Bad hair day

My cousin keeps saying I am not a real person, but a cartoon. I wonder why she says that!

EPOP-ing

The name hints towards light alcoholic drinks up to 5% and normally of a non-edible looking colour. If you chose that option your error term would hit the ceiling. (And if you did not understand this comment, give up reading this entry now.)

In a weekend full of numbers and various ways to operationalize concepts so abstract that could not be described with anything less a three volume edition of 200 different academic definitions. And yet, call me weird (cause of course this is what I am) I felt like a fish in its well known waters.

I mean think about it. An academic conference is the best type of holiday one can ever wish. It is in a new place, with all trivial matters left for skilled admin stuff, accommodation and food sorted, and endless amounts of coffee and good quality wine. The people there are more or less familiar to one another. But even if you end up in the wrong corner full of strangers at a coffee break there are endless options for conversation. This structured environment allows even those with the worse social skills to find common ground and engage into meaningful and fruitful conversation. It is a very inclusive event, bridging the gap among generations, genders and all kinds of other categorizations. There is only one thing that you can be discriminated against: Your inability to interpret statistics. And by statistics I do not mean percentages, means and standard deviations. I mean econometric models. If you cannot tell a story just by looking at numbers on the given table, then you are regarded with pity (Poor chap he needs work to do) or disrespect (What do you expect of qualitative analysis? Or - God forbid - theory??)

Each and every one of the delegates can come up with a theoretical model to explain even how many times tony Blair farts during an electoral campaign, and for sure at least a thousand different was to test this model. The Nomad is no different. She runs models for living. And not the models with breasts and long legs, but rather the ones with constant values and beta coefficients.

Socializing in such environment is very rewarding, you never get challenged in personal terms, the only criticism is on your numbers and the ability to make jokes is considered just as a positive extra. Any romance appearing in such conference has definitely a statistical connotation and inevitably a huge standard error. There is only so much stats one can take to his bedroom. Although my personal belief is that two theorists (aka philosophers in disguise) are truly a nightmarish combination, and the end of human breeding, come to that. I wonder though what is a better gene pool. A number cruncher or a theorist?


On my way back from the conference, I feel refreshed, motivated, completely ego-boosted and while the others around me in the train read their books, I explain their political behaviour running a brand new econometric model. If only they knew, ignorant lot…that while they are just being transferred from one place to the other a genius political scientist is using them as unwilling guinea pigs!

PS. The term genius used here has no empirical evidence. It is an opportunity for further research. (Someone switch off the EPOP mode on the Nomad please!)

Stag versus Hen

Leaving the big, dirty, stressful, noisy (blah blah blah) city, I am heading South.

The blond lady next to me does not have much to say. She stoically accepts being the centre of male and female attention in the train, just because she is made of inflatable plastic. Her name is Lisa. She is the involuntary companion of the groom-to-be sitting in front of me. She is the celebrity of the train. Everybody looks at her, wants to touch her or take a picture with her.

And her? Like a true celebrity is completely apathetic. Not that she has a choice…

The groom is covered in plastic too. In an attempt to give him graceful curves, he has a pair of generously sized boobs, round bottom and an afro wig to add some exotic tint to the curves’ effect. All is cheery, loud and smells of alcohol, the cheap kind… beer and some more beer.

Just at the point that the stag group’s excitement about the groom’s plastic tortures died down a hen group enters the train. And it all turns pink.

Now plastic Lisa has competition. The real "flesh and bone" Lisa (how unfortunate name coninsidence!), bride-to-be, surrounded by giggly teasing ladies. No plastic there. At least no visible plastic. And their alcohol is more sophisticated, bubbly wine (and approach to life I’d say) and gin and tonic. True Ladies.

Both parties are immediately interested in one another especially after realizing that they are both heading to the same beach town in the South of England.

I am in the middle of it all. I keep quiet but… inevitably my transparency does not last. I end up being something like a hostage and a referee silmutaneously.

And all this time I keep wondering. Is this really fun? Or am I just jealous I am not part of it? English pop culture intrigues me. But I never know if this is good or bad.

