“Even the sites and publications which do make recommendations acknowledge that any approved toothpaste will benefit the consumer. Choices based on taste or consistency preferences are valid, and will not greatly affect oral health.”
Okay, so taste it is. Apricot is the way to go. Then I look carefully at the apricot tube—there’s no mention of ADA approval.I call the 800 number and find out approval is still “pending.” Ugh. I call Thaler.
“I hate the taste of toothpaste,” says Thaler. “If there’s one that tastes like apricot, I’m there.”
I promise to e-mail him the info.
“We don’t want to make the mistake that only quantifiable things—like number of cavities—go into a rational decision,” he says. “Rationality is all about trade-offs. Say I get a cavity once every decade. And with this toothpaste, I get a cavity once every nine years. The pleasure of the daily toothbrushing might make apricot the rational choice. Put it this way: if you choose the safest car even if it’s ugly and no fun to drive, then it might not be rational.”
That makes me feel better. Sort of. Now I’m worried I’ll never find the line between rationality and rationalizing.
THE TEXAS SHARPSHOOTER FALLACY
Two weeks in, and I’m turning into a bit of a pompous ass, it seems. I can’t resist pointing out other people’s cognitive biases.
My aunt Kate, an Orthodox Jew, sent me a viral e-mail today titled “God’s Pharmacy.” It’s about how the shapes of food contain clues from God about nutrition.
“A sliced carrot looks like the human eye . . . science now shows carrots greatly enhance blood flow to the eyes.”
“A tomato has four chambers and is red . . . the heart has four chambers and is red. Research shows tomatoes are loaded with lycopene and are indeed pure heart and blood food.”
And on it went, with walnuts connected to brains and rhubarb resembling bones.
I reply, “ Thanks, Kate !” I thought I’d start out polite, at least.“This seems like it’s an example of the Texas Sharpshooter Fallacy.” (This is a logical fallacy, as described on Wikipedia, in which information that has no relationship is interpreted or manipulated until it appears to have meaning. The name comes from a story about a Texan who fires several shots at the side of a barn, then paints a target centered on the hits and claims to be a sharpshooter.) “ I’m not saying God doesn’t exist, just that this food-shape idea is seriously flawed. ”
I press SEND . I try not to feel smug. It’s just that these biases have given me a handy lens through which to view human thought. Simply being able to give a name—especially a cool one like Texas Sharpshooter—orders the chaos.
Kate replies that God designed the world in an infinitely subtle way to preserve our independence. So we must look deep to discover hidden truths.
I e-mail Kate again to say that the “God’s Pharmacy” e-mail is related to another brain quirk. This one is called the Law of Similarity. If X and Y look similar, humans believe they are somehow related, whether they are or not.
This can be seen in my favorite experiment of all time: Psychologists asked students to eat a piece of fudge shaped like dog feces. The students couldn’t do it—even though they knew rationally that it was just sugar, milk, butter, and cocoa. (This experiment, by the way, ruined my business plan for turd-shaped truffles.)
No response from Kate.
THE NARRATIVE FALLACY
I’m all cocky with Kate. But it’s not like I’m in much better shape. Rationality is an elusive goal.
Today, my son Zane threw a monster tantrum. (I have threesons now—my wife gave birth to twin boys soon after the Radical Honesty experiment.) Half an hour of flying arms and screaming (punctuated by his occasional pauses to look up and make sure we were watching his epic flailing). Julie blames all our kids’ tantrums on lack of sleep. I blame them on lack of food. He’s overtired. No,
Okay, so taste it is. Apricot is the way to go. Then I look carefully at the apricot tube—there’s no mention of ADA approval.I call the 800 number and find out approval is still “pending.” Ugh. I call Thaler.
“I hate the taste of toothpaste,” says Thaler. “If there’s one that tastes like apricot, I’m there.”
I promise to e-mail him the info.
“We don’t want to make the mistake that only quantifiable things—like number of cavities—go into a rational decision,” he says. “Rationality is all about trade-offs. Say I get a cavity once every decade. And with this toothpaste, I get a cavity once every nine years. The pleasure of the daily toothbrushing might make apricot the rational choice. Put it this way: if you choose the safest car even if it’s ugly and no fun to drive, then it might not be rational.”
That makes me feel better. Sort of. Now I’m worried I’ll never find the line between rationality and rationalizing.
THE TEXAS SHARPSHOOTER FALLACY
Two weeks in, and I’m turning into a bit of a pompous ass, it seems. I can’t resist pointing out other people’s cognitive biases.
My aunt Kate, an Orthodox Jew, sent me a viral e-mail today titled “God’s Pharmacy.” It’s about how the shapes of food contain clues from God about nutrition.
“A sliced carrot looks like the human eye . . . science now shows carrots greatly enhance blood flow to the eyes.”
“A tomato has four chambers and is red . . . the heart has four chambers and is red. Research shows tomatoes are loaded with lycopene and are indeed pure heart and blood food.”
And on it went, with walnuts connected to brains and rhubarb resembling bones.
I reply, “ Thanks, Kate !” I thought I’d start out polite, at least.“This seems like it’s an example of the Texas Sharpshooter Fallacy.” (This is a logical fallacy, as described on Wikipedia, in which information that has no relationship is interpreted or manipulated until it appears to have meaning. The name comes from a story about a Texan who fires several shots at the side of a barn, then paints a target centered on the hits and claims to be a sharpshooter.) “ I’m not saying God doesn’t exist, just that this food-shape idea is seriously flawed. ”
I press SEND . I try not to feel smug. It’s just that these biases have given me a handy lens through which to view human thought. Simply being able to give a name—especially a cool one like Texas Sharpshooter—orders the chaos.
Kate replies that God designed the world in an infinitely subtle way to preserve our independence. So we must look deep to discover hidden truths.
I e-mail Kate again to say that the “God’s Pharmacy” e-mail is related to another brain quirk. This one is called the Law of Similarity. If X and Y look similar, humans believe they are somehow related, whether they are or not.
This can be seen in my favorite experiment of all time: Psychologists asked students to eat a piece of fudge shaped like dog feces. The students couldn’t do it—even though they knew rationally that it was just sugar, milk, butter, and cocoa. (This experiment, by the way, ruined my business plan for turd-shaped truffles.)
No response from Kate.
THE NARRATIVE FALLACY
I’m all cocky with Kate. But it’s not like I’m in much better shape. Rationality is an elusive goal.
Today, my son Zane threw a monster tantrum. (I have threesons now—my wife gave birth to twin boys soon after the Radical Honesty experiment.) Half an hour of flying arms and screaming (punctuated by his occasional pauses to look up and make sure we were watching his epic flailing). Julie blames all our kids’ tantrums on lack of sleep. I blame them on lack of food. He’s overtired. No,
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