Theory Flash

As y'all are well aware, I hate being controversial. But still. Theories have to be given their turn in the spotlight. So.

Two things men think with: one, everyone knows, well established fact and whatnot. Two, their feet. This is why (one figures) men don't normally think about much when they run (except hot chicks if they see any - which further proves theory and acts as corollary). And this is also why, conversely, women think a lot when they run. Cos women use only their brains to think.

What dya guys think? Do I have bases covered?

A Who's Who of Freaksville - 1

"Ooh there'll be extremely intelligent people here", I thought. "No more having to be bored during conversations so retarded that you want to claw your own eyes out with your bare hands", I thought. I even might have chuckled a little bit and rubbed my hands together (or not. but I could have). But this was three months back (or was it four?). Now, one term and a half later, numerous tests under my belt, jaded, weary and this close to being cynical, I have had to face up to the truth.

Grad school is nothing but one big, fat romp of a freak show. Freaks apparently abound in the corridors, pop out of fountains and lurk under the trees. There are (to be completely candid and scientifically detached about it) different levels of freakishness. Some are just severely socially retarded. Some are borderline normal (if you met them on the road you might even think "Awww how cute" and smile at them (but be warned. this is dangerous. hungry grad students should not be petted or smiled at. and all grad students are by definition hungry), or casually say "Have a good one" - shudder). And if you closed your eyes and pretended you were an arts major you might even believe they're normal (you'd have to close your eyes really tight, though).

I feel, you, my blogging public, requires a revue of these weirdos that populate my world (only for your own good, because I'm noble and selfless, not because I want to rant. the idea!). So, part 1 of the Who's Who of Freaksville. I introduce the One Who Scares Me (aka Nice Guy).

He is a nice guy. This is true. One of the nicest guys in class. One of the nicest guys I've met. Even, I'd go so far as to say (staking my integrity on this) that he's probably one of the nicest guys in the world. But people, people, a walking social disaster. It's not the sweatshirt that he's owned since the beginning of time and which smells distinctly of mothballs and some unidentified odor that I quail to investigate. It's not the unkempt hair which has seen neither scissors nor comb since it first sprouted out from the baby boy's bald head. Not even the mewing (he mews, apropos of nothing - which at least is normal because what could mewing be apropos of anyway unless you were talking to cats in an alley, behind a trash can) which is very unpredictable and can take you by surprise if you don't see it coming. I'd even go so far as to say it isn't the knocking over, tripping on, flailing hands into everything within a ten meter radius of Nice Guy. Lots of us sit at a coffee table and immediately knock over one glass of water, one cup of coffee, a chair and a newspaper in quick succession with fatal efficiency (well, not really, but maybe if you had some involuntary muscular contraction thing happening - one does not mock physical disabilities on this blog - ever). No, it's none of these things.

What it is, is the incessant, furious typing in class (furious as in the professors sometimes have to positively yell into their microphones to make themselves heard over the racket he makes), the ear phones in his ear playing music so loud that people 3 rows below and 3 rows above in a ten-seat-on-either-side bloc can hear Mana singing Perdito (I used to quite like the song. sigh) and worst of all his belief that everyone else is similarly endowed with blaring music and ergo, his screaming (yes, actual screaming) of comments about the lecture to the people sitting next to him, complacent in the belief that noone can hear him because (wait for it) he can't.

Once, I sat next to him. Never again. At one point the professor shone his laser beam at us and made comments about the 'bearded gentleman in the back who is typing what I'm sure are my lecture notes, furiously' (true story). I thought I'd die of sheer embarrassment (at least I hoped fervently I would) while Nice Guy through all of it (it felt like a lifetime, I'm reliably informed it was 20 seconds) didn't notice that the professor was highlighting his forehead with a red dot.

Course he didn't notice (what was I thinking). I fear I cannot get out of grad school unscathed. Really. A deep, disemboweling fear. Wait for the next parts. You haven't heard nothing yet. This should have been a Halloween launch (in all fairness to the grand tradition of Halloween) but I was battling with my fears about then (and visiting various shrinks for help, dear god). So, think of it as an honorary Halloween launch. We'll just have a Halloween party all by ourselves. Bring the punch, I'll bring the gossip.

