Original thoughts and ideas on various subjects in education, philosophy, futurism and general life.
by Yoav Armony
Why NOT to do sports
2017
A friend asked me how I manage to walk 10km every morning? This is what I answered her:
Every morning when I wake up, while still in bed, I explain to myself why today I can skip sports (I have many excuses). Once I dismiss them all, with no choice left, I put on sneakers and go out for a walk. I sincerely hope that one day I will find the ultimate excuse that will convince me to stay home.
As a service to the public (and my loyal friend) below is a set of excuses that do not work for me:
- I went to bed late yesterday / I have a hard day today.
- I have been doing sports for a week / two days / a whole day, it is time to rest.
- Yesterday while walking I felt pain in my leg / chest / spleen, first I need to do a check-up.
- My sports clothes are in the washer / torn / dirty.
- Today I have a birthday / Jerusalem day / My mother-in-law is getting married – need to celebrate.
- Today will be the hot / cold / humid day.
- I read an article that sports are unhealthy, and it is better to swim / play tennis / drink milk / smoke.
- As an exception I will go in the evening / tomorrow / next year.
- And the excuse that is really hard to resist – I am getting up in five minutes.
Readers around the world are invited to provide an excuse that will convince me tomorrow morning.
Calculating machine
2009
Imagine an antique collector (who also happens to be an alien) who happened to wander around the galaxy to our blue star and fell in love with an orange Mini Minor (orange goes well on blue), 1955 which has been in a junkyard for twenty years (aliens are known to love orange). The outsider took the car with him to his silver star and added it to his impressive collection. But alas, the strange alien above loves that all the objects in his collection from across the universe will work. Early knowledge does not help that alien, since in his world (and in all the worlds he has encountered so far) people move with the help of their power of thought and do not need orange or other aids.
On his next tour of the area, although the alien found a user guide in German (aliens are not known to speak German, think how much effort they have to put in since the days of Moses to learn Hebrew), he still did not understand how the hell this strange thing works.
Exactly the same way I feel these days. I bought a calculator from Thales that was manufactured between 1930 and 1940 in Germany and despite its impressive exterior, it does not work and has not worked for at least the last two decades. All I know is that it should know how to do addition, subtraction, multiplication and division up to 13 digits (impressive no? You can calculate 7,967,237 times 147,896 – I will give you the result after I finish repairing the machine).
So now I have two tasks, to fix the necessary fix (in some cases I don’t even understand that it is broken), and to understand how it does the magic. So, I disassembled part by part, removed the rust and tried to use it while understanding the operation. One part I have not yet cracked, and it is the mechanism that rotates the whole system (if you wish, the mechanical engine of the mechanism or, in professional language – Antriebskurbel fur das UW) that is painfully stuck and no WD40 of any kind helps.
I too, like our alien, found a user manual in German and I too, like him, do not understand German (what a coincidence). So, what do we do now? Two options 1) keep trying, 2) as the guy who sold me the machine said: If you want it to work buy a calculator for ten shekels.
- It took me half a year to repair the calculator and to this day it is in my living room (and working).
- Google Translate was not yet invented then.
- The machine also knows how to raise power and take out a root (very complicated).
- I found the glitch why they stopped using the machine (and fixed it).
The Best
June 2011
Is it possible that there is a person in the universe who does not have a favorite hummus, the kind that is talked about with religious fervor, returns there with unprecedented loyalty for years, and ignores reality: so what if you need to drive three hours – consider it an afternoon hike; so what if you have to stand outside in the heat for an hour until it’s your turn – they hand out glasses of lukewarm water; why are you excited about the coliforms in hummus? – this is what gives hummus its special aroma. Obviously, after you have invested all of yourselves in this journey you will praise and glorify the place so that not to snatch up such cognitive dissonance that you will carry until the end of your days.
It’s just a normal human behavior, which, I’m sure, we inherited from our ancestors the monkeys who argued for hours about which tree has the best leaves in the world. So, since this is a law, across continents and cultures, I ate the best steak in the world this week in New York.
