Sunday Nibble #87: Brace yourselves — it’s Doomsday

Doomsday is nigh! No, really, it is, and it happens again on December 12. Find out how and why.

That’s right. Today, November 7th is Doomsday! But don’t worry. That has nothing to do with the end of the world. It’s just the odd terminology that refers to an algorithm by which you can quickly calculate in your head what day of the week any given date fell on or will fall on.

It was devised in 1973 by John Conway and, if you’re a big enough computer nerd, you’ll recognize that name immediately. He created the famous Game of Life, which used very few rules to govern the behavior of random pixels in order to generate complex systems that would either keep evolving forever, lock in to some stable and repeated pattern, or die out either by moving off of the screen completely, completely dying out, or freezing up.

You can play it online right now, if you’d like.

Regarding the Doomsday Algorithm, though, it’s based on the idea that the Gregorian Calendar cycle repeats every 400 years. The Doomsday part itself refers to particular days during each year that will always fall on the same day of the week during the year.

In order to tell someone what day of the week a random date falls on, you just have to figure out what the Doomsday Weekday is for the particular year, then the Doomsday for the particular month, then count to the chosen date from there.

It sounds like a lot of math, but it isn’t, because of the cyclic nature of the calendar, plus you can also reduce everything to a number to make for easier math, starting with numbering the days of the week from 0 to 6, starting with Sunday, which gives us 7 total days.

Each century will have one of four days of the week as its anchor, and each year within that century will offset the century date based on the algorithm as well. The four dates in order are Friday, Wednesday, Tuesday, Sunday, in case you’re wondering. In our current cycle, these apply to the 1800s, 1900s, 2000s, and 2100s.

This will give you the number that corresponds to the Doomsday for a particular year. In the case of 2021, that number is zero, so the day is Sunday. I’m now going to walk it backwards to make it a little clearer what happens.

There are a handful of dates to remember within the year that will give you a point from which to count to a chosen date, but most of them are easy to remember. For even months except February, the Doomsday is just the same as the month number: April 4, June 6, August 8, October 10, and December 12.

The remaining months come in pairs: May and September, and July and November. It works out that these dates are May 9, September 5, July 11, and November 7. If we put them into numerical form, they become 5/9, 9/5, 7/11, 11/7 — and it doesn’t matter which order you write your dates in, since they’re mirror pairs. The phrase to remember is, “I work 9 to 5 at the 7-Eleven.”

So all of these dates in 2021 fall on Sunday: April 4, May 9, June 6, July 11, August 8, September 5, October 10, November 7, and December 12.

January and March are a little tricker, but not much. The last day of January, the 31st will always be Doomsday or, if you’d like easier math, just remember January 3, February 14, and March 14. Except (because there’s always an exception) in Leap Years, move January and February ahead one day, to the 4th and 15th.

Confusing? It really won’t be once you play around with it a bit in your head. Bonus points: the 4th of July and Halloween are also always on Doomsday, as we’ve just seen with Halloween 2021 being on Sunday. Christmas and the following New Year’s day will always be the day before Doomsday, since boxing day, December 26, is exactly two weeks after December 12.

Again, this whole thing can sound complicated until you take the time to work through it, and you can find simple explanations online as well. It can be a great party trick if you learn the whole thing so you can do any given date, but even if you only memorize the Doomsday for the current year, it can be useful for figuring out what date someone is proposing a meeting for or for when someone in a meeting asks, “What day of the week is Labor Day this year?” and can answer pretty quickly without pulling out your phone.

For a fun video explanation, we have Numberphile and the always delightful Professor James Grime to thank for this:

Image source: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Christoph Murer, National Gallery of Art, (CC0), via Wikimedia Commons

Stupid Excel tricks #1: INDEX and MATCH

Enter the matrix… math

There is an entire class of functions in Excel that take things to a whole new level, and they are called matrices. Maybe you ran across this in math in school and have forgotten, maybe not, but the idea with a matrix is that it takes one grid of numbers of X x Y dimensions and uses operators to manipulate it using another grid of numbers that may or may not have the same dimensions.

The great part is that to use these functions in Excel, you don’t need to know any of that. Like I’ve mentioned before, it’s exactly like using a cookbook. Plug in the ingredients as specified, voila, the dish pops out the other end.

Maybe you’ve used the functions VLOOKUP and HLOOKUP, or maybe not, but they can be useful if you want to match exactly one criteria in a table and if the data you’re looking up is somewhere to the right of that criteria. So it’s perfect if you have something like a unique account number on the far left and want to use that to look up a name or phone number to the right of it:


This tells Excel to take the value in cell M2, compare it to all of the values in column A of the named range, then look up the value in the sixth column counting from the column defined in the second variable (in this case, F) where the first column is equal to M2. “FALSE” just means to use an exact match, whereas “TRUE” would mean to use an approximate match.

Again, this is great if you’re searching something with unique values in both places — there is only one account number, and only one data point associated with it.

Now what if you have multiple entries for the same person with different account numbers, or multiple sizes and colors of a product with differing prices, or you need to search on more than one data point in different columns, or your table was set up with the criteria you want to use somewhere to the right of the data points you’re searching?

Welcome, matrix functions! These are two nested commands that work miracles together. The first is INDEX, and what it basically does is point to a column with data that you’re going to pull stuff from, then follow that up with the criteria you’re going to use to do that. You can see the difference from the LOOKUP functions right off the bat, because those start with the single data point you’re going to use to search the data. The INDEX function starts with the place you’re going to get the answer from.

The MATCH function is the matrix math, and it allows you to specify multiple criteria matched to different columns in the source data. The nice part about it is that you can have as many different criteria as you need — first name, last name, account number; size, gender, color, style; title, author, binding, edition; and so on. And each of these can point to any particular bit of data you need — monthly cost, price, location, phone number, address, and so on. Any bit of data in the table can be found this way.

If you want to put a physical analogy on it, it’s this. LOOKUP functions are a librarian with a sliding ladder that moves horizontally or can be climbed vertically. But the way it works is that they first move it or climb it in the direction you specify until it hits the target word. Then, it slides or climbs the other direction however many rows or columns you specified, and has now targeted exactly one cell with the answer. Oh — and it can only move to the right or down from that initial search cell.

On the other hand, think of INDEX and MATCH as a whole bunch of librarians who have set out all over the same bookcases, but are simultaneously searching the rows and columns, and calling back and forth to each other to indicate what bits they’ve found that match.