Licensing

I can see why you'd want to clean your gun in school. If I stretch my imagination. Maybe you're one of those people who are anal. You didn't have time to do it this morning so you brought it along to school, took it to a classroom, spread your stuff around and cleaned it. Decided to take a coffee break and left everything behind, ended up forgetting about it. Maybe. It could happen.

I can even see how someone would do it as a hoax. Maybe to get out of a test, a committee meeting, a conference, a meeting with a particularly obnoxious PI. You bring just the cleaning kit and the empty shell box, arrange it on the desk in one of the classrooms. You sneak away. Someone will eventually find it and there, problem solved.

If I try really hard, I can see someone deciding to kill themselves. You have OCD. You need the gun to be clean before you can use it. So you sneak it into school, find an empty classroom, clean it, leave the cleaning stuff behind (it seems pointless to lug it along with you), find an empty toilet stall, lock yourself in and shoot yourself. Maybe a med student who failed a year.

But I have to actually attempt an out-of-body imaginative exploratory venture to see why someone would want to shoot random people down. You're not happy with your life, so you decide to clean a gun, load it and kill a bunch of people you don't know from Adam? Go figure.

Another Sunday by the Pool

There was a garden lizard at the bottom of the pool. Quite, quite dead. And had been for a while by the look of it. The death of a lizard is a puzzling event. Should one feel sorry, solemn, maybe even a little grave? Or is it an incident that doesn't concern one? Should it just be shrugged off and forgotten? After all, it's just a little reptile. There are tons of them around. It's not like they're an endangered specie that you'd have to care about and show appropriate feeling for. Nor are they filled with fragile beauty (a herpetologist might disagree but whatever).

I stared at it for quite a while because I didn't know what to think (isn't it unsettling when that happens? I can deal with the whole thinking one thing, then the other and having a raging argument in my head thing but the sohowexactlydoireacttothis feeling is one I loathe).

I fished it out in the end. Trekked to the security guard office, got a fishnet from the maintenance man, waded into the pool and fished it out. This is going to sound peculiar but I followed that noble gesture by burying it. Somehow the thought of just throwing it into the bushes where ants would swarm around it and maggots grow out of it didn't seem right. These lizards (the American ones, I mean) are so fat and disgustingly well grown. Alive, they frighten me but dead like this one, I feel sorry for them. So stupid.

Why would you jump into a pool full of chlorine when you labor under the weight of a body that cannot adapt. When you're pampered from birth with everything you need, the sudden appearance of a chlorinated pool in your path does nothing other than invite you to take a refreshing dip. Nothing wrong with that. Try it out, be adventurous you think to yourself. But then you end up dead at the bottom of a pool. Because adaptation is a skill. And the only way you can acquire it is to be up against a wall. It just can't be inherited or bequeathed or bought. It has to be earned the hardest way there is. Mostly, by death.

An Indian lizard, one feels, would definitely have jumped into the pool. But then, an Indian lizard would not have flinched at the chlorine. An Indian lizard would not have ended up at the bottom of the pool. Toxic schmoxic, it would have thought and swum right along.

I think that's why I buried it. I might have some deeply hidden guilt for the unadapted ones. I just might.

And *ta da* this is the 150th post. Who'd have thought.

Something about Sunshine

There is something about it. No wonder lizards look so blissfully lazy in patches of it. It just seeps in and you feel warm and petted, inside out. The perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon is to call a girlfriend over, stretch out next to the pool and bask. Just bask. Maybe talk a little. About god. And school. And Elle. And why Jimmy Choos are so expensive. Plan a trip to Scotland. Paint your toes. Take a nap. Bring your speakers to the pool and play iPod DJ.

We know this, right? As desis, especially. We have to know the power of sunshine. The way it heals you. The hardest year of my life was one without sunshine. Literally. Figuratively, I was basking in everyday. The work was satisfying, the company was amazing, the boss was a blast. But no sunshine. Within a week I was ready to sell my soul for some good ol' fashioned Madras-style sunshine (talking about the Madras sun, is it just me or is it true that it's almost impossible to find it anywhere else? I've seen plenty of suns but none as blindingly sunny as the one in Madras. What is up with that?). Of all the people most equipped to talk about sunshine, I must be really high up on the list (me and everyone else who has lived in Madras for more than 2 years).