You most probably have heard about the restaurant, and contrary to the local name of the Abu Nafha hummus, this is New York. The next available booking is in a month (no exaggeration), and we had to activate contacts at the Israeli embassy to a table in a week (right on the way to the airport, at five in the afternoon, which is known already from the Bible times as a perfect time a juicy steak dinner). We were greeted by a sour, irritated man (we have been briefed that “the restaurant is known for its rather rough staff”), who was not ready to be flexible at all no matter what the request is: “if you go to the bathroom, you miss your turn”; “you cannot sit at the table before all the party is present”; “you booked for six people you cannot come as a party of five”; in a smooth and calming language, that is not typical of us, a compromise was reached: we will wait on the side for five minutes and if the guy does not show up we will give up on him – it is a tough test for friendship those restaurants… The tables are old and worn (on purpose), the chairs are lame (of course), the waiters are over 60 (as expected), and impatient (as advertised). And here’s a surprise – you can decide for how many people to order the steak. Simplicity.
The restaurant is known for its first course, a huge (uncooked) onion sliced into huge slices along with an American-sized tomato, is also sliced into thick slices, and here the chef went out of his way and with rare culinary extraordinary creativity placed them on alternatively, tomato slice, onion slice, tomato slice, onion slice and so on. After all this effort, you, of course, would not expect the chef to sprinkle the dish with a spice or some olive oil – the beauty of simplicity.
And here c o m e s t h e s t e a k! Two huge plates, each holding about half a cow (whole cow in total), perfectly prepared – burnt on the outside, rare on the inside. The steak is quite reasonable, maybe even good, after the last half (about half a cow) it is shamefully packed in a bag to be taken to a dog who is already accustomed to steaks of such quality. The dessert was ordered, and here’s a surprise, you can choose between ice cream and apple pie. I claim they broke the principle of simplicity – but who am I to say. Of course, we took both, the right to choose is a fundamental right granted to us by virtue of being citizens more over in America, the cradle of democracy.
And at once we are out, looking contemptuously at the queue at the entrance to the restaurant, people who do not yet know how divine the experience is, indescribable, with mystical qualities, with a rare dish that there are no words to describe its tenderness, the unforgettable aroma and … of course we will tell the story to everyone who comes to the Big Apple.
The Resposible Adult
June 2011
Sometimes on the road, I tend to listen on radio to Varda-with-twenty-last-names who answers questions. Here came a listener to the broadcast and asked a question as the listeners who go on the air at Varda-who-has-an-answer-to-every-question do. The listener’s question sank into the depths of my memory, but the answer I remembered. Varda-that-always-has-answers said that she had no answer. Thus it is simply said “I have no answer to this problem.” The listener, who was sure just seconds ago that she was going to see the light, was left with very little.
When I share a problem / question / wonder I actually give a person a piece of responsibility. There is an expectation that the person will take the responsibility and give me in return an answer / clarification / opinion, thus giving me direction for the rest of my path. The greater the closeness between me and the person I shared the experience with, the greater the responsibility I transferred to him/her.
Apparently when the response is returned so is the responsibility – it is now my turn to decide what to do with the situation, however that is not the case. There is an expectation in human relationships that one will take into account the advice they one has been given. Therefore, although the responsibility has largely been returned, it is accompanied by some commitment – small or large. Therefore, your degree of freedom of decision has decreased. For example, if you approach your boss and tell him about an experience you had with a client, his advice is sometimes a command with a zero degree of freedom, as opposed to a situation where you told a friend the same experience and you can decide how to treat his reaction.
It follows, that when you share an experience with a person, you have actually given up a piece of independence or freedom. I call this situation a “responsible adult”, the person I shared my problem with becomes an adult-responsible, he/her will give me an advice and take some of the independence in return. Children are accustomed to a situation where almost everyone around them are adults, and are functioning to a responsible adult standard. But as we get older, two phenomena occur: it is harder for you to give up those pieces of freedom, and the responsible adults around us become younger and younger.
