The Magical Silver Box

               It had a silver face, with large knobs, dials, and gauges. The large rectangular slot was a magical receptacle that transformed normal black pieces of plastic into sounds that would fill the room, swimming around and bouncing off the floor and ceiling as the magic silver box did its work. I took great joy in wrapping my hands around the biggest silver knob on the front of the contraption and turning it; watching the red needle on the dial climb and climb, until it could climb no more. As I continued turning the dial, it had no effect, but I imagined the needle continued its journey, round and round the face of numbers and tick marks until it was a blur of a red circle. At this point, my ears would begin to ring, so I would quickly turn the giant silver knob to the left, until the sounds were at a lower level.

Sometimes I would turn the knob all the way to the left until the sound was completely gone, waiting for the echoes to stop bouncing around and find their place in thin air where they would sing their song no more. Then abruptly, I would CRANK the knob to theright again, sending the new sound waves searching for their lost companions, but not finding them. Sometimes I would turn the knob to the left, then the right, then the left, then to the right again, rearranging the sounds in the song into a new set of incomprehensible sounds that clashed with each other, and fought for space between the ceiling and floor for a moment, before again disappearing into thin air. The smaller knobs on the face of the silver box made the music sound different. I would sit and play with them for hours, seeing where their adjustments would take the sound of the song, hoping to stumble onto some new sound that was different than the original.

I can still remember the lyrics to Stevie Wonders’ ‘I Just Called’ from those early days of sound manipulation. Sometimes when no one else is around, I still send the dials spinning in all directions on my stereo at home. It still makes me smile.

1.00 + 1.00 + .55 = 1.25

You must be confused by the title. I was quite confused myself before I typed it, while I typed it, and am still confused, after typing it. I just related this story to a member of the janitorial staff here at Weber State University, and he was also confused. I’m still confused, but I understand how I got to this point. Seeing as my only understanding of this curious situation is enlightening, though limited, I feel a responsibility to relate my understanding of how I came to this point in my mathematics career to you, so as to relieve a small bit of your confusion also. After all, it is I who dragged you into this mess in the first place.

I was hungry. Not hungry for a big satisfying nutritious meal, but also not hungry for just a bite from a friends’ dinner. I was somewhere in between. My stomach was not quite growling, but I felt the need for a small amount of sustenance. I decided a snack would both bed down my appetite before it grew to dizzy spell proportions, and allow it to rise again just in time to enjoy a full meal once I got home. My mind immediately scanned its memory banks for locations of food sources in my immediate area. Vending machine. A quick exchange between robot and mankind would immediately produce both the quantity and quality of confection I was looking for. Or so I thought.

This is the twist.

Upon approaching the large square and cavernous quadruped monument to technology and preservatives, I noticed the line of yellow bags which contained chocolate and candy covered peanuts (or ‘flavored candy coated chocolate pan disks’ as the folks at the Wornick Co. classify them). Upon closer inspection, I learned the machine required eighty-five cents from me in order to render the small bag of goodies into the receptacle labeled ‘PUSH’. My human mind in its infinite processing and memory access power decided to insert a dollar and get some peanut M&Ms.

For the rest of this story, I will present each action in order, as it happened, for the sake of continuity. It’s hard to understand how each event fits with the other; and how these events, when strung together, produce the formula which is the title of this story. No need to thank me just yet.

1. I insert a one dollar bill into the slot labeled ‘INSERT BILL HERE’

2. I punch in the number which corresponds to my preferred junk food; 53

3. A red LED light illuminates next to the phrase ‘Use correct change’

4. Confused, my mind retraces my actions, and decides I made a mistake somewhere

5. I punch in the number 53, taking extra care to enter the number correctly

6. A red LED light illuminates next to the phrase ‘Use correct change’

7. I notice the ‘CREDIT’ display indicates two dollars

8. My mind retraces the events of the past few days, weeks, then months, looking for signs that I’ve journeyed to some parallel dimension where the laws of logic and physics are radically different

9. I assume the machine is out of correct change, and that instead of overcharging me, it is more content to keep the two dollars to use for whatever it sees fit; be it Presidential campaign contributions or the purchase of stale baseball card bubblegum on ebay

10. Referring back to step 8, I assure myself it is not the case that I am on an alien planet or in an alternate dimension

11. Assuming I now have two dollars in credit, I consider alternative selections

12. I realize the inferiority of all other snacks presented to me

13. I decide that the problem is that the machine has no coins to dispense for change

14. After doing some math, I figure .85 time 3 is 2.55, therefore, if I give this robot another fifty-five cents, it will then give me three bags of candy, providing I input the correct number on three consecutive events