I take every possible opportunity to sit in the sunshine (because absence makes the heart fonder and I'm now passionately in love with my Madras sun). In the square right in front of my school is a huge fountain (it's amazingly pretty - aren't all fountains?). Marble. With trees all around and little park benches. And at something like half past 4 every day you can see me sitting in the grass right next to it, in the biggest patch of sunshine I can find. I don't even need company. I just take a book, have my iPod and beyond that company is superfluous, no?.

Sometimes people come up to me and go "Oi Flaffy's-Real-Name, why the fuck (grad students have a limited vocabulary outside of science) are you sitting in the sun?" (I always say it's because I'm a sun-worshiper. most people don't know what to do with that. will it be politically incorrect to laugh? will the sun worshiper's society sue them? will they be forever known as sunnists?) Invariably, I find that the people who come and ask me this are Indians. Dyed in the wool, brown-as-berries Indians. And it never fails to surprise me. How can Indians (*Indians*) come and ask me this? Don't they realize the immense advantage we have over most other races in the world? Don't they understand that most people would kill to have our perfect-for-tanning skin? At least the type the browner of us have (and ought to cherish). With this skin we're all set for World Domination (think global warming - soon we'll be the only ones who can walk outside without protection). Can't they see this?

It strikes me (and maybe I'm reading too much into it) that there is dramatic irony in this. The gora log with their awfully white skin adore the sun and lust after tans. Sit in the sun for hours, become red as rare steak and peel like bananas, spraying sun screen over themselves constantly. While we, desis, blessed with skin-cancer-resistant, I-can-turn-a-pretty-shade-of-coffee-by-just-sitting-in-the-sunshine-for-a-couple-of-hours skin, insist on shying away from it with a modesty becoming of an eighteenth century peaches-n-cream virgin locked into the same room as Bluebeard.

Why would any god let this happen? Tchah. Try as I might, I cannot drum up enough energy to believe in the man. He seems inexplicable.

Endpeace

So, having successfully finished Tag Week, shamelessly resting on my laurels, bathed in the gentle glow of fulfillment and satisfaction, some thinking was done (not by me of course, but my stupid brain which doesn't know when to quit).

Y'know those people who tirelessly work towards making this world a better place? Sweat shining on their brows as they give talks in air-conditioned rooms, sipping from a bottle of Evian, explaining how global warming is an awful threat to mankind and the best way of stopping it is to make hungry Mexican farmers hungrier. Or faces frozen into expressions of righteous indignation as they inform us that taking thousands of lives of people who happened to be born on the wrong side of a border is perfectly acceptable, an inevitability in fact, during our march to Save the Earth. Or charmingly candid smiles on their faces as they expound on how people of a certain religion are in fact naturally violent, something in their blood, no doubt caused by all the animal flesh they eat, always a threat to us, the more superior, the more human humans, no? Yeah, those people.

Well, my brain's decided that it's time I joined their ranks. Shoulder to shoulder We shall stand, making Lives More Meaningful, and No, We Are Not Condescending or Superior or Hanything Like That *stares icily through newly acquired monocle at the captive audience (mainly this guy whom she's managed to chain to a chair in the basement of her apartment)*

Getting back to matters that matter, let me recap (Got a tad carried away back there. I don't *really* have a guy chained to a chair in my basement *laughs nervously and wipes sweat away from brow with trembling hands*). As I said, my brain did some thinking and came to the conclusion that this whole tagging funda is not managed properly. We (my brain and I) believe that it lacks umm a certain something. Like, most importantly what do we learn from this tag bijness (we're great believers in learning)? Is it of any use to anyone to know that I'm not upstairs at the moment (unless you're a cat burglar in which case we empathize with your interest but respectfully point out that you don't know where we live anyway and so you couldn't really have needed to know that)? Or that if there was one place I'd like to be it's Rotterdam (I mean, even if I made a successful lab break I'd still not go to Rotterdam cos now I know that all the Feds will be sent there directly, no?)? So, basically we feel that some drastic reforms have to be made. By all you guys. If not now, then when? If not you, then who (never us, of course, that's against our creed)?

So, the thing to do now, in the true spirit of reform is no, not to form a Board (we're the Post Modernist Reformists and we fashionably scorn Boards of any size, shape or kind) but to come up with better tag questions. That'll help us gather vital information.

