[6] Coding Humans: Dr. Quasar’s Nightmare; Class Prep

[6] Coding Humans: Dr. Quasar’s Nightmare; Class Prep

Listen to Audiobook

Listen with Closed Caption

Paperback – Hardcover – Kindle – NOOK – Audible

Read Literature

[6 | Class Prep] Download or Read PDF

Journal – 08/05/2016    School is starting soon. I don’t recall (or rather remember) doing much over the summer. I really need to get back to my research, so I am prepared for the class I will be teaching. The semester here in Madison is a little odd. It doesn’t start until after Labor Day in September sometime. I think they only have a 14-week semester vs. the standard sixteen I am used to—kind of nice. I wasn’t aware of this until I looked at the calendar for the correct start date this week, only to discover it didn’t start until September. Perhaps the universe works in my favor, so I may get up to date on my work. Good thing I don’t have any coursework this semester. The university was kind enough to focus on my hypothetical physics course until I got settled in. Then I can start coursework in spring. I’d honestly prefer to just focus on my research. I am about half burnt up doing different physics topics. I feel I have enough knowledge and can pick up what I need when necessary. 

I just noticed a snowflake falling outside while I sit in my rocking chair writing. It looks beautiful. I only recall it snowing once or twice in Dallas, and it was short-lived once the sun came out. It will be nice to experience winter again. What happened to the summer anyway? I have only been here now for a few a day as well. Anyways, research now.



Transient Quantum Nano Particles


Lecture 1- Superpositioned Au Quarks

Lecture 2- Stabilized Elec


(‘What was that?’ ‘Sounded like that little door knocker thing.’ ‘Who the hell would use that tiny little thing. I couldn’t even get my finger through it.’)


Yep, sure is.” J.F. says under his breath, “Hold on a sec – I’m uh come-in.”, sets his notebook on the windowsill, pushes himself up off the rocking chair, and heads over to the door. He stops to look through the peephole first and doesn’t see anyone. He then opens the door and pops his head into the hall, looking both ways to find no one is in there. (‘Had to have been the neighbor’s door?’ ‘You think?’ ‘Guess so, it’s right next to ours.’ In fact, our condo is the only one that has a door this close to it. All the other doors are evenly spaced, but this door is literally almost connected to ours.’ ‘Weird.’)

J.F. shuts the door and heads back to the rocking chair. “Alright. Now, where were we.” 



Transient Quantum Nano Particles


Lecture 1- Superpositioned Au Quarks

Lecture 2- Stabilized Elec (cont.) trons and anti positrons



“Seriously. There better be someone at the freaking door this time.”

J.F. gets up and walks back over to the door at a fast pace. This time he doesn’t look through the peephole; he just grabs the door and swings it open fast to try and catch the knock-and-dasher. His hand grips the doorknob pulling the door so hard that it slips out of his hand and hits the door stopper screwed to the wall. He expected to see nothing but standing in front of the door is one of the artificial twins from down the hall. 

“Oh. Geez. Sorry about that. I thought you were someone messing with me. Say, did you just knock on my door a minute ago?” “No. Wasn’t me.” “Weird.” “What’s up?” “Hey. Well, I am Eve, and yea- it is like Eve from the bible. My mom wanted it because Eve means something that happens before, like Christmas Eve, you know, so like she thinks woman came before man, which is why Eve is the name in the bible. My sister’s name is Eden, so you probably get the theme here. Just wanted to get that out of the way. Anywho, we met yesterday at the elevators.” J.F. responds with a confident and flirtatious tone, “How could I forget the angels of the sixth floor.” “Awe, that’s sweet of you. Well, I heard you teach physics?” “Yes, well, I am just starting, but I have been a T.A. and a tutor for some years during grad school.” “Well, I am taking Physics 2 electro something.” “Electromagnetism” “Yea. That’s it. I am taking that this fall, and I really suck at physics. I was wondering if you could tutor me? I’d pay, of course. Well, my parents would actually pay—but you’d get paid, is what I mean.” 

J.F. contemplates for a moment about how he swore to himself that he would never tutor a student in physics again. He would always say: “One cannot tutor a student in physics if they don’t read the book, and a student that reads the book, doesn’t need a tutor.” But, under the condition that the girl is as attractive as this young lady, his brain is not on track for logical thinking.

