1080p, 1080i, 720p, 480i....
What, wrong kind?
Okay, how about these:
1. To replace my mattress. Srsly. It's hurting my back, it's over a decade old, it needs to go.
2. To stop (or at least reduce) the nearly-every-morning stumble, fumble or domestic mishap that makes the last few minutes of getting ready for work a mad scramble.
3. To Do Something about my MGB. Probably sell it, as the cost of fixing it is likely to be way too much. This makes me sad, but perhaps the car can make someone else happy instead of being all-but-abandoned in my garage.
4. More bicycle riding!
5. More motor-scooter riding! (Took the last ride of 2013 only Sunday, during the very last of the unseasonably-warm weather, charging the battery and getting some storage-treated gas into the carburetor.)
6. A. To finish the dining room/library bookshelves, clear the old table of correspondence, catalogs and general home-debris and set up the new table.
B. To build the remaining shelves for the living room, uncluttering media and tall-book storage and rearranging the hi-fi components. Maybe even tackle the large behind-the-couch shelving for my typewriter and Tam's small-computer collections!
C. To build the short "wraparound" bookshelves that will link the living room and dining room bookshelves. (See, kids? That's what a bibliophile's fate was before e-readers. Read -- and learn basic carpentry!)
7. To get my ham radio on the air more. I have a setup for AM radiotelephone about 75% done. It could be a lot of fun. (I decided a long time ago, I wasn't going to use voice modes on the shortwave bands until I could do AM with the other old fossils.)
8. To write more -- and get better at it.
Hey, you've got to have goals, right?
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Monday, December 30, 2013
Always Check Your Receipts
...Over at Trailer Park Paradise, Sabra takes on a Left-wing pseudo-factiod about Your Tax Dollars At (almost) Work and discovers, lo, the numbers, they are made up. A quick trip to to IRS website, some number-crunching and she's got the real story, along with some interesting conclusions.
Shan't spoil it -- though I will note fed.gov is spending 23 times as much on drone-bombing losers (and bystanders) in the wastelands of Asia as they are on all of their science-y programs, including NASA. (All of that high-tech stuff? 1% of your taxes if you made 50K last year! Just a silly millimeter longer.) Hey, Uncle Sam? As long as you're picking my pocket, couldn't we blow them up slightly cheaper and do twice as much science?
Receipts. Check 'em. Just sayin'.
Shan't spoil it -- though I will note fed.gov is spending 23 times as much on drone-bombing losers (and bystanders) in the wastelands of Asia as they are on all of their science-y programs, including NASA. (All of that high-tech stuff? 1% of your taxes if you made 50K last year! Just a silly millimeter longer.) Hey, Uncle Sam? As long as you're picking my pocket, couldn't we blow them up slightly cheaper and do twice as much science?
Receipts. Check 'em. Just sayin'.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Tamara Addams?
Heard from the living room, where Tam is watching the morning newsthing: "Yayy, avalanches! --Gee, who's gonna go skiing in a Hellgate? Wow, this guy's stuck in snow up to his neck!"
...I'm tellin' you, I've never known anyone who gets more enjoyment from the news. (Per Tam: "You would have to have a heart of stone, not to laugh at that sight -- the guy just skiied right up to a head and waving arms sticking up out of the snow." He was recording on a Go-Pro or similar camera on his helmet, and had set out to help immediately after the avalanche.)
...I'm tellin' you, I've never known anyone who gets more enjoyment from the news. (Per Tam: "You would have to have a heart of stone, not to laugh at that sight -- the guy just skiied right up to a head and waving arms sticking up out of the snow." He was recording on a Go-Pro or similar camera on his helmet, and had set out to help immediately after the avalanche.)
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Installing Update 1 Of 4,346
Something like that. Maybe it was just 64, but it lasted like thousands-- I took my smallest (and rarely-used) backup netbook into work yesterday, intending, I admit it, to use the faster download speed to install a copy of Scrivener* during lunch. And, yes, to let Windows do the update thing. Even using the "visitor" wi-fi, it's blazing fast during slow times like the days between Christmas and New Years.
I started the process early on, just powered it up and let it seek out updates. By lunch, it was still downloading in the background and easily accommodated the writer's story & word processor download/install process. (I already have Scrivener; one license covers all of the owner's computers, hooray!).
