What Bad Bases Are Good For

Base two numerals can be awkward to compute with, and Roman numerals are even more awkward. But awkward is not the same as bad. Today I’ll tell you about a truly awful numeral system—possibly the very worst ever proposed as a way of doing arithmetic—but I claim that even such an abominable system is useful for something.

EQUAL TIME FOR THE FAR LEFT

First let’s talk about a funny way of extending decimal notation that lets you write negative numbers without using a minus sign. In this system −1 is written as …999, which should remind you of the infamous decimal 0.999…, except that where the dots in 0.999… mean “forever rightward” the dots in …999 mean “forever leftward”.

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Seventeen Camels and Where They Can Take You


“Oh, it’s just a trick thing.” – Ben Ames Williams, Coconuts

Here are six puzzles, some of them classics, that don’t look much alike on the surface. After stating them, I’ll give a hint about what they have in common. Then I’ll present solutions that all make use of the same slick trick in one form or another.

Puzzle 1: A wealthy merchant died, leaving seventeen camels to be distributed among three heirs. The merchant’s will stipulated that one half of the camels should go to the eldest heir, one third of the camels should go to the second heir, and one ninth of the camels should go to the youngest heir. The most literal-minded course of action would be to butcher some of the camels, giving eight-and-a-half camels to the eldest heir, five-and-two-thirds camels to the second heir, and one-and-eight-ninths camels to the youngest heir, with the remaining seventeen-eighteenth of a camel left for the vultures. But surely the merchant hadn’t intended such carnage! While the heirs were puzzling over their situation, a passing trader stopped to ask what the problem was. When they explained the impasse they were facing, the trader solved their problem with one simple suggestion. What was it? (Warning: This is sort of a trick question, so don’t expect a textbook-style answer!)

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Sorry, Mary

[Note to reader: This is a sequel to my widely-circulated 2021 essay “The Great Solar Bleed-Out Scam”; for the sake of readers who have forgotten or never read that earlier essay, I include it here.]

April 1, 2021: Dr. Jeremiah Browne of NASA, Dr. Marissa Carson of NASA, and many other people from all over the world with the title “Dr.” in front of their names are telling us that, based on observed dimming of our sun, we can conclude with 100 percent certainty that humanity has around thirty years before catastrophe arrives, unless someone takes action.

They base their case on a claim that the sun is cooling off at an exponentially increasing rate—a rate that’s hard to measure right now, but one that will be impossible to ignore thirty years hence. I’m not going to tell you that they’re wrong to worry about exponential cooling. I can’t do that.

What I will explain to you is why they cannot know what they claim to know—at least, not with anything approaching the level of certainty they’re laying claim to. And the fact that they won’t admit the inherent uncertainty of their predictions gives me serious qualms about their judgment and good faith.

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In Praise of Stupid Questions

Ask a silly question, get a silly answer. — Tom Lehrer, “New Math”

I ask too many questions. A case in point is the time I lost out on a place I wanted to rent when I asked my potential future landlord one question too many (“Does the pond have mosquitos in the summer?”). Another example is the time I ticked off a car salesman by asking him, after a long string of similar requests that he had gamely complied with, whether I could try changing the tires of a car I was considering buying from his dealership before I bought it. (I mean, shouldn’t every responsible consumer go through the entire owner’s manual when contemplating such a major purchase?) As a member of a local singing group, I developed such a reputation for asking the music director questions that when we went on a tour, one of my fellow singers got a laugh by interrupting the tour-guide with my signature line: “I have a question!”

But my topic today isn’t questions in general. I want to focus on the species of question that I often tell students doesn’t exist: the Stupid Question. And I want to talk about how one stupid question led me to an interesting and new (albeit a bit stupid) way to estimate the mathematical constant pi.

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Is Matrix Multiplication Ugly?