If you work with any kind of inventory or any data sets where people’s info is broken down (as it should be) into separate first and last names and account identifiers, then you need to know these functions, because they will save you a ton of time. And the basic way they work is like this:


(Note: All column and row designations here are arbitrary and made up, so they don’t matter.)

That might look complicated, but it’s not. Let’s break it down. The first part, referring to the E column is the “Where” of the formula. That is, this is the column you’re pulling your data from. For example, if you want to use size, color, and style to find price, then this would be whatever column has the price data in it.

Next, we nest the MATCH function, and this lets INDEX know that what comes next will be the instructions it needs. The “1,” inside the parenthesis is a flag for MATCH, telling it to return one value. After that, each nested thing — and you can have as many as you need — follows the form “Single cell to look at equals column to search.” So, as seen here, for example, in the search data, column W might be the first name, and cell W2 is the cell corresponding to what we’re looking at. Meanwhile, column C in the target data includes first names, so what we’re saying is “Look for the single value of W2 down the entire column of C1 to C1405. The dollar signs are there to lock it as a fixed range.

All of the other parentheticals here follow the same pattern. Maybe X is the column for last name in the source and D is where the last names are in the target; and AA is account number, as is J.

The two other interesting things to note in building matrix equations: The single cell and the column are joined by an equals sign, not a comma, and this is important because, without it, your formula will break. What this tells Excel is that whatever the matrix pulls out of single cell must equal what’s in the column at that point.

The other thing to notice is that between the searches within parentheses, there aren’t commas, but rather asterisks, *, which indicate multiplication, and this is the heart of Matrix math.

What this tells the formula is to take the results of the first thingie, apply those criteria and pass it along to the second. In other words, if the first evaluation turned up nothing, that is mathematically a zero, and so it would quash anything coming from the second and third functions. On the other hand, if it comes up as a one, then whatever the second formula turns up will stay if there’s a one, dump if not, and then pass on to the third, fourth, etc..

Lather, rinse, repeat, for as many steps down the process you’ve created. A false result or zero at any point in the matrix math will kill it and result in nil. Meanwhile, as long as the tests keep turning up positives, what will fall out of the ass end of it is the honest legit “This data is the true data.”

Funny how that works, isn’t it? The only other trick you need to remember is that after you’ve entered this formula, you need to close it out by hitting Ctrl-Shift-Enter to let Excel know it’s a matrix formula. Then, if you want to copy it, you can’t use the usual Ctrl-C, Ctrl-V. Instead, you have to highlight the column with the formula at the top, then hit Ctrl-D. Voila… the whole thing duplicates down the column — which is what the “D” in the command stands for. To do the same thing across a row, the command is Ctrl-R, which you could think of as “repeat” or “replicate.”

And there you have it — a way to search multiple criteria in a row in order to find a specific data point in a table. You’re welcome.

But there’s more! One very important trick I’ve learned is how to avoid getting the dreaded “N/A#” in your results, because that totally breaks any summation you’re doing on the data. So I add an extra layer to the whole thing with a combination of the IF() and ISERROR() formulas.

This can make the thing really long, but worth it. I suggest entering the short INDEX formula first, make sure it’s working, and then use F2 to edit the cell, highlight everything and hit CTRL-C. Next, add “IF(ISERROR(” before the existing formula, move your cursor to the end, close out the ISERROR with a right parenthesis, “)”, then add comma, 0 (zero), and hit Ctrl-V to paste a copy of the original formal at the end. Close that with a final right paren.
The whole thing looks like this:


Sure, it gets a little long, but the advantage will be that if what you’re looking for isn’t in the source data, you’ll get a nice zero instead of an error message. And if you’re searching a text field, like size or name, then use “” instead of 0 after the ISERROR to get a blank cell.

Wednesday Wonders: Jon on Scarne

Just a little over one hundred and eighteen years ago, a guy named Orlando Carmelo Scarnecchia was born in Steubenville, Ohio. You won’t recognize that name. Seeing as how he died in 1985, you might not recognize the name he became famous under. But if you’ve ever enjoyed a magician doing card tricks, played pretty much any card or dice game, or counted cards in blackjack (at least, if you did it his way) then you know the name John Scarne.

Now why is a magician, card manipulator, and author of books on gambling showing up on a Wednesday Wonder post? Because there’s a corollary to Clarke’s Third  Law: “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” The corollary is “Any sufficiently advanced magic is the product of technology.”

Magic tricks have always been based on scientific principles. They are a combination of mathematics, physics, and psychology, and sometimes throw in chemistry, geometry, and topography, for good measure. Of course, the best magicians wrap all of that science in the arts, so that the perfect illusion (“Illusion, Michael. A trick is something a whore does for money.”) is a full-on performance wrapped up in a story, supported by stagecraft, acting, music, and the whole nine yards.

Of course, note that the word “stagecraft” is kind of meta, because what we in theatre call stagecraft is often what illusionists call magic, so it’s an infinite loop there. A magic trick is stagecraft. Stagecraft is a magic trick. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But what Scarne did goes even beyond all of that, and one look at this card manipulation film of his from the 50s should convince you of that. Yes, I’ve studied magic enough to know that he’s using all kinds of tricks, like false deals and double lifts and so on to do what he’s doing but… at the same time, while the trick seems focused on the Aces, he’s not manipulating four cards at once here. He’s controlling eight — and all of them in a specific order, full speed ahead.

One of his more famous appearances was as Paul Newman’s hands in the movie The Sting. Newman’s character shows some pretty impressive card manipulating skills, all done by Scarne, but if you watch that video clip take special note. At the beginning, we cut to the hands with the cards. Then, at 0:36, the filmmakers pull their magic. The hands move out of frame at the top just long enough for Newman to put his own hands back, then pull off a not so fluid full-flip of the fanned deck, as the camera casually tilts up to make us think that those were his hands all the time. Ironically, I think that the insert shot of the flubbed attempt to bow shuffle was actually Scarne and not Newman.

But knowing that part of the trick brings up an even bigger issue. The only way they could have shot this was with Scarne behind Newman and reaching around, meaning that he had to do all of that manipulation of the cards totally blind.

Let that register, then go watch that clip again as he keeps the Ace of Spades right where he wants it. And nice symbolism on the part of the filmmakers, since that card is traditionally symbolic of death, and death both real and imagined play a big part in the film.

So how does magic trick us?