So, what shall you do? – Not to tell? Turn to Varda-knows-it-all? Ignore the response? There are probably a variety of solutions and one of them, in reverse, is to share the experiences with a great many people. When you share the experience with the crowd, the degree of freedom you lose is very small. So, here I told you now, and I am left with all the responsibility to decide what to do with it.
Plagiarism
May 2011
I was at a stand-up show by a well-known artist, and I enjoyed it (even very much), until at some point in the show, the guy told a story that allegedly happened to him at the supermarket with a cashier. The story was funny, and I probably would have laughed out loud if not a few months ago I heard Sefi Rivilin (or someone else) tell the same story in one show or another on one of the channels. Of course it is not clear to me who stole from whom, but it is clear that the idea did not occur to both of them when they stood in front of the cashier at the supermarket.
Plagiarism, or literary theft, is the use of the words or ideas of the other and presenting them as your own. The term plagiarism is rooted in the Latin word Plagiarius, which means “kidnapper”. This word was used until the end of the 17th century to describe the abduction of children and slaves alongside the reference to acts of literary theft. According to historians, comparing the act of literary theft to the theft of a slave / child indicates the great importance attached to the work of art and illustrates the perception of the seriousness of the act [copied from Wikipedia].
A few days ago (I could have written here “one of the yesterdays” but Kishon probably would not have loved it), well a few days ago I wrote a review of a book I read “The Coincidence Makers”, there too I enjoyed the book, but was very bothered that the main idea was stolen from Asimov (which has gone to a better world already, but his works are still very much alive). It’s not that I’m a naive person, we’re in the ‘cut & paste’ generation, it is normal and legitimate (?) to find a picture, video or piece of text and incorporate it in your work and it does not matter if you are at school, at work or just having fun. The amount of information is huge, there is no end to recycled material and natural human laziness so it is hard to know what belongs to whom. But… assuming no one is watching one channel or another is not good enough, all have a viewer or two.
I would have expected (and here I am a bit naive), that in the cut-and-paste world when everything is documented and time has no meaning, when things said 17 years ago will float on Google just like things said an hour ago (117,342,500 additional results collected within 0.000012 seconds), that the artists (who are supposed to be not only creative but also smart) to take this into account and remember that everything you say will be on YouTube and can be compared to what whoever said two years ago. As has been said, even the plagiarism is not what it used to be.
Singapore – Flowers Made of Plastic
April 22, 2011
I’m at the Singapore airport, turning my back for a second and suddenly find myself in a foreign land completely stripped of all my earthly possessions. The interesting thing about this story is not the fact that my property was stolen (just this week my house and car were broken into – on two different occasions), but the fact that everyone to whom I told the story responded the same way: “Someone accidentally took your suitcase, they will find it by tomorrow”, a response accompanied by a somewhat arrogant smile as if saying “This is Singapore man”. Indeed this is Singapore, a country where decisions are fully implemented, a country without crime, without traffic jams, without cigarette butts on the streets and, best of all, without people chewing gum (as the ruler decided).
Although the country is apparently democratic while elections are held periodically, activities are carried out that will cause the ruling party to win, starting with changing the constituencies shortly before the elections, legal manipulation of competing candidates, neglecting areas that did not make the “correct” choice, and similar actions that cause the ruling party to receive more than 90% of the seats in the government time after time.
Fortunately for Singaporeans, the government is trying to do good for the people. A very efficient bureaucratic system, huge investment in education, infrastructure, and tourism have turned the country from a port-on-the-way-to-the-far-east into a global financial center, a tourist site that is a paradise to live in (even the Chinese market looks like a pharmacy). However in heaven like in heaven there are apples that must not be eaten. And I always feel, when I’m there, that I live in a garden where all the vegetation is made of plastic (the flowers look very close to reality, without withered leaves, without the need for watering and without parasites – made of plastic).
