Blindsided by Arithmetic
The Prairie Curmudgeon was watching Monday Night Football last night. One commercial was a trailer for a nice enough movie called The Blind Side. In big bold letters it stated that young Michael Oher's chance of reaching the NFL were astronomical. One in a million it said.
"One in a million," I said to my wife, who doesn't pay much attention to Monday Night Football. "How many people get drafted by the NFL every year?"
"I don't know. How many teams are there?"
"Thirty-two. There are seven draft rounds, I think."
"So, about 224 people are drafted every year. There are 300 million Americans. That's 0.7467 draftees per million. Close enough to one in a million for me."
"No. No. No," I said. "There are that many drafted every year. Assuming an average life expectancy of 75 years, there are about 4 million people in every age cohort. And, although it's not strictly true, most of the people drafted are all pretty much from one age cohort. So, in any given year your odds of being drafted are really only one in about 18,000."
"And being male," said my wife dryly "is a big advantage for playing pro football. Women need not apply. Cuts your odds in half, if you know what I mean."
Now, I must admit that odds of 1 in 9000 are no small cinch, but not exactly infinitesimal. They are, I suspect, about the same odds as catching a foul ball at Yankee Stadium. Not something I've ever done, but something I can certainly visualize doing.
Come to think of it, just sitting in the stands of an unremarkable suburban high school, I've watched, over the last decade or so, the play of four high schoolers who have been drafted by the NFL. Long odds, yes. Astronomical, no.
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against Michael Oher. Or Sandra Bullock for that matter.
I do have something against Mad Men who can't Math.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Blanche DuBois Drives A Car
I was coming back from visiting a lawyer friend downtown. The interstate sweeps in a big curve over Southwest Boulevard at the state line. As it rounds the corner, the on-ramp from Cambridge Circle runs parallel to the right lane of the interstate and becomes the off-ramp for Rainbow Boulevard. There is no merge lane. There is no exit. Only a long fourth lane. A person coming up the ramp from Cambridge Circle has almost a half-mile to match speeds with the interstate traffic and switch one lane to the left as the fourth lane becomes an exit only at Rainbow.
As I came around the curve a young woman in a nice older model Toyota occupied the on-ramp from Cambridge. As the two lanes paralleled, she sat in a position just ahead and to the right, her trunk alongside my right front tire, separated only by the flicker of the white line marking the lanes.
Now, I figure she needs to move over one lane. Most people entering at Cambridge do. All that was required was for the nice young woman to ease off the gas for a fraction of a second (or speed up a little, I wasn’t going very fast), create a separation between our cars, signal, and safely change her lane.
For a full fifteen seconds we traveled as a twosome in tango, all the while thinking that the lane-changer would sensibly avoid the collision through a proper adjustment of speed. But no. There we stayed, not a dance step between us.
Maybe she would depart at Rainbow. Maybe we would collide. Maybe it was time to do something else. Nervously, I let my partner go. I slowed.
She moved ahead and over into my lane, oblivious of her escape from danger. Merging into traffic, it seems to her, must always depend upon the kindness of strangers.
I fumed about this the rest of the way home and told the story to my wife. She smiled, the way that wise Latina women smile, and explained that I had just lost at Chicken.
STELLA!!!!!
I was coming back from visiting a lawyer friend downtown. The interstate sweeps in a big curve over Southwest Boulevard at the state line. As it rounds the corner, the on-ramp from Cambridge Circle runs parallel to the right lane of the interstate and becomes the off-ramp for Rainbow Boulevard. There is no merge lane. There is no exit. Only a long fourth lane. A person coming up the ramp from Cambridge Circle has almost a half-mile to match speeds with the interstate traffic and switch one lane to the left as the fourth lane becomes an exit only at Rainbow.
As I came around the curve a young woman in a nice older model Toyota occupied the on-ramp from Cambridge. As the two lanes paralleled, she sat in a position just ahead and to the right, her trunk alongside my right front tire, separated only by the flicker of the white line marking the lanes.
Now, I figure she needs to move over one lane. Most people entering at Cambridge do. All that was required was for the nice young woman to ease off the gas for a fraction of a second (or speed up a little, I wasn’t going very fast), create a separation between our cars, signal, and safely change her lane.
For a full fifteen seconds we traveled as a twosome in tango, all the while thinking that the lane-changer would sensibly avoid the collision through a proper adjustment of speed. But no. There we stayed, not a dance step between us.