About the time I was done with lunch, the Windows updates were downloaded and I told the machine to shut down. This received the usual, "Just as soon as install these updates, lady," response. Fine, fine, it had the whole rest of the day.
Quitting time came and went. We had asquirt-booster shuttle, er, microwave truck fail in the field and I had to work over, troubleshooting and making repairs. Six hours after clicking the "Shut Down" button, the netbook was still chugging away, "Now Installing Update 1 of 64. Do Not Shut Down Or Unplug Your Computer." Yeah, also, "Please Sleep In The Office Tonight?"
Hey, it's a netbook (a model 1025 Eee) with supposedly near-infinite battery life, so I stuffed into its cute little carrier and carried it home.
Set back up at home, after a mere hour it proudly admitted, "Now Installing Update 2 of..." By bedtime, it had struggled all the way to four or five, so I went to bed and left it percolating.
Wonder of wonders, this morning it was All Done! --Kind of: powered it up and it went through fifteen minutes of reconfiguration, self-analysis and probably self-Rolfing and preemptive Righthink before it would let me log on, and followed up with another quarter-hour of Agonizing Reappraisal once I had. It appears to be back on the job of netbooking now, but to tell the truth, I'm reluctant to ask it to do much for the next day or two; it's just gone through the computer version of a couple of sessions of root-canal dentistry and I suspect it's a little tender and grouchy.
Moral: Power up the spare netbook more than twice a year.
______________________________________________
* Scrivener is kind of a "plotting engine" or "outline-to-draft-MS" tool, about as handy to writing as really good spreadsheet/database software is to accounting. Between Scrivener ($40 at this writing) and Q10 (a shareware full-screen, barebones word processor with a small set of writing-specific features), you can set up even a small netbook with flexible, useful tools for writing and not have to struggle with the clumsiness and cost of general-purpose Word.
I started the process early on, just powered it up and let it seek out updates. By lunch, it was still downloading in the background and easily accommodated the writer's story & word processor download/install process. (I already have Scrivener; one license covers all of the owner's computers, hooray!).
About the time I was done with lunch, the Windows updates were downloaded and I told the machine to shut down. This received the usual, "Just as soon as install these updates, lady," response. Fine, fine, it had the whole rest of the day.
Quitting time came and went. We had a
Hey, it's a netbook (a model 1025 Eee) with supposedly near-infinite battery life, so I stuffed into its cute little carrier and carried it home.
Set back up at home, after a mere hour it proudly admitted, "Now Installing Update 2 of..." By bedtime, it had struggled all the way to four or five, so I went to bed and left it percolating.
Wonder of wonders, this morning it was All Done! --Kind of: powered it up and it went through fifteen minutes of reconfiguration, self-analysis and probably self-Rolfing and preemptive Righthink before it would let me log on, and followed up with another quarter-hour of Agonizing Reappraisal once I had. It appears to be back on the job of netbooking now, but to tell the truth, I'm reluctant to ask it to do much for the next day or two; it's just gone through the computer version of a couple of sessions of root-canal dentistry and I suspect it's a little tender and grouchy.
Moral: Power up the spare netbook more than twice a year.
______________________________________________
* Scrivener is kind of a "plotting engine" or "outline-to-draft-MS" tool, about as handy to writing as really good spreadsheet/database software is to accounting. Between Scrivener ($40 at this writing) and Q10 (a shareware full-screen, barebones word processor with a small set of writing-specific features), you can set up even a small netbook with flexible, useful tools for writing and not have to struggle with the clumsiness and cost of general-purpose Word.
Friday, December 27, 2013
I Asked Google About...
...The new seventeen-digit verification "word" for comments. #1 response? "It rubs the decryption on its skin, or it gets the hose again."
I ain't askin' no more.
I ain't askin' no more.
"And Now, The News..."
NBC news this morning promoted an upcoming story: "Swimmers attacked by a school of piranhas." Tam's been sitting at the foot of (my!) bed ever since, eating breakfast with the happy innocence of Gomez Addams awaiting reports of a natural disaster, occasionally snarling, "C'mon! Get to the piranhas!"
