Gifted Childred

If a mother suffers incredible pain, she nurtures that infant in such a way that the infant is able to relieve her mother's incredible suffering.

Jonathan Swift
swift@softwareproblem.net

Much of what I write herein will be found in my Medical Board complaint on Monday. The Medical Board won't require it, because their brand of law enforcement officers are Medical Doctors, Psychiatrists, Social Workers, Psychotherapists and Psychiatric Nurses.

My reason for writing this up for them is to convince them of my qualification to file the complaint. I write this in my diary for you for the exact same reason.

Absolutely every single one reasos for the claims found in I Walk Among you, which has been Edit most of the day, should become clear:

The proper way for a mother to nurture an infant leads to that infant to develop its own natural personality and identity.

But if a mother suffers incredible pain, she nurtures that infant in such a way that the infant is able to relieve her incredible suffering.

It is the facile grasp that infants have of their own mother's emotional needs, that leads Psychotherapist infants to become degreed and licensed practicing Psychotherapists as adults.

Psych 101 is one of the most popular freshman university classes. Very little real work is required to learn the most fascinating things and to get a really good grade.

It is very uncommon though, for one to apply for graduate study as a psychoyerapist. It is even more uncommon for one to actually get accepted.

One of my best friends got her PhD in Psychology at the University of Colorado in Bounder. She was overcome with joy: she applied there because it is one of the best Psychotherapy schools in the United States.

It won't be long now until I will be able to file much the same complaint as I'll be filing Monday against one of my other mental health professionals. But I'll be FedExing that complaint's binder to downtown Halifax.

That gifted mental health professional met her gifted Psychiatrist husband during their graduate work at the University of Minnesota.

One of the most effective psychological diagnostic tools is the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory.

The test and score sheets themselves are readily obtained in bulk form. To actually get the test scored by a professional costs hundreds of dollars.

My shrink in Truro could have scored my exam on the back of an envelope and gotten the result correct with complete precision, but being a professional, she sent for the computer report.

Yet she somehow completely failed to clue in to the fact that I asked her to telephone the woman who informed me of my own Obessive Compulsive Personality Disorder for the specific reason that she would be informed of that diagnosis, and so the two of them could discuss it - both of them the most gifted kinds of Ph.D. therapists - at some length before my treatment had gone on for more than a couple weeks.

After she received my test scores, this gifted mental health professional left me completely dumbstruck when she pointed out what Obessive Compulsive Personality Disorder was, and that it was quite a different thing than Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. She said the scores all said I had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. OCPD was never mentioned again during our time together.

I puzzled over that question for many years, and only began to realize with the most incredible horror the reason: Alana Matwychuck's particular brand of florid delusion puts Anita Hirsch's brand completely to shame.

Anita Hirsch tried to convince me to commit suicide. Alana Matwychuck attempt her own suicide, by struggling to convince me to fly into such a rage that I would have beaten her to death almost instantly. He husband's therapy room is immediately next door to hers; by the time he arrived, she would have already been a dead woman. Had he protested, while I never found any real reason to be angry with him, I am now quite certain I would have taken his life for no other reason than the fact that he was blocking the door.

It was plainly apparent to anyone who knew me at the time that I was so obsessed with writing that I had quite an advanced case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

OCD is quite a different thing from OCPD. Thos with OCD often feel that their obsessions are so ruinous to their lives that they are desperate to find some way to make their obsessions stop.

The reason I was so obsessed with writing is that it was by then plainly apparent to me that I was very successfully practicing both Freudian and Jungian Self Analsysis on myself. A real good was to practice Self-Analysis you see, is to write quite a lot in a deeply introspective way.

Bipolar-Type Schizoaffective Disorder can lead one to put Ted Kascynski completely to shame: Paranoid Schizophrenics are murderous, but Manic Depressives possess gifted creativity.

In April 1994 I was admitted to an inpatient unit in the very most floridly delusional state I have ever known. My own Psychotherapist - a PhD who had by then been treating me for seven years - spent twenty minutes privately discussing me with the intake Psychotherapists. All three us spent ten minutes of discussion before my admission.

During those ten minutes I regarded the two of them as delusional, but the two of them knew it was I really who was. Joan just asked why I came there that morning:

"I have gone through The Looking Glass," I quietly replied.

Joan said she didn't quite follow.

"We are on a chessboard. You are on the white squares. I am on a black square."

She was unable to follow that one either. I was really puzzled. In the state of mind I was in, that was like pointing out that hungry dogs like big juicy steaks, only to have the most gifted kind of veterinarian protest that every dog is a dedicated vegan because of their great love of other animals.

I frowned. I struggled mightily for several minutes trying to figure out how to make myself clear to these two ingorant numbskulls. Dr. K. had been pulling stunts like that all morning. I only agreed to come with her in her car less than ten minutes after setting foot in my weekly sessions because she was totally freaking out. She had by then healed me to the point that I was one of the Santa Cruz Institute for Particle Physics most promising up-and-coming graduate students.

My advisor was Clem Heusch. He has been searching for Non-Conservation of Muon Number for decades. I did my undergraduate thesis at his experimental hall on the French side at CERN, a particle accellerator ring that straddles the border between France and Switzerland, just outside Geneva.

I might one of his other graduate students during his brief visit back to Santa Cruz. While he too would obtain his doctorate in Santa Cruz, his dissertation studies were being performed at DESY, a powerful but much smaller accellerator ring in Hamburg Germany.

When I first asked Clem if he had some computer programming I could use for my thesis he set me up with an undergraduate High Energy Particle Physics textbook then asked me to commute to his regular US office, that being at the Stanford Linear Accellerator Center - SLAC - in Palo Alto.

He had something going on there, and he did ask me to work on it, and I had read some of that book but had not yet even looked into the software required to perform the work when Clem asked me to race back to his Santa Cruz office.

"I shook the money tree!" Clem announced with great joy.

"The United States Department of Energy is sending you to Switerland!"

Being the most old-world kind of German, Clem has always been heavily into mountaineering. He never so much as sets foot at CERN for any length of time without having a go at the Matterhorn. Thus I was invited to accompany him on one of the most incredible experiences of my entire life:

I got to go with him to the Matterhorn!

