a picture as this may paint for you, whether you like it or not, food is on your mind.

My Life Ambition

I have to confess that although I don’t mind working, the thought of going on a really, really long vacation is very appealing. I’m talking about taking at least a year off to travel the world and just enjoy life. Sounds idyllic? Read on.

My dream is to buy a luxury bus, outfitted like a first-class hotel suite: plush carpets, mahogany trim, marble bathroom, leather seats, comfy couches and all that. Then I’d drive the bus around the world, never needing to worry about packing, unpacking, checking in or checking out. I’d go where I wanted and enjoy hot showers, home-cooked meals and top-rate comfort in the middle of the city, desert, rainforest or mountain peak.

For that I’d need a bus license, a whole bunch of free time and a lazy $250,000 to purchase the vehicle. It is not a dream out of range, assuming I sold my house, quit my job, took a loan and sent my kids to live with an elderly wart-ridden aunt in a dilapidated mansion on the top of a dark, distant hill in a wooded forest. Okay, the last part is not essential. It doesn’t have to be a wooded forest.

Then I’d have to buy a beaver.

That’s one sentence that you weren’t expecting. "I’d have to buy a beaver". Actually, that would be a “Beaver”, which is the name of one of the companies that sells luxury motor homes. “Beaver”, as in www.beavermotorcoaches.com.

“Get into a Beaver” is their catch-phrase, which, taken literally, conjures up images of large, brown rodents holding their buck-toothed mouths wide open and pointing with their free paw down their gullets as they garble, “Get in, already!”

But I like that slogan, “Get into a Beaver”. Think of the newly retired couple stopping off at a gas-station in the remotest part of an Arizona desert. The husband goes to the cashier to pay for the diesel, feels his back pocket, turns to his wife and says, “Dear, I think I left my wallet in the Beaver. Would you mind getting it for me?”

“Get out of the fish!” is another sentence you didn’t expect to read here, but then again, you just did. It’s also a sentence that I never thought I’d utter, but I managed to say it often, making perfect sense each time. “The fish” referred to an inflatable swimming-pool toy in the shape of a fish and that the “get out” was directed to various children so that the other children could have a turn.

My life ambition is to sit in a fish inside a Beaver – and the scary thing is that you now understand exactly what I mean.