Like think of this tag, right? The first question is If you could be a spy, which one would you rather be? James Bond or Matahari? Now after this slightly sinister but still zanily funny question we fill in a few random, normal tag questions, like have you ever stood on your head and recited the 9 times tables followed by are you smiling now, things like that. And then, sneakily, we slip in this question, Male?. Now some smartasses will answer with quips or wisecracks (morons, the lot of them) but most people will give you a straight answer because they'll deem it an irrelevant question and quickly move to the next one to be all smartassy about, no? Sykology, people, is a powerful tool. Now, having gathered this information we once more lapse into random tagspeak. And then in a masterstroke, we quickly ask What is your sexual orientation?. Of course none of the taggees will blanch at this or think it too nosey. If it's on your blog, it's private anyway, no? And voila, we now have more than enough material to write up a paper and send it to Social Texts (a very influential journal read by everyone who's In The Know) by simply correlating the fact that people of a specific sex with a specific sexual orientation will always want to be either Bond or Mata. Thereby providing extremely vital information to RAW who now need never worry about gathering Intelligence, monitoring movements, sending counterspies and all that. Pshaw. Those times are past. See how with one master stroke tags can be used as deadly weapons of mass destruction (this of course was found in Saddam's bunker, a hard disk full of completed tags, extremely classified info btw procured from one whole informer)? As soon as RAW realizes that there's a spy on the loose, all they'll have to do is find his/her blog, locate the relevant tag, gather the requisite information and then they'll immediately know whether to look for a man swigging martinis standing next to a black sportscar with impressively funny looking gadgets affixed or a black veiled red-lipsticked cigar smoking Russian accented lady on a train. See how simple it all becomes? And they say espionage is a complicated business. Hah!

Zis is vy hit is said zat life is a lot simpler than ve vere led to beleef.

And now, to work leetle children (and the not-so-leetle ones, like TR's ours is also an Equal-Op blog). Let's see pen to paper, hand to keys, neurons to the forge. Onwards always to more superbly executed learn-from-able tags. Chop chop. *goes back to laurel-resting and glow-bathing, humming Imagine softly to herself in that slightly mad totally eerie fashion (think Anne Wilkes, Misery) that's been in horror vogue since the 70s*

Inter alia 2

Overheard,

"It's hard being a male man"

Hahahahahaha *wipes away tears*. One is compelled to observe that it hath come to this in this the great United States. Cos *obviously* he's referring to the fact that he's *completely* male and has *never* ever been anything else or even *considered* drag/sex change.

The new era of social introductions:
"Hi, I'm XYZ, a female man. How dya do?"
*insert little old grey-haired, black-bulging-bag toting lady complete with bun and monocles*
"Oh, how nice. So you *were* female and became male or you just swing both ways depending on the mood?"

Just remember you heard it here first.

PS: I might be a *tad* sleep-deprived.
PPS: Tags will resume soon. Sigh. Unless I'm killed by conversation strings that wrap themselves around my neck and strangulate me (and I'm actually rooting for that, right about now).

The Ultimate Quest (or Meet Shane)

Recently it was gently suggested to me that I was taking myself too seriously. In my defense I present the Gay Theory or the Theory of Why Women Keep Banging Against the Brick Wall of Man's Idiotic Inability to Provide Any of the Things Women Need. When people realize that this in effect was what was occupying my brainspace I believe that I shall be excused from the charge of hyper-seriosity.

Now, some of you might know that I do not consider posting pictures of hot people on a blog the ideal method of increasing readership. However, in this case I've made an exception simply as added evidence for my theory. Really! Only cos of the evidence factor. Tsk, this whole not believing me thing, I do *not* appreciate.



That's Shane. Is she hotttttt or what? One of my girlfriends and I were talking about her and we both agreed she was perfectly delicious. I hasten to add that neither of us normally display lesbian tendencies (mainly cos well when it comes right down to it, you have to face the fact that though you can't live with guys, you definitely can't live without 'em - for reasons that will be expounded on below). And neither of us has ever called another girl delicious. Pretty yeah, beautiful quite a few times, interesting well you know what that means, ugly oh yeah, but never delicious. Ruminating about this peculiarity we came to the conclusion that there's a hidden lesbian in every female. Being mggs (yeah, she's one too) we quickly devised an experiment that would prove our theory. Being relatively practical human beings (read not insane fanatics) we also came to the conclusion that the experiment would probably never be carried out. Not, you understand, because it would be cruel to take a bunch of infants and grow them in isolation for 25 years and then let them interact with each other to see which way their sexual leanings lie but simply because of time constraints and the availabilty (or lack thereof) of specimens. At this point it is appropriate, we believe, to present the seminal work of Travis in their celebrated publication, Flowers in the Window.