Indeed, after several hours, I received a call from the airport, we found your trolley, including the computer, wallet, passport and the money that was in it. “This is Singapore, man”.
The Garage in Tanzania
April 18, 2011
No place better illustrate the food chain than Africa. We had a flat tire, we found a place that had a compressor and a man who called himself the tire fixer (or TF for short). The guy looks like a low-level beggar with overall that has seen better days. But if you have a compressor there is no chance at all that you will change a tire, for that you have a deputy (DTF) who looks like he hasn’t bathed in ages. The DTF takes off the wheel, takes out the tire, cleans, glues, connects and all the other work that needs to be done to change a wheel. But if you are DTF, it is beneath your honor to take the wheel to a neighbor where there is a tub – for that purpose, there is an assistant (ADTF) who is probably 12 years old, a little dirtier than his boss and has not yet climbed the ladder of command and unfortunately has no assistant.
Going to the garage is a dubious experience especially if the mechanic does not communicate with you in the same language, you do not understand what is being done to your expensive car and how much it will cost in the end. But the Serengeti is not a sucker, the rutted and dusty dirt roads, the heat and the speed of travel take their toll. So for ten days we visited the garage four times and in each case we did not complain.
A modern anthropologist can research in “Second Life” or in a garage just like in a tribal council in a remote tribe (if such still exists in the world). And here are the differences: a standard garage handles all types of vehicles, from trucks to motorcycles, the spare parts warehouse is another old vehicle (it doesn’t matter what type), except for a hammer and a crowbar, there are almost no tools in the garage. With this starting set it is clear that the ability to improvise must be very high. There is always a team that will work on car, from changing a wheel to overhauling an engine. The team (about five people) works on several vehicles at the same time and takes turns in a ritual that is incomprehensible to an outside observer (but always maintains a fixed number of people around your vehicle).
The Tanzanian will not give you the simplest and most banal answer before he ponders the subject, ask him what time it is, he will think for a few seconds and then look at the clock and say in Oxford English “a quarter past five”. When the Tanzanian is fixing the vehicle it seems that a good part of the time he is pondering what needs to be done, and although the pace is slow, the average worker seems to be diligent and independent.
The broken exhaust was not in a good shape and every bolt had to be broken before it was offloaded in its entirety from the vehicle. In a fine work of stitching, they returned it to operation after a few hours and we sailed on our way satisfied, to look for the next garage to take care of our carburetor. We found the next garage, it turned out that it wasn’t a carburetor but a fuel pump and it didn’t work well either and every screw had to be crushed before they disassembled it, don’t worry Super Glue (seriously!) solves everything, we left satisfied, to look for the next garage that will handle the ignition of our vehicle.
BTW, we also saw a lioness eating a zebra cub.
The Pictures’ Box
December 18, 2007
When the muse came to my mother, the picture box would open. From time to time a black and white picture is pulled out (more correctly, brown and white), usually faded over time and my mother describes the people in the picture and how they are related to us – uncle Papola, aunt Furtun, and other complex family names and connections. The photos that have survived in the best shape are those taken in the studio when the photographed appeared in their best vests, the children are dressed in the same clothes and arranged according to height, or after a wedding in the clothes of the bride and groom. The picture I liked the most is of my grandfather, Bekhor (that’s what he was called) at about the age of 20, doing a hand stand on a beam, next to my muscular grandfather stands a girl with a look of admiration on her face (probably a grandmother). The photo records a piece of memory from the frail old man who lived in our house at the time and as a child it was really hard for me to connect the two.
