As humans, we are surprisingly adept at not noticing things. But just to prove it, researchers occasionally get the funding to conduct wonderfully entertaining studies that prove just how oblivious we can be. One involved getting people half drunk – just enough to miss seeing a stranger in a bear suit, but not quite drunk enough to definitely see Joe Biden in an elephant costume. That’s a fine distinction that’s not easy to duplicate in the lab.

The idea of doing a can-you-see-the-dude-in-an-animal-suit study goes back to a famous trial in 1999, where subjects were asked to count the number of times the people wearing white passed the basketball. Here’s the video:

Half the participants in the study didn’t see the simian. The conclusion drawn from this is that people misjudge their own ability to notice significant, unexpected events while they are are concentrating on a task. It’s called “Inattentional Blindness”.

As far as I can figure, this type of blindness is inattentional, unintentional, and surprisingly conventional. No matter how you re-arrange that sentence, it’s fun to say, although most people will totally miss it if you try to make it a punch line.

A couple of weeks ago, I took my wife’s Toyota to the priciest, slickest car wash in our part of town – the closest thing we have to a spa for automobiles. I signed the vehicle up for an exterior / interior makeover. On the outside it got a nice thorough cleaning and a thick coat of wax. On the inside, it was given the brisk but professional attention of a swarm of guys with vacuums and polishing cloths. It’s not as indulgent as sending the thing off to a luxury retreat in the Sonoran Desert for a crude oil bath and new-car-smell aromatherapy, but if I were a 2009 coupe, I would feel rejuvenated.

Of course, if I were an automobile that incorporated even a few of my human personality traits, I would be the subject of a very expensive lawsuit right now.

When I walked out into the drying-off area to re-claim the vehicle, I noticed the emergency flashers had been turned on. “Nice touch”, I thought. “They’re concerned about safety.” Plus, it gave the impression to everyone nearby that something significant had just happened. When I slid behind the wheel I couldn’t immediately see how to turn the flashers off and more cars were coming out of the wash line behind me, so I drove out to the street and parked, blinking all the way.

Looking over the dashboard, I checked the area around the radio, near the temperature controls, all the way down the console to the gearshift. Nothing. I tried the stalks on either side of the steering column. One controlled the lights, the other the windshield washers. Nope. I looked around the cruise control buttons, the instrument cluster, overhead where the sunroof switches are located. No emergency flasher button. Weird. By its very nature of being a necessary feature in times of stress, the emergency button should be easy to find. I looked at all the places again and again with the same result each time. I pulled out the owners manual and found no listing under “Emergency” or “Warning”. I looked through the “lights” section. I checked out the dashboard illustration. Why weren’t they telling me anything about the dang flashers?

Time was running out. The car was due back at home ten minutes ago, but I didn’t want to drive it with my blinkers going, so I swallowed my pride and walked back up to the car wash exit where the same platoon of guys were busily polishing and drying off the next and the next in an endless stream of vehicles.

“You guys turned on my emergency flashers,” I yelled to a manger-type over the sound of the mechanical drying equipment, “and I know I should be able to find the switch, but I can’t.”

He didn’t roll his eyes, but I could tell he wanted to.

We walked out to the car. He opened the door, reached in, and without looking, tapped a HUGE button in the middle of the dashboard. The button bore a mammoth red triangle large enough to post as a warning sign on the back of an Amish mega-bus.

I laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all, and thanked him. He said nothing, and just walked away, shaking his head. “Jerk,” I thought. “I just gave you a great story about a numbskull with inattentional blindness, and for this I get no gratitude.”

Now that I think back on it, he might have been wearing a gorilla suit.

When have you suffered from Inattentional Blindness?

Here’s the latest bit of rambling thought-rain from perennial sophomore Bubby Spamden.

Hey Mr. C.,

I think I already told you that I’m under a lot of pressure to make some decisions about my life from here on out. People are making a big deal out of me picking a career and getting ready to live a life outside Wendell Wilkie High School. As if that’s something worth doing!

Anyway, I’m wondering if you know anybody in the Blowing Up Buildings Industry. I’ve been watching all these cool videos on You Tube and it looks like there’s a never-ending supply of buildings and stuff that need to get exploded. It would be really neat to have a BUBI job, since my name is Bubby and it would seem like I was born to do it.

And I really have a knack for this kind of work.