“Are you a student at the university?” “I am. But, this course is at the local community college.” “I see. I am not sure about the rules of this. Teacher-student relationships outside of the classroom.” “Oh – I looked it up. Just so long as I am not in your class directly or have a teacher that would rely on you to grade any of the class’s work, it is entirely alright for you to tutor me. Here, I printed off the college rules for you. You can double-check online. I am not sure on payment, though. It didn’t mention that. I mean, we are just down the hall, you know, so it’s like ‘Who is gonna know?’, right? God forbid you help thy neighbor.” “I suppose. When do you start?” “It starts same as UW, but I’d love to get a jump start. If you are not busy. Well, and if you wanna. You never said you do. Do you? I’d really really appreciate it!” 

J.F. analyzes the girl’s face and mannerisms. (‘Hmmm. Do you think she likes us, or do you think she is just trying to use her beauty and flirtatious skills to manipulate us?’ ‘Does it really matter? She isn’t just beautiful. She is someone we could marry and have a family with. I could see the two of us out in the country making biscuits or something – pulling corn with 5 kids run-in around.’ ‘That there is hogwash, my friend. Even if she were interested, she is at least 10-15 years younger. Give her 5-years with us, and she’ll be ask-in for a divorce just to get some excitement in her life.’ ‘Yea, that would be the statistics. Pretty good odds that would be the case. I don’t know, though; she has that something special about her. I can sense it.’ ‘So, what do you think then? Should we break our oath to never tutor physics again?’)

“Let me think about it. It’s not something I usually do. Why don’t you give me your number, and I will let you know.” “Sure. My number is-” “One sec.” They both take their phones out. “Okay,” “608-277-7273.” 



got it!!!  

“Alright. I will check back with you later then. Maybe tomorrow.” “Okay! Great! Talk to you later.” 

  “‘Alright. Where were we?’” “‘Tranoquarts, my friend.’

J.F. heads back to the rocking chair and picks up his notebook flipping to his research but then shuts the book, frustrated when he starts to hear scraping sounds. 

(What is that sound? It sounds like someone plowing snow in my walls—like the big shovel – the one on the front of the truck—scraping across a gravel road. Couldn’t be a plow; it’s only just sprinkling a couple flakes out there.) He leans forward in the rocking chair to look outside down to the street level. “Just as I suspected—nothing out there.” Screeeeeaaach-scraaaaape-scraaaaape scirrrhhhhraaaaatch(I am never going to get any work done. It’s like every time I touch my laptop or pick up my notebook, something happens. I swear! I think I am cursed.) “I guess today is as good as any to get back to drinking then. Can’t argue with God’s will.” THUNK–clink “God dam-it. What the hell is that frick-in sound.” 

To: lena.lease@metro.phase2.com

Subject: Strange Sounds

Hey Lena, hope your day is going well. I hate to be a complainer, but I am having issues with hearing some noise here. I am not sure, but it sounds like someone doing some construction or remodeling type work. Are you aware of anything like that going on, and if/when it will stop? I can’t imagine it could be anyone above me, seeing as the floors are a solid foot of concrete.


[6.1 | 10:00 am 8/26/16]

(‘Wine or beer today’ ‘Beer will keep us stable longer and save a couple bucks.’ ‘But, wine will get us where we want to be faster.’ ‘You’ll just buy wine later today—regardless, once the beer stops working.’ ‘Yea, but if I start on wine this early, I will be too drunk by dinner time and won’t really have the right buzz.’ ‘What about Gin then?’ ‘That is risky business, my friend.’ ‘If we have weak drinks—you know, like a half ounce with soda water, we will keep a steady buzz and stay relatively hydrated. We can then switch to sipping it straight on ice around dinner time and then straight out the bottle. This way, we get the mild buzz throughout the day and then the kick we need later and the slap in the face before bed. Plus, it is only twice the cost of the beer and half the cost of the wine, and really, the wine and or beer won’t be enough, and we’ll probably end up getting the Gin anyways—as per usual.’ ‘Yes – you are right; Gin is the way to go.’ ‘I also won’t be pissing every 5 seconds either. It is the lowest carb drink out there with the most health benefits.’ ‘Yea, that juniper berry could be what saves us, and we need our vitamins.’)


From: Lena L.

To: Sandra@Metro.Phase1.com

cc: jquasar@uw.edu

Subject: FW: Distracting Sounds

Do you know anything about this? 

J.F. reads the forward and then slips his phone into his left pocket. He pulls the phone back out to make sure he locked the screen and then puts it back in his pocket. He then double-checks to make sure the glass screen is facing his thigh. (Alright. Phone, money, keys. Check. Let’s get this show on the road. Wait. Don’t I have some Tanqueray in the freezer already?) BOOM-BOOM-BOOM “Christ. What the fuck are these people doing up there.”