A lot of the time, it uses psychology and subverts our expectations. An obvious move to do something innocuous, like pull a wand out of our coat pocket, might in fact hide one or more surreptitious moves, like grabbing an object to be produced or ditching an object to be vanished, or both, or something else. One of the best demonstrations of how this works was given by Teller, of Penn & Teller fame, on their show Fool Us.

Anyway… that video will teach you almost everything you need to know about sleight-of-hand.

Another way that magic fools us is to play with our perceptions of space, and as mentioned in the link above, the Zig Zag Illusion is one of the best examples of making the audience think that something is impossible while hiding the secret right in front of them. I happen to own several pocket versions of this trick, one involving a rope and the other a pencil, and the principle is always the same. The Zig Zag Trick involves deceptive optics, psychology, and misdirection.

Of course, one other big trick in magic, especially in card tricks, is math, and I’m going to give away one that I love to do to make friends go “WTF?” Here’s the effect: I deal out 21 cards, then ask then to mentally pick a card, not tell me, but only tell me which one of three piles of seven cards it’s in. I gather up the cards and then deal them out again, and ask which column their card is in.

This is where I pull the stagecraft, playing up the idea that I have psychic abilities while dealing out the cards, Here’s the trick. When you hit the eleventh card, set it aside, face down, then deal out the rest. This sets you up for the ultimate brain scorch as you casually turn up that eleventh card and ask, “Is this the one you chose?”

And of course it is, and your victim squees in amazement. And how does it work? Simple. It’s all math. Each step of the way, you take the pile of seven cards with your spectator’s chosen card and put it in the middle. Since your piles are 3 by 7, the end result is that the first pass will force the chosen card to turn up somewhere between 8 and 14 in the pile. Next time around, it gets jammed to being either 10th, 11th, or 12th, and the last deal nails it. Although, pro tip, after the second deal, the chosen card will be the fourth one in the chosen column, and the 11th one you deal out. So… much opportunity for building up the reveal while reminding your mark and audience that they chose the card freely, and never told you which one it was and, bam! Is this your card?

And, if you followed the instructions, it absolutely will be. Bonus points: Once you understand the math behind it, you can vary it on the fly, so that it’s not always the 11th card — 4th or 18th will work as well. You can even change the total number of cards, provided that you’ve memorized where the target card will finally be forced to.

Scarne totally got all of this, but it really feels like his insights have been forgotten 36 years after his death. ‘Tis pity… Now pick a card.

Zero or hero

The concept of zero might seem completely intuitive to modern minds. You can’t get to any multiple of 10, 100, 1,000 or so on without it, for one thing. It’s also often the bottom number on various gauges or dials — think speedometer or volume setting — or at least a middle point on things like thermometers or equalizers.

And yet, when humans first started to math, the concept of zero didn’t even exist. Why? Because it wasn’t necessary. The origin of human math had nothing to do with science or geometry or any of that. It was all about commerce.

Math began with counting, which began in the marketplace. What happened here was simple. Somebody with something to sell would set up a stand. Somebody looking to buy would approach. The latter would use whatever was legal tender in trade in exchange for what the former had to offer.

That legal tender could be precious metal stamped in some sort of official fashion or, earlier than that, it could tools, jewelry, stones, or other commodities. For example, one person might be offering a lamb for six chickens.

In order to make the exchange, two things were necessary after the price was set. The seller had to be able to count out the number of things on offer and the two of them had to calculate the price, based on cost per unit times the number of units.

Hello, integers, which are those whole numbers with no decimal places. And hello the idea of multiplication, except that it wasn’t necessary per se. Multiplication is just repeated addition. Remember this, because it, along with the idea that division is just repeated subtraction, will be important later.

So the seller agrees that one lamb costs six chicken and the buyer wants four lambs. The seller counts out the four lambs and sets them aside in a pen. The buyer counts out six chickens for each lamb, but there’s never any multiplication. They might even do each transaction one at a time.

The end result, though, is that the seller winds up with four fewer lambs and twenty-four more chickens.

What he doesn’t know is that the buyer is going to use three of those lambs to buy a cow, and then set up a very profitable business selling milk, dairy products and, thanks to his neighbor, calves for veal.

Now what’s the one thing that never enters into these transactions at all?


The seller cannot offer to give you zero lambs. The buyer cannot offer to pay with zero chickens. In the context of commerce, zero is meaningless because it’s not countable. You cannot have zero number of things.

And so math cruised on for millennia without any idea of zero.

The Sumerians did have sort of a placeholder for zero by around 3000 BCE, but it was a character used between digits in cuneiform writing to represent an empty place in the counting. Babylonians accounted for this zero but did not have a character for it. They would leave a gap, so that 402 would be written as 4 2. However, there would be no distinction between 42 and 420, which would both be written as 42.

This would probably make stoners who love Douglas Adams’ writings very happy.

The Mayans invented zero independently around 4 CE, but it wasn’t until the mid-5th century that Hindu mathematicians developed the idea. This was picked up by Arab mathematicians and it would have spread to the West except for the unfortunate thing called the Crusades.

Western mathematicians were all ready to embrace it, but since what were actually Hindu numerals were known as Arabic numerals by this point, the Catholic Church said, “Are you kidding? No good ideas can come from our enemies,” so the concept of zero was considered the devil’s work for a while.

In case you think that people can’t be that stupid about numbers for purely ideological reasons, a recent survey showed a surprising number of people opposed to teaching Arabic numerals in schools — even though they are the familiar digits we’ve all used for centuries.

Since the Hindus started using it in serious math, though, zero has proven itself to be invaluable. It provides a point at which numbering scales can change — you can’t go from positive to negative without passing through it, after all — and it serves as a universal error warning whenever a formula winds up trying to make it the divisor in an equation.

There are also some fun questions you can ask about zero. Don’t worry. There’s very little actual math involved in learning the answers. Except for the last one.

Is zero an even number?

At first glance, this seems like it’s unanswerable because zero has no numerical value. Like 1 being sort of a prime but not, it feels like zero would be neither odd nor even. But as soon as we look at the definition of an even number… well, let’s look at that.

The first definition of an even number: It’s evenly divisible by 2. You can check that out with any random even number. For example, 14/2 = 7, or 8/2 = 4. The result can be either odd or even, and prime or not, as those two examples show. And some numbers can be divided by 2 more than once — 4/2 = 2.