I first started thinking about it last week when I saw that cool/scary video of the smokestack in Ohio that fell the wrong way and came way too close to whipping people with live power lines. Good thing nobody was hurt! Here’s the video of you haven’t seen it yet.

And here’s the thing that really hooked me – a fond look back at some of the greatest explosions of 2002.

I could watch that all day! The Blowing Up Buildings Industry is a place where I think I could be happy! There are a couple of conditions any job would have to meet before I would consider taking a specific offer.

1) I wouldn’t want to work on any projects that go wrong like that because it would be a really crummy feeling to be accountable for bad stuff happening. That’s a very stressful place to be, mentally. So any job I get would have to be with the absolute best company in the entire worldwide BUBI, and I would have to always be free of any real responsibility for what happens once gravity takes over.

2) I don’t really like explosives too much because they’re so … y’know. Violent. So no direct handling of dynamite and stuff for me.

3) And dealing with smoke and dust and stuff is really a drag. A lot of times I feel short of breath, especially when Heather walks by, and that’s just too unsettling and scary. So I’d have to make sure my BUBI job was always upwind from the debris cloud.

4) And I’m not really into math or science, so you can count me out of any jobs that ask for a lot of figuring and head scratching. Besides, getting the math right connects you directly to responsibility. (see item 1).

Mostly I’d like to watch things fall down from a safe upwind distance. Maybe some kind of PR job is right for me? What do you think? If I list you as a reference, will you put in a good word for me?

Your friend,
Bubby

I told Bubby that given his list of conditions, I couldn’t really get on board with the idea of endorsing him as a valuable worker anywhere in the worldwide BUBI. And besides, it looks like the one thing he’s best at blowing up is any chance he has of ever being hired by anybody.

His best opportunity might come in the interstellar version of the same business. “Watching things fall down from a safe upwind distance” is exactly what astronomers are doing with regard to Supernova 1979C, an implosion project that happened 50 million years ago.

Have you ever watched something being demolished?

Dear Dr. Babooner,

Recently I accepted a co-worker’s invitation to go to a lunch buffet that she had raved about, but when I went down the line of offerings I didn’t see anything even remotely appetizing.

The restaurant featured the cuisine of a foreign country, so I didn’t want to appear disrespectful. I took a few of the less threatening items, but other delicacies looked absolutely prehistoric, like a paleontologist’s research project rather than a main dish.

My friend is enthusiastic about sharing her passions and seems unable to comprehend the possibility that others don’t feel the same way about it, so when she saw that I wasn’t selecting very much, she began spooning random servings onto my plate over my polite, but (to me) intense objections.

In “Weirdfoodistan”, she said brightly, “this is their custom! A good and generous hostess makes sure her guest gets the best and most of everything!”

Sitting at the table in front of this mountain of horrifying food that I was expected to eat, I committed an act of desperation – I faked an illness and pretended to pass out.

An ambulance was called and I was taken to the hospital and examined. They couldn’t find anything wrong with me, which complicated the matter and forced the hospital to keep me overnight. I missed work for two days, sympathy cards appeared on my desk the following week and I was charged $500 through my health insurance for the emergency services and some x-rays. I know that more bills are on the way.

Now this co-worker jokes about the incident and has asked me to go back there again to “finish the lunch we started”. But at these prices, I know I can’t afford it. Ever. How can I say ‘no’ in a way that is respectful and permanent?

Sincerely,
Mystery Meat Mortifies Me

I told MMMM one should never pretend to have a specific illness. Why? Real illness is always too close for comfort, and “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” is a famous story for a good reason. While good-hearted people have an infinite supply of sympathy for those who are suffering, it is possible to use up your personal portion if you appear to be greedy.

Also, actually having an illness is the thing that makes you an expert on all its symptoms and treatments. If you are pretending, it will only take a few questions to expose your deceit. That’s why, when faced with frighteningly exotic food, I claim I am on a “special diet”. Here’s the key – say as little as possible about it.

“I can only eat tortilla chips and cashew nuts. Sorry. I’d rather not talk about it. It’s between me and my doctor.”

The lack of specifics will immunize you against the accusation that you are a liar, and you’ll earn bonus points for discretion.

But that’s just one person’s advice. What do YOU think, Dr.Babooner?

Amid all our talk about missiles and sinking ships, Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty came by the house yesterday for a seasonal check-up and was alarmed to discover that I had the ladder out. We had a brief, but intense discussion.

BSOR: I hope you’re not planning to use this.

Me: I AM planning to use it. I’m going to wash the second floor windows.