It’s all plastic… it’s fantastic?

And the name of obsession is....

I am one of these weirdoes who never watch TV. If you ask me my main reasoning would be that I have better things to do than just watch this trash. I would most likely beautify my anti-TV speech with an assortment of mildly offensive words, even some one should not repeat in front of ones mum.

Whatever I say… this is a lie.

The REAL reason I do not watch TV is that I get obsessed with whatever I see. My brain absorbs the information, tries to analyse it and submerges to the blissful passivity of a flat-pack reality. The one that comes in a box.

It happened to me in several occasions. If I watch something again and again I start thinking in terms of it, judging the world (the real one, not the one in the box) using borrowed morals from my fake reality.


Obsession One: Sex and the City
Alter Ego: Miranda Hobbs (boys do not hate me now...!)


That was one of the harmless ones. It only made me more aware of the fact that relationships are not for ever and that I could actually break up with the boyfriend who I did not really like any more and that would not mean I would burn in hell. The problem only started when these oh-so-smart tests came out that assessed your personality using the four SATC girls as archetypes. When my male (and straight, come to that) best friend told me that he was 40% Carrie, that was the point I knew I had pushed it too far.







Obsession Two: Babylon 5
Alter Ego: Ambassador Delen (undecisive in terms of spiecies)
For months I preferred watching negotiations between alien and human forms of life instead of spending quality time with the poor boyfriend who made the fatal mistake of introducing me to Sci-Fi. Honestly that was not big loss, but that was not part of the obsession. Various races and lots of inter-galaxy tensions occupied my mind at a time that I should be writing up my PhD. By the end of the series I was wondering if as a Mimbari ambassador I would actually decide to become the first human-mimbari hybrid. Oh what a torture! Big choices for my small trivial existence!







Obsession Three: Heroes
Alter Ego: Peter Petrelli (I just want to be able to do it all but be a loser out of choice)
If you say that you do not secretly aspire to be Peter Petrelli you are a big fat liar. I was so intrigued by the series that after I finished watching the first season I went deeply underground and watched the second season on very illegal Chinese streaming website. It was like bad wine. You know it tastes like vinegar, you know it will give you the worse headache in the morning, you know than when you wake up you won’t remember a thing of what you did while you drunk it… but still you do it simply you need your doses. Some are heroin addicts. I was a hero addict.

I could name some more... including some greek ones: Firefly, Dio Ksenoi (Two strangers), Xfiles, even... (hold your breath) Nightrider....

So, an advice to whoever wants my attention: Do not switch on the TV while I am in the room. If you do that you lost me as my brain will enter a virtual world without escape (unless you pull the plug!). At least I do not dress up thinking that the people in the box can actually see me...

Hair: Lost in Translation

I chose yet again to be a sacrifice for education, of course not for any kind of higher morality push, but merely due to the attractive £4.50 student friendly price of the haircut. Last time it worked fine I though... so happy jumpy smiley I walked down the road of vanity and reached the crazy school of hair care.

My experience there before made me believe that there is a whole science behind the way they cut your hair. I bet it is… But in every science there are different approaches one can take to reach the desired outcome. That’s assuming that the desired outcome is the same for everyone. For example, my desired outcome was to have descent hair, without white parts in it and no split ends. Plain desires you would think… I should put more art and colour in my life (or on my head) you would think… but would you tell me that? Well they did.

(His Excellency) The Hair Master described with vivid words and expressive movements his creative vision of my humble hair. I was convinced. What he proposed surely was out of the ordinary but still acceptable for little plain me. Yes yes I know. He should be a politician… but I did not tell him that. I think he would find life around the parliament lacking passionate hairstyles.

So H.E the Hair Master brought in his minions to perform the task. They are supposed to learn you see, my dear blog. That was the reason of my presence there after all. Help education in every shape or form, or so I keep telling myself… not the money! H.E. was German. His minions were from Japan and Italy. How Second World War of him! So in this Axis meeting he explained to the Japanese minion (who was way beyond retirement age where I come from… but then again the new pension’s law has not passed yet) all about his vision of my hair.