Being thwarted of our interesting experiment, we decided to extend out theory to it's logical conclusion. It seems to us that there's nothing women get from men (other than the obvious) which cannot be provided by women in a much nicer fashion. Women talk, men are constitutionally incapable of listening; women shop for the sake of shopping, men shop in order to get something they need (the idea!!!); women like the sensuality of touch, the feel of skin on skin, the warmth of closeness, men well, for them it's basically a means to an end. The list of unfounded generalizations and blatant sexualisms I can produce is hypothetically endless and detracts from the main point. Which is the question : What would be simpler than for women to seek out what they need from people who can actually provide it, rather than continually and fruitlessly hope to find it in a section of the population that has repeatedly exposed its inability to supply the demand? Obviously the answer lies in the selfish gene and any living being's helpless need to procreate.

So we figure (my girlfriend and I) that if an alternate source for sperm was found, men would become totally defunct and extinct within our lifetimes. While the solution postulated by Travis et al is interesting it doesn't serve the purpose because of one grave failing namely, exhaustability of the resource due to eventual mortality. Besides, we would much rather not be cruel to anyone (women are the gentler sex, after all).

Men, as a wise woman once said (I'm sure some wise woman said it somewhere, or if she hasn't it's about time someone did), are for the birds. The search for an alternative, ladies and gentlemen, is on. Any ideas?

Note: We already thought of sperm banks and such like, but obviously it's again an exhaustible resource and once men disappear where will that leave us? We are *nothing* if not provident.

A Study of the Behavioral Patterns of Homo sapiens scientificus in Captivity

Aim: To identify and characterize the behavioral patterns observed in Homo sapiens scientificus (common name: Human Scientist) when enclosed in a specific habitat (a Conference Room) over extended periods of time (8 hours).

Materials and Methods: A set of 35 human scientists (give or take a few) were enticed into a 'Conference Room' with no little difficulty. The observer (also the author of this paper) remained in the said 'Conference Room' with experimental group and made notes at varied time points detailing the behavioral patterns of specific specimens as well as any general patterns observed. Materials used included Notebook:1 and Pencil: 1.

Observations: Time course over a time frame of eight hours:

0800 hours: A group of the experimental species is herded into annexe by enticements in the form of a breakfast buffet. The near stampede that succeeds the announcement of free bagels proves completely non-fatal since all members of the group appear extremely skilled in the art of extracting bagels from a table whilst fighting off other equally skilled individuals. Some members are almost strangled by their ties (an unfortunate sartorial decision indicating what is believed to be lack of experience and a sign of extreme immaturity within the group) but these specimens are untangled from general crowd and settled safely in a corner by expert organisers of the event.

0815 hours: Attempts are made to move the group of said species to adjoining conference room (the site of the experiment). This task proves more difficult than foreseen due to (one can only assume) the excellence of the stale 2-day-old bagels still surviving the initial breakfast rush.

0830 hours: Expert organisers of event with keen foresight bring jugs of hot coffee and cold orange juice into the conference room. On announcement of this new nutrtional addition to the morning repast, the group of human scientists is successfully manouvered into the conference room. On the heels of last entrant the doors are smartly closed.

0845 hours: Whilst the participants in the experiment are intently occupied with coffee and juice, the inaugral speaker quickly mumbles an introduction and ushers the first speaker in. The expert organisers are observed sporting hunted looks at this critical juncture and a cordon is formed by them at the various entry points to prevent sudden breaks from the coffee/juice table. Fortunately before the experimental group is aware of the conference beginning, it begins. The group seems bewildered by this but quickly settles into the comfortable chairs provided to work off the unaccustomed activity undergone to procure breakfast and coffee.

0945 hours: The second speaker ascends the dias and makes the customary jokes. The experimental group beguiled by the orange juice sniggers at appropriate pauses. Two pertinent questions are even asked at the end, causing speaker to adopt the hunted look from the organisers.

1015 hours: Said observer after 4 cups of coffee is enthusiastically engaged in a quest for the rest room after successfully dodging cordoning organisers. Therefore, the data for next ten minutes is lost although the observer thinks several significant thoughts involving great empathy for both Schrodinger and his cat.

