Donating my boomerang to science

One day in my psychology of humor class I jokingly made a side comment to a fellow student that the incongruity theory of humor was like the flight of a boomerang. It kind of made sense, but there hadn’t been very much thought behind it beyond the impulse. When a creative project was assigned, I told my colleague (it becoming a running joke) that I was going to whittle a boomerang. I don’t know how serious I was with the idea, but I had to “stick to my boomerangs” every time the creative project was brought up. I have always wanted to whittle a boomerang, so that’s what I ended up doing. I haven’t whittled anything since Pinewood Derbies, and I’ve only ever thrown a boomerang once before (it was one of those triangular Aerobie boomerangs), so I decided that it would be creative enough, and probably take far longer than the required eight hours of work for the project (which it did). I had to make two of them. The first one worked so well that I threw it around until it broke... three days before I had to present it. I was so upset about it breaking that I not only fixed it, but I made another one. Two boomerangs! I was so focused on making the boomerangs that I forgot about having to explain how a boomerang relates to the psychology of humor.

Here’s the analytical rundown:

Incongruity theory explains that an important (and in the theory’s case, essential) aspect of humor is its incongruous deviation from expectation. A boomerang satisfies this criterion very well: When a boomerang is thrown, it is expected to move and act like any normal object of that size and mass—move straight for as far as the energy provided can propel it. However, a boomerang begins to fly differently from the norm shortly after it is released; it curves in an elliptical path until, if thrown correctly, it returns to the thrower. Now, the incongruity of any joke is merely confusing if there is no deeper explanation to the unexpected deviation; the intelligent, alternative explanation (wit) elicits a mirthful response (possibly laughter) indicating that the experience was humorous. This is satisfied by the understanding of Bernoulli’s Principle: As air on the top of each arm (or airfoil) moves a farther distance over a curved path in the same amount of time as the air moving in a straight path on the bottom, the increased airspeed on the top has lower pressure (the principle itself) than the unaltered airspeed on the bottom which creates lift in the direction of the low pressure. Therefore, a boomerang is pulled in the direction of the curved face of the airfoil. That sounds all smart n’ crap, and it completely explains the incongruous behavior of the boomerang! The result: humor. If you don’t believe that this whole process is funny, then why did everybody chuckle when I told ‘em I was whittling a boomerang?! (If you can think of anything, keep it to yourself, this isn’t about you)

Another aspect of humor is that it follows a basic, three-act pattern:

Act I: The Introduction of the plot—a boomerang is thrown. Off it goes, straight, just like everyone expected.

Act II: The Conflict or plot twist — to everyone’s shock and amazement, the boomerang curves (I bet you thought I was going to say it “twists”... or "conflicts")

Act III: The Resolution—the boomerang returns safely to its owner, unharmed, having learned a valuable lesson.

A Laugh is born!
Right now I'm thinking of a crying laugh... straight out of the womb... a paradox?

Sigmund Freud has an explanation for this just as he does for everything else. His Psychoanalytic Theory of humor states that the laughter and mirth resulting from this humorous experience are just the outlet for excess libidinal energy which built up in act II from all the suspense and tension (don’t deny it) when, to our relief, act III shows you that there’s really nothing to worry about anymore.

The Reversal Theory of humor explains that laughter and the feeling of mirth are a result of the psychological interchange between the telic (serious, goal-driven) and paratelic (playful, inconsequential) mindsets in even, moderate ratios… probably something to do with Pythagoras and the Golden Mean, I’m sure. And, because everyone knows that returning boomerangs are used for hunting birds (telic), the playful use of boomerangs in recreation (paratelic) is funny!

The final concept I want to use is known as “The Circle of Expectation”. If you will please revert your attention to the facet of Incongruity Theory about (and explanation for) the deviations from the norm. As incongruity needs to be moderated in quality by requiring a sound alternative explanation, the Circle of Expectation moderates the quantity of incongruity so that it is not just a random deviation devoid of any logical tether. If the boomerang were to disappear and reappear 100 miles away, that would just be baffling or confusing, not humorous. It is expected that a person of my stature would be able to throw an object of similar size and mass up to 100 yards. Thus, the physical area of expected possible flight of the boomerang is restricted to a 100 yard radius with the thrower as the focal point. The flight path of the boomerang stays within the confines of the Circle of Expectation and does not lose any humor to confusion.

So, I whittled a boomerang for my psychology class. That incongruity with expected course-relevant assignments has hopefully been resolved in an intelligent and creative way. Perhaps it pushed the limits of the Circle of Expectation, but at least Freud helped us all return to some sound, level ground just as a boomerang returns ever-so-faithfully to its master.

These are the figures I used in class during my presentation

I finally whittled a boomerang. I'm supposed to do a creative project for my Psychology of Humor class, so I decided to hit two birds with one boomerang: 1. Complete my creative assignment. 2. Fulfill my dreams.

It's kind of a lame video that I took with my phone, so I'll try to get a better one up soon.

Dino-roar

Click "play" to see how I drew them!

MMMM... Felt it!