Oh, the story finally came up; she just sang out, "Yes! Here it is -- Fish attack...!"
Never a dull moment at Roseholme Cottage, right around the corner from the big, decrepit Victorian at 0001 Cemetary Lane .
Oh, the story finally came up; she just sang out, "Yes! Here it is -- Fish attack...!"
Never a dull moment at Roseholme Cottage, right around the corner from the big, decrepit Victorian at 0001 Cemetary Lane .
The Cardboard Box Office
So, you've got 1. A new baby, 2. A just-moved household, 3. A few zillion cardboard boxes and 4. You're spending a lot more time at home (see item one).
Do you do as generations of parents before you have done and A. Go quietly crazy -- or do you B. Restage famous movie scenes using whatever's laying around?
Yeah. I'll have some more from Column B, please!
Do you do as generations of parents before you have done and A. Go quietly crazy -- or do you B. Restage famous movie scenes using whatever's laying around?
Yeah. I'll have some more from Column B, please!
Thursday, December 26, 2013
First-World Solutions For First-World Problems
Behold, the Perfected Cookie-Dunking Cup!
From the same folks who brought you the panic-button lightswitch, as seen in Firefly ("Out Of Gas"). Not to mention the engineering drawings for common snack foods.
From the same folks who brought you the panic-button lightswitch, as seen in Firefly ("Out Of Gas"). Not to mention the engineering drawings for common snack foods.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Where My Accent Is From
As determined by a test at the website of the Noo Yawk Tahmes, of all places:
They nailed it -- see that green circle around the dark-red blob in East-Central Indiana? While I was born here in Indy, I did most of my growing up in Marion, Indiana, just about dead-center of that spot. (Those even-darker red spots around Wichita KS, Jackson MS and the far-West corner of South Carolina? Darned if I know, though I do have some ancestors from that part of the Carolinas, just about the middle of the original Cherokee nation.)
How 'bout you?
Thanks to Jeffro, who found this.
They nailed it -- see that green circle around the dark-red blob in East-Central Indiana? While I was born here in Indy, I did most of my growing up in Marion, Indiana, just about dead-center of that spot. (Those even-darker red spots around Wichita KS, Jackson MS and the far-West corner of South Carolina? Darned if I know, though I do have some ancestors from that part of the Carolinas, just about the middle of the original Cherokee nation.)
How 'bout you?
Thanks to Jeffro, who found this.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Crown To Alan Turning: Pardon
Fat lot of good it does him, having been dead by his own hand (reputedly: a poisoned apple he made himself) for lo, these many years. --Who's next in the make-it-didn't happen sweepstakes, Oscar Wilde?
But quite aside from the talented-Brits-arrested-in-loos count, I note the United Kingdom has the distinct dishono(u)r of having had the world's first computer invented there two or three times -- and killed it on the vine every time. Difference Engine? Never built. Colossus? Taken apart for "security" reasons after the War and so classified you could get in trouble for admitting you'd worked on it. I suppose it could be argued that the Raspberry Pi is their apology to the world.
If they'd treated Newton the same way they treated Babbage and Turing, calculus wouldn't've gotten off the ground until right before World War Two.
But quite aside from the talented-Brits-arrested-in-loos count, I note the United Kingdom has the distinct dishono(u)r of having had the world's first computer invented there two or three times -- and killed it on the vine every time. Difference Engine? Never built. Colossus? Taken apart for "security" reasons after the War and so classified you could get in trouble for admitting you'd worked on it. I suppose it could be argued that the Raspberry Pi is their apology to the world.
If they'd treated Newton the same way they treated Babbage and Turing, calculus wouldn't've gotten off the ground until right before World War Two.
And A Happy Christmas Eve To You!
That's all. No snark, no subtext: best wishes of the season to you and yours.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Goodness Sake
Cartoon: two grim-faced policeman hauling away a stricken-looking Santa Claus in handcuffs while a little girl looks on with a truculent expression. One of the policemen is saying to Santa, "She says you see her when she's sleeping."
Had I Only Seen Them Earlier
Egyptian hieroglyphic "alphabet" blocks. I was already planning on giving the littles Greek, Russian and Chinese alphabet blocks next year, and these are even better.