I was so into mountaineering myself as a boy that I never so much as bothered with pitons or stone hammered to climb right up fifty foot vertical stone walls with my bare hands and my sneakers. I don't think I ever even brought a rope with me.

But I gave it up completely when I realized only two late while hanging by my fingertips from a ledge that I had no hope of climbing further. Nor did I have any hope of climbing down.

I knew instantly how I would descend back down, but I knew there was quite a good chance that I would be a paraplegic for the rest of my days. I spent some time quietly enjoying what might be my final opportunity to wiggle my own toes.

Upon realizing my fingers were beginning to lose strength, I took a deep, long breath, exhaled part way then quietly relaxed my fingers.

I never informed any of my fellow Boy Scouts that I even knew what a rock wall was because of the incredibly dangerous way I did it. That's why when I arrived back at our campsite in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, I told them all that I was so incredibly overcome with joy at the incrredibly scenic beauty I discovered during my afternoon solitary hike in the general viscinity of our campsite.

Every Boy Scout is heavily into scenic beauty. The very best experience a Boy Scout can ever have is to be carefully trained in wilderness survival then sent off into the wilderness for a week or so all by himself. This is done with such great care and diligence that they almost always return safely.

I've done with twice myself. I wasn't in the Boy Scouts then but a Caltech Astronomy Student. I did so both times because I knew I was well on my way into insanity and understood completely that my best hope for survival was to pack up my backpack in my dormroom in Ricketts House, pick up some supplies at a grocery store, hike to the top of Mount Wilson, camp in the woods right next to the Hundred Inch Telescope at Mount Wilson Observatory, wander around the Summit for a bit, descend well over ten miles to the East of Pasadena than catch the bus back to Tech after returning to the urban area.

No one even noticed I had done so my first time, because I did it in July, 1984. I'm sure all my housemates figured I'd gone off somewhere for the weekend and, while strictly speaking that was true, I only hoped that by doing so, I might survive until classes resumeed in the Fall.

That turned out to work really well.

My first term of my Junior year I took up the study of Complex Analysis, using the textbook that one of the institutes Applied Mathematicians wrote himself using nroff then had typeset with a daisy wheel printer, the study of Electromagnetism using the textbooks most other schools reserve for their graduate students, that being Jackson's brick-red Electrodynamics, and the study of Nuclear Physics, as taught by one of the Institute's youngest and most promissing Physics Professors: Stephen Wolfram.

I never learned many of the details, but all over the Institute by the time I showed up was one of the most incredible college pranks in human history:

Wolfram was a tenured professor in his early twenties if I understand correctly. Shortly after his arrival at the Institute, he figured out how to write computer software that could perform symbolic integration.

It is incredibly difficult for anyone to learn how to integrate at all. One requires graduate study to integrate any really interesting functions. Divine inspiration is required to integrate any really complex functions. There are lots of functions that the most gifted mathematicians have been laboring over for centuries without making so much as a dent in.

It was plainly apparent to Wolfram that he had both a Fields Medal and a Nobel Prize readily at hand. But being a real young guy and the most howling kind of prankster, as quick as he could, he write up a top-quality commercial software product that could do that very same symbolic integration, then offered it for incredibly expensive commercial sale all over the scientific community, without even informing the Institute he was about to do so, let alone informing them of the fact that by not tossing any love in the Institute's general direction, he was violating his patent agreement in a way that lead all the Institute's fund-raising people to regard Dr. Wolfram in much the same way as the Federal Bureau Intelligence regards both Theodore Kaczynski and Kevin Mitnick.

I don't recall when exactly he pulled that little stunt, but it was not long at all before my arrival, because when I did arrive, while he was still a tenured Physics professor, all over the entire building where Dr. Wolfram's office was located...

Were lovingly photographed satirizations of the day that the Institute's legal counself discoved he had violated the Institutes patent agreement.

These more or less depicted stern and heavily armed Caltech undergraduate and graduate Physics students leading a bound and shackled Stephen Wolfram off to prison wearing a black and white prison jumpsuit.

I was a Physics student in Stephen Wolfram's Nuclear Physics class my junior year; not only was his incredible brilliance plainly apparent, so was his incredible sense of humour. That's why I would still give both my legs, both my arms and both of my own testicles to have been one of Dr. Wolfram's arresting officers!

I'd give my penis too, but one needs that to urinate. I wouldn't consider giving my head, as it would have made it hard to follow Dr. Wolfram's lectures.

A few years after, and after quite a lot of - I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever - considerable additional research and development at the cost of tens if not hundreds of millionas of dollars, Dr. Wolfram finally agreed to throw a few sheckles to all those poor fuckers standing at intersections throughout Pasadena - each one of which was bearing a hand-lettered cardboard sign - left the Institute and now offers Mathematica for completely legitimate retail sale.

While expensive, I hae enough money right now that I could readily download a copy and have it installed on my MacBook Pro before I even move to edit.

I don't know what his first retail price was, but at the time. Computational Symbolic Integration was regarded by the Artificial Intelligence Community in much they same way as they regarded their efforts to make two computer programs fall at first madly and passionately in love with each other, then after the love of his life announces she is a lesbian, lead the boy computer program first to attempt suicide, but upon his release from a computational psychiatric inpatient unit, to go one to write lyrics for popular music that left stadiums full of teenage girls screaming in their desperate struggle because the composer wrote all those lyriscs anonymously.

They think it's because he doesn't want some female fan to stalk him. Those in the know, though, regard the reason as their desire not be be stalked for having written his source code.

That first program, whiel it really was the Holy Grail because of the mere fact that it could symbolically integrate at all, is put completely to shame by Mathematica, because it is The Second Coming of Jesus of Nazareth, yet it costs less then a grand, can be downloaded from the Internet, and Stephen Wolfram is the webmaster for the most incredible mathematics encyclopedia in all human history.

He never planned to cut the institute out of so much as one red cent. He only pretended to because he knew how funny that would be.

I am completely certain that when the Intitute's stern and angry chief legal counsel turned up to announce Dr. Wolfram was spending some time behind bars, upon quietly an angrily announcing why he'd come, it was when Dr. Wolfram was in no way fearful, angry, defensive, said or the least bit concerned, I don't know what actually happened, but I can see how it would go more or less like this:

CALTECH!