A few weeks ago I was minding my own business, peacefully reading a well-written and informative article about artificial intelligence, when I was ambushed by a passage in the article that aroused my pique. That’s one of the pitfalls of knowing too much about a topic a journalist is discussing; journalists often make mistakes that most readers wouldn’t notice but that raise the hackles or at least the blood pressure of those in the know.

The article in question appeared in The New Yorker. The author, Stephen Witt, was writing about the way that your typical Large Language Model, starting from a blank slate, or rather a slate full of random scribbles, is able to learn about the world, or rather the virtual world called the internet. Throughout the training process, billions of numbers called weights get repeatedly updated so as to steadily improve the model’s performance. Picture a tiny chip with electrons racing around in etched channels, and slowly zoom out: there are many such chips in each server node and many such nodes in each rack, with racks organized in rows, many rows per hall, many halls per building, many buildings per campus. It’s a sort of computer-age version of Borges’ Library of Babel. And the weight-update process that all these countless circuits are carrying out depends heavily on an operation known as matrix multiplication.

Witt explained this clearly and accurately, right up to the point where his essay took a very odd turn.

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Picturing Mathematics

I’m a great believer in low-tech math. I don’t like to rely on things a computer tells me; what if there’s a bug in the code? I prefer trusting things that I can check for myself. At the same time, I’m keenly aware of the limits of my imagination even when it’s aided by paper and pencil. Sometimes I need a computer to show me things I can conceive of but can’t see.

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Randomness Made to Order, part 1

As a member of the Advisory Council for the National Museum of Mathematics (“MoMath”) over the past decade, I’ve had a number of unique opportunities, such as the thrilling chance to improve the Museum’s datebase via my smartphone and watch exhibit-content update in real-time, and the less thrilling opportunity to break an exhibit on the museum’s opening day (buy me a coffee and I’ll confess to you that shameful episode from my past). But the opportunity I’m writing about today is one that’s still playing out: the chance to play a role in creating a new kind of Math Thing, namely, a programmable quincunx.

If you look up the word “quincunx”, you’ll find that one definition is this arrangement of five dots:

A quincunx as seen on a standard die.

But I’m talking about the kind of quincunx that looks like this:

A quincunx as seen in some science museums. From p. 261 of “Lady Luck” by Warren Weaver (permission pending).

You’ll notice that the balls piled up at the bottom form a bell-shaped curve, reminiscent of the normal curve from statistics:

This isn’t a coincidence; the quincunx was designed to illustrate statistical principles in general and the Gaussian distribution in particular. Many science museums have a quincunx, but MoMath was unique in having an adjustable quincunx in which a lever allowed users the chance to introduce biases at the junctions, making it more likely for balls to go to the left or to the right, and correspondingly shifting the bell-shaped curve to the left or to the right.

I wrote “MoMath was unique …”, not “MoMath is unique …”, because when MoMath’s lease at its old location on 26th Street ran out, it moved to a temporary smaller location on Fifth Avenue, and the adjustable quincunx wasn’t included in the downsized museum. But in 2026 a bigger-than-ever MoMath on Sixth Avenue will feature something new under the sun: a customizable quincunx, in which each junction will have its own individual bias, and in which the distribution of the balls at the bottom won’t necessarily be a Gaussian at all, but a curve of your own devising.

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When .999… Isn’t 1


In ordinary math, the infinite decimal .999… is defined to be the limit of the terminating decimals .9, .99, .999, …; that is, it’s defined to be the real number that the fractions 9/10, 99/100, 999/1000, … approach in the ordinary sense. And that limit is most definitely 1, not some real number that’s a tiny bit less than 1. This is not an approximate truth; it’s a 100% accurate, rigorously established mathematical fact. It’s a part of how the real number system works, and it’s a feature, not a bug.