In the box was a special envelope dedicated to my mother’s older brother, Avraham, who was a lawyer who specialized in buying land for the Jews and was murdered on the steps of the Tabu House in Hebron, leaving behind two children with whom the connection was lost and in the family ethos they remained the “children” (they must be eighty years old today). Attached to the envelope was also an article from ‘Davar’ or ‘Hamekasher’ that described the murder, but due to too much reading it was no longer possible to see most of the text. In the same envelope was also a single photo of Esther, my mother’s older sister, who went to visit her husband’s parents in Europe and got stuck there with the outbreak of the war (World War II), her traces disappeared, at first letters still came but they became more and more rare until they stopped. For years, every day at exactly two o’clock in our house, the radio was turned on and my mother listened to ‘the search for relatives section’, maybe…
In contrast to most photos where the age of the photo can be immediately recognized based on the different and careful clothing, the designed pose and the planned background, the photo from a trip in the Judea desert, in which you see a group of travelers before a trip is indistinguishable from a group of travelers you would photograph today – the shorts, high shoes and folded socks, khaki shirts inside the pants and the natural pose of the photographed. The photo was taken during the mandate and the trip was named “The Great Trip”. Many stories were told about the trip, starting with my father’s sandal that was torn and was mended by my mother with a bandage, the sardine meal that caused thirst at a later stage, losing the way in the desert for several days (the time was never confirmed – it may have been only a few hours), to the dehydration of the travelers and to my mother’s arrest by the British on the suspicion that she was Geula Cohen (and maybe these were two separate trips).
Uncle Papola, who even when I was a child was an ancient old man and was only seen at weddings and celebrations and to whom I never really understood the family connection, although every time I asked my mother responded with “it’s very simple” and sailed through the description of the family tree, and it never made it clear to me where I was and where the Papola family was. For some reason Uncle Papola got a place of honor in the photo box. Standing leaning on a walking stick with a three-piece suit, a bow tie, a handkerchief protruding from the suit pocket with a pedantic hairstyle looking straight at the camera, next to him sits his bride with a veil that covers her forehead and reaches to the floor, high heels in two shades of white, her hand resting frozen on the handle of the chair. I remember as a child I loved staring at this picture (without touching it), maybe because of the high quality of the picture that survived the time, maybe the beauty of the bride (no sarcasm) or the careful background, casement windows, patterned floor and a dresser with a vase.
My mother passed away and there is no one to tell the stories behind the photos, most of the people photographed are not recognized but two photos cannot be missed – one in a round frame of my father who is about one year old sitting on a pillow wearing a dress with his private parts showing, a watchful look on his face, a talisman on his neck and a bracelet on his arm. And the second photo of my grandparents – Bekhor and Rebecca Arvitz, arm in arm with a Paris background (pictured in the studio), my grandfather with a Prussian mustache, a neat hairstyle, a raised collar and a thin tie, a handsome watch chain on his chest and my grandmother in a floor-length dress that emphasizes a thin waist and a wide thighs (apparently it was fashionable), with a lace shirt buttoned up to the collar, a helmet hairstyle and both looking seriously into the camera.
Not long ago I found the box of photos, I recognized some of the photos and the ones I didn’t I asked my father who made up names and people on the spot that had no connection to the ones photographed. I decided that it was an exaggeration when he firmly claimed that the baby with the private parts (of a daughter) is/is my father in his own right, God knows what Pandora’s box I have opened there…
Rock Climbing – Sweet Dreams
December 13, 2007
In the Blue Mountains (a reserve close to Sydney of the size of Israel) there are more than 3,000 climbing routes. In Australia, as expected, the walls are maintained at a high level and you can stay there for at least 3 months. We climbed walls with magical names such as “York Mountain”, “Diamond”, but without a doubt the experience is “Sweet dreams”. Here is the story.