The legal counsel hurls his briefcase down the Luaritsen Hallway, leaving diligently prepared lawsuit complaints all over the floor.

Tearing off his thousand dollar expensive business suit jacket then tossing it into a trash can as he exits the Lauritsen Physics building, he hurles his necktie into a flowerbed. He has popped most of the topmost buttons off his starched white shirt by the time he gets to his car.

He spends the weekend drinking himself into an absolute stupour. When he has finally recovered from his hangover enough to possess the gifted insight to dial his own secretary using his own telephone, he says it's time for him to take that month-long Carribean Cruise.

That's the right time to take just that kind of vacation. Consider what a gifted young man Wolfram was. Now consider what a gifted legal professional the Institute's chief legal counsel was.

No one would ever know why the most gifted Physicist and Mathematician in human history simply disappeared one day.

That would be, you see, because his body would be set into the very center of a giant cement block then dropped into the Pacific a couple hundred miles off the coast of Southern California.

"Just one week of deep sea fishing set me straight," the counsel would cheerfully announce to his secretary.

"Ring Steve up for me. Dinner at the Athenium tonight. It's on me!"

The primary reason the Institute is no longer a technical high school for boys once known as Throop Polytechnic Institute, is that the California Institute of Technology's founder knew that high school boy's like throop students were just the kind of boys required to win Nobel Prize's such as he himself obtained.

Robert Millikan won the Physics Prize by proving the electrical charge is quantitized. That is, electrical charge is not a continuously changeable variable quantity, but occurs only in integral multiples of certain descrete specific values.

Only two such discrete values have been identified so far: the unit electron charge that Millikan himself measured, then the one-third electron charge of the three Quark particles that make up each Neutron and Proton. Just as quantized, but not actually discovered until the 1960s, because experimental High Energy Physics was required even to detect them.

It was readily agreed that Quarks were a useful computational model, but it was quite a long time after they were first experimentally observed that the Physics community managed to convinced themselves of the physical reality of Quarks.

Thats why the six quarks we know of have such unusual names. They each come in opposing pairs:

But I intend to devote the very rest of my days to hunting down and savagely pummel the serial killer who named those last two. Here are their original names:

Millikan's deepest insight into how to make a technical school the size of a community college absolutely rotten with Nobel Laureates within twenty years was nothing more than this:

Blow absolutely every penny he had on a small, fine exclusive restaurant at one end of the campus, have the Institute's students wait the tables, then have wealthy Philanthropists over for some chow while the guy who made history through no more means than the simple contemplation of some small, electrically charge oil drops that were slowly lifted up, then slowly allowed to descend, by carefully adjusting the electric charge on two metal plates at the upper and lower experiment.

The Millikan Oil Drop is so difficult to perform that Millikan himself was pretty sure that electric charge was quantitized before he even built his first Oil Drop Chamber, yet he required years of careful patient and diligent study to actually prove that charge was quantized.

By the time I showed up, I not only had known that charge was quantized, I know how Millikan had demonstrated that fact, and could have built the same apparatus over a weekend in my garage when I was in high school.

You can readily see that every Caltech Physics student regards their opportunity to actually perform the Millikan Oil Drop experiment themselves as the very height of their entire undergradate careers.

We didn't build our Drop Chambers. The ones we used were professionally manufactured. They would have put a Canon A-1 completely to shame.

I was warned well ahead of time that it was difficult to perform, and that I had no hope whatsoever unless I performed all the theoretical prelaboratory homework before setting foot in the lab to actually perform the experiment itself.

I am so good with tools and machines that while I'm merely a competent theoretical physicist, I wouldn't even require a shop manual to competely disassemble then correctly and completely reassemble most automobiles.

I sat down that morning completely overcome with joy then spent the entire time carefully, lovingly and diligently slowiy oscillating tiny oil drops up and down while studying and timing their rise and fall with a stopwatch through a brightly lit microscope.

I was completely disgusted and overwhelmed with furious anger, but my instructor was a deeply insightful physicist, and a quietly charming young woman. I regarded her as the very finest female to have ever set foot in the City of Pasadena and still do.

"I just proved that electric charge, in reality, is not by any means Quantized at all."

"I just won the fucking Nobel Prize in Physics."

"Electric Charge is a continously variable quaniity," I screamed with rage. Had Millikan still lived in those days, I would have spattered his brains all over the wall with a nine millimeter.

Mary Barsony gently and warmly smiled: "B Plus".

Mary was one of the Physics departments most promising graduate students. That's why I have no doubt whatsoever that when she spent an afternoon dribbling oil drops all up and down a basketball court, she won her free throw, thereby winning the championship, and earned an A Plus by not only proving that Electric Charge is Quantized...

But accurately estimating the actual Quantization valley.

No figure this one out: the Atheneum is also the faculty club, because that way wealthy patrons could hang out with a bunch of Nobel Prize Winners at tea and cocktail parties.

My own Ricketts House is on the North-East corner of the four old houses. The Athenium is just a little north on the other side of a modestly sized grass lawn.

One evening some Flems - Fleming House students were waiting the tables. Flems are heavily into sports; the vast majority of the Institutes sportsment are Flems. The rest oare largely Pageboys - Page House residents in the new houses to the north - or Rudds - Ruddock House residents, also in the new Houses.

But Bruce Tiemann and I were Scurves, and damn proud of the fact that were were named after a nutritional deficency, because Ricketts House was named after a Philanthropist whose own name was a nutritional deficiency that cripped many innocent young London children for no other reason that they didn't get to play outside in the Sun.

Vitamin D, you see, is produced in human skin when exposed to sunlight. Don't get enough Sun on your skin and your bones won't develop. I don't know for sure, but I expect that is why Tiny Tim was so Tiny, was a crippled and was dead when The Ghost of Christmas Future showed Ebenezer Scrooge what a wonderful gift he bestowed upon his clark's enter family by blowing his firms entire load with his Christmas bonus.

Us Scurves respected the Rudds, because they were the Gentleman Scholars of the Institute. We regarded the Pageboys as respectable, but rather irritating: they were diligent about their athletics, but they never rubbed it in anyone's face. They never bragged about their incredible athletic prowess, they simply demonstrated it on a regular basis without mentioning it to anyone.

