BOOK REVIEW: Thing Explainer by Randall Munroe

Thing Explainer: Complicated Stuff in Simple WordsThing Explainer: Complicated Stuff in Simple Words by Randall Munroe
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Amazon page

Allow me the awkward start of explaining two things before offering my lukewarm reception of “Thing Explainer.” First, I loved “What If?” (this author’s previous book.) I thought that book was brilliant, gave it my highest rating, and eagerly anticipated Munroe’s next book (this one.) Second, I didn’t deduct because this book is a pain to read on an e-reader (at least the basic model I have.) That’s on me. I should’ve known better, and accept full responsibility. All I will say on the matter is to recommend that–if you still do want to read this book—you get a hard copy. [If you have an awesome reader, your results may vary.] The hard copy is large-format, and that’s useful because the graphics are so crucial and the text can be hard to read (some of it is light text / dark background and some is dark text / light background.)

The author uses only the most common 1,000 words of the English language to explain the operations of many modern technologies (e.g. laptops and helicopters) and scientific ideas (e.g. the workings of a cell or the sun.) It’s an intriguing question, and I can see why Munroe was interested in it. Can one convey the inner workings of objects like nuclear power plants or a tree with a rudimentary vocabulary? You can. Munroe does. However, the next question is, “Should you?” I come down on the side of “no.”

One might say, “But this is a book for kids [or people with a child-like grasp of language], you aren’t the target demographic.” Perhaps, but the book doesn’t do children any favors because the brainpower needed to puzzle out what the author is trying to convey through imprecise language can be more than is necessary to expand one’s vocabulary. [e.g. What do “tall road” or “shape checker” mean to you? If you went straight to “a bridge” and “a lock,” you may be more in tune with Munroe’s thinking than I, and thus more likely to find this book appealing.] For adults, it’s like reading essays by an eighth-grader who’s in no danger of being picked for the honor roll. Without the combination of the book’s graphics and a general background in science and technology, I suspect the book would be a muddle. I’m not against explaining ideas in simple terms, but I felt the book takes it too far and it becomes a distraction.

On the positive side, the graphics are great—sometimes funny while providing enough detail to get the point across without bogging one down. Also, Munroe’s sense of humor comes through here and there throughout the book (though it’s hampered by the lack of vocabulary.)

The book includes the list of words used as an Appendix (though you obviously won’t find the word “Appendix.”)

If it sounds like something that would interest you, pick it up. It’s hard to say that I’d recommend it, generally speaking. It’s funny and educational, but it’s also distracting and tedious. I neither hated it, nor loved it. I give it the median score of “meh.”

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POEM: Kung Fu Calumny

Source: cliparts.co

                                                              Source: cliparts.co

 

I have a particular set of skills.

No, not ones that pay the bills.

While Liam Neeson may kick some ass,

my skills are more in the realm of sass.

My course won’t teach you a spinning kick,

or how to head-butt to a brick.

No, nothing so stoic or taciturn,

for mine is the art of the kung fu burn.


If you wish to unleash the power of derision,

tell them their kung fu lacks vigor and precision.

If that has not the effect desired,

tell them their kung fu is sloppy and uninspired.

If you haven’t yet gotten their goat,

tell them their moves makes vomit rise to your throat.


That’s just a sampler; wisdom ain’t free.

But you can learn more for a nominal fee.


[Disclosure]

Just one thing, whatever you do.

Don’t use against anyone who knows kung fu.

(Even the old ladies who do Tai Chi in the park,

may rip you apart like a school of bull sharks.)

POEM: Memory is a Fickle Cow

brainmemory, she’s a fickle cow

you can never have one in the now

 

and why are the memories best of those who need them least

should not as your age grows great your memory too increase

 

an eight year old has no need of keys but he can tell you where they are

for me the point is quite moot cause I’ve forgotten where’s the car

 

more and more I’m less and less certain of what memories were dreams

I clearly remember posting that bill cause I passed a yeti eating ice-cream

 

a woman watching 60 Minutes was robbed, but cops called her a loony

you see the old girl was quite sure she’d been burgled by Andy Rooney

 

now it’s time for me to bring this poem to a close

I had a much better bit but have forgotten how it goes

POEM: Conceit of Man

An elephant will never forget.
No car keys to misplace, I’ll bet.
A tiger is fearless, I will confess,
but it’ll never be audited by the IRS.

An owl may be wise; you can tell by the eyes.
But it’s never asked to comment on the size of a girl’s thighs.
Dolphins are smart ones, that much is true.
But, pray tell, who is in whom’s zoo?