BSOR: Ladders are dangerous. A terrible hazard.

Me: I think you’re confused. Gravity is dangerous. Carelessness is a hazard. But ladders can be useful.

BSOR: Ladders should be outlawed, or at least fixed with graphic warnings.

Me: Graphic like the proposed new cigarette labels?

BSOR: Yes, with big, gruesome images of broken bones and severe head wounds – anything to make you think twice. Especially at this time of year when a lot of amateur aerialists go high off the ground to scoop wet, slippery leaves out of gutters. That combination of excessive altitude and loss of friction – it’s horrifying. Like watching a clown walk a tightrope made from banana peels.

Me: I don’t have gutters. I’m just doing windows. I’ll be careful.

BSOR: Everyone who goes up on a ladder thinks they’re being careful. But they’re forgetting one thing. The universe is perverse, and it has a twisted sense of humor. Remember the Tarzan movies?

Me: Of course. With Johnny Weismuller!

BSOR: And in those films he had a son.

Me: Named “Boy”!

BSOR: I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, the actor who played “Boy” just passed away. He fell off a ladder. Imagine it! You’re famous for being a Jungle Boy, swinging through the trees, and this is how it ends? The universe goes out of its way to mock us!

Me: That’s very sad.

BSOR: And that’s why I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning. Until I realize the bed could catch on fire or a spring inside the mattress could break its moorings and suddenly, violently extend, piercing my heart. So I get up.

Me: I appreciate your concern. But I’m going to use the ladder.

BSOR: I’ll need to see your LOL.

Me: Beg your pardon?

BSOR: Your Ladder Operator’s License.

Me: There’s no such thing. Is there?

BSOR: In my perfect world, there would be. And you’d have to go through training to get one. They’d teach you about basic stability, extension dynamics, power line awareness, footwear security, tool belt management and the habits of bees.

Me: I think the political environment just shifted away from favoring more regulation. I’m going to go up there.

BSOR: Sudden shifts of any kind are also very, very dangerous. People don’t recognize the value of balance. Balance in all things!

And then he issued me a Safety Police Officer’s Ticket (SPOT) for planning an Above Grade Gravity Rule Altitude Violation And Totally Ignoring Offical No! (AGGRAVATION).

I protested, saying I hadn’t done anything wrong. He agreed, and said that’s the best time to “catch” me, before the fact and not when I’m actually tumbling off the ladder.
But then BSOR has always loved acronyms and pre-enforcement of rules that don’t exist.

What is your policy towards ladders?

I was invited to Inspector Goatlock’s house the other day and was surprised to find dozens of wadded up sheets of paper scattered around the study. Some of them were soggy and appeared to have been chewed. The great detective made no reference to this messy scene, but it was obvious he had decided to re-open some old files. I quietly tucked a damp wad of paper into my pocket and unraveled it at home. Here’s what it said:

A breathless TV news anchor burst into my office and said “There’s a mysterious missile in the sky just off the coastline! Something is going on and I want YOU to figure it out. We go on the air with a live report in 7 minutes!”

I walked to the window for a look. A glowing, jagged line pierced the sky. It looked like the edge of an extremely vertical, quite rugged mountain. I suppressed a deep-seated urge to scale it and calmly returned to my desk.

“What do the authorities say?” I asked.

“They can’t tell me what it is!” he replied in even, measured tones tinged with a hint of pants wetting panic. “They say they didn’t launch a missile and they shrug, thinking somehow that will calm me down. But that makes the story even scarier, because it means someone else launched a missile! Someone whose identity is a mystery!”

I returned to the window and watched the telltale line of high altitude vapor as it slowly dissipated into nothingness.

“Go get ready for your live report,” I told him, “while I make some calls.”

I phoned two friends of mine – one dining in a pasture 40 miles north of the scene, and another pal climbing a mountain 40 miles to the south.

When I got off the phone I strolled out to the TV station’s remote truck just as the anchor went live with his hysterical report.

“We’re at the office of the famed solver of mysteries, Inspector Goatlock. Inspector, clearly we are under attack. Is it domestic enemies, North Korea or space aliens?”

“Ignorance is the real enemy,” I told him. “That was no missile. What you saw was the contrail of an ordinary jet flying toward you at a level, but very high altitude.”

“Nonsense,” he shot back. “This is a vast cover up and you’re part of the conspiracy!”