One the other hand, the Flems wore those damn t-shirts everywhere they ever went. I don't recall, but it might well have been my very first undergraduate Physics lecture after Rotation Week - much like Rush week, were were interviewed by then selected into our various houses - that absolutely every single Fleming House freshman showed up to lecture before anyone else, thereby forming a giant bright red square in the middle of the lecture hall, simply by all hanging out together.

They knew what was about to happen, but none of us did:

Suddenly and completely out of nowhere, several incredibly sexy scantily clad young women burst trough the door bearing stacks of pizza boxes then passed them all out to their howling fellow Flems. Each of the waitresses was a Flem herself, but an upperclassman. The waitresses were each carefully selected to ensure that only the most beautiful or sexy would serve as waitresses. I would not be surprised at all if Fleming House blew a thousand dollars just to buy their waitress uniforms.

Once the uproar finally settled down a good ten or fifteen minutes later, the lecture commenced. We were all the most diligent and dedicated students, so we all continued to listen carefully, ask questions and take vast quantities of notes. Every single one of us delighted, on a continuous basis, catching some gifted professor forgetting a minus sign, then allowing him to proceed until right up until the final moment just before he finally realizes his collossal mistake.

He knows he's been had when we point out the error of his ways: "I'm sorry professor, I just caught a mistake. Ten equations up - you dropped a minus sign."

We watched for dropped minus signs like hawks. Many of us would never have attended any lectures at all if it weren't for the fact that now and then someone would drop a minus sign like hawks. Whoever managed to actually put the drop on the instructor would be celebrated by his fellow students at the end of lecture. We knew the instant a dropped minus sign was dropped then watch even more diligently so we could wait absolutely as long as we possibly could before pointing out his mistake before he could point it out himself.

"I'm sorry. I was up all night doing my homework. I should have been paying attention."

My fat, hairy ass: I could stay up for three days straight, yet I would still catch a dropped minus sign the very instant it was dropped. What's more, every Institute Professor was plainly aware of that fact, and he knew that he had just been had in the most public way.

That lecture continued, but the Flems sat quietly munching on pizza, while all us Scurves, Darbs, Moles, Pageboys, Loyddies and Rudds sat quietly and hungrily wondering where the nearest guns might be found.

The Darbs are the hippies. Us Scurves were the drunkards. I have always been a complete teetotaller but the way I found myself a Scurve was that I was asked during rotation week how I developed my interest in Astronomy, and I explained that I was really into making telescopes.

Only some basic hand tools are required; that's why Galileo invented the telescope so far ago in history that he damn near got himself burned at the stake by proclaiming that Jupiter had several satellites.

This eventually turned up a discussion of the Foucault Test. It is incredibly simple, yet incredibly precise. Foucault would have won the Nobel Prize in Physics, but he lived long before Nobel did.

It consists of nothing more than a pinpoint or vertical slit light source, a vertical razor blade, and a pair of right-angle barrel micrometer heads that move that razor blade around a horzontal plane. During figuring one also tapes a carefully measured paper mask over the mirror. This enables one to accurately tranform the original Spherical surface into the required one.

Every single Caltech student is required to pass two solid years of advanced physics just to graduate. After pointing out such a transparently simple experimental apparatus that none of them had ever heard of, they then inquired how to actually perform the test.

After explaining how to set it all up I went on to say, "Stand a few feet back from the jig and move your head around until you spot the reflected light from the slit."

"Now carefully creep back up to the jig. The spot will grow wider to eventually cover the entire mirror evenly when your eyeball is just a fraction of an inch behind the reflected beam's focal point."

"Now carefully and slowly use the light-right micrometer to advance the razor blade until it cuts the focal spot just in half."

I'll explain later how this works, it's not hard at all to explain or to understand, but to make the Foucault's magic work, you really do need to be so careful, and you really do need not just a sharp razor blade, but an accurately straight one as well.

Once I was able to understand the Foucault test well enough to know how it worked, the very first thing I did was bicycle over to the hardware store for a pack of razor blades.

What I just explained, if one were not quite attentive and careful, is just the same procedure as one uses a device known as a Microtome to slice thin pieces of animal or plant material. One does this to prepare slides for study under powerful microscopes.

One little slip, you see, and I would have just microtome my own eyeball's cornea. That's why I always performed the Foucault test with great care.

"The slightest defect in optical quality will now be as obvious as a crack in asphalt pavement. If I hold my hand in the beam, I can easily see the warm air rising from my hand because of the warmth of my body heat."

"Tell me again about moving the razor blade in from the left."

I knew why they kept asking that but I got all pissed off that the were so fascinated with what every Optical Astronomer regards as The Holy Grail for no other reason than that failure to pay attention could leave that same Optical Astronomer blind in one eye.

I was damn near ready to beat the lot of them senseless by the end of the evening. By then I was the very center of attention, and every single upperclass Scurve had by then developed a deep insight into the Foucault Test in particular, and Optical Fabrication in general, but were such gifted actors that despite the fact that we all knew what was going on, they all completely failed to grasp the bit about sliding the razor blade in from the left, and so kept asking me to repeat myself, to clarify, and to answer their patient questions about it until, having completely understood, they cheerfully thanked me for my lucid explanation of Optical Fabrication, shook my hand then went on to the next Rotation Frosh.

While a very small school, Rotation week is regarded by every upperclass Tech student as far more important as a final exam. Many of my fellow Scurves were internationally ranked chessmasters while they were still in high school.

If one had any real interest in chess, one could obtain a lot of interesting game partners by looking over the entire incoming class roster, then carefully checking to see whether any of those incoming students were internationally ranked themselves. Anyone who had any kind of recognized standing at all was fought over with genocidal abandon by the chess fans of all seven houses all throughout rotation week.

Had I possessed any real chess ability, I could have shown up at Fleming House rotation barefoot, wearing ripped blue jeans and a tye-dye t-shirt and have been tripping on acid, yet the Fleming House Chess Club would have had me dressed in a smart bright red athletic jersey the following monday morning.

If you think the chess game that Soviet and Central Intelligence spies played with each other, you have no idea of the chess games that each of the seven house chess clubs played with each other during rotation week. The incoming class roster is distributed to the entire Caltech campus late in the Spring of the year before the incoming Frosh arrive.