Maybe she would depart at Rainbow. Maybe we would collide. Maybe it was time to do something else. Nervously, I let my partner go. I slowed.
She moved ahead and over into my lane, oblivious of her escape from danger. Merging into traffic, it seems to her, must always depend upon the kindness of strangers.
I fumed about this the rest of the way home and told the story to my wife. She smiled, the way that wise Latina women smile, and explained that I had just lost at Chicken.
STELLA!!!!!
Sunday, May 24, 2009
INFERNO 2000
Level 3
And I saw a man with a beard. He looked as if he had been up all night loosing an election. He sat in a straight-backed chair at a small wooden desk too low for his knees.
A small tome, the size of a journal or ledger, but much thicker, lay open in front of him. He leaned over the book and read through the bottom half of his bifocals, “Section sixty-one point three hundred and forty-two, subsection (a): An owner or operator of a facility at which the total annual benzene quantity from facility waste is less than 10 megagrams per year (Mg/yr) (11 ton/yr) shall be exempt from the requirements of paragraphs (b) and (c) of this section. The total annual benzene quantity from facility waste is the sum of the annual benzene quantity for each waste stream at the facility that has a flow-weighted annual average water content greater than 10 percent or that is mixed with water, or other wastes, at any time and the mixture has an annual average water content greater than 10 percent. The benzene quantity in a waste stream is to be counted only once without multiple counting if other waste streams are mixed with or generated from the original waste stream. Other specific requirements for calculating the total annual benzene waste quantity are as follows. Section sixty-one point three hundred and forty-two, subsection (a)(1): Wastes that are exempted from control under Section sixty-one point three hundred forty-two subsection (c)(2)…”
He sighed, stood up, and walked past us to a shelf of identical books. The shelf, just above his eye level, stretched from the elevator on his left down the corridor and around the corner, out of sight.
He felt for a book, pulled it down, read the cover, and returned it to its vacant spot in the line of books on the shelf. With his hand he felt down the row of books. Two volumes down he pulled another book off the shelf, glanced at the cover, and returned to the desk with Section Sixty-one Point Three Hundred Forty-two, Subsection (c)(2), and continued reading.
As I grasped the meaning of the bearded man’s fate, I exclaimed to my host, “Surely it will not take all of eternity for him to read the entire Code of Federal Regulations!”
“Ah,” replied my guide with a be-deviled smile. “They make 'em faster than he can read 'em.”
Level 3
And I saw a man with a beard. He looked as if he had been up all night loosing an election. He sat in a straight-backed chair at a small wooden desk too low for his knees.
A small tome, the size of a journal or ledger, but much thicker, lay open in front of him. He leaned over the book and read through the bottom half of his bifocals, “Section sixty-one point three hundred and forty-two, subsection (a): An owner or operator of a facility at which the total annual benzene quantity from facility waste is less than 10 megagrams per year (Mg/yr) (11 ton/yr) shall be exempt from the requirements of paragraphs (b) and (c) of this section. The total annual benzene quantity from facility waste is the sum of the annual benzene quantity for each waste stream at the facility that has a flow-weighted annual average water content greater than 10 percent or that is mixed with water, or other wastes, at any time and the mixture has an annual average water content greater than 10 percent. The benzene quantity in a waste stream is to be counted only once without multiple counting if other waste streams are mixed with or generated from the original waste stream. Other specific requirements for calculating the total annual benzene waste quantity are as follows. Section sixty-one point three hundred and forty-two, subsection (a)(1): Wastes that are exempted from control under Section sixty-one point three hundred forty-two subsection (c)(2)…”
He sighed, stood up, and walked past us to a shelf of identical books. The shelf, just above his eye level, stretched from the elevator on his left down the corridor and around the corner, out of sight.
He felt for a book, pulled it down, read the cover, and returned it to its vacant spot in the line of books on the shelf. With his hand he felt down the row of books. Two volumes down he pulled another book off the shelf, glanced at the cover, and returned to the desk with Section Sixty-one Point Three Hundred Forty-two, Subsection (c)(2), and continued reading.
As I grasped the meaning of the bearded man’s fate, I exclaimed to my host, “Surely it will not take all of eternity for him to read the entire Code of Federal Regulations!”
“Ah,” replied my guide with a be-deviled smile. “They make 'em faster than he can read 'em.”