30 Minutes Later

Split-Crack. J.F. twists open his Tanqueray and smells the pine-e fumes protruding from the mouth of the bottle. “Ahhhhhhhh, the heavenly scent of true love.” He then fills the only cup—a purple coffee mug he found down by the trash room—with ice and a little splash of Gin followed by the crisp bubbles of soda water.

-Hey Siri, what’s the weather?

It’s currently raining and 41 degrees.-

Expect thunderstorms 

and rain starting in the morning- 

Today’s high will be 64 degrees 

and the low will be 41.-

(‘Yikes. Doesn’t look like much to do other than drink today.’ ‘Indeed. I suppose we should get back to our work anyway.’ ‘Yes. I concur, good sir. I concur. To the day wet and thine body dry.’)

J.F. grabs his drink and heads over to his rocking chair next to the window. He takes a sip of the gin cocktail and sets it on the windowsill. He then grabs his notebook and flips it open to the next empty page to begin another topic.

Notes: Einstein’s theory says time travel is not possible—verbatim. However, quantum entanglement shows that Einstein’s theory of relativity is not guaranteed everywhere. It has been proven that if one travels close to the speed of light, they move more rapidly through time in the forward direction. 

Question: If entanglement between two particles is instantaneous. 

Meaning: When something is done to one of the particles, the exact same action occurs to the other particle simultaneously, thus breaking the laws of relativity, i.e., information or data has been transferred at a rate faster than the speed of light. Then, if one of the particles is taken to move near speeds of light, causing it to move further in time, will the other particle age simultaneously even though it is not moving? I postulate that the use of quantum entanglement and absolute zero speed will result in a jump between spacetime intervals. 

Boom-boom-bang-boom bang bang pop bang boom boom boom 

Sounds of what resembles a child running with stomping feet flow across the ceiling, disrupting J.F.’ trains of thought. His chest fills with anxiety, and his face boils being amplified by the ethanol coursing through his veins. Still, he remains calm and gently sets his pen in the fold of his journal and closes it. He says stiffly, “I guess my primary focus is ‘the drink’ today. Seems pretty dam clear.” He then rests the journal back on the windowsill and sips down the rest of the drink in one gulp.

5:00 pm

J.F. looks at the time and sees that he has been drinking for over 6-hours now. He wonders how he could sit in a rocking chair without any music, reading, or television for so many hours and why they went by so fast. His first thought is to check the alcohol level that remains as the liquor stores close at 9:00 pm in Wisconsin.

J.F. pushes himself up off the chair, feeling the alcohol’s effects more prominent once gravity puts its hold on him. He holds his cup filled halfway with melted ice as he walks over to the countertop. (I must have dozed off for a while. All the ice is melted.) The bottle of Gin is already three-fourths empty, and it just five. (I should probably eat something. But – I don’t want to mess with the buzz.)

[ 6.2 | Days Later] 

(Please, Jesus. Please-please. Jesus. Please, oh, God. Please. Please-please-please. Help me. Please, God—help me.) J.F. twists and turns in bed. He starts to come to after weeks of nonstop drinking. His body has reached its terminal point of intoxication. He cannot put another drop in his body without it being rejected. He searches frantically for his phone, weaving in and out of the twisted-up blankets. He eventually finds it wedged between the mattress and the wall. 08/24/16 3:34 am Monday, September 3rd, 2016. (Thank God. I didn’t miss work.) 

The pain he feels is incomparable to any sickness one could have outside contracted a rare and slow killing virus. (God—please help me or Jesus or whoever is out there. Please Jesus-God. Help me. Oh, God. God-god-god. Help me. Please help me. Pleeeeaassssse. I am sorry for everything. Please help me. Forgive me. Help me. Please. I need help. I need love. All I want is love. Help me please. God—please.)

This semiconscious rant goes on until J.F. falls back asleep and then wakes back up sweating as if he is in a sauna. He uses whatever bit of strength he has to get off the mattress and turn the thermostat down. When he gets to the thermostat, he pushes the down-arrow excessively until it reads 50 degrees. Then he keeps pushing it and pushing it the same way someone impatiently waits for an elevator to arrive.

He returns to his mattress flat on the floor, and all he wants to do is sleep, but his brain is spiked with a cocktail of excreting toxins from weeks of straight drinking. The chemicals cause his mind to race uncontrollably. The equation of how the fan blowing on his body forces warm air into his apartment’s enclosed system combating the colder air blowing out of the AC system torturing his mind. The calculations bounce back-and-forth against his will. He finally concludes that, unless he installs two more AC units in the apartment, he’ll never get the temperature lower than 60 to 64 degrees Fahrenheit. The other solution is to turn the fan off, but the fan’s sound helps keep him distracted during this period of withdrawal.