If you want to broaden a child's horizons, just leave 'em clues and hints. They may or may not follow them but it'll be their decision and all the more fascinating to them because of it. (Me, I'm the aunt who hands out science toys and books.)
If you want to broaden a child's horizons, just leave 'em clues and hints. They may or may not follow them but it'll be their decision and all the more fascinating to them because of it. (Me, I'm the aunt who hands out science toys and books.)
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Holiday Dinner...In Space
ISS, zero-G dorm room: pretty much the same thing. (Be sure to check out the hi-rez version!) Money quote: "...three different brands of peanut butter, 3 bottles of hot sauce,
mini-Reeses peanut butter cups, Ghirardelli chocolates, and Tic Tacs. In
other words they really eat like geeks." (And he overlooked "The Good Chocolate" bar, at that.)
Physically-fit and highly-skilled geeks, mind you, but geeks nevertheless. Let the meek have the Earth -- just as long as geeks get outer space. (In space, you've got to have condiments.)
Physically-fit and highly-skilled geeks, mind you, but geeks nevertheless. Let the meek have the Earth -- just as long as geeks get outer space. (In space, you've got to have condiments.)
Because Beta Males Buy Luxury Cars, Too
It's a cute commercial -- and who could possibly disapprove of doing nice things for Santa Claus?
On the other hand, is this doe-eyed innocent, who huffs and puffs his way up a few flights of stairs, really the role model y'want to present to the car-addled boys of America? Nothing personal, young man, but do you have any other skills besides barely-adequate sewing? At all?
On the other hand, is this doe-eyed innocent, who huffs and puffs his way up a few flights of stairs, really the role model y'want to present to the car-addled boys of America? Nothing personal, young man, but do you have any other skills besides barely-adequate sewing? At all?
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Spacewalking, Drowning, Snub Wars
C'mon, NASA, seriously? You've been spec-ing space suits since before the Mercury program (and David Clarke and ILC/Dover [life support by Hamilton Standard] have been building them for about that long), and all of a sudden, you can't get the dehumidifier to work?
Also, what's up with the TV talking heads looking all goggle-boggled and exclaiming, "Drown in a space suit? Who'd'a thunk?"
Gee, I dunno -- only everyone who wears glasses and has bundled up warm to go outdoors in winter? Your exhaled breath is humid. Very humid. And that's even before we add in the water you lose perspiring. No, the wonder is that anyone can even see through a spacesuit helmet faceplate, ever.
(Also, "snorkel?" And not "air tube?" 'Cos, see, really, snorkel implies there's a waterline for it to be above, not the case for blobs of water floating more-or-less randomly around in zero-G.)
Just in case people have forgotten, there are some perfectly good* Russian space suits aboard ISS. And a perfectly-good Russian airlock-- But wait, I forgot: these days, NASA won't let anyone under their control wear the Russian suits, or use the Russian airlock, and as for having a cosmonaut go out and remove the bad pump, why, heavens forfend!
Near as I can determine, the American, Russian and ESA space crew get along fine on ISS but their bosses these days are not talking to one another much. Sure, sure, all the sections are latched together; sure, the stabilizing hardware is mostly Russian and so's the air supply -- but ew, NASA apparently doesn't want to have to talk to the commercialized (note the display-card ads in wide shots of Russian Mission Control), shoestring-budget Roscosmos (RKA)/RSC Energia people. (Energia, already 38% state-owned, may end up 51%+ state-owned under a push to renationalize Russia's space industry. Sad.)
________________________________
* Bearing in mind that at present, a "perfectly-good" spacesuit is one that won't kill you in the first hour or so. Gloves are a particular problem, as is movement in general, which is why everyone runs lower pressures and higher oxygen levels and preparing for a spacewalk includes sleeping in the airlock, breathing the low-pressure outdoor mix; otherwise, spacesuited workers end up starfished, comfy but hardly able to bend at any joint.
Also, what's up with the TV talking heads looking all goggle-boggled and exclaiming, "Drown in a space suit? Who'd'a thunk?"
Gee, I dunno -- only everyone who wears glasses and has bundled up warm to go outdoors in winter? Your exhaled breath is humid. Very humid. And that's even before we add in the water you lose perspiring. No, the wonder is that anyone can even see through a spacesuit helmet faceplate, ever.