15. I insert fifty-five cents with a feeling of satisfaction and an heir of intelligence

16. A red LED light illuminates next to the phrase ‘Make another selection’

17. I abandon all reason, and enter the number fourty-two, seeing as it is the answer to the greatest question of all time; according to Douglas Adams

At this point, the most astonishing thing happens. The machine dispenses a pack of three Reese’s peanut butter cups. I take inventory of the situation and decide one dollar and fifty-five cents for three peanut butter cups is not the worst thing in the world. As I sit and eat the three delicious disks I ask myself some questions. What does this mean? Are robots everywhere becoming self-aware, and making decisions for us? What’s the significance of the number 42? Was this plotted out long ago by some genius mastermind who has been captured by the manufacturers of the vending machine, confined in a basement by his captors, and made to write programs for their machines to produce random events such as this in an effort to make people anxious so they will one day rise out of angst and topple the government so they can step in and rule the world? What does it MEAN?

And that is how I got to this point. 1.00 + 1.00 + .55 = 1.25, which is the price of three peanut butter cups. I don’t understand the logic behind it. Perhaps if I had the processing and memory retrieval power of a vending machine I could. But alas, I am merely human.

Summer Ghost Town Vacation Spot

I’m back! I was going to put a bullet in the head of this blog and just end it all, but then I started thinking, and decided to jot my thoughts downe. So here goes.

Rather than take the usual course of action for the summer time, I decided to press on with my education and take classes at the most prestigious Weber State University. My first stroll through the Union was at about 11AM last Tuesday. I saw more pianos than I did people. That’s saying allot, because there are usually no pianos, but there was some kind of random sale (I’m talking everything from baby grands to keyboards; yeah, strange). I’m not used to this. I’m used to bumping in to someone if I’m not watching where I’m going. Now, I could put a blind fold on and run full speed from one end of the Union to the other and not even have to worry about running into anyone. It’s very eerie. I’m told things pick up in June, when more classes start. But for now, this place is kind of spooky.

A paradigm shift

This week has been notably void of free food. It seems the abundance I experienced last week was a fluke influx; a proverbial perfect storm of consequences whose result was costless sustenance. Or maybe it was free food week. Probably not. If it were free food week, I imagine there would have been cornucopia of comestibles constantly consumed.

This requires action. A paradigm shift of sorts. I can’t write to you about free food if I’m not getting any. So, if you want to keep reading about free food, send me some. OK, let’s be honest; that’s not going to happen. After looking at the title of this blog I’ve decided it would be appropriate to write about campus life. Or, just life in general. So here we go.

This is the first essay I wrote for my English class. Enjoy.

The Other Side of the Fence

I met Parlak Gunesh (not his real name) while I was serving in the Air Force; deployed to South East Turkey in the summer of 2001. He was a stocky man with rosy cheeks, a typical dark Turkish complexion, and a flat nose; and was a Pastor of a small congregation of Turks downtown. Hi blue jalopy of a pickup truck pulled through the black ironwork fence and up the driveway of his two story house. The driveway was bordered on one side by a grassy lawn, dotted by a few tall trees which cast shadows on the house. The sky was beautifully devoid of clouds that day; at least as far as we could see through the green canopy of the trees. This summer day proved itself by heating the air to 115 degrees Fahrenheit, though it felt more like 130 with the humidity (which was a result of being in close proximity to the Mediterranean Sea).

He invited us in, and I crossed the threshold of the front door; finding myself surprised the house was not decorated in typical Turkish style. There were no loud colors; no Buddhist icons. Instead I was met by what was most reminiscent of modern American styling: shades of white, comfortable furniture- and Western toilets (in the bathrooms, that is). The choice of decor was most likely influenced by his American wife, Anne. Naim showed us to his small office on the second floor which contained a simple wooden chair, a desk whose paint had long ago faded and chipped away, a cold gray metal filing cabinet, and a standard desktop computer. These few items filled the small room, and were painted now only by the sunlight pouring in through the small window.

As we toured the house, he told us stories of the government coming to arrest and tourture him; his only crime being his Faith. One o’clock came, and with it brought a small gaggle of people who gathered regularly in the front room for Sunday service. About 10 minutes into the service, an alarm went off sending a monotone echoing sound through the halls. The women quickly rushed the children to the basement, leaving the men arranged in a circle praying fervently on their knees. Parlak and another larger man went outside to check  what had triggered the alarm, only to find a trespassing cat as the culprit. I learned that police were occasionally sent to his house to break up the meetings and arrest whomever they wanted. The service soon ended, and we exchanged goodbyes and email addresses.

I was left with a piercing question which made it’s way through my mind, rewriting any notions I had of sacrifice, and buried itself deep into my heart. What would the American Church look like if we were all made to endure the same as that of our Turkish friends?