So is zero divisible by 2? Oh yes, and an infinite number of times: 0/2 = 0. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Another property of an even number: It’s a multiple of 2. Again, it doesn’t matter whether you start with an odd or even number. The result will always be even: 16 x 2 = 32; 47 x 2 = 94, and so on.

And what happens with zero? We get 0 x 2 = 0, and so on. And since the first step indicated that zero is probably even, it’s still even.

One other determinate of an even number: It never changes the odd/even status of whatever number you add it to. The sum of two even numbers is an even number; the sum of an even and odd is odd. (I’ll leave it to you to figure out the rule of the sum of two odd numbers, which should be obvious by now.)

Now, what number never changes the status of whatever it’s added to? That’s right — our old friend zero. So, yet again, it acts like an even number.

The final test of an even number: On the whole number line, it appears between two odd integers — for example, 16 comes between 15 and 17. As for zero? Its neighbors are 1 and -1, which are both odd.


You can’t do that on television (or anywhere else)

Now, there are two things you cannot do with zero, one famously and one lesser-known. The first is that you cannot divide by zero. And no, this does not give you infinity. It give you… well, it just breaks math, period.

Division by zero, by the way, happens to be one of the proofs that travel at the speed of light is impossible. (It does not say you can’t go faster, though, as long as you skip that one troublesome point between positive and negative.)

Remember when I mentioned that multiplication is just repeated addition and division is repeated subtraction? Well, this leave multiplying by zero perfectly fine, because if you add any integer zero times, you get 0. Meanwhile, if you start with zero, no matter how many times you add it, you still get 0.

But let’s look at what happens when you try to subtract zero and figure out how many times you can. Well, guess what? No matter how many times you subtract zero, you still have the original number, so you can subtract 0 from 1 every femtosecond of every day since the Big Bang and you still will not have an answer by the time the whole thing fizzles out in cosmic entropy in a few trillion years.

But… that number is not equal to infinity. Why? Because, again, it breaks math. If dividing by zero equals infinity, then 1/0 equals infinity, and so does 2/0. If both numbers over the same divisor equal the same result, then you’ve just “proven” that 1=2. In fact, you’ve just proven that any number, whole, fractional, rational, transcendent, or not, equals every other number.

So… math breaks. The preferred result of division over zero is “Undefinied.”

Zero power!

Finally, there’s the idea that you cannot raise 0 to the power of 0. Basically, anything to the power of zero equals 1, and anything to the power of 1 equals itself. The rest follows the familiar squares and cubes and so on.

So, in theory 0 to the power of 0 equals one, but here’s the quick debunk of that. Another way to get to something to the power of 0 starts with the power of 1 — any number to the power of 1 is that number. So 2^1 = 2, 5^1 = 5, and so on.

And if you divide any number to the power of one by itself, you do get that number to the power of zero, so you get 1. Why? Because when you divide one number with an exponent over another, you subtract the exponents on the bottom from the ones on top.

So 2^1/2^1 gives us the same thing as 2/2, which is 1.

You probably see the problem coming here. While 0^1 may or may not be equal to 1, as soon as you write 0^1/0^1 it becomes irreducible because of our old bugaboo division by zero yet again.

So zero to the power of zero remains undefined as well.

How to get from zero to one

Before I get to the 0 to the power of 0 problem, here’s a very interesting one. There’s a mathematical function called a factorial, which is represented by an exclamation mark. What it means is that you take the number before that mark and multiply it by every integer less than it down to one.

It’s very useful in things like statistics and calculating odds. Here’s an example. The expression 5! means to multiply 5 by the integers below it, so you get 5 x 4 x 3 x 2 x 1. This works out to 20 x 6 x 1, or 120.

Now it should be obvious, but one way to go from X! to the number below it is to calculate X!/X. Why? Because you’re removing the top term. 5!/5 removes the 5 and, in effect, gives you the digits for 4!: 4 x 3 x 2 x 1. That works out to 24, which happens to be 120/5.

This is all great, and then you get to 1!. And if you want to calculate 0!, you need 1!/1. And what does that work out to?

Well, it happens to be 1/1, or 1, meaning that 0! equals 1. Of course, you can’t go from 0! to -1! because you wind up dividing by 0,

Of course, there are other, much more complicated reasons that 0! = 1, but I’ll leave that explanation to the fabulous Professor James Grime of Numberphile to explain. Also, kudos to Numberphile for all the ideas reiterated here today. They are a great resource.

Image: Ajfweb at English Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Being a basic bit

Zeroes and Ones are the building blocks of what’s known as binary, and the juice that our digital world runs on. Another way to think of it is this. In our so-called Base 10 world, we deal with ten digits, and depending upon what you’re counting, you can either go from 0 to 9 (things) or 1 to (1)0 (dates, place order). Since 9 is the highest digit, when any column hits it, the 9 next rolls back to 0 and the digit to its left increments up, initially from 1.

So after the number 9, we get 10. After 19, we get 20, after 99, it’s 100, and so on. Also note that 100 happens to be 10 x 10, 1,000 is 10 x 100, 10,000 is 100 x 100, etc. This will be important in a moment.

In the binary world, things roll over faster. In fact, the only digits you have are 0 and 1, so counting works like this: start with 0, then 1. But 1 is as high as we can go, so after 1 comes 10, which, in binary, represents 2.

That might seem strange, but here’s the logic behind it, going back to decimal 10. What is 10, anyway? Well, it’s the number that comes after we’ve run out of digits. Since we’re used to base 10, it doesn’t require any explanation to see that 10 always comes after 9. At least in base 10. I’ll get to that in a moment, but first there’s a very important concept to introduce, and that’s called “powers.”

The powers that be

No, I’m not talking Austin Powers. Rather, raising a number to a power just means multiplying the number by itself that many times. In its basic form, you’ll often see Xn. That’s what this means. It’s just a more efficient way of writing things out:

            2 x 2 = 22 = 4

            3 x 3 x 3 = 33 = 3 x 9 = 27

            10 x 10 x 10 x 10 x 10 = 105 = 100 x 100 x 10 = 10,000 x 10 = 100,000

Here’s an interesting thing about powers of 10, though. The end result will always have exactly as many zeros as the exponent, or power that you raised 10 to. 109. Simple: 1,000,000,000. If it’s 102, 100, and so on.

And the two fun sort of exceptions that aren’t exceptions to keep in mind:

            X x 0 x N = N, aka X0 = 1

            X x 1 = X1 = X.