It only takes a few hours to have all the internationally ranked chess masters on that list identified, with their standings being known, and what's more: every last one of Caltech's chess fans knows the instant that he identifies an interesting chess partner, all of his competitors have as well.

I switched my major to Physics because it is very rare for an Astronomer to even know how telescope mirrors are even made, while it is very common for Physicists to make their own experimental apparati with their own hands.

There were only a half-dozen Astronomy Majors in my class. I was the only one who had ever made a mirror himself. I inquired around the department: only one Faculty member had ever done so.

I was able to make it transparently obvious to every Ricketts House upperclassman how I myself could have presented Perkin Elmer's colossal fuckup of the Space Telescope's primary mirror, when I was 17, using a Foucault Tester whose micrometers were 1/4-20 threaded rods because I didn't have the cash for a pair of proper micrometer heads.

But were I not careful, I would have put Perkin Elmer's colossal fuckup completely to shame by microtoming my own cornea.

I did explain the Foucault Test on a regular basis throughout rotation week, but only the Scurves clued in to the fact that it works just like a biological microtome, despite the fact that one has to use microtomes just to make it through first year biology.

Those ladies and gentlemen proceeeded to descend upon me like pitt bulls on pork roasts. After I registered my sweater size, I proudly recieved a deep read sweater bearing the Ricketts Coat of arms and the following inscription.

Prend moi tel que je suis

Take me the way I am

But I was carefully warned that that isn't what Prend moi tel que je suis actually means. "Take me the way I am" was indeed meant to be the motto, but apparently whoever prepared the mottos French translation didn't actually speak french.

I was dead last in the card draw to choose rooms. We all had some time to wander around Ricketts House, then we all drew cards for the order in which we get to choose our rooms for our entire Freshman year.

"I'll be living in the closest," I cheerfully announced.

To my horror, I was instantly informed that Ricketts House really does have a room ealled The Closet, and that I would live in it until Summer vacation came. Most Institute students stayed over to work as research assistants, but enough left that I put quite a lot of distance between myself and The Closet the very instant that Summer vacation commenced.

Notorious drunkards generally drink cheap beer, but Scurves generally drink quality beer. I drink beer only rarely because two beers put me flat under the table. But I like beer so much that if I have a beer at all, I purchase the very finest can or bottle obtainable; from time to time, I hang out in an Irish pub for an entire evening as I slowly sip a single beer drawn from its tap while enjoying a fine meal.

Notorious drunkards often drink hard liquor.

I don't have a clue where it any of them are actually actually published, but somewhere in the history of Japanese language advertising are to Suntory Liquor Company magazine ads.

Western beer ads generally depict beer drinker as dedicated and diligent working man blowing a little steam off after work. But Japanese beer ads depict Japanese men raising their glass with howls of wild abandon.

Western hard liquor ads rarely depict the strength of that liquor other than the ads for the liquor sold in the liqour stores found in inner city slums. Quite commonly, humans don't appear in Western hard-liquor ads at all. Typically there is a single full or perhaps opened and nearly full bottle of liquor bearing a tastefully and traditionally designed label. If the bottle is open, then next to the bottle is a shot glass so you can study the color as well as the optical clarity of the liquor.

Typically the descriptive text is a historical account of a distillery that has been in the family for generations, because typically Western distilleries really have been in families for generations.

Japanese hard liquor ads, typically depict a bunch of Japanese businessmen, still wearing their fine business suits, passed out drunk all over the place after their celebration Friday evening each week.

I was selected for the beer ad. I expect this is because I was an astronomy major, with the beer ad being shot during a pizza party insight the dome of the small solar observatory atop the roof of the Caltech Astronomy building.

We all showed up in our read sweatshirts. Every kind of Suntory beer was all over the place. After the shoot I carefully selected and still possess an unopened can of Suntory beer the size of a small tomato juice can.

During the shoot, I proudly grinned and held high a giant, single-serving can that was so huge that a plastic handle had to be supplied to have any hope of holding the can in one's hand at all.

A bunch of pizzas were ordered immediately before they shoot. Once they all arrived we were asked to grab a slice and a can and hae a pizza party as they photographed us eating the pizza and drinking the beer. I took care to only sip my beer but I could hardly walk home at all because of how stuffed my stomach was.

The photographers were all Japanese who knew not a word of English. The shoot was led by an American professional photographer who spoke fluent Japanese.

We all commenced to have a perfectly normal Rickkets House Pizza Party when every last one of those Japanese gentlemen completely freaked out. The shoots leader knew the reason instantly: we were not Japanese. He then explained how the beer was consumed at Japanese pizza parties:

We actually did eat the pizza througout the shoot, but largely so the slices would be partially consumed. None of us ever took more than a few sips of beer. All the cans were opened before being photographed but even so, many cans remained completely untouched.

It wasn't hard at all to give them once they wanted once it was explained to us.

I would hold a half eaten slice of pizza casually in my left hand. In my right I would hold my can of beer high. With the greatest expression of joy in my face, I would look directly at the cameras. I would remain almost motionless for a minute or two while they blew an entire roll of professonal film on just that one pose.

At the end, I'd put the can down and leave it. From time to time, one of my colleagures might take up the same can. I'd finish my slice then wait until I would be called on, then pick up another and have a few bites.

We were all shot individually, in small groups and several group shots all over the inside of the astronomy building. When the pizza was completely consumed, we were thanked, paid generously in cash then asked to select an unopened can as a souvenier.

I didn't attend the hard liquor shot, and I only saw one of the actual shots a long time later when a fellow Scurve visited Japan and managed to score a copy of a hard liquor ad. To the very best of our knowledge, none of us ever manaaged to lay our hands on so much as one copy of the beer ad, so I don't even know whether I actually appear in any one of them.

That one hard liquor ad depicts several of my classmates at the end of the evening doing their homework over a little drinking. They are all passed out drink in a generally radial way, their heads all close together. Atop either their bodies are opened textbooks; my very favorite one is Tommy Volume II.

We all regard Tom Apostol the same we Christians regard Christ and Calculus Volumes I and II the same way as Christians regard The Holy Bible. Tom Apostol, his textbooks, and eack week's Math problem set were all identically nicknamed Tommy. One worked on Tommy on Math Night then turned it in at Tommy's lecture nine O'clock sharp Friday morning.

