koan in the land of calculus

James and I needed to do a long training walk today, so we decided to do the route below twice (19.75 miles total). This is what is called an "LSD" walk, which, depending on your tolerance for flashbacks, you may be pleased or displeased to learn stands for "long slow distance." In race walking terms, "slow" is maybe 4 mph, so it took us about 5 hours.


There's a lot you can talk about in 5 hours, so if you choose to share that time with the biggest geek on the planet I suppose you have no one to blame but yourself. Around mile two, James was in the midst of providing me with a comprehensive overview of the history of computer programming, and, having come to the object-oriented programming portion of the lecture, he happened to say something about shapes that were "broken down into squirrels, triangles, and squares."

Me: Squirrels?
James: Huh?
Me: Squirrels, triangles, and squares?
James: CIRCLES. I said circles.
Me: Oh. (pause) Could you start saying squirrels instead? I would prefer that.
James: Um, sure. So, it breaks down to squirrels, triangles and squares...
Me: Could the other ones be animals too?
James: What?
Me: They should all be animals.
James: Oh, alright. (pause) It breaks down to squirrels, chipmunks, and ravens...
Me: I think I like object-oriented programming.

Around mile four he says, "There's a koan in the land of calculus that says...." I quickly interrupt:

Me: Whoa, whoa, hold on! Did you just say "in the land of calculus?" Where is this mythical Land of Calculus? Like, can I get a plane ticket to go there?
James: Lambda Calculus. In the Lambda Calculus.
Me: Ohhhh. OK, that makes more sense. I thought it was maybe something like the Land of Chocolate.
James: (silence)
Me: Can you call it that from now on? The Land of Calculus? Please?
James: Fine. Fine, the land of calculus.

Around mile five I ask:

Me: So are there just the two koans?
James: No, there are four.
Me: And they live...where?
James: (sighing) In the Land of Calculus.
Me: Yay!! (clapping in delight)

You'd think a daytime walk in a nice urban commons like Golden Gate Park would be a safe, non-threatening experience, but you never know. We turned a corner and saw a bunch of gaudy tents and flags, and a sense of dread swept over me as I realized we were walking straight into the loathsome bowels of a Renaissance Faire [sic]. I have mentioned before that I am allergic to Science Fiction, but that is a mild reaction compared to the psychological anaphylactic shock I experience at the merest whiff of a jerkin or snood.

And so there I was, my body stiffening in panic while I let out a series of "Aggggghhh, aggggghhhh, aggggghhhh" sounds. A couple of elaborately-bodiced young women passed by and I overheard their amateurish opining on Elizabethan linguistics. "Do you have a paper bag I can breathe into?" I asked James, gripping his arm. He looked into my desperate, pleading eyes, noticed over my shoulder a fully costumed trio headed directly toward us, and said, "I'm afraid it's going to get worse before it gets better."

At one point we saw a little girl in costume who was utterly adorable, and it hit me. A three-year-old in a costume is cute and age-appropriate. A fat, 56-year-old man in a costume is just sad. And disturbing. And I want him to stay out of my park.

I did see one thing at the Renaissance Festival that pleased me: Ye Olde ATM Tente.


How the hell do they get the shillings to dispense through that thin slot?