On one of the walls we met Kesem, and Asi, two Israelis after the army on a climbing and surfing trip (for 4 months already), and the next day, by chance, we met once more at the other end of the park. We exchanged phone numbers and later that night I received a text “Tomorrow we are doing Sweet Dreams, are you coming?”, I had no idea what Sweet Dreams was so I came. Until I got to “Sweet Dreams” the highest walls I did were two routes 30 meters high each – “The Nose” and “The Crazy”. Sweet Dreams is located on the side of a mountain at a height of 300 meters, starting at a height of 150 meters and climbing another 150 meters in 5 parts, in the professional jargon- multi-pitch. In order to reach the starting point, you have to go down a goat track that includes walking on a steel cable, and the descent is already a worthwhile experience. The climb itself is relatively easy except for the last section that required an effort in climbing (grade 18, or A6), what makes the experience is the height. The climb including the descent took over four hours and it ends at the starting point. So what did we have here: multi-pitch climbing, construction of an intermediate station, securing downwards, climbing in a trio, snapling and more. An amazing experience I have not experienced yet. To stand in the middle of a cliff at a height of 250 meters held by a wire and hanging from a friend I met yesterday – amazing.
Elders – everything is relative
April 7, 2008
Cordova, who was with me in the army, went out with a 27-year-old woman when we were 21. This gap of six years at the time seemed to me unbridgeable. Following the trauma of Córdoba’s girlfriend (whose name was long lost in the memory but not her age), it was very difficult for me to celebrate my 27th birthday.
My father left the company he worked for at the age of 40. This was considered a very unusual move, people his age don’t change jobs. Although he did not just left, there was a much more senior and lucrative position waiting for him, but “you don’t do such a thing at such an age”. I, on the other hand, since the age of 40 have changed three jobs, and started a business, and this did not seem strange to anyone.
My grandfather died at the age of 70, until that age he functioned normally and was completely lucid. One day he did not wake up from his sleep, he passed away in a “good old age”. It was clear that for a person of this age it was only a matter of time. My mother (his daughter), on the other hand, died at the age of eighty-five, and everyone was shocked how she could leave us at such a young age.
I am, approaching my grandfather’s age and raising a son who calls me ‘grandpa’ normally, wondering if I will ever recognize that I am old or if I will continue to deny age as I do today – hooking up with people twenty-five years younger than me, climbing walls, dressing like a child and acting like a baby, and I am sure it will last forever.
Three in the room
December 14, 2007
After the army and before university I went to England to study English. I lived with Millie in a house in central London. Millie, an old bachelor, rented rooms to students and in the summer to tourists. For three months my schedule was quite set – in the morning I studied in a class where there were students from all over the world, in the afternoon I moved to another school where I also studied English, and in the evening I sat at Millie’s house and watched color TV that had 3 channels and most importantly there were commercials that were very funny (at that time in Israel there was one channel in black and white). Every Thursday I went folk dancing at the Hillel House and on weekends I just wandered in London. I survived on a pound a day, which was enough for a subway round trip, and two hamburgers with fries and a drink at McDonald’s, which had just opened the first branch in London. Sometimes I walked home from school and the money I saved I wisely invested in a gambling machine that accepted single pennies.
Students from all over the world studied with me and I especially connected with Mary from France and Yu from Hong Kong. Mary, a real blonde and very good looking, definitely out of my reach, didn’t really speak English. Yu was really an anthropological phenomenon for me – as someone who left the country for the first time, I was very interested in hearing about the Far East and life there. Towards the end of my stay I offered Mary to take my room from Millie since it was significantly better than hers which was far from the center and more expensive. Since Mary’s contract was about to expire she moved into my room for the last week of my stay and slept in the extra bed in the room (I already mentioned she was out of my reach). After two days, while I was walking down the street, a girl approached me and asked in Hebrew if I happened to be Yoav. It turned out that she was on her way to Scotland and Victor sent her to me. In short, Varda needs a roof over her head for a few days and I vacated my double bed in favor of Mary and Varda and moved to sleep in the small bed in the corner of the room. The last two days I have spent on the floor. Dafna, my cousin from Germany, dropped by for a visit and got the last piece of bed left in my room.
Luckily I had to go back to another country otherwise I probably would have had to move to the living room and sleep there together with Millie.
HE 