After J.F. tossed and turned about seventy times—shifting from the left shoulder to the right to the back and then finally laying on his chest—he falls asleep. A sound sleep that permits his brain to settle for a moment. But then he wakes right back up when he hears multiple pounds in the ceiling. He is too tired to care at this point. 

Eventually, he makes it through the night and officially falls asleep after the sun comes up. He plans to sleep all day and does not want any interruptions so he can begin to get refreshed for work. Like clockwork, just as he finally falls asleep, he is rudely awoken—again.

“Goddamnit!” J.F. yells out after being awoken by someone using the metal door knocker. He frustratedly gets off the bed and puts on some sweatpants and a t-shirt. He heads to the door to see John, the maintenance man standing outside. A short skinny guy, probably in his fifties or sixties. J.F. had talked with him before and concluded he has a Napoleon Complex.

“I was told you hear some noises in your place?” “Hey, John. Hey- can you do me a favor and never knock on this door again. If you are going to come up here, just shoot me a text. And don’t call, I don’t ever answer the phone. Just text me, and I will come to the door—if I am home.” John responds with a sort of tone that implies he probably won’t honor J.F.’s request, “Mhmm, ahK.” He then goes on disregarding what J.F. just said, “MMM Hmm. When you say you are hearing sounds, what do you think they are?” “Lena, send you?” “Yeah.” “Didn’t I send that email like two weeks ago?” “I’m not sure.” “Alright, well, I don’t know. Just sounds like loud random noises. I imagine one of the other tenants doing some remodeling or something because they are hardly consistent noises. Sometimes it sounds like exercising and other times like someone is just randomly throwing a bouncy ball against my wall.” “I see. And what time do you hear this?” “All day, man. Doesn’t seem to happen at night much, though.” “Usually, when someone is hearing someone exercising, we ask them to put a mat down.” “How is that. Wait—what? The floors are made of a solid foot of concrete. How is a mat gonna do anything?” “A mat will dampen the sound.” “No. I am saying, the floor between each level is of the building is solid concrete. You ain’t gonna hear shit anyone is doing above you—that is not how sound travels, man. There is no way I am hearing anything they are doing. This is something else. I think maybe the pipes are connected to another unit, and the sound is being sent down them funneling into my unit or something.” “Hmm. I see; why don’t you get a recording of it, and we’ll go from there. I have to get to another tenant’s unit.” John walks off. 

(What the fuck kind of help was that? Dude acted like I was crazy. And a recording. How am I supposed to record sounds that randomly make themselves present? This guy. Is this guy an idiot or something? He doesn’t seem dumb, but gosh, I am not sure. Probably just thinks I am some stupid college kid or something. ‘Been like this our whole life, man. These people here point their fingers at the ones who point fingers. Remember? I told you we shouldn’t have come back to liberal-nazi Madison.’)

J.F. strips his clothes off and falls back into his mattress. When his naked body hits it, he immediately feels the sting of cold sweat-drenched fabric. Before he settles back into bed, he straitens the blankets, so the dry half covers his body. 

(What time is it now.” “7:30 am!” “Fucking shit. This ass has the nerve to come randomly knock on my door at seven fucking thirty in the morning. I am gonna have to bring that up to the board. Just because we live in a building doesn’t mean people can just go knocking on doors whenever they want.)

[6.3 | Over the Next Week]

(I have been laying in this bed for two-days now. It is saturated with my toxic filth. It’s time to get some food and caffeine in me and get back on the horse. I really need to stay sober. I have to get to work tomorrow. I will never get my work done if I keep going on binges. Maybe I should look into AA again, but it never works. It always goes the same way. I stay sober for a few months, am feeling great about it, and then people in the program start shoving their opinions down my throat. They start telling me I will relapse if I don’t get a sponsor and work their program, so I do that, and I relapse. They blame me, saying I must not really believe in God, which is why I relapsed. Sick people—they are, really. They don’t really believe what they say they believe, so they try to convince others to believe it, and when they don’t, they blame them, and that reinforces the lie they embed their life in. I suppose it is my own fault for listening to them in the first place. I mean, nothing makes me want to drink more than recovery. Besides, most the people in those groups are drug addicts nowadays. They don’t understand what alcoholism really is, or they have been sober for 40-years spitting lies to one another for so long that they have forgotten what reality really is. I don’t know. It doesn’t seem hard for me to grasp on to the belief of God and prayer when I am suffering from horrible withdrawals, so why can’t I do it when I am sober? I guess it’s because my mind is clear and I can think straight. One cannot take any faith in the thoughts of a raving alcoholic mind, can they? I don’t know. Some of my best ideas came to me in the midst of a drunken state. Yea, but that is like a point that allows you to lose access to parts of your brain; you are usually too stiff to enter, like getting the nerve to ask a girl out when having a few drinks. To embed your entire belief system and day-to-day actions based on something a human said is absurd. I always love the hypocrisy of humans. One of the most self-proclaimed Christians I ever met went on a rampage about politics and news to say: ‘Only a fool believes what they read. Just because it’s written down doesn’t make it true.’ To go on to the next string of words about, ‘Everything written in the bible is what should be followed and nothing else.’ Then, put the other person down and belittled them in such a cruel way for not putting absolute belief in the bible, which the man read. What an idiot. So, how can I put faith in humans and what they have written? I have never met a single person that has not lied to manipulate someone—including myself. I don’t know. Drinking takes me to a euphoric fantasy land and keeps me sane in some sense, even though the alcohol makes me act insane while under it. I think maybe true love would set me free. I cannot think of one thing I have ever wanted more in my life other than true love.)