1025 hours: Observer re-occupies observation post and intelligently notices that nothing significant has changed. A few erstwhile members of experimental group have decided to catch 40 winks (no doubt, in order to refresh themselves for the next speaker) but for the most part there is much interest in the current presentation on crypreservation of samples.

1045 hours: While waiting for next speaker to begin his endless presentation, observer has brief but illuminating conversation with neighbour about the efficacy of freezing human subjects and reviving them after 20 years. No conculsion is reached but there is general agreement that it would make an admirable dissertation topic.

1050 hours: New speaker of Asian origin. Observer understands only every second word, and attempts to recreate the rest of the sentence from these words. While this is an amusing game for 5 minutes, it's appeal soon palls and said observer seeks new methods of amusement.

1145 hours: Observer wakes up with a start recommences observation. Topic of next presentation is a so-called 'hot topic' and rival researchers are present in the experimental group. Much gripping entertainment is expected. At end of presentation there is a five minute free-for-all. The expert organisers step in at the first signs of a fist fight and firmly declare this the 'last question'. Much disappointment is swallowed by rest of bloodthirsty audience.

1250 hours: Lunch is announced. There is a repeat of breakfast buffet scene (expounded on in further detail in Appendix 1). In the pell mell, said observer loses her notebook and pencil but is not much perturbed by it. Weightier matters occupy her mind.

1315 hours: Posters are arranged in adjoining room for active perusal by experimental group. Other than the occasional (metaphorical) bared teeth, the passage of time is uneventful. Since observer is engaged at her post next to her poster she is unable to make a detailed firsthand analysis of proceedings. Her primary source for this time interval is the gossip auditory evidence she collects from independent external sources.

1345 hours: Observer realises that she does not have a control group for the experiment. She contemplates ditching it. Then she realises that she can always fudge control group data for the paper. So she sensibly decides in the last minute to continue.

1400 hours: Experimental group herded back into conference room. The expert organisers are prepared with tea this time around and the progress is smooth. However some of the experimental group having wisened up, nip into the room for tea and then leave with muttered comments about vital ongoing experiments in their labs. The expert and by-now-exhausted organisers don't care anymore and are busy sucking up most of the tea themselves.

1415 hours: Man with sticking out ears sitting in front of observer keeps bobbing his head into her line of vision. Observer is appalled by her overwhelming urge to grab his ears and yank his head out of her line of vision. Observer masters the impulse by sitting on hands. Hers, not his.

1445 hours: Presentation on the evils of aspirin. A much awaited issue that is presented by a competent speaker. Most of the experimental group appears pacifist, satisfied by their whiled away day. Much hilarity ensues during a discussion of how one subject treated with various doses of aspirin died not from aspirin overdose but from a cancer that was picked up unawares by the subject.

1515 hours: Keynote speaker makes speech. A specific group call, 'the boot-licking hyena laugh' makes an appearance at regular intervals. Hysterical applause at the end. A couple of overenthusiastic members of group attempt to extend a standing ovation but are embarrassed into sitting back down by the glares of would-be-aspirants to the position of Keynote speaker. The observer observes that it's a dog-eat-dog world and decides to jot that down, only to remember that her notebook was lost during lunch. She then observes that such is life and rues that she cannot note this profundity down either.

1545 hours: End of conference for the day. The observer is unable to make further observations as she is carried away in the current of jostling experimental specimens headed for the elevators.

Conclusion: The experimental group, Homo sapiens scientificus appears to be completely at home in captivity. No stereotypical behaviors e.g pacing or (literal) teeth baring were observed. There was no self mutilation, or periodic scratching and sneezing. The group did appear to perform a crucial ritual when in the vicinity of any nourishment. It is our belief that this ritual allows establishment of hierarchy within the group. Some amount of appeasement of higher order members by lower order members was manifested, primarily in the form of enthusiastic applause and inappropriate laughter. Verbal communication was used effectively by experimental specimens analogously to 'antler locking' manifested by males of other species. We conclude from the experiment that these individuals can be kept locked in a room indefinitely as long as they are equipped with an overhead projector and provided with food at regular intervals.

Acknowledgments: We thank all the participants in the experiment. We are also eternally indebted to our parents without whom we could not have achieved this landmark publication. We particularly thank our mentors who were never rude or dismissive or unencouraging or unreasonable.