Tommy conducted his lectures like a Basic Training Drill Sergeant, but some Electrical Engineer put the drop completely on Professor Apostol by wiring the lecture hall's clock to a variable frequency power supply.

They did this in such a way that not until long after it was history, Tommy had to race to get to the end of his lecture plan, because they increased the clock's power supply frequency so as to allow him only forty minutes.

Tommy knew to commence his next lecture at breakneck velocity from the very start, and really did so, only to discover the many minutes of silence remained before the end of his hour, because they retarded the frequency, so lecture required one hour and twenty minutes.

Scattered around the floor around my passed out colleagues were a bunch of half-empty or totally empty Suntory Whiskey Bottles.

Now, how to you suppose a Divinely Inspired Notorious Drunkard saves up his empties for recycling?

Because of his deeply gifted insight into the natural enviroment, he knows that the only hope of saving global warming is to step out in the middle of the Ricketts House Courtyard, shout "Fuck God Dead!" then hurl it has hard as he could at the wall directly to the right of the second storey window.

My only comfort that entire year is that three of my window panes were made of Lexan. The Apollo Astronaut space suit helmets were Lexan as well; quite likely Lexan was developed for use as space suit helmets because from time to time, space suits are punctured by micrometeorites. To hit your body is no more dangerous than to cause a small air leak and perhaps a pinpoint puncture wound.

To hit your head would be like firing a fine needle directly through your brain all the way out the other side, hence the need for Lexan: you could have fired a nine millimeter at my Lexan panes, and your bullet would have bounced right off.

I was hardly able to sleep the entire year because all of the rooms that any Frosh was able to obtain was very small, mine being one of the smallest. Some Scurves had large rooms with roommates whereas The Closet as a tiny private room.

I would bolt awake the very instant someone shouted then desperately pray. Quite a lot of time my entire room was completely showered by fine, tiny shards of glass.

There was this really nerdy upperclasswoman named Justine who regarded me as the worst kind of vermin. The very instant I caught wind of that fact and so stalked her relentlessly throughout our remaining time at the institute. Not only did I never threatene her in any way, nor did I intend do, I knew better than to come any closer than twenty feet from Justine.

The very instant I ever aid eyes on Justine, I was completely overcome with joy to see her. Sweeping my arms wide, I lit up in a burst of happiness, then at the top of my lungs shouted:

Justine! I Love You!

To prevent my fellow Scurve from starving to death, I never did so during our meals in the Ricketts House dining hall. From time to time she would sit directly across from me to explain with great diligent what a stain on society I was while I sat quietly and attentintively while she remained completely unaware that I had put the drop on her, not the other way round.

Here is diamond engagement ring with which I finally popped the question to My Beloved Justine:

By the end of the year, the small tile roof directly below my window was completely covered in splinterrs of broken glass. Every time a bottle came through the wrong window pane, I take great care to clean every last shard in my room carefully up and properly dispose of it.

But even so, my mattress was quite old by the time I moved in. By the end of the year I was getting poked on a regular basis by the ends of the mattress Springs. After deciding that I would ask for a brand-new mattress, which I readily obtained, I continued to get poked night after night for good two weeks until it was finally time to pop the question:

Justine made the mistake of allowing me to catch her as she walked across the opposite side of the courtyard.

I had lain in wait for two solid weeks for just this very instant.

I swept up my mattress then tilted it sideways. Both sides of my window had been completely open the whole two weeks so I was able to lay the end of the matress on the windowsill.

"JUSTINE!"

She looked up in horror to find her stalker at his open window, his own bed's mattress stuck partway out the window. By then she and I knew each other well enough that we both understood completely what was about to happen. That was why she was horrified to see my mattress stuck out the window.

"I LOVE YOU!"

I then slowly and carefully slid my mattress just far enough out that it tipped over and directly on top of all that glass directly below my window.

I obtained a brand-new mattress the very next day from the lady who washed all our bedsheets in the South House Basement's laundry room.

My matress though, got to spend over an entire year not only resting on top of all that broken glass, but being completely covered in broken glass as well.

Eventually several of my fellow Scurves grew weary of broken glass being shot all over the entire courtyard. They dedicated several days to the effort of cleaning it so spotlessly you could have eaten your breakfast directly off the tile roof directly below the window.

It was only then that my mattress was finally tossed into one of the Institute's dumpsters.

The reason they waited to long is that they knew when they finally did so, the entire cycle would immediately commence over again: several other Scurves would quietely and calmly have a few beers during their cleanup effort, then polititely drop their empties in the trash.

The very instant one of them realized that the cleanup was complete, the Ricketts House Eternal Cycle Of Birth And Death would reincarnate once again!

FUCK GOD DEAD!

I don't think I drunk so much as one beer the day I showed up at the Institute.

I was invited to do the data analysis for some astronomical work that had my name on three papers by the beginning of my sophomore year.

But I was so hung over that I couldn't hope to show up for my first day of work so I called in sick. I still felt pretty bad when I did show up the next day.

My buddy Bruce had a Helium Neon laser. It happens that his room on the second floor of Ricketts House directly overlooked the Atheneum Courtyard.

We were pointing it around on the lawn below his window, but the instant I spotted a Flem wearing his Jersey waiting the table for three dinner guests, I instantly pointed at the dinners instead. One by one I would point the tiny, bright red spot each each of their chests.

The Flem looked angrily back in protest, so instead I pointed it his chest, and kept it pointed there until he had sternly, angrily and slowly marched right up directly below Bruce's windows.

Psychotherapist Joan Junquira of the Dominican Mental Health Unit in Soquel, California to point out to me that, in more traditional cultures, us Schizoaffectives are the Shamans.

They only learn of that fact during Training Analysis, an advanced form a Psychotherapy that is only performed on Psychology Graduate Student by their own Professors. Screw up someone's Training Analysis, and one's student's brains are spattered all over the wall the very next day.

My maternal grandfather was the most gifted kind of advanced surgeon and military man, surgeon and linguists. Both my mother and her twin siste my Aunt Peggy as well as my maternal grandmother began the most incredible suffering women could ever be asked to bear when he suddenly died in 1948.

They once lived in a collosall mansion in a beautiful neighborhood in Spokane, a beautiful and incredibly cosmopolitan city in North-East Washington State.