(Also, "snorkel?" And not "air tube?" 'Cos, see, really, snorkel implies there's a waterline for it to be above, not the case for blobs of water floating more-or-less randomly around in zero-G.)
Just in case people have forgotten, there are some perfectly good* Russian space suits aboard ISS. And a perfectly-good Russian airlock-- But wait, I forgot: these days, NASA won't let anyone under their control wear the Russian suits, or use the Russian airlock, and as for having a cosmonaut go out and remove the bad pump, why, heavens forfend!
Near as I can determine, the American, Russian and ESA space crew get along fine on ISS but their bosses these days are not talking to one another much. Sure, sure, all the sections are latched together; sure, the stabilizing hardware is mostly Russian and so's the air supply -- but ew, NASA apparently doesn't want to have to talk to the commercialized (note the display-card ads in wide shots of Russian Mission Control), shoestring-budget Roscosmos (RKA)/RSC Energia people. (Energia, already 38% state-owned, may end up 51%+ state-owned under a push to renationalize Russia's space industry. Sad.)
________________________________
* Bearing in mind that at present, a "perfectly-good" spacesuit is one that won't kill you in the first hour or so. Gloves are a particular problem, as is movement in general, which is why everyone runs lower pressures and higher oxygen levels and preparing for a spacewalk includes sleeping in the airlock, breathing the low-pressure outdoor mix; otherwise, spacesuited workers end up starfished, comfy but hardly able to bend at any joint.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Goodbye, Target?
When a store manages to get the credit-card details of some forty million customers stolen and has so far only said, "Ooops!" about it and "they're pretty sure they have plugged the leak," it doesn't bode well for their future.
This saddens me; I like Target, which has generally offered slightly better quality* and a lot more style than the usual overgrown modern five-and-dime. But I'm one of the forty million, waiting for the other shoe to drop and wondering what I ought to do next. If I do go back, I'll pay in cash.
______________________________
* Though darned if I can find decent, long-lasting knee socks anywhere these days. And it's not even worth the effort to actually darn them.
This saddens me; I like Target, which has generally offered slightly better quality* and a lot more style than the usual overgrown modern five-and-dime. But I'm one of the forty million, waiting for the other shoe to drop and wondering what I ought to do next. If I do go back, I'll pay in cash.
______________________________
* Though darned if I can find decent, long-lasting knee socks anywhere these days. And it's not even worth the effort to actually darn them.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Just A Little Reminder
I loathe this time of year. Not the various and sundry religious celebrations, those are way kewl as long as I don't have to sit in; I'm happy to walk by, see the lights shining inside and hear the happy voices. Makes me feel all warm and friendly.
No, it's the happy-happy-happy commercial crapola and all the social baggage, and pretending I can even remember the names of the, what are they up to, third or fourth-generation children that I see once a year.
And all the little frustrations of Winter -- I went to scrub out the bathtub, aiming at a nice long soak with Epsom Salts and a cuppa hot chocolate, and got as far as spraying the tub with household cleaner and heating water. Opened the new box of hot chocolate mix, lifted a packet out and kind of shook it, as one does--
And sprinkled cocoa powder all over the stove, all over the floor, all over myself. You see, the packet was miscut. As were allll of the others in the box, off by an eighth of an inch or so as they went through the packet-packing machine. None were sealed. Total loss.
Gotta clean that up, but in the meantime, the bathtub that the cats occasionally leap into has cleaner in it, so I have to hastily sweep up the worst of the chocomess, then run and shut the washroom door, then back to the kitchen and clean up, etc. Needless to say, the nice relaxing hot soak is o-u-t.
But hey, the bathtub is squeaky clean and some progress has been made on the kitchen floor, too.
I loathe this time of year. My joints ache, my sinuses act up and everybody is so miserably in-your-face fake-happy that I wanna just curl up in a corner. Possibly with a hot cuppa hemlock. --But you know there'd be some damned thing wrong with it, "Oh, no, the hemlock crop got hacked between Black Friday and December 15;* somebody stole all the lethality. Heck, you could bathe in it...." Bastids.