Clink – tittle – pop – bang-bang – boom – pound-pound-pound

“JESUS! WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY DOING NOW! I mean, seriously. What in the hell are these people doing?” (I don’t even have a clue what this sound is. Do they ever stop moving? I don’t really hear a thing from 10:00 pm to 7:00 am, so it’s got to be someone’s routine, but goddam! Who the hell moves so much! I thought people just sat and watched TV all day. These condos are not that big. What could they be doing with such limited space? I am gonna have to campout on the parking ramp across the street and look into windows to figure out who these fucks are.)

-Hey Siri, start a new note

What do you want it to say?-

-Annoying Goddamn Sounds” 

OK, what would you like to add?-

-11:03 am sounds like someone throwing a rubber ball against the wall.

-11:09 am sounds like someone dropping little blocks of wood

-11:10 am sounds again like a rubber ball being thrown at the wall. I imagine someone pacing their home while tossing a ball against the wall. 

(My brother used to do this for hours to calm his anxiety.)

-11:11 am I don’t even know how the fuck to describe this sound. It’s like mice with wooden shoes jumping on a trampoline made of vinyl planks. 

-11:13 am It’s as if a chair with rubber on the feet is being pushed across the floor bengghhhhhrrrrRR sound

-11:00 am – 12:00 pm Nonstop pounding as if someone was using a punching bag. 

(I cannot even keep track of a fourth of this shit.)

“I got to get the fuck out of here before I snap.”


BOOM-BOOM – BOOM – BOOM-boom-bang


BOOM – BOOM – BOOM – bang-bang-bang-bang

“Jesus God. I have to leave. What the hell is wrong with this person that they would have to move this much all day.” 

Frustrated, J.F. decides to leave his condo and go work in the lobby where he may find some peace and quiet. He grabs his notebook and rushes out into the halls slamming his door behind him, and then continues down the hall to the elevator walking stiffly. 

When he gets to the lobby, no one is in it despite it being the middle of the day. He is grateful for this. It allows him to get some rest, so he takes up residence on one of the Victorian chairs. He sets his head back and closes his eyes to rest while the place is empty. After a quick nap, he plans to get to his work.

“Wake up, man.” 

J.F. barely has a chance to shut his eyes when someone starts talking at him. He pulls his head back straight to see a man with his two lap dog sitting in the wide Victorian chair across from him. One of the dogs is erect on his lap and the other by his leg. (What does this guy want? He looks like Charles Manson or Jesus Christ or maybe Jim Morrison. I wonder if that is how women perceive him. If they are attracted to him, he appears to be a saint or a famous musician, and if they are not attracted to him, he is the devil. Women are so strange as to how they depict a person based on how they are attracted to them.)

The peculiar man looks at J.F. and says,“You must be the new recruit. I am JIM, that is capital J – I – M, and these are the building watchdogs.” J.F. is confused but still replies saying, “Nice to meet you.” He is unsure what to think of such a man with such dogs just appearing in this chair seemingly out of nowhere. (When did he get there, and had he been there the whole time? Is he magic or was I actually asleep?) 

“Say, what’s your drink of choice? Gin or Whiskey?” “Why do you ask?” “If I ever offer you a drink, I’d like to know your brand. I have a feeling we will be running into one another frequently here in the lobby. I like to spend time down here. It’s nice. Big and open—get to talk to random people at what not.” “Tanqueray is pretty much the only thing I’ll drink.” “Well, alright friend. I’ll remember to bring that later tonight. If you find yourself fancying a cocktail this evening, you’ll know where to find me.” “Alright then. Thanks.”


Leave a Reply