My grandfather's death left them almost immediately penniless. My grandmother had to go back to work to provide for two little girls as a single mother in the late 1940s. They lost that mansion completely but it is one of the finest homes in the entire city to this day.

The small brick house they rented is right next door to the beautiful home her eventual remarriage to the grandfather I actually knew enabled them to purchase.

It gets better:

I was born during the Winter in early 1964. Thus you can see that I was conceived in the Spring of 1963.

At the height of the Cold War, with the Cuban Missile Crisis a very fresh memory, the Cuban Revolution itself not long before that, Fidel Castro less than a hundred miles south of the tip of Florida, the Soviet Union's aid to its Communist Ally enabling Cuba to send its own prostitutes back to school for proper college educations, the Vietnam War heating up to the point that...

My own father was so far deep in the Philippine Jungle for his survival training that news of my own birth required two weeks two reach him, he having already been granted the proper training and security clearance to be the Missile Fire Control Officer aboard the ship where he really did slay North Vietnamese fighter pilots on a regular basis, the very reason that the most advanced kind of Naval Reserve Officer Training Corps being found in the small college town of Moscow, Idaho way up in the middle of a bunch of wheat and pea fields in the Idaho Panhandle was that it had a really good electrical and mechnical engineering as well as physics departments, because the best place to train young hydroelectric power engineers is right out in the middle of where the very best hydroelectric power is actually generated.

I'll give you a clue: the Columbia River, not the longest river in the United States, but one of the broadest, flows by just thirty miles or so to the South of Moscow at Lewiston. It's not so broad there, because the Columbia's source is immediately to the East of Lewiston.

One of the most important Naval Bases in the entire United States is even farther up in the Idaho Panhandle: Lake Pend Oreille was way out in the middle of the mountains just South of the Canadian Border. It's quite a large lake, and is the deepest lake in the entire United States that is also completely within United States Territorial Boundaries.

That's what you require, you see, to test new submarine designs without the Soviet Union sending subs of their own round to watch what you're doing.

Everyone knows that the Navy does that, but no one but Submarine engineers such as my father know what is actually inside those submarines, let alone how thick their hulls are.

Mom and Dad never said one word, but I have no doubt whatsoever that Mom and Dad spent some Summer vacations out at Lake Pend Oreille. It's an incredibly beautiful place and was once a National Boy Scout Jamboree camp. It's also a good place to send a Naval ROTC student around so he can do a little underwater snorkling over his Summer vacation.

The kinds of miscarriages that pregnant women fear most sometimes lead them to commit suicide: if one becomes suddenly fearful, sad or angry, their bodies will suddenly become flooded with powerful hormones such as those that have enabled our survival since the first mammals were just tiny rodents: the Flight or Fight Response.

Adrenalin.

Suppose you're wandering around a meadow noshing on some grass when a hungry jaguar steps quitly out of the bushes. Now suppose you're at an advanced stage of pregnancy with your upcoming litter of cubs.

It that hungry jaguar eats you, you and your unborn cubs are all history.

If you try to run away, not only are you so heavy with your offspring, you have also been devoting your body's entire resources to their development other than the bare minimum required to enable you to survive until your cubs are born.

That's why Bonita was readily able to explain to me that her best friend's joyous pregnancy with her firstborn, led her to experience her entire pregnancy in the exact same way that those with advanced cancer do, and for the same reason.

Thus you are also incredibly weakened as well.

The Jaguar pauses for a moment. Blue Nikes or Red?. Upon realizing he hasn't been keeping up with his email the last couple days, he rings up his agent on his iPhone:

"What's today's color?"

"Blue," his agent replies.

You see, the Jaguar has a an endorsement contract with Nike: the fact that you are the bacon that Missus Jaguar will tomorrow morning fry up in a pan is broadcast on a regular basis on the African Savannah Jaguar Television Network.

You begin to realize your predicament when the Jaguar drops his gym bag on the ground, unzips it, roots through it casually, drops first one blue running shoe on the ground, then another. Two more follow.

After re-zipping the bag, the Jaguar slowly and causally starts donning and carefully and tightly tying four running shoes.

As he crouches to wait for the starting pistol to fire, he finds himself puzzled that you are nowhere in sight.

You were unable to save your firstborn, but you were able to survive to bear your second litter healthy and alive, because you instantly expelled the fetuses of your entire litter right out through your own vagina, at the same time being shot so full of Adrenalin that while the effect lasts for only a short time, you ran so fast that you are now deeply hidden among a bunch of bushes before the Jaguar even commences his predation of you.

"Cut!" Shouts the director angrily.

Calling his assistant over, he angrily demands: "Fire that talent agency. Find me a new one. I don't care who they are: filming on location costs money."

You smile quietly. You have a friend at the very same talent agency that gentlemean hired you from. You pull stunts like this all the time, because you have such a gifted sense of humour.

Bonita's older sister was pregnant when their grandfather died. Two women from their church stayed with her at home to comfort her as best they could. They knew better than to let her attend her own grandfather's funeral. They had the hope they might enable her not to miscarry by guarding her like hawks at her home during his funeral.

The sources of both my divinely inspired geniuses and madnesses will now become plainly apparent:

On Friday, November 24th, 1963, my mother was about two thirds of the way through her pregnancy with me when John Fitzgenereld Kennedy had has brains spattered all over everywhere.

While Oswald was charged as his assassin, it was plainly transparent the entire free world that all kinds of Kennedy Assassination Conspiracies were racing to the finish line. Oswald was the one they figured might have actually crossed the finish line, but it will be many, many years before we really know. We may never know.

I have no doubt whatsoever that the most gruesome miscarriages too place that day all over the entire free world, and for months afterwards.

During the Winter in early 1964, Patricia Ann Crawford gave birth to a bouncing baby boy despite having shot her entire bodily fluids full of such Addrenalin as to put that which those two Salvation Army ladies feared completely to shame.

I cannot prove that was the instant that Madness was bestowed upon me. But I have no doubt whatsoever that it really was:

What kind of shot of Adrenalin do you suppose I found myself shot through with at the sixth month of my own gestation?

Dad knew when I would be born so he knew that telegram of my birth would be there when the Navy's courier turned up hundreds of miles out in the rain forest to deliver their mail.