In all domains humans think themselves the greatest.
And we are the very best of sadists.
You’ll never see a bonobo bureaucrat,
nor get tech support from a vampire bat.

At masochism, too, we’re none too shabby.
At the karaoke bar, ever see a tabby?
Ever seen a chimp with a nipple ring?
I’ll tell you now, that’s not a thing.

Our narcissism has grown beyond the pale.
One lifetime to the rocket from the sail
will give any species some cerebral swelling.
I’m not saying our’s isn’t a tale worth telling.
Let’s just make sure it doesn’t turn cautionary.
Basking in awesomeness, one forgets to be wary.
Next thing you know, super-smart apes are getting the itch,
or the Alpha Centaurians have made Earth their bitch.

POEM: A Dark Note to Jello

jello

Hello, Jello, my wiggly friend

It’s time you meet your fateful end

Perhaps, someday you will come back

But, having been through my digestive tract,

No one will ever love you like I did

[At least, let’s hope–heaven forbid]

The Non-shopping Firang

20140316_160803With the notable exception of books, I hate shopping. There are few endeavors more painfully tedious to me than wandering through stores looking for clothes, tsotchkes, knick-knacks, bric-a-brac, widgets, or doo-dads. I do go shopping, in part because I like to eat, and in part because societal conventions require that I wear clothing (you’re welcome.)

 

Were I not married, I’d be a complete fashion nightmare because I have only three questions when shopping for clothes. 1.) Does it look like it fits? 2.) Does it look comfortable? 3.) Is the price reasonable? (i.e. given that I’m a cheapskate for which stylishness and/or trendiness mean diddlysquat.) If the price of two shirts of the same size is identical, I will buy the one that’s closest to the cash register–or which will otherwise get me out of the store the quickest.

 

You’ll note, I didn’t include the question: “Does it match?” Correct. I’m not even sure I know what that means. If it’s a shirt, it matches pants because you wear them together, right? A shirt would not match another shirt, unless one could wear one over the other? If you can’t wear the two items at the same time, they definitely don’t match, but that doesn’t come up often. (I know all the bits that need covering, ergo, I can succeed at picking a group of garments that covers all the essential anatomical area.)

 

I also didn’t include “Does it look good?” It had to look good to someone–they made the damn thing. Who am I to say my taste is better than theirs? I think we’ve already established that I know not thing-one about being fashionable. Now, if it has feathers or a cape, I wouldn’t buy it on the grounds of lack of functionality (have you ever gotten your cape caught in an elevator or escalator?), but I don’t judge on taste. There but for the grace of my wife, go I… looking like non-sparkly Elton John.

 

So where am I going with this, you may ask? What’s intriguing is that, despite the fact that I hate shopping, I get asked if I want to be taken to a market, mall, or commercial district about four times per day (fyi, that’s roughly the number of times I go shopping per annum.)

 

Imagine a white person walking down the sidewalk wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, said person has a full duffle-bag on their shoulder that is long enough to accommodate a standard size yoga mat when rolled up. Where is this person going?

A.) He /she is going to the yoga studio.

B.) He /she is going to a gym.

C.) He / she is going to a martial arts studio.

D.) There isn’t enough information to determine between A,B, or C.

E.) He /she desperately wants to go shopping.

 

If you answered “D” you’re a keen and astute observer. If you answered A, B, or C, you have drawn a reasonable conclusion, but did so too quickly and without sufficient information for that degree of specificity.  If you answered “E,” you drive an autorickshaw (tuk-tuk) for a living.

 

For a while, I thought that this was just blatant ignorance, as all forms of racism are. Could these drivers truly not fathom–despite all evidence to the contrary–that I (i.e. whitey) spent my time doing things other than shopping? Did they really think that my days were divided between counting infinite piles of cash and spending it on crap for which I had no real need?

 

Then I realized that it was tenacious hope that drove these inquiries, and not biases. I came to this conclusion as I was watching a few of the recent Superbowl ads. If I don’t get enraged at Madison Avenue, I can’t really get mad at the aforementioned driver. Advertisers and that driver are both just trying to persuade me that something that I don’t need and have no interest in is somehow pursuit-worthy.