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Anonymous Said
I like to read your site. However, sometimes it is hard to understand what the message is all about, but it is good to know people still write. Perhaps a posting explaining some of the teasures within. That would be great.
The Prairie Curmudgeon Replies
Well, I did not know there needed to be a message. Sorry about that, I've never been much good with rules.
Every obscure allusion, every misleading metaphor, every random reference, all the treasures within, make sense only as the product of my own peculiar set of interwoven memories and experiences. Your life sketch creates its own unique understanding of these passages, with a gap or two because you and I do not completely share every memory and experience. I suppose that I could explain the gaps. After all that is what communication is. You might even discern a message. But, I will absolutely warrant that the meaning you derive, through your own imagination, is far superior to any explanation I could provide.
By the way, thanks for the comment about this blog's emphasis on the written word. This purity is an artifact of my technological incompetence. Hypertext markup language is about as far as I can go. It gives me a convenient excuse for avoiding the posting of videos, advertisements, or other annoyances.
I like to read your site. However, sometimes it is hard to understand what the message is all about, but it is good to know people still write. Perhaps a posting explaining some of the teasures within. That would be great.
The Prairie Curmudgeon Replies
Well, I did not know there needed to be a message. Sorry about that, I've never been much good with rules.
Every obscure allusion, every misleading metaphor, every random reference, all the treasures within, make sense only as the product of my own peculiar set of interwoven memories and experiences. Your life sketch creates its own unique understanding of these passages, with a gap or two because you and I do not completely share every memory and experience. I suppose that I could explain the gaps. After all that is what communication is. You might even discern a message. But, I will absolutely warrant that the meaning you derive, through your own imagination, is far superior to any explanation I could provide.
By the way, thanks for the comment about this blog's emphasis on the written word. This purity is an artifact of my technological incompetence. Hypertext markup language is about as far as I can go. It gives me a convenient excuse for avoiding the posting of videos, advertisements, or other annoyances.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Death and Carbon Taxes
President Obama wants me to reduce my carbon emissions by eighty percent. If I don’t he will tax the bejeezus out of me.
I guess I’ll buy a Prius. Thirty thousand dollars. It gets 45 miles to the gallon. My old car gets 25 miles to the gallon. That’s almost a fifty percent reduction. I only need 30 percent more. Oh, wait. That’s not how it works. My car’s only one part of my footprint. And besides, isn’t a Prius made out of, like, metal and plastic and rubber? Doesn’t that come out of the ground from iron and oil? Doesn’t mining and smelting and molding and all that leave a footprint? So, I guess if I trade in my old car for a Prius the benefit is something less than 50 percent.
My wife and kids, they can do without a car. They can walk. It’ll do them good. Hey, a hundred percent reduction, there. We’ll have to commute together, though. It’s only 20 minutes for both of us. Oh, wait. We go in opposite directions. That turns my commute into an hour. And how do we get all that softball gear to practice when I’m still at work? Who the hell’s the government to tell me what to do? I guess I’ll buy her a Prius, too, and settle for a lot less than 100 percent.
Then there’s my furnace. It’s natural gas. Nice and cozy. Probably my biggest source of dangerous greenhouse gases, don’t you think? I’ll switch to all electric heat. Ten thousand dollars. Space heaters in every room. I may need a blanket or two. Watch the baby! Oh, wait. Electricity comes from big power plants. Most of them burn coal. Don’t they say that natural gas turbines generate electricity more efficiently than coal? Makes for less carbon emissions. Why aren’t there more of those?
Oh, wait. I’m replacing a gas furnace with electricity made from coal or gas. That doesn’t sound all that efficient, does it? In fact, it’s going backwards. I guess I can’t personally get anywhere near an eighty percent reduction until all the coal and gas fired plants are shut down and replaced with wind and solar generators. That’s a lot of wind.
Might take an area the size of the state of North Dakota, I suppose. Oh, well. What else are we going to use North Dakota for, anyway. Oh, wait. Wind turbines are made out of steel and solar panels are made out of silicon and germanium. Don’t we have to mine those? And smelt them? And just how do we get all those turbines to North Dakota without burning a lot of diesel fuel. I guess we’ll just have to build more electric railroads.