“That’s an easy and exciting explanation,” I said, calmly. “ But I insist this is an unremarkable jet trail, dramatized by the setting sun, warped by unusual elements of perspective and magnified by the relentless demands of the 24 hour news cycle.”

When he accused me of being a foreign spy, I admit, I bit the microphone.

How did Inspector Goatlock know the truth?

I got an enthusiastic e-mail this morning from dealmaker and visionary Spin Williams

I’m writing from the meeting that never ends to tell you we are all totally pumped about the beginning of the Christmas shopping season! Yes, of course it is already underway!

Things are changing. Long, long ago the heavy-duty holiday marketing didn’t start until after Turkey Day. But every year the start of the season moves up, and now we are going to consider Election Day Turkey Day and will start in earnest on November 3rd. It’s virtually impossible to get any TV ad time during the week before Election Day anyway! This day marks our first real chance in months to cut loose!

I predict that eventually we will have a Christmas that is just like our idea meeting here at Spin Williams Strategies – it goes on and on and while it may occasionally ebb and sometimes drag, it never ends!

“Year round Christmas”, you ask? Yes! And we will get there someday. It’s not simply a matter of pushing the beginning of the season earlier and earlier. We’re also trying to extend it. Here’s a great quote from the New York Times:

“Our challenge is to keep Christmas going,” said Shay Drohan, senior vice president for sparkling brands at Coca-Cola, so “it goes the whole way through the first week in January” and takes in New Year’s Eve, school holidays and Twelfth Night.

I don’t know what I love more about that – the idea of prolonging Christmas into January, or the fact that somebody actually holds the job title “Senior Vice President for Sparkling Brands”. Having a business card that says that would be … well, it would be like having Christmas every day!

Naturally Spin would find this trend exciting. Personally, I’m interested in avoiding all advertising. I don’t believe I saw a single political ad in its entirety at all this year. Shouldn’t I get an award for that? I suspect that once Christmas goes full time, the campaign season is sure to follow.

If something never begins or ends, does it exist?

Dear Dr. Babooner,

I read in the paper this morning that there will be another re-count in a Minnesota election.

I’m starting to think there is someone in this state who is my exact double in almost every respect except when it comes down to politics. In that realm, where I zig, they zag. When I see, they saw. Whenever I’m feeling helter, they’re skelter.

I think I saw this person a few weeks ago. We were headed into the Metrodome for a Vikings game. I was wearing my foam rubber horns, Helga braids, and of course I had Brett Favre’s number painted across my face. I had just put on my brand new Randy Moss “84” (again) jersey when I spied my double in the exact same get-up, except the purple“4” on her face pointed to the right, and mine went left. Then I noticed the price tag was still on her Moss wear – she got it at Wal-Mart while mine was from Target. She paid less! (And because it still had the price tag on it, she might be able to take it back!)

I wanted to pull her aside, introduce myself, and try to find out why she was so like me, but NOT. Maybe by engaging on a personal level I could help break the deadlock! But I didn’t. On some fundamental, totally unconscious level, I was afraid getting too close to this strange, bizzaro echo of myself.

If I see her again, should I approach?

Sincerely,

Afraid of My Almost-Doppelganger

I told “Afraid of My Almost-Doppelganger” it all has to do with your intentions. Trying to change another person’s beliefs through force of will doesn’t work, and being reasonable depends on them seeing you as something other than a raving lunatic. Having a purple number “4” painted on your face can be a good start only when the other person also has a purple “4” face. Though it is odd that her right-facing “4” was backwards. Maybe she imagined looking at the number from inside Brett’s jersey. That’s disturbing on a whole new level, and difficult to overlook. It sometimes takes great courage to enter into a discussion without pre-judging.

But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?

As usual for the first Tuesday in November, there is a last minute statement from a familiar source – the Hon. Loomis Beechly, representing Minnesota’s 9th district – all the water surface area in the state.

Hello 9th Districters,

It is Election Day once again and I encourage you to vote! Voting is a right. You should exercise all your rights and as many of your lefts as possible. Principled debate between opposing viewpoints is key to the proper operation of a democracy, so take the time today to have a say in how you are governed. Simple as that!

Although I just made what I think is a brief and compelling argument in favor of voting, I know that some people will stay away from the polls today. In many cases, 9th districters will skip it because I am running unopposed this year and there is no controversy. That fact alone makes our district very special, so I hope you’ll reconsider just for the sake of taking part in something remarkable. But I’m also concerned. A low turnout opens up an opportunity for successful write in candidates, and my opponents are just stealthy enough to mount a day-of campaign to unseat me.