____________________________________
* Yeah, I used a credit card at Target between the day after Thanksgiving and the 15th. Don't have online access to that account, either, so I will have to go to the bank and see what they can do, if anything.
No, it's the happy-happy-happy commercial crapola and all the social baggage, and pretending I can even remember the names of the, what are they up to, third or fourth-generation children that I see once a year.
And all the little frustrations of Winter -- I went to scrub out the bathtub, aiming at a nice long soak with Epsom Salts and a cuppa hot chocolate, and got as far as spraying the tub with household cleaner and heating water. Opened the new box of hot chocolate mix, lifted a packet out and kind of shook it, as one does--
And sprinkled cocoa powder all over the stove, all over the floor, all over myself. You see, the packet was miscut. As were allll of the others in the box, off by an eighth of an inch or so as they went through the packet-packing machine. None were sealed. Total loss.
Gotta clean that up, but in the meantime, the bathtub that the cats occasionally leap into has cleaner in it, so I have to hastily sweep up the worst of the chocomess, then run and shut the washroom door, then back to the kitchen and clean up, etc. Needless to say, the nice relaxing hot soak is o-u-t.
But hey, the bathtub is squeaky clean and some progress has been made on the kitchen floor, too.
I loathe this time of year. My joints ache, my sinuses act up and everybody is so miserably in-your-face fake-happy that I wanna just curl up in a corner. Possibly with a hot cuppa hemlock. --But you know there'd be some damned thing wrong with it, "Oh, no, the hemlock crop got hacked between Black Friday and December 15;* somebody stole all the lethality. Heck, you could bathe in it...." Bastids.
____________________________________
* Yeah, I used a credit card at Target between the day after Thanksgiving and the 15th. Don't have online access to that account, either, so I will have to go to the bank and see what they can do, if anything.
Because It's Cheaper To Shovel Snow Than Lose A Lawsuit
For that matter, it's easier to shovel snow than render first aid to a neighbor or stranger.
Tam's recent observation on snow-shoveling (and those who don't) has prompted acrimonious debate, with sunshine-state para-Objectivists objecting, "City's sidewalk, City's to clear."
Nice notion, but A) the City doesn't agree and B) you don't really want it to; see, the City spins not, nor does it plow. Every dime the City has, they took from the pockets of you and your fellow inhabitants. By the time they'd've gathered up a Snow-Shoveller Corps, uniformed them, issued shovels, inspected them for disease and degree of imbecility, worked up a manual of arms for Shovel, Snow, Official, m. 2013, trained supervisors, hired a department head, etc. etc., my taxes would have gone way, way up -- and my street would be low on the priority tree to actually have our walks shoveled, count on it. They'd probably dutifully drop by every June, shovels on their shoulders, singing a happy snow-shoveler chanty, give the walks a quick look-see and mark us down as done for the year, as pleased as gandy-dancers encountering an already-straight section of rail.
"But," objectors might splutter, "the City is eeeeevil. They will fine you if you don't shovel their sidewalk." They can. They rarely do -- see, just as they haven't got a Snow-Shoveller Corps, they're a bit light on Shovelled-Walks Inspectors, too. The po-leece could go around writing tickets but even IMPD would be ashamed of collaring non-shovelers. The possibility of a -- oh, horrors -- ticket and fine doesn't prompt me to shovel my sidewalks.
Here's what does (and you will be shocked, shocked to learn my reasons mostly boil down to self-interest):
1. I want to be able to walk on my own land without slipping, falling, having shoes fill up with snow, etc. By the time I have cleared the house-to-garage walk, the back-door-to-front-door walk and the front-door-to-curb walk, the itty bit of across-the-frontage sidewalk is nothing.
2. I enjoy receiving mail and packages. The Post Office and the various commercial delivery concerns usually will not wade through snow with one's new fridge. Yes, yes, I'm sure you'll tell me they damned well ought to; but they won't and you can't make them, so....
3. I don't really care to touch strangers, nor listen to their wailing, nor see them bleed and thrash about. One can largely avoid the occasional necessity to render first aid to slippers and fallers by clearing and salting the sidewalk in front of one's home.
4. Similarly, it's purely inconvenient to be hauled into court by a slip-and-fall victim. I'd just as soon not give 'em the chance. Let them go elsewhere if they're minded to fall down and break something.