 

The driver knows that I’m going to yoga or kalari or a funeral (or wherever the evidence might suggest I’m headed at the moment), but they’re just holding out the thin hope that I can be diverted from that funeral to go buy some gee-gaw from which they can obtain a commission. In a way, they’re like the guys (or girls, to be non-discriminatory) who hit on a person who is way out of their league. It takes a lot of confidence to suffer repeated crushing rejection with such low probability of success. There’s a guy in the building where I get both my haircuts and Tibetan thukpa, who invites me into his carpet shop every single time I enter the building–despite the fact that the first 100 times I’ve shown zero interest. As long as said persistent wooer doesn’t resort to stalking, it’s kind of endearing. (Of course, it’s a thin line into stalker territory, and then it becomes instantly intolerable.)

 

There’s another reason I’ve discovered I shouldn’t hold this persistence against the drivers. That’s that they’re stereotyping isn’t without basis. Most of my expat compatriots do love themselves some shopping. I’m very curious about the root of this behavior. I suspect that it’s the vestigial evolutionary programming of hunter/gatherer behavior carried over into people who don’t like to get their toes muddy, to have to touch anything “icky,” or–in general–to be outdoors.

 

However, I’m a little out of my league, because I only have this compulsion to shop for books. I’m sure that’s residual hunter / gather behavior, but there’s a goal that can be understood. Through book shopping, I’m searching for a kind of nourishment–not the kind that ends hunger pangs, but the kind that’s an assault on my stupidity. I still don’t have a theory for how this applies to Hello Kitty stickers, Chia Pets, a second (or 403rd) pair of sneakers, or any of the other inane crap the people really–but unbelievably–purchase.

IMG_2160

Does That Mean What I Think It Does? No, No It Does Not

Would you like a kick in the crotch with your cupcake?

Would you like a kick in the crotch with your cupcake? (The name reads a bit hostile for an American.)

Cultural idiosyncrasies of language matter. In India on a daily basis I find myself asking, “They don’t mean what I think they mean, do they?” Here’s a few examples.

You mean you're selling clothes, just clothes?

You mean you’re selling clothes, just clothes? (The “Happy Ending” sale just seems a little risqué to me. If the smiley face was winking it would really be suggestive.)

No, Sir, I will not loofah you just because you bought the rice bath!

No, Sir, I will not loofah you just because you ordered the rice bath! (FYI: rice bath is a Karnataka rice dish with lentils.)

Cut my hair? I thought this was a saloon?

Cut my hair? I thought this was a saloon?

"Playing in the Park" is prohibited. Dear Park, What the hell are you good for? Signed Concerned Resident.

“Playing in the Park” is prohibited. Dear Park, What the hell are you good for? Signed Concerned Resident

 

How to Kill a “Cereal Killer” and Restore Halloween

cereal killerI know what you’re going to say. Why would I want to murder a cereal killer, a taco belle, a holy cow, a pig in a blanket, a deviled egg, or any of the other bearers of bad Halloween punnery? First, you want to kill someone.  You don’t have to admit it to me and I’d advise against admitting it to the District Attorney, but at least admit it to yourself. Second, if you kill the person you really want to kill (e.g. your boss, the tax man, your personal trainer, or your hairdresser—sorry, low blow) you’ll be the lead suspect. Therefore, you need to find a way to vent your homicidal rage into productive outlets, and I’d argue that the killing of punsters is community service. You shouldn’t even think of it as murder. It’s more like culling the Halloween herd. Forest fires kill, but the next year the forest is more lush and beautiful than ever before.

 

Now let’s get down to the real reason to conduct your own Halloween killing spree. Because it’s the perfect time for the perfect crime. Think about it.

  • Anonymity: Except for the lazy people who wear a T-shirt with “Halloween Costume” printed in unimaginative block letters, everybody is in makeup or has their head stuffed in some stinking mask that five people have thrown up in within the last three years. This makes it almost impossible to identify suspects. The lazy bastards would be eliminated immediately anyway because it takes commitment to be a homicidal maniac.
  • Relative Inconspicuousness: You won’t be the only one who’s apparently blood spattered. Besides Marti Gras and full moons, what other nights can one say that. There will be large numbers of people wielding weapons and looking creepy. What better time to blend in?
  • Distraction: If I might be granted a brief diatribe. Halloween used to be the holiday of terror, but no more. Valentine’s Day may be the holiday of romance (or florists), but Halloween is the holiday of sex. However, you can use this trend to your advantage. There’s a great deal of distraction to be garnered from the proliferation of sexy nurses, sexy waitresses, and sexy actuarials. When the girl whose costume is painted on rather than worn walks through the room to get a single potato chip, that’s a good time to jab the hypodermic into the neck of the nearest drunk pun and get the hell out of dodge.