101 is 10 with 1 zero, or 10; 100 is 10 with no zeroes, or 1.

In other words, any number to the power of zero equals 1, and any number to the power of 1 equals itself. And there you go, that’s all you need except for this: When it comes to determining what the power is, we count “backwards” from right to left. The last digit before the decimal takes the 0 power, next to the left is 1, next over from that is 2, and so on.

Everything in its place

Since places correspond to powers, in Base 10 we would call the digits, right to left, the ones, tens, hundreds, thousands, ten-thousands, hundred-thousands, and so on places. In binary, you’d have the ones, twos, fours, eights, sixteens, thirty-twos, etc.

Makes sense? Then let’s look at a four-digit number in binary: 1776.

But here’s an interesting trick: in computer logic, it often becomes much easier for the circuits to literally read in the digits backwards in order to do these steps upwards in the proper order. This saves the step of having to figure out how long a string is before assigning the proper power to the most significant digit, which is the last one on the left.

So, to calculate, we’ll count it from right to left, which will make it easier to follow what’s happening. Let’s go with 6771 for ease of use. The 6 is in the zero position, so it represents 6 x 100, in which case this is 6 x 1, meaning just plain old 6.

Next, a 7 times 101, which is just 10, so this spot is worth 70 and we’re up to 76.

Next, 7 times 102, which is 100 times 7. Add that to the rest, it’s now 776.

Finally, a 1 in the spot multiplied by 103, which is 10 x 10 x 10, which is 10 x 100, so… 1,000. Slap that on the rest, and there you go: 1776.

This works exactly the same way in any other base. So let’s look at a typical binary number: 1011 1110. As humans, we could deal with doing the whole thing backwards, but again, let’s make it easy for the machine, feed it in right to left, and watch the sequence in action:

Digit (D) 0    1    1    1    1    1    0    1
Power (p) 0    1    2    3    4    5    6    7
2^p       1    2    4    8    16   32   64   128
2^p x D   0    2    4    8    16   32   0    128
SUM       0    2    6    14   30   62   62   190

Or in base three or trinary, let’s look at 21221121, entered again in reverse:

Digit (D) 1    2    1    1    2    2    1    2
Power (p) 0    1    2    3    4    5    6    7
3^p       1    3    9    27   81   243  729  2187
3^p x D   1    6    9    27   162  486  729  4374
SUM       1    7    16   43   205  691  1420 5794

Now, let’s take a look at an interesting property in Base 10 and see if it translates over.

Dressed to the nines

In Base 10, any number divisible by nine also has all of its digits add up to nine. You can easily see this with the first few pairs of two-digit multiples of nine: 18, 27, 36, 45, 54, and so on. The tens digit goes up by one while the ones digit goes down by one, and that makes perfect sense. Why? Because when you add nine, what you’re really doing is the same as adding 10 and then taking away one.

It doesn’t matter how big the number is. If you can add the digits up to nine, then you can say it’s divisible by nine. To just pull a number out of thin air, I guarantee that 83,764,251 is evenly divisible by nine. I could also put any number of nines anywhere in that number and it would still be divisible, or put the digits in any order. And if you have a number that has all of the digits from 0 to 9 in any order, then it’s divisible by 9.

So does this property hold for other bases? What about Base 8? In that case, we should expect seven to be the magic number. I’ll spare you the torturing of Excel I did to run a  test, but the answer is: Yes. If a number is divisible by seven in Base 8, then its digits add up to seven. Here’s the list from the Base 8 equivalent of 1 to 99 (which is 1 to 77): 7, 16, 25, 34, 43, 52, 61, 70. Now none of those numbers in Base 10 is divisible by seven, but in Base 8 they are. Here’s how and why it works.

When you divide a number in Base 10 by 9, you start on the left, figure out how many times 9 goes into that whole number, carry the remainder to the next digit, and repeat the process. So to divide 27 by 9, you start by dividing 20 by 9. This gives you 2 times 9 = 18. Subtract 18 from 20, you get 2. Carry that over to the next place, which is 7, add 2 and 7, you get 9, which is divisible by 9. Add the 2 from the first result to 1, and your answer is 3.

Did you notice anything interesting there? It’s that you happened to wind up with the number in the Base digit twice. Two times 9, with the remainder of 2 adding to the other digit, and what was the other thing we noticed? That’s right. The sum of the digits is 9, so what’s left when you divide the ten’s digit by 9 has to add to the one’s digit to total 9.

This is true in any other base. Let’s look at our Base 8 example of 34. We can’t cheat by converting to Base 10, so the 3 tells us that 7 goes into the number three times. But since 3 times 7 is 3 less than 3 times 8, that’s our remainder. Add that to the 4 to get 7, and boom, done. In Base 8 34/7 = 3+1 = 4. Convert the Base 8 to Base 10 to get 28, and voila… 4 times 7 is 28. The answer is the same either way when you reduce it to a single digit.

A spot check bears this out with other bases, so it would seem to be a rule (though I’m not sure how to write the formula) that for any Base, B, and any number evenly divisible by B-1, the digits of that number will add up to B-1.

That’s the funny thing about whole numbers and integers. They have periodicity. What they do is predictable. Multiples of any integer will appear at regular intervals without jumping around no matter how far towards any particular ∞ you go. Irrational numbers and primes, not so much. But it’s good to know that the basis of digital computing is so reliable and regular. In fact, here’s a funny thing about binary: Every single number in binary is evenly divisible by 1 because all of the digits of every single number in it adds up to a number divisible by… 1. And a Base 1 numbering system is impossible, because the largest possible number in it is 0. It also breaks the whole Base rule above, because nothing can be divided by 0. Base 1 is the Black Hole of the numbering system. The rest should be pretty transparent.

Babylonian math and modern addition

Babylonians, who were very early astronomers, inherited a rather interesting counting system from the Sumerians, one that worked in Base 60, if you can believe it. It was basically derived from counting each of the segments of the fingers on one hand, not including the thumb (3 x 4) and then using all five fingers on the other hand to count each set of 12. Five times 12, of course, equals 60.

60 is a very useful number because it has so many factors: 1 through 6, then 10, 12, 15, 20, 30, and 60. It also has common factors with 8 (2 and 4) and 9 (3), and can easily create integer fractions with multiples of 5 and 10. For example, 45/60 reduces very easily. First, divide both by 5 to get 9/12, then divide both by 3 to get 3/4. It works just as easily in reverse — 60/45, 12/9, 4/3 which equals 1 1/3.