Or nuclear. I bet they have nuclear railroads in France. No greenhouse gas emissions there. I’ll just buy all my electricity from the nuclear power plant my brother-in-law works at. Not enough nuclear plants to go around, you say? Let’s build more. Just concrete and steel and uranium, stuff that comes out of the ground. Oh, wait. Mr. Obama’s probably seen Silkwood.
So, I’ve spent seventy thousand dollars and can’t get my total footprint reduced by more than thirty percent. What shame. In the meantime I guess I’ll just conserve as much electricity as I can.
Did it ever occur to you that the best way to combat global warming is turn off your air conditioner?
Oh, I have to go out to Seattle next month for my niece’s graduation from pharmacy college. I suppose I could drive my Prius, but I don’t have that much vacation. If I fly I’ll leave a huge carbon footprint in the sky. I know, I’ll take one of those plug-in airplanes.
Wait. It says here I don’t have to get to the eighty percent reduction until 2050. Oh, good. I’ll be dead. One hundred percent reduction achieved! Oh, wait. There’s that silly thing called decomposition. My decay is dust and carbon dioxide.
This is hopeless.
President Obama wants me to reduce my carbon emissions by eighty percent. If I don’t he will tax the bejeezus out of me.
I guess I’ll buy a Prius. Thirty thousand dollars. It gets 45 miles to the gallon. My old car gets 25 miles to the gallon. That’s almost a fifty percent reduction. I only need 30 percent more. Oh, wait. That’s not how it works. My car’s only one part of my footprint. And besides, isn’t a Prius made out of, like, metal and plastic and rubber? Doesn’t that come out of the ground from iron and oil? Doesn’t mining and smelting and molding and all that leave a footprint? So, I guess if I trade in my old car for a Prius the benefit is something less than 50 percent.
My wife and kids, they can do without a car. They can walk. It’ll do them good. Hey, a hundred percent reduction, there. We’ll have to commute together, though. It’s only 20 minutes for both of us. Oh, wait. We go in opposite directions. That turns my commute into an hour. And how do we get all that softball gear to practice when I’m still at work? Who the hell’s the government to tell me what to do? I guess I’ll buy her a Prius, too, and settle for a lot less than 100 percent.
Then there’s my furnace. It’s natural gas. Nice and cozy. Probably my biggest source of dangerous greenhouse gases, don’t you think? I’ll switch to all electric heat. Ten thousand dollars. Space heaters in every room. I may need a blanket or two. Watch the baby! Oh, wait. Electricity comes from big power plants. Most of them burn coal. Don’t they say that natural gas turbines generate electricity more efficiently than coal? Makes for less carbon emissions. Why aren’t there more of those?
Oh, wait. I’m replacing a gas furnace with electricity made from coal or gas. That doesn’t sound all that efficient, does it? In fact, it’s going backwards. I guess I can’t personally get anywhere near an eighty percent reduction until all the coal and gas fired plants are shut down and replaced with wind and solar generators. That’s a lot of wind.
Might take an area the size of the state of North Dakota, I suppose. Oh, well. What else are we going to use North Dakota for, anyway. Oh, wait. Wind turbines are made out of steel and solar panels are made out of silicon and germanium. Don’t we have to mine those? And smelt them? And just how do we get all those turbines to North Dakota without burning a lot of diesel fuel. I guess we’ll just have to build more electric railroads.
Or nuclear. I bet they have nuclear railroads in France. No greenhouse gas emissions there. I’ll just buy all my electricity from the nuclear power plant my brother-in-law works at. Not enough nuclear plants to go around, you say? Let’s build more. Just concrete and steel and uranium, stuff that comes out of the ground. Oh, wait. Mr. Obama’s probably seen Silkwood.
So, I’ve spent seventy thousand dollars and can’t get my total footprint reduced by more than thirty percent. What shame. In the meantime I guess I’ll just conserve as much electricity as I can.
Did it ever occur to you that the best way to combat global warming is turn off your air conditioner?
Oh, I have to go out to Seattle next month for my niece’s graduation from pharmacy college. I suppose I could drive my Prius, but I don’t have that much vacation. If I fly I’ll leave a huge carbon footprint in the sky. I know, I’ll take one of those plug-in airplanes.
Wait. It says here I don’t have to get to the eighty percent reduction until 2050. Oh, good. I’ll be dead. One hundred percent reduction achieved! Oh, wait. There’s that silly thing called decomposition. My decay is dust and carbon dioxide.
This is hopeless.
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