 

So how will you choose your target? First, as indicated, it’s best to pick someone who’s inebriated because no one will realize they’re dead–and not just passed out–until they begin to stink. Don’t worry, finding a drunk won’t be hard. At a given Halloween party there will be four designated drivers for the 150 people in attendance—so 148 people will be completely hammered. [No, my math is not that bad. Two of those designated drivers are cheating bastards. If you kill a pun who’s a cheating designated driver you’ve hit the trifecta—OK, maybe my math is that bad. At any rate, you get bonus points. ]

 

Next comes the question of determining whether the costume is a pun or not. This can be harder than it seems. Sure there are the easy ones I mentioned above (and others like Kevin “Bacon” [Kevin nametag on a meat vest], “Bat” Man [w/ Louisville Slugger], Down for the Count [Dracula with a blowup doll orally affixed to his crotch region], Spice Girl, Dust Bunny, Formal Apology [tuxedo-clad man with “sorry” written on his tie], etc.) that will be immediately obvious.

 

However, what if one sees a guy in a Grim Reaper costume with a bag of pot. Perhaps this is just someone who likes to imbibe. However, if the pot is dayglow green, then you may have a “the grass is greener on the other side” who desperately needs killing. The key is that one must pay attention to the details. Sometimes the costume will be poorly done. Imagine a fine “Tom the Cat” costume with three misshaped spheres feebly stapled to the crotch region. This is a “horny as a three-balled tom cat” who must die.

 

On the other hand, you should avoid reading too much into costumes. Say you see a girl who looks like a stripper. You shouldn’t engage in some Rube Goldberg-esque thought process in which you conclude that she is saying, “All that glitters is not gold–because sometimes it’s a stripper.” Said woman may merely be costumed as a stripper, or might be a stripper who just got off stage and didn’t have time to go out looking for a costume.

 

When in doubt, if the costume doesn’t seem to make a lick of sense, it’s probably someone’s sense of clever gone awry and you shouldn’t feel bad about friendly fire against a non-pun.

 

Finally, some general rules of thumb (BTW: feel free to kill anyone dressed in a giant mitten with a page of the tax code taped to the thumb):

  • Only kill one pun per party. Being a killer of puns is like being a Marine Sniper—except that it’s completely illegal and involves no honor whatsoever—my point is that if you loiter in place you’ll get pinned down by the Vietcong. It doesn’t matter whether the party in question has the best pigs in a blanket (i.e. the hors doeuvres, not the cutesy couple costume), the best DJ, or the sluttiest witches, maids, librarians, or geologists in town. Don’t get greedy. Get in and get out—well, you can grab a handful of those delectable pigs in a blanket on the way out, but then get out of the house!
  • Never wear the same costume to more than one party. The police call that a clue. You have to be like Kathrine Heigl in that 27 Dresses  movie—which I never saw. Do the quick change like Clark Kent between parties. That brings me to an alternative killing scheme whereby you can kill anyone who’s dressed as a character from a romantic comedy.
  • Don’t consume a lot of legumes, high fiber foods, beer, or Taco Bell before your outing. Just because no one will see your face inside that barf-splotched mask doesn’t mean they won’t be able to smell you. Plus the zippers in costumes are unreliable, and you don’t want a case of Taco Trots to hamper your evening’s fun.
  • Don’t wear a costume that’s too menacing. You want to be able to point to someone who is nearby, completely innocent, and who looks like a killer and say, “she did it.” Also, don’t wear the “Identity Thief” costume in which one has name tags all over one’s outfit with different names. First, it plants the seed of criminality in the mind of those around you. Second, it’s a bad pun and may result in your being stabbed. Which brings me to the ultimate rule:
  • Don’t wear a pun costume yourself, it may result in your being stabbed. I’m not saying that I once stabbed a prostitute with a Seeing Eye dog who turned out to be just another good-hearted Halloween killer because “love is blind,” but…

 

I hope this guide to perpetrating a Halloween massacre has been helpful. I think we’d all like to bring the fear back to Halloween like all the Saints who partied down on All Saints’ Day Eve intended. So, whether you’re a first time killer or you’ve been around the block (another potential costume cliché to kill), a few simple steps will keep you out of the hands of the slutty cops—or regular cops.

TRAVEL TIP: Know Your Country’s Go-to Collision Avoidance Device

Bangalore

Bangalore traffic

It took me several months to master the art of crossing streets in India. Pedestrian crossing signals are as rare as gold crappers, and as useful as wings on a goat. There are many streets that one can’t cross in one fell swoop between the hours of 8am and 11pm. So, if you don’t want to spend the day trapped on your block like a jittery puppy, you need to plunge into traffic and take it one lane at a time.