If you’re ahead of me, then you’ve already realized a very important place where we use 60 a lot.

Now, I would argue that the system is actually Base 12 counted in groups of 5, but the outcome is rather interesting, because to this day it forms the basis for some pretty basic things: Euclidean geometry and telling time.

A minute has 60 seconds and an hour has 60 minutes, of course. A circle has 360 degrees, which is 60 times 6. It’s a fortunate coincidence that an Earth year worked out to be so close to that in number of days — 365.25. And in case you’ve ever wondered why we add one day every four years, that’s the reason why. Our 365 day calendar loses a full day in that time, and we put it back by tacking it onto the end of February.

I still think that it was more Base 12 times 5, because there are some significant dozens that pop up, again thanks to the Babylonians. There are a dozen constellations in the zodiac, each one taking up 30 degrees of sky, giving us 12 months.

Of course, you can’t write “12” in Base 12 — those digits actually denote what would be 14 in Base 10. So how do you get around there only being 10 digits if you want to write in bigger bases?

If you’ve done any kind of coding or even HTML, you’re probably familiar with the hexadecimal system, which is Base 16. There, the convention was established that once a digit hit nine, the rest would be filled out with letters until you incremented the next digit up. So, once we get to 9 in Base 16, the following digits are A (10), B (11), C (12), D (13), E (14), and F (15). F is followed by 10 (16), and the whole process repeats following the rules I’ve described previously.

Now you might wonder, how did they do single digits in Base 60, and the answer is that the Babylonians didn’t. In fact, they sort of cheated, and if you look at their numbering system, it’s actually done in Base 10. They just stop at 59 before rolling over. They also didn’t have a zero or a concept of it, which made the power of any particular digit a bit ambiguous.

And yet… Babylonians developed a lot of the complex mathematics we know to this day, including algebra, a pretty accurate calculation of the square root of 2, how to figure out compound interest, an apparent early version of the Pythagorean theorem, an approximation of π accurate to about four digits, measuring angular distances, and Fourier analysis.

Yeah, not too bad for an ancient civilization that didn’t have internet or smart phones and who wrote all their stuff in clay using sticks, huh? But that is the beauty of the ingenuity of the human mind. We figured out this stuff thousands of years ago and have built upon it ever since. The tricks the Babylonians learned from the Sumerians led in a straight line right to the device you’re reading this on, the method it’s being piped to your eye-holes, the system of satellites or tunnels of fiber optics that more likely than not takes the data from source to destination, and even the way all that data is encoded.

Yay, humans! We do manage to advance, sometimes. The real challenge is continuing to move forward instead of backward, but here’s a clue. Every great advance we have made has been backed up by science. Within our own living memory — that of ourselves, or the still living generations who remember what their parents and grandparents remembered — we went from not being able to fly at all to landing humans on the Moon to launching probes out of our solar system, all of it in under one century.

We have eradicated or mitigated diseases that used to kill ridiculous numbers of people, are reducing fatality rates for other diseases, and are increasing life expectancy, at least when the voice of reason holds sway. For a while, we even made great advances in cleaning up the environment and quite possibly turning the tide back in favor of reversing the damage.

But… the real risk is that we do start moving backward, and that always happens when the powers that be ignore science and replace it with ignorance and superstition, or ignore the advances of one group because they’re part of “them,” not “us.”

To quote Hamilton, “Oceans rise, empires fall.” And when an empire falls, it isn’t always possible for it to spread its knowledge. What Babylon discovered was lost and found many times, to the point that aspects of it weren’t found again until the time of the ancient Greeks or the Muslims, or the Renaissance.

In order, and only in terms of math, those cultures gave us geometry; algebra and the concept of zero; and optics and physics — an incomplete list in every case. European culture didn’t give us much in the way of science between the fall of the Roman Empire and the Renaissance, while the Muslim world was flourishing in all of the parts of Northern Africa and Southern Europe that it had conquered, along with preserving and advancing all of that science and math from fallen old-world civilizations.

Yeah, for some funny reason back then, their religion supported science. Meanwhile, in other places a certain religion didn’t, and the era was called the Dark Ages. That eventually flipped and the tide turned in Europe beginning in the 16th century. In case you’ve ever wondered, that’s exactly why every college course in “modern” history begins at 1500 C.E.

Sadly, the prologue to this is the Italian war criminal Cristobal Colón convincing the Spanish religious fanatics Fernando y Isabel to finance his genocidal expedition originally intended to sail west to India but unfortunately finding some islands next to a continent in the way, on which he raped, pillaged, and slaughtered people for his own amusement. Or, in other words, the Dark Ages didn’t end until Colón and those Spanish rulers were dead and buried, meaning January 23, 1516, when they fed the last of them, Fernando, to the worms.

Oh, except that humans continued to be shitty as they sailed west even as science back home advanced. Dammit. And that’s been the back and forth since forever. What we really need are more people committed to the “Forth!” while determined to stop the “Back!”

Or, at the very least, push the science forward, push the bullshit back.

Sunday Nibble #47: Music really is just math

In which your humble narrator goes off on the subject of music theory and turns a nibble into an elaborate seven course formal dinner prefaced by a catered luncheon and a two hour open bar mimosa brunch. Sorry…? Not sorry. Dine away!

I ran across an interesting little product this week, Theo — the Music Theory Wheel. Full disclosure: It showed up as a sponsored link on my Facebook feed, but I have nothing to do with the company and am not making any kind of paid endorsement here.

It’s just that it struck me as such a simple and elegant device that packs so much music theory into a compact space that it’s ridiculous. It’s not anything I’d ever need because I’ve had all of this information living in my head since I was about seven years old.

But there’s a reason that music theory can fit into such a simple, elegant, and geometric space, which is made up of two arcs of 210 degrees each, offset by ninety degrees. This is just a mask for the real action, which happens on the disc inside as you turn it to your selected key.

My only question is why they decided to set the starting window on IV in the tonic key, rather than on I, but otherwise, it is beautiful.

The basis of musical theory is the Circle of Fifths, and that’s what you’re looking at above. Western music is based on seven notes and eleven tones, and the Circle of Fifths arranges them in an order that teaches us how to create harmonious melodies out of them.

The seven notes are identified by the first seven letters of the alphabet: A, B, C, D, E, F, G. Of course, you may also know them from a certain cloying musical in which they are called Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, Ti, Do, although these words do not refer to the aforementioned letters.