And here is the root of the problem. Execution. The Japanese minion could not speak English.. nor German! His Excellency could not communicate in Japanese, but he believed he could… as I was informed by the translator that H.E. the Hair Master in his attempt to say: “I like your work” he said “I want to sleep with a squid”.

Can you imagine the result of this on my head, my dear blog?

Simply lost in translation…

Miss Haversham and the semantics explanation to spinsterhood

My flatmate pointed out to me that the house is cursed.

The core of the curse lies in the power of words. Apparently the name of the road we live in has cast its weird magic on us. But the spirit of the road (assuming it has its own spirit) can’t spell. Not all road spirits are literate you see, and this one that is, got a really low mark in spelling. So instead of the curvy letter C that gives a certain femininity, and puts the seeds of great expectations being the letter starting Cupid, the road spirit spelled our address with H. Harsh lines implying the unimaginative emotionless stability of a building and one and only –though unwanted- connotation without great expectations. Miss Haversham.

Changing the C into an H makes the tenants into Miss Havershams and that is the reason of their love misfortunes.

Miss Haversham’s curse complicates relations to the opposite sex. We have not yet found out how exactly this happens or which of Miss Haversham’s attributes do we inherit as time goes by, but at least we know the root of evil.

And there are only two ways to solve it. We either move out of this road, or we teach the road spirit how to spell.

I have already bought a dictionary and a “Spelling for dummies” book. Never give up!! I have taught worse things in the past. You cannot convince me that teaching theories of voting behaviour to hormonal English 19-year olds is easier than teaching a road spirit how to spell!

Refurbishment

Even Billy Gates left Microsoft, so why would I stay?

Considering that whoever takes over will be even more focused on enhancing the monopoly than the charitable founder of the corporation then there is nothing left for me to do there. I can store my thoughts on a different bank.

So here we are. New storage, new name. Hopefully more regular payments.

Being 25

Just one more entry before I pass the threshold of 25.

It took me about three years to adjust to this age. First my mind was set on 22. Even when the years passed and I was 23 and 24.. when asked I was always 22. Then of course I had to count and the result always caught me by surprise.

The past year I was happy. I had finally reached the mental age of 25. I was happy with this significant number. And now I have to change it again. I am afraid I will refuse... it will take me some years to upgrade to the better model. So I suppose I have to worn you. In case you ask me how old I am and I still say 25 it is not because I am trying to lie... it is because I am stuck on this age.

I suppose the reason is that time now passes faster than when we were younger. The maturing proccess is slower than it used to be and thus we do not feel that a year has passed when it actually has. Now time counts in bigger chuncks. Important achivements and big changes.

Maybe the next step will be 28.. who knows.

But for one more day I can say I am 25 and be right. Just one more day.

Alexia = Ugly

A Mathematic statement that appeared as a girl's nick name in MSN.

Point to keep in Mind No1: MSN is public.
Point to keep in Mind No2: Mathematic statements can be falsified.

Background Story: I do not know this girl. I have never met her and most likely I never will. This girl was interested in Alexia's boyfriend. But apparently the choice of the part tense is wrong.

Alternative History: If Alexia was Queen Alexia of the Big Glorious Empire, in Medival times this girl would be proclaimed a witch and would be burned alive to purify her soul.

Damn the enlightment and the modern times....

Leaving aside the backgroud stories and the evil reactions a mathematic statement such as this can be treated as a hypothesis and thus can be tested. So me being a behavioural political scientist (aka number cruncher) I will attempt to test this hypothesis against all the available evidence and finally accept or rejected.

Unfortunatelly the ethical reward of all these is non-existing as I am an advocate of freedom of speech... and against capital punishment. (How very hippie of me!)

Hypothesis: Alexia = Ugly

Evidence: Alexia's boyfriend is not blind
Discussion: Although that could be a good proof against the hypothesis then we have to find evidence to support that Charlie's (Alexia's boyfriend) taste is objectively good. That might be the case as he likes classical music, Lord of the Rings and great nana's good old cheese biscuits, which are a proof enough of good taste. But of course we might end up in the deadend that objectively good taste does not exist... So we better look for different evidence.