"It's a Boy!" Lieutenant Crawford shouted with great glee.

Dad usually smoked cigarettes but I have no doubt whatsoever that he brought a case of cigars in his backpack. The finest cigars available in Spokane, Washington were smoked that day.

I don't even know which of the Philippine Islands he was on. The Philippines has many islands, most of which are covered with rainforest. The name of the island might actually have been a classified military secret:

You wouldn't want North Vietnamese spies to assassinate your survival school students. It would have been trivial for half of the entire population of North Vietnam to slay my father and all of his fellow students with no more effort than puffing real hard into some blowguns.

That's a pretty good way to bring home the kind of bacon you find out in the middle of a rainforest you see.

You don't even need Curare; the Amazonians only bother with Curari because that particular rainforest is absolutely rotten with bright-blue small Azureus frogs. I don't really know, but I would be completely unsurprised if those Azureus frogs were tenderly herded in which the same ways as cowboys tenderly herd their cattle.

Do you suppose that out in the middle of the Amazon rainforest, there is a certain bread of tiny dog that likes nothing more than to run in tiny circles around small groups of bright blue frogs? I would be unsurprised to learn of its existence.

Infant children and their mothers communicate their own needs with great fluency. Fail to tell your mother that you need to be suckled in such a way that she clearly understands that your request and you will starve to death.

Fail to tell your mother that your diaper requires changing and you will die of horrible infection.

Fail to tell your mother that you love her just as she loves you, then a phenomenon known as Failure to Thrive will ensue. This is now so well undertood that maternity ward nurses watch new mother's like hawks.

The theoretical psychology reasons were identified by Psychiatrist Eric Berne in the early 1960s through his work with the San Francisco Social Psychiatry Seminars.

The reason is given in the theoretical introduction to Games People Play: the Psychology of Human Relationships, with what young children do to prevent their own deaths by Failure to Thrive being the adult games given in the rest of the book.

Even if a mother provides for her infants physical and material needs in the most ardently and dedicated way, should a mother fail to provide for her infant's emotional needs, despite being only days old, that infant will lose all will to live then whither away and die for no apparent reason, over a period of a few short weeks.

The mother will then find herself strangely unconcerned: while she will feel sad, she will only do so because that's what young mothers do when their own infants suddenly die within weeks of their births. In reality, she won't feel sad at all. She only will express sadness because that is what is expected of her.

This actually happened to a woman I met during my recent hospitalization. The very best and most intensive kind of Psychotherapy is only ever practice for short periods of time - two or three weeks - and only immediately upon discharge from a Psychiatric Inpatient Unit.

That is the only time when your mind is wide open enough for Partial Hospitalization to be effective, and that is all you require for Partial Hospitalization to completely transform your life for the rest of your days.

You regard me as delusional for claiming to be cured of Bipolar-Type Schizoaffective Disorder, but I regard you as delusional because I have completed three separate courses of Partial Hospitalization on three completely different occasions.

The ones I've done were like this: we arrived at nine each morning for fifty-five minutes of the most intense kinds of Group Psychotherapy. A five minute break between each group allows us to use the restroom. One four for lunch then two more groupds before breaking for the day at three.

Five days of this each business day. Each time I have done this, I have done it for two solid weeks.

There are several different kinds - Cognitive Psychotherapy, Dialectical Behavioral Psychotherapy and so on. A specific calendar is used to rotate among all the common kinds once or twice of the FIXME.

People - not just women, while uncommon, men get it it as well - with Borderline Personality Disorder are so difficult to treat that many Psychotherapists once refused even accept them as clients. Dialectical Behavioral Therapy was proposed as an alternative. It is now found to be almost completely affective in treating women with BPD.

I was unable to get even the police or Enigma's own psychiatrist to spare her life when she fell in love with a violent, undiagnosed and completely untreated Paranoid Schizophrenic. Anyone who knows that gentleman much at all would recognize that fact instantly.

Enigma did herself - she threw him out of her home on a regular basis. One time she left a giant, purple welt all over her own knuckle when he refused to leave.

But her Borderline Personality Disorder, every single time, led her to invite her back into her home the very next day.

She was completely freaking out when I dropped by during their relationship: she was overcome with joy to bear the child of a man who could put the Unabomber completely to shame, only to be overcome with grief when only a hormone test kit was able to inform her, just a short time later, that she had miscarried in such a way that only advanced chemical testing was able to give her that bad news.

I don't know how that works, but I speculate that the blastula must have separate from the wall of her uterus.

Enigma is heavily into motherhood. When she told me that she had miscarried, I knew instantly that her child would just be a toddler when FIXME.

These two phenomena are both by now so well understood - with the chemical hormones involved having been transparently demonstrated recently by injecting men with them during a study - that the very instant a baby is delivered, the nurses wash it as gently as they possibly can, swaddle it in a baby blanket, then give that baby right back to the mother's arms.

They are then left to quietly spend as much time as they can getting to know each other in which, for a mother and child, is the very most important relationship of either of their lives.

This process results in the mother's entire body being shot full of a hormone. Oxytocin if I remember correctly. That Oxytocin is what governs this phenomenon was made plainly transparent by injecting a couple dozen male experimental subjects with it.

Within seconds, every last one of those men had developed an empathy as deep as any female.

I have always been just as empathetic, despite my notorious anger. That's why when I interviewed for the training course for the Suicide Prevention Service of Santa Cruz County, a radiantly beautiful young Japanese woman made it quite obvious that she was mine for the asking for no other reason than the fact that I was such a good listener.

The source of every man's greatest anger is that their women fail to heed their advice. This sometimes leads husband's to murder their own wives.

The source of every woman's greatest despair is that their men refuse to listen - and only listen - when they have some kind of problem. Women regard evey man's attempts to actually fix their problem as a crime against humanity.

The result of that happens all the time, and is one of the primary reasons that such things as suicide hotlines even exists: it is quite common for married women to wash down a whole bottle of sleeping pills with a whole bottle of hard liquor.

That is regarded by women as the best way to commit suicide. Men prefer to blow their brains out.

Romantics such as myself prefer to make death by our own hands a work of artistic creativity:

While I enrolled at Caltech in Astronomy, by the time I ...

To Be Continued