But if you’ve read my essay “Marvelous Arithmetics of Distance”, you already know that there are number systems in which things that look like rational numbers behave differently1, and you won’t be too surprised to learn that there’s another new number-game to play. It’s the q-deformed real number “game” of Sophie Morier-Genoud and Valentin Ovsienko, and in the context of their work, it becomes true (in an admittedly somewhat arcane sense) that 9/10, 99/100, 999/1000, etc. do not approach 1 but rather approach something smaller. Except that it’s not the numbers themselves that behave in this ill-bred way; it’s their avatars in the q-deformed world, avatars that Morier-Genoud and Ovsienko write as [9/10]q , [99/100]q , [999/1000]q , etc.

In this essay, without going too deeply into the underlying theory, we’ll take a concrete look at the q-deformations of the numbers 1/2, 2/3, 3/4, etc. and of the numbers 2/1, 3/2, 4/3, etc. In the ordinary real number system, all these fractions approach 1 as the numerators and denominators get big, regardless of whether the bigger number is on top of the fraction or on the bottom. But looking at these rational numbers through the spectacles that Morier-Genoud and Ovsienko have given us, we’ll see that we get two different limits according to whether the numerator is bigger than the denominator or vice versa. In particular, we’ll find that, while the q-deformations [2/1]q, [3/2]q, [4/3]q, etc. approach [1]q, the q-deformations [1/2]q, [2/3]q, [3/4]q, etc. approach [1]q’s evil (or maybe not so evil) twin.

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Remembering Kelly

This past week I was saddened to learn of the death of mathematician and teacher David C. Kelly, the founder of the Hampshire College Summer Studies in Mathematics program (HCSSiM). “Kelly”, as everyone called him, had a huge impact not just on my career but on the careers of people spanning several generations.

I knew Kelly for nearly fifty years. At the time we met I was a high school student who’d done well enough in inter-school math competitions to earn a spot on the Nassau County team, and when I and my team-mates went to the Atlantic Regional Math League competition, Kelly was there, spreading the word about HCSSiM. I thought he looked remarkably like Kurt Vonnegut, though not everyone agreed. Judge for yourself:

Not Kurt.
Not Kelly.

The “17” in the background in the former picture is important, as you already know if you read my essay “Will ’17 Be the Year of the Pig?” And if you haven’t read that essay, and you’ve wondered why I post my blog on or around the 17th of each month … well, read that essay.

I don’t have anything to write about the summer program that I didn’t already write back in 2017, but I do want to share my two favorite Kelly stories. I’m sure I’ll get some details wrong, and alas, Kelly isn’t around to set me straight, but I think he would agree that my versions are true in spirit. (And if any of you have corrections, please post them in the Comments!)

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Math and the Museum

“I couldn’t help but wonder…” — Carrie Bradshaw (in every episode of Sex and the City)

The best birthday party I ever had as a kid was a trip to the Museum of Natural History in New York City with half a dozen like-minded friends and my indulgent parents. The huge dinosaur skeleton in the main hall was impressive, but I was even more enchanted by the exhibits at the Hayden Planetarium. How intriguing it was to see a ball roll round and round the inside of a curvy funnel, evading its fate for what seemed like an eternity before finally falling into the hole in the middle, and how fun to wonder how the rules governing our universe not only allowed but mandated this behavior! How intriguing it was to see how much I would weigh on different planets, and how fun to wonder what that would feel like!

But as much as I enjoyed the planetarium, my childhood love of science was already secondary to my passion for math – the skeleton of the universe, you might call it. I probably would’ve enjoyed a trip to a math museum even more than a trip to a natural history museum. The trouble is, New York City didn’t have one.

That’s not true anymore. New York City now boasts one of the best mathematics museums in the world, the National Museum of Mathematics, informally called MoMath. With 19,000 square feet containing over three dozen exhibits, MoMath became a major attraction to NYC-area schoolchildren and tourists from all over the world when it opened in 2012. Sometime in 2026 it’ll be moving to a new location at 635 Sixth Avenue, where it’ll occupy either 36,000 or 46,000 square feet.

The square footage depends partly on you, as I’ll explain.

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