5. I want the neighbors to clear their walks so I can comfortably and safely walk to the store, various eateries, etc. It's considered rude to go threaten them -- plus I am not the boss of them anyway -- so shame (in the form of setting a good example) is about all that's left. I clear my walk and they see it, and perhaps think, "Oh, so that's the Done Thing, is it?" and clear theirs. (If the snow isn't much, or the neighbor does stuff for me, I might shovel their walk, too. Now you've got three houses with cleared walks and, as Arlo Guthrie tells us, people will think it's a Movement. Maybe they'll want to get in on it.) (And maybe they won't. I still win: I have at least three houses worth of cleared sidewalk to ease my peregrinations. Yes, ooo, ick, other people might walk on it. So what? I got what I wanted! How many dogs did you want to put in that manger?)
If you want to be an island, go live on an island (or the functional equivalent). If you like living in town, where there are things to do and places selling nice stuff to eat and art museums, bike shops and radio-parts stores and so on, with that comes living cheek-by-jowl with the other fonky primates. If you want to reduce the friction that comes with that, sometimes you've got to oil the gears. Sometimes you've got to shovel the sidewalks. Or hire someone to do it for you.
Tam's recent observation on snow-shoveling (and those who don't) has prompted acrimonious debate, with sunshine-state para-Objectivists objecting, "City's sidewalk, City's to clear."
Nice notion, but A) the City doesn't agree and B) you don't really want it to; see, the City spins not, nor does it plow. Every dime the City has, they took from the pockets of you and your fellow inhabitants. By the time they'd've gathered up a Snow-Shoveller Corps, uniformed them, issued shovels, inspected them for disease and degree of imbecility, worked up a manual of arms for Shovel, Snow, Official, m. 2013, trained supervisors, hired a department head, etc. etc., my taxes would have gone way, way up -- and my street would be low on the priority tree to actually have our walks shoveled, count on it. They'd probably dutifully drop by every June, shovels on their shoulders, singing a happy snow-shoveler chanty, give the walks a quick look-see and mark us down as done for the year, as pleased as gandy-dancers encountering an already-straight section of rail.
"But," objectors might splutter, "the City is eeeeevil. They will fine you if you don't shovel their sidewalk." They can. They rarely do -- see, just as they haven't got a Snow-Shoveller Corps, they're a bit light on Shovelled-Walks Inspectors, too. The po-leece could go around writing tickets but even IMPD would be ashamed of collaring non-shovelers. The possibility of a -- oh, horrors -- ticket and fine doesn't prompt me to shovel my sidewalks.
Here's what does (and you will be shocked, shocked to learn my reasons mostly boil down to self-interest):
1. I want to be able to walk on my own land without slipping, falling, having shoes fill up with snow, etc. By the time I have cleared the house-to-garage walk, the back-door-to-front-door walk and the front-door-to-curb walk, the itty bit of across-the-frontage sidewalk is nothing.
2. I enjoy receiving mail and packages. The Post Office and the various commercial delivery concerns usually will not wade through snow with one's new fridge. Yes, yes, I'm sure you'll tell me they damned well ought to; but they won't and you can't make them, so....
3. I don't really care to touch strangers, nor listen to their wailing, nor see them bleed and thrash about. One can largely avoid the occasional necessity to render first aid to slippers and fallers by clearing and salting the sidewalk in front of one's home.
4. Similarly, it's purely inconvenient to be hauled into court by a slip-and-fall victim. I'd just as soon not give 'em the chance. Let them go elsewhere if they're minded to fall down and break something.
5. I want the neighbors to clear their walks so I can comfortably and safely walk to the store, various eateries, etc. It's considered rude to go threaten them -- plus I am not the boss of them anyway -- so shame (in the form of setting a good example) is about all that's left. I clear my walk and they see it, and perhaps think, "Oh, so that's the Done Thing, is it?" and clear theirs. (If the snow isn't much, or the neighbor does stuff for me, I might shovel their walk, too. Now you've got three houses with cleared walks and, as Arlo Guthrie tells us, people will think it's a Movement. Maybe they'll want to get in on it.) (And maybe they won't. I still win: I have at least three houses worth of cleared sidewalk to ease my peregrinations. Yes, ooo, ick, other people might walk on it. So what? I got what I wanted! How many dogs did you want to put in that manger?)