Rather, each one stands for a particular place in the scale based on whatever note happens to be Do, number 1. The full do-re-mi cycle covers eight notes, and we generally identify them by Roman numerals, which gives us I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII. If you did click the link above, you’ll see them very prominently displayed.

Those weird note names came from an 11th Century monk, Guido d’Arezzo, who basically created the idea of the musical staff as we now know it. But that’s not important now.

How do we go from seven notes to eleven tones? That would be because of the accidentals. These refer to either sharps or flats. The former raise a note one half step, and the latter drop a note one half step.

Now, you’d think that this would give us fourteen notes, but it doesn’t work that way because not all notes start out a step apart. Welcome to B and C and E and F, which are already a half step from each other.

For proof of that, look at a piano keyboard. Ever wonder why there are two spots with white keys that have no black key between them? Well, the two below the pair of black keys are B and C, and the two below the trio of black keys are E and F.

Or, in other words, C is already B sharp and B is C flat; F is E sharp, and E is F flat.

Confused yet? Well, let’s write out the eleven tones, known as the chromatic scale, and do it using the sharp sign, #  — which existed long before it meant hashtag, thank you. Starting on A…

A, A#, B, C, D, D#, E, F, F#, G, G#

Sidebar: This is actually a twelve-tone scale. It just need another A on top. Same thing with the original A to G. The full pattern has an A at the end as well, making it eight notes, which we call an octave.

Of course, we don’t build things out of that chromatic scale, unless we’re some freak like Schoenberg and company, who actually thinks that atonal shit — composed by picking notes at random no less — sounds good.

No, in western music, the Major scale starts on a particular note and follows a pattern. The pattern is this: Whole step, whole step, half, whole step, whole step, whole step, half.

So, if we start on A and follow the steps and half steps above, we get:

A, B, C#, D, E, F#, G#, A

It’s probably a little clearer in the key of C, though, because that’s the one key that doesn’t have any accidentals. Advanced technical term. Short version: the key of A, as shown above, naturally has three sharps in it. The key of C has no sharps and no flats.

It’s a thing.

So, if we start on C, it goes like this: C to D, whole step. D to E, whole step. E to F, half step. F to G, G to A, and A to B, your trio of whole steps, then B to C your last natural half step.

There’s a hidden effect in here, and it’s this: the first and next to last steps, which are II and VIII on the scale, don’t matter that much (until we get to insanely advanced jazz theory) but the next four steps are all important in harmonizing on the dominant note for various reasons.

They are III, IV, V, and VI. Two of them (IV and V) create the Circle of Fifths, three of them (I, III, and V) create all Major chords, and one of them (VI) is the most important sibling of the main key, because it creates the relative minor.

I’ll plop in the C Major scale again for reference:


And, in terms of relative tone:


Here are the beginnings of the arrangement of the Circle of Fifths. Start with any arbitrary note, in this case, C, and stick it on a circle divided into twelve sections of 30 degrees. Next, clockwise from C, put the V tone, which is G. Counterclockwise to C, put the VI tone, or F.

Fun fact: If we start our scale on F, C will be V. Here we go, using flats instead of sharps:

F G A Bb C D E F

If we extend the Circle of Fifths clockwise from C and G, then the next steps go D, A, E, B, F#… and this is where it takes an interesting turn.

Normally, the next note up from F# would be C#. However, that’s an icky key signature in which every note is sharp, so it was decided long ago that this was where things would swap out to Db, which is the same thing.

And the best part is that once you hit Db, you get to go backwards up the scale — Db, Ab, Eb, Bb, F… and F brings us right back to C.

And there is your circle, twelve notes, five steps apart going clockwise, four steps apart going counter clockwise.

As for the importance of I, III, V, that’s simple. Put those three notes together, you get a Major chord.

Then there’s the VII, which is the III to the V of the chord based on the tonic I that will wrap up in the aforementioned II in order to create the perfect chord to transition back to the original key.

And yeah, that probably sounded totally opaque. In simple terms, B is VII in the key of C. In the key of G, it’s III. Add the II of C, i.e. D (which is V in the key of G), on top of that, and you get G B D.

Now here’s the final mind bender. Add the IV of C onto that, which is F, and you get what is called a G7 chord, since F is VIIb in the key of G. And what does this chord do? Like I said, it leads your ear right back to the C Major chord.

A quick recap on the notes in that G7 chord relative to the key of C Major: V, VII, II (actually IX) IVb (technically XIb). In the key of G, those notes are I, III, V, VIIb. You’ll notice that the difference in every case is four.

By the way, the F7 chord in the key of C consists of the IV, VI, VIII, and IIIb (technically Xb) in C, the notes being F, A, C, Eb. In the key of F, they are I, III, V, VIIb. In this case, the difference in position is three in the opposite direction, although if I raise each note in the F chord an octave (i.e. add 7 to the number) then they all happen to be… four above the corresponding note in the key of C.

So, like I said, music theory is nothing but math, and I haven’t even gotten into notation and time signatures and all that good stuff. But, to me the most amazing part of all of this is that we somehow took the only natural language — math — and teased out of it one of our greatest and most enduring art forms.

Somewhere along the way, someone noticed that if you had, oh let’s say the thigh bone of an animal left over from dinner, and you hollowed it out and blew through it, it made a note.

And if you randomly punched a whole somewhere along its length, it would make a different note. So, you could now play two notes by covering and uncovering the hole. Let’s make more holes!

But the willy-nilly approach probably led to some god-awful sounding bone flutes and it didn’t change until some genius came along and said, “Hey… let’s make one hole right in the middle.”

So they did, and that worked because the two notes it could play were just the same note an octave apart. Hooray, primitive man discovers the bassline to My Sharona! But they clearly progressed from there, probably starting by drilling the next holes midway between the first and either end, and so on, adding holes and notes.

Eventually, after humans had discovered they could do similar things with vibrating membranes (drum solo!) and strings (cue violins) scientists studied the relationships, discovered that sound came in waves and frequencies, and the length of a wave determined the frequency, or note.

This is when it got exact, so that math could tell us the proper places to drill the holes in the flute were. Totally made up examples: The first two an equal distance from each other and the blow-hole on the flute, the third at half the distance between the first two, the next three at the same distance from each other and the third as the first two, and the last one the same distance from the previous but half distance from the end.