I can’t let that happen, so I encourage you, if you’re uninspired by the thought of just checking a box on the pre-printed ballot and returning me to office once again, please send me a message by writing me in at the last minute – as an alternative to me.

Yes, I can be my own Tea Party opposition.

I can do it because the Tea Party has no actual mechanism for selecting and endorsing candidates. I can do it because no one owns the market on fed up-ness. I can do it because today is Election Day, and even if my write-in campaign against myself sparks an argument, the voting will be over in a few hours. And lastly, I can do it because there’s no one who knows my flaws and failings better than me!

So write me in! Help me defeat me! I pledge that if my write in totals are larger than my printed ballot totals, I will take that as a clear sign as to how you would like me to govern us, and I will behave accordingly. Yes! I can be a maverick and a thorn in my own side if you will only give me the chance.

But don’t simply react out of anger, fear and spite. Think about the sort of world you would like to live in. Think about the tone of the public policy discussion you would like to have going forward. And think about three-cornered hats. How do you feel about the look? Are you OK with seeing them in movie theaters, in elevators, and on restaurant hat racks all up and down Main Street? Today’s results will determine, to a large extent, the future of the global three-cornered hat industry. But don’t do it simply to keep a handful of hat factories open. I believe they are manufactured in China.

However you vote for me, I hope you WILL find a way to vote for me today, Election Day. Minnesota’s 9th district (all the water surface area in the state) is primarily a fishing district made up of small, independent operators who know how to cast. The time has come to cast your vote in a way that won’t hurt more than it helps, so make sure you don’t catch a hook on your clothes or your nose. Toss out a message that’s straight and true – one I’m sure to get! I’m counting on you and you and you. And the angry revolutionary part of me is counting on you, too.

Your congressman,
Loomis Beechly

Leave it to Congressman Beechly to try to generate a day-of controversy and undermine his own re-election even as he secures his eventual victory.

If a surprise write-in campaign unexpectedly catapulted you into public office, would you serve?

Here’s a note from our friend, a perennial sophomore at Wendell Wilkie High School, the one and only Bubby Spamden.

Hey Mr. C.,

I have an assignment to turn in today in Creative Writing. It’s supposed to be a poem at least ten lines long where all the lines rhyme with each other, and it has to be about something I did over the weekend. But I didn’t really do anything except go trick or treating with a bunch of my friends.

I’m really not into costumes, but I wore one because the other people in this group insisted on having a theme. Everybody was supposed to dress as something “green”. It could be the color green, or an organic food or thing that’s good for the environment.

My buddy Kyle went as a windmill. Tara was a frog. Stephen, (kind of a nerd), covered himself in paper and went as the failed cap-and-trade legislation. I smeared some instant oatmeal on an old shirt and told people I was a seasick tourist. My friends thought that was horrible and gross, which of course it was. It was really satisfying to freak so many people out, and they gave me candy anyway. I kinda like costumes now!

The one person whose outfit I really wanted to see didn’t show up – Ashleigh. She went out with a different group of friends because she couldn’t think of something to go with our theme. Which is too bad because some of the girls these days are wearing Halloween outfits that are more and more risqué, and I was kinda hoping, y’know? I gave Ashleigh what I thought was a great idea on Friday and had my fingers crossed that she’d show up and give it a try. But no.

Anyway, while we were walking around getting candy, I thought of a poem that was about the two biggest things on my mind – Halloween and Ashleigh wearing the costume I imagined, which I don’t think anybody else in the world tried last night, either.

Here it is:

Eeenie meanie Halloweenie.
A compostable bikini!
Ashleigh’s costume is obscenie.
made with scraps of tiny teenie
strips peeled off of a zucchini.

On her head, a pumpkin beanie.
On her feet, shoes of a queenie.
In between, the peeled zucchini
shrinking up like dried porcini
Disappearing, like Houdini.

What do you think, Mr. C.? Should I turn it in? Lady Gaga wore a costume made of meat, so this isn’t too weird, is it?

I told Bubby that his poem was, in fact, far too weird. And it probably violates district policy to hand in any literary work about one of your classmates wearing a shrinking zucchini bikini. Even though it was clever, I suggested he come up with something that is not potentially embarrassing to another student, or actionable by the school’s administration.

What’s the most outrageous garment in your closet?