Evidence: When People meet her they do not look away disgusted but they smile instead
Discussion: Assuming that someone is extraordinarily ugly then people would try to avoid them This is not the case for Alexia. However that just might mean that she is not extreamely ugly but just ugly... or a little ugly. Unfortunatelly the degree of uglyness is not defined in the hypothesis.

Evidence: Laurence says Alexia does not have a big ass
Discussion: That would be of any help if only ugly people had big asses. Sorry Laurence... you are not helpful here.

Evidence: When Alexia was little the other kids at school teased her that she had a small nose
Discussion: That only proves that Alexia has a small nose. That can also be measured.

Just about here my imagination and creativity stopped. The hypothessis cannot be proven. Sorry, tough luck. It is this kind of mathematical statements that fall into the personal judgement category. Some people will agree and some people will get pissed off that it was even expressed.
Each one of you can have there own opinion on the statement. After all it is a free world.
The only question is.. how far should we go with that freedom. Should we be allowed to post every little opinion we have as offensive as it might be to a public place?

The only closing I could think for this entry is Voltaire's quote: I disagree with everything you say but I will defend with my own life your right to say it.

On the other hand.. witch burning was not all that bad.

PS. I urge all the reader to have an opinion on the hypothesis. Let's put it on a public vote! What more democratic than that :P

Methodology and sex

Another painful meeting with my supervisor finished today after two hours of... pain in my back. That is what you get after going to the gym twice the day before in an effort to unload stress. So the result was more doubts about my theory, methodology, operationalisations, results, analysis... my intelectual abilities in a nutshell... But what the hell, that is part of being a PhD student, it is written in the contract.

So I got home, playing my part.. half in tears (because the only two passionate relationships of a Phd student I can think of are with the supervisor and the PhD Director!) but... this did not last long. Me being a little devil had pinned on the wall the following quote that just forced a strong laughter out of me... and reminded me that in the struggle for good methods I am not the only one who fails hundred times before I succeed. Maybe it is useful to the rest of the world too:

"Methodology is like sex. It is better demonstrated than discussed, though often better anticipated than experienced"

Wise man the guy who wrote it. Ed Leamer (1983) Let's take the con out of Econometrics, American Economic Review, 23, 1, 31-43.

PhD sayings

When you get your BA you know a little bit about everything, when you get your PhD you know a lot about nothing.

Or as I would put it you know a lot about the fact you know nothing.

The first saying came from my collegue, a PhD in Pysics. Second one by Socrates... but I adjusted it to fit the PhD reality. Just keeping in mind that I share the office with a PhD in physics, a PhD in criminology, a PhD-in-waiting in American politics and a PhD-in-waiting in Sociology, one can only hope that someone will know what he is doing in this office. (I can't say I am convinced...)

Day by day, working so hard on it, I feel I am losing knowledge instead of gaining more, let alone creating some as a PhD is suppose to do.

First draft almost done and yet... no new knowledge for the world. What a tragedy.

Not being Olga

This entry is dedicated to al the critics of the internet that condemn it for isolating people, keeping them away from life, from meeting other people, from having deep emotions.

It just took one wrong email. A long wrong email, I have to admit. I read it and I became a part of the life of two people I never knew and I would have never known if it wasn't for the internet.

James, very intelligent and successful man, still in love with Olga. And Olga far away from him and the life they had together, already deciding to share her life with another man. It is a common story, has happen to almost everyone. Myself included.

Out of pure coincidence I received it and I became part of James' feelings. I knew what it was to be him for a moment. I thought I knew exactly how he felt, all the frustration, all the pain, all the anticipation. And then I remembered... Olga was my part, I have been somebody else's Olga and it is very possible that I still am.

And now that I know how it feels to be James, what should I do not to cause all the pain that an Olga can provoke? Up to now I thought that Olgas were the victims... but James opened my eyes…

But these questions, being so big and torturing, only led me to email James back and adding to his embracement to inform him I was not Olga....

Olgas not always know what they cause. Olgas sometimes leave to protect themselves and lose the bigger picture.

I am sorry James.