Cover all the holes and you get I in whatever key the flute was cut in. Uncover them, and you get VIII. Seven holes give you each note in the Major scale if the physical intervals are right.

Which brings me to things like modern flutes, piccolos, and saxophones, which are still just basically tubes with holes in them, right? So why are they so damn complicated, with all the extra holes and pushy bits and valves?

Simple. They don’t just play 8 notes, and a lot of them don’t just cover one octave. All those extra fiddly bits are there to create those other notes in the whole 12 tone scale.

Funniest conversation I ever had with a fellow musician as he watched me improvise on the piano. Keep in mind that he played clarinet and saxophone.

Musician friend: “My god. How the hell do you know where to put all your fingers to play that?”

Me: (Blank stare, blink) Dude… I’m looking at a map. How the hell do you know where to put your fingers?”

I think that gave him a huge “A-ha” moment.

Friday Free-for-All #12

In which I answer a random question generated by a website. Here’s this week’s question Feel free to give your own answers in the comments.

What is the best path to find truth: Science, math, art, philosophy, or something else?

I suppose it depends upon how you define “truth,” but if we take it to mean objective facts that cannot be refuted by any subjective evidence, then the hands down answer is math, period.

Yes, our terminology for things is arbitrary, but what’s happening beneath it all is objectively true. 1 + 1 = 2, although you could just as easily express it as pine cone + pine cone = melon, blarf + blarf = smerdge, or whatever.

Note that those are metaphorical pine cones and melons, of course. The idea is that the symbol for a single thing plus the symbol for another single thing equals a total of a double thing.

The circumference of a circle has an absolute and fixed ratio to its radius, easy as pie. The sides of a right triangle will always compare to each other in the same way in Euclidian geometry — likewise with trigonometric functions. And it doesn’t matter what kind of numbering system or base you use.

When it comes to simple math, you’ve probably seen those online puzzles that will show something like two ice cream cones equal ten; an ice cream cone and a hamburger equals seven, and so on. Well, this is just simple algebra, except that the typical Xs, Ys, and Zs are replaced with emojis.

That doesn’t make any difference, and you’re still going to get the same answer once you solve it all out.

Let’s try one right now — although since I can’t embed emojis easily here, we’ll stick with the classics. Just imagine hotdogs, eggplants, peaches, whatever. Solve the last equation:

X + X + X = 15

X + X + Y = 13

Y + Y + Z = 10

X + Y = Z + ?

It’s all a lot simpler with reductions. The first equation is the same as 3X = 15, so X is obviously 15/3, or 5. In the second, 2*5+Y = 13 is exactly the same as 13-2*5 = Y. 13-10 = 3. In the third, 2Y + Z = 10, or 10 – 2*3 = Z, so Z = 4.

And in the last equation, 5 + 3 = 8, which is 4 + 4, or Z + Z.

Math like this has given us a way to measure the world, but it doesn’t give us the “why” behind any of it, just the “what.” This is where the next step to truth comes in, and that is science, which stands on the back of math.

The job of science is to ask questions, and then use all of those irrefutable truths of math to get to the next level of truth, which is not objectively true, but which is demonstrably true until falsified.

Note that math gives us a way to measure, because that is very important in science. Science is all about measuring. It’s about coming up with the hypothesis of “The degree to which A happens is affected by both B and C,” and then creating an experiment to test that, then measuring the results over and over.

For example: The hypothesis is dead cats bounce higher if the person who dropped them donated to the Calico party.

How to test it: Get a bunch of people to drop a bunch of dead cats over and over. Record which party they donated to, correlate to how high the dead cats bounced, gather enough data points to establish a pattern, publish results.

Preliminary theory: Yes, donating to the Calico party seemed to have an effect that made the dead cats bounce higher.

But let’s say you’re skeptical of that result. How to make sure it’s true? Time for a double-blind study. First, we make sure that the people dropping the cats have no idea that we have any interest in which party they donated to, so we ask them a ton of innocuous questions for “demographic purposes.”

We might even lead them to think that we’re interested in their hair color.

Second, we make sure that the people recording the results have no idea what we’re looking for either.

Finally, we make sure that we don’t know who falls into which category by issuing each test subject a random and anonymous ID that is tagged to their party, but locked away until later.

Then the cat dropping commences.

And guess what? Once the results are tabulated back to the data on party donations, it actually turns out that party donation has absolutely no effect whatsoever on how high the dead cat bounces.

But at this level, in order to get to the truth, it took a lot of maneuvering around human bias and whatnot to find it. And — surprise — all those steps in creating the double blind procedures came from… math.

And you hated it in eighth grade? Don’t worry. So did I. It took me a long time to understand why it’s so important.

Anyway… with enough of the scientific method going on, we can get to a pretty good semblance of the objective truth, although really not quite, although a bunch of it sticks.

For example, the theory of gravity. You’re not about to step off of a tall building to test it, are you? Nope. You’re going to trust that this would just lead to a short, fast fall, a hard splat, and death.

This brings us to art and philosophy, and I’ll frankly dismiss the latter as just so much intellectual jerking off, no matter who’s doing it. The only school of thought I could ever come close to agreeing with was Empiricism, which basically felt that knowledge could only come from direct experience.

Or, in other words, I can only know it if I’ve experienced it through my senses, or humans can only know it if they’ve measured it. That is, science. So the empiricists basically managed to establish their own field as complete BS. Nice job, really.

As for art, it will never discover any objective truths, because that’s not what it’s about. But what it can do is take the objective truths of math and science and turn them into relatable and subjective truths for their audiences, and do it by creating an emotional reaction in that audience.

The scientists who have spread the truth the best have also been artists in that they have performed and created an emotional reaction. Just look at Carl Sagan and how he enflamed interest in science with his series Cosmos, or how Neil deGrasse Tyson repeated that success in the 2010s.  And everybody loves Bill Nye, the Science Guy.

But, again, why? Because art swoops in to popularize science. And while art only ever leads to subjective truths, art in service of science education will always lead to objective truth.

So… what is the best path to find truth? If you happen to be mathematically or scientifically inclined, then those. But if you’re artistically inclined, follow those artists who create a lot of stuff about science, and you’ll get led back eventually.

Most definitely, though, ignore the person on the soapbox who is saying that their way is the only way without backing it up, because they are a philosopher, and they are just yapping to hear themselves talk.

Trust me. I met their kind at university, and it wasn’t pretty.

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