If you want to be an island, go live on an island (or the functional equivalent). If you like living in town, where there are things to do and places selling nice stuff to eat and art museums, bike shops and radio-parts stores and so on, with that comes living cheek-by-jowl with the other fonky primates. If you want to reduce the friction that comes with that, sometimes you've got to oil the gears. Sometimes you've got to shovel the sidewalks. Or hire someone to do it for you.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Fermat's Last Stand?
I've got to dash; Tam had frozen door latches on her car this morning, which a Georgia-raised belle finds a lot more distressing than does a stolid Hoosier country gal. I'm likely to find the same on my car, though, and it does purely annoy to have to hold the car door shut for most of my commute. That's one hand to steer, one for the gearshift and one for the door-- Hey! But one of the lesser skills my father taught (though not directly, only by example) was how to steer with a well-place knee and why that was a darned bad idea.
That's all by way of explain why I'm leaving you with a link to Fermat's Last Theorem instead my usual deep, thought-provoking drivel. Fermat's Last Theorem is a cross between a Gilbert & Sullivan musical, MGM's The Wizard Of Oz and a romp though the broader history of mathematics and, indeed, philosophy -- no, wait, don't go 'way! It's got all manner of fun folk. Heck, even Blaise Pascal and ol' Freddie Nietzsche put in appearances. Naturally, Micheal Flynn found it first.
Typical scene: "Markas puzzles out a solution to this problem [their locomotive has broken] that shares several features with the party’s last stroke of genius. They place Pascal on a square-meter object to summon Newton.* Then they push a cart into Newton at one meter per second; Newton, surprised, pushes back, transforming him into James Watt (1 Watt = power required to push an object at 1 m/s against opposition of one Newton). James Watt is able to fix the train, allowing them to continue onward."
A-hem. Either you're chuckling by now, or you're wondering, What's all this, then? If the latter, please to be turning your geek card, and thank for playing!
_______________________________________
* 1 Pascal = 1 Newton per square meter. QED. Also, LS/MFT.
That's all by way of explain why I'm leaving you with a link to Fermat's Last Theorem instead my usual deep, thought-provoking drivel. Fermat's Last Theorem is a cross between a Gilbert & Sullivan musical, MGM's The Wizard Of Oz and a romp though the broader history of mathematics and, indeed, philosophy -- no, wait, don't go 'way! It's got all manner of fun folk. Heck, even Blaise Pascal and ol' Freddie Nietzsche put in appearances. Naturally, Micheal Flynn found it first.
Typical scene: "Markas puzzles out a solution to this problem [their locomotive has broken] that shares several features with the party’s last stroke of genius. They place Pascal on a square-meter object to summon Newton.* Then they push a cart into Newton at one meter per second; Newton, surprised, pushes back, transforming him into James Watt (1 Watt = power required to push an object at 1 m/s against opposition of one Newton). James Watt is able to fix the train, allowing them to continue onward."
A-hem. Either you're chuckling by now, or you're wondering, What's all this, then? If the latter, please to be turning your geek card, and thank for playing!
_______________________________________
* 1 Pascal = 1 Newton per square meter. QED. Also, LS/MFT.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
I'm Probably Spherical
I was at a doctor's office a month ago, and after they took my height, weight, blood pressure, mother's maiden name and fingernail salinity, they came back in a couple of minutes and handed me a little print-out of all these fact-like bits plus some extra -- including my surface area.
I haven't run the numbers but I'll just bet the software that calculated that number was based on the assumption I was of uniform density roughly equal to water, and spherical. Also, WTH? Why figure it? Why tell me? To make providing a hospital gown simpler? So I know how much suntan lotion to buy? What? --It's probably required somewhere in ACA-Obamacare. It sounds like something Congress would want.
I haven't run the numbers but I'll just bet the software that calculated that number was based on the assumption I was of uniform density roughly equal to water, and spherical. Also, WTH? Why figure it? Why tell me? To make providing a hospital gown simpler? So I know how much suntan lotion to buy? What? --It