Fearlessness. That’s the key–pure and simple. One will have crosstown buses whizzing past on either side. In the military, during Basic Training, we got inoculations via cattle vaccination-guns. It was an assembly line of shots. Take one step forward get a shot, one more step and get another shot. The clinic staff had a lot of recruits to inoculate that were standing between them and their morning coffee. The warning was, “Take one step and stand perfectly still.” Because as soon as you stopped, they would  “shu-shunk” that shot into your deltoid. If you wavered, the gun wouldn’t make a nice solitary puncture, but rather would gouge out a slit. Or so we were told. At any rate, the advice to a Bangalore pedestrian is the same, “Step onto the dashed line and remain perfectly still, because if you cringe, you’ll get a truck mirror up side the cranium and you’ll die.”

I traveled to Thailand this past month. I’ve been to Thailand on a couple previous occasions, but not with the implicit rules of Indian traffic ingrained in me. My first official act in Bangkok was to almost cause a multi-car pile up accident. Why? Because Thai people do this strange thing when a  pedestrian wanders into the street or an intersection in front of them, they apply the brakes. Now every Indian knows that the proper device to employ when someone crosses into traffic in front of one is the horn. As a matter of fact, the horn is the go-to Indian driving tool for almost every eventuality. It wouldn’t occur to most Indians to apply the brakes and certainly not to make a lane change for an encroaching pedestrian or other driver. If the pedestrian doesn’t get out of one’s way, you simply lean into the horn, putting all your body weight into it.

Now, it may sound like I’m giving Indian drivers a hard time. However, it occurred to me that either system works as long as everybody is on the same page. Those who’ve experienced roundabouts will tell you that they are at least as safe–and probably more so–than crossroad intersections. Even though roundabouts seem terrifying for novice drivers, they have a prevailing logic that is sound. By the same token,  it may be that the Indian approach is at least as safe. (It certainly makes a pedestrian more cautious.) The Thai approach, which is widespread though most of the world, is at once more polite but less trusting than the Indian approach.

 

BONUS TRAVEL TRAFFIC ADVICE: Anywhere in the developing world, always look both ways when crossing one-way streets. The prevailing view is that lane directives are optional for scooters and small motorcycles.

 

The Prostate Exam

Before moving to India, I got a stem to stern medical checkup. This included the dreaded  first prostate exam (emphasis on “prostate exam” not on “first” as I don’t suspect the process gets any more pleasant.) When my wife and I had both been on my work insurance, we had a HMO that said they didn’t do prostate exams for white males until they were 65 and older (or postmortem, if they died of prostate cancer, whichever came first.) That should’ve been a clue that they were a bunch of bean-counting quacks, but as I was less than eager to get said exam I took their word for it.

 

Anyhow, the area where I lived was fairly close to Emory University, and my new doctor’s office was even closer. (For those of you unfamiliar with Atlanta or Georgia–Emory has one of the preeminent medical schools in the Southeast and for some specialties the country) When I got my physical, after the preliminaries conducted by the nurse, I was next seen by what–for lack of a better term–I’ll call a junior doctor (ER went off the air too long ago for me to remember the proper terminology). This was a poised and professional young woman–I know not whether a medical student or recent graduate from Emory medical school.

 

She reviewed my medical history and did a few rudimentary “stick out your tongue and say ‘ahh'” kinds of things.   Then she told me that my doctor–a man I’d never met before–would be into look me over and write the prescriptions for the meds that I needed for coming to an area prone to malaria and other plagues.

 

She then asked, “If you’d prefer, your doctor can do your prostate exam. Otherwise, I’ll do it. Do you have a preference?”

 

I said, “Having never met the man, and at the risk of sounding sexist, I’m going to assume that you’ve got daintier hands. Ergo, you’ve got the job.”   To which she replied, “Yeeeah, me,” in the feeblest monotone voice, her tone suggesting that she might not be as thrilled by the prospect as her words would have indicated.

 

I had the exam. It was quick, painless, but–I’ll not lie–not without the inevitable awkwardness associated with one person having a hand–or part thereof–lodged in another person.

 

For those of you who know me, it goes without saying that my doctor turned out to be the most petite homuculus of a man. (You know what they say about what happens when you ASS-U-ME, U get the hand of  a bigger ME in your ASS.) However, you pays your money and you takes your choice. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable asking the doctor and intern to place their palms together to see who had bigger digits.