I saw a Discovery Channel special once about elephants that paint. At first I just thought it was kind of silly because I've actually been to a zoo where they had one of the elephants grab a paintbrush, dip it in paint, and splotch it on a sheet of paper. It wasn't a big deal; there was no real form or subject or anything, just random smears of color. I'm pretty sure the elephant couldn't even see what it was doing, but it was a cute trick. Then the program showed some of these paintings, and that they sold for more than $500! That's ridiculous! The paintings were totally bogus. the only variations in them were the colors the trainers gave them to use and the elephant that made them (Jojo's were all crazy scribbles, and Srisiam's were all vertical lines). I couldn't believe they were calling it art. There is no artistic ability there. There's no skill. The elephants are incapable of even understanding what they're trying to do; how could they ever be expected to improve? All they know is if they do a trick, they'll get a treat. But then the program explained that the money from the sales was used to help protect Asian Elephants (they're endangered). That's art! Back when I watched that special, it explained that all of the profit from the sales would go to this fund except for the cost of material, I just went on the website the show talked about again today, and even though the prices for the paintings have gone way down, they're only donating $30 a painting.

What do we mean when we classify something as "art"? I think that's a good example of how our language is being destroyed: everybody means something different. The other day I was playing with spilled pepper on a table in the cafeteria and made it look like a frog's head. If you call that art, what word are we going to use to classify the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? it's like the word "Love": If you tell everyone you love them, you can't tell anyone you love them. It's alright for something to be beautiful without calling it art. Art is more than just beautiful things, it's the beauty of beauty in all of its forms. Everyone just wants credit for things that they are even remotely involved in; you see something you like, and you've got to stick your finger in it. After all, you can't have art without an artist, right? But isn't the purpose of art to express the feelings one has felt more effectively than through words by providing a sensual means of experiencing the same emotion the artist experienced? And if that isn't the common consensus, shouldn't it be? How can you do that without experiencing emotion in the first place? There has to be passion! with that understanding, the value of "art" and merit of that classification is directly proportional to the effort and motivation involved.

In my opinion, some of the most harmful things that someone can do to society is to give credit when it isn't deserved, withhold credit where credit is due, and to think that you're the one who deserves the credit. I'm guilty of that often. I'm too quick to give credit to people who's motivation is completely extrinsic and monetarily based (giving only to get), and too slow to give credit for all beautiful things to the Real Artist. Seldom do we really deserve credit. Just because we sometimes get to stick are finger in some of the beauty we've been blessed to be a part of doesn't make us the artist. Doesn't it seem fitting, then, to make our imitations of Real Art focus on Him? Art is more than aesthetics (as far as the colloquial meaning of that word). the beauty of art comes from passion. The ultimate passion is expressed through understanding the beauty of God's creations, thus, expressing the beauty of our own existence (being created by God), we can create true beauty: art. This emulation of God's power to create is art. Everything has already been created without us. All we can do is imitate.

Drawing toward humiliation

I don't go to my history of philosophy class as much as I probably should. I like the subject, but it's so late in the afternoon (4:00-4:50), that usually by the time it rolls around, I've had enough time to decide on something else to do instead. So it's no surprise that I was a little confused about the instructions for our take-home exam we had this week, since my professor probably explained it on one of those days I played hooky. The exam had five essay prompts, and we were instructed to use about 3,000 words to answer them. One of the prompts, for example, was: "Explain the metaphysics and epistemology of Plato's Theory of Forms". I'm pretty sure I rocked that one. The confusion came on prompt #4: "Sketch Aristotle’s views about the nature of the universe in terms of the four causes and the distinction between the natural world and the supernatural world." I know what you're thinking: Draw a picture. That's what I thought too. Especially when Aristotle himself drew a picture to illustrate it. So I did. I typed the prompt at the top of the paper and left the rest of it blank so I could sketch Aristotle's universe after printing the rest of the paper. It was a pretty good sketch too! I did think it was a little odd; It seemed unusual for that type of assignment, and a little out of place, but that's what it said to do! When I got to class, everyone had their own six-to-eight-page, printed and stapled packets that they were so relieved to have completed, and were in the process of proudly sharing their unique answers and approximation to the suggested word count. Before I could even sit down in my usual, unassigned desk, a classmate shoved his own exam in my face, convinced I'd be astounded by his extraordinary achievement. It didn't take long to notice that his answer to #4 was not a picture, but an essay. Slightly confused, and mostly worried, I asked to see another student's exam claiming to be interested in her conclusion to the definition of Anaximander's "apeiron" (prompt #2). Also an essay in place of #4's expected hand-sketched universe. Even from a distance, as many students thumbed through their papers in self assurance, I noticed the absence of any artwork.

Sketch: 1. verb intrans. to draw or paint a sketch. 2. verb trans. to describe roughly or briefly or give the main points or summary of. (CRAP!)

Boy, did I feel sheepish! I sat quietly at my desk too embarrassed to show my paper to anyone. I had nothing to boast about. I hated mine. I wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible, but the professor didn't even collect the exams at the beginning of class. He went right into the lecture, so I put it back in my backpack. hiding it. protecting it from inquiry. My eyes were on the lecture, but my thoughts were staring at my backpack; at my secret shame. After an hour of futile worry and inaudible, nervous laughter, I placed my paper on the pile of unblemished, sketchless exams at the front table, and left the classroom. I walked more quickly than usual in attempt to escape the humiliation that would inevitably take place in some grading office within the next couple of weeks. As if my distance would protect me. My physical anonymity would only last until the exams were returned. Judgment passed in red pen. Who knows, maybe I'm the only one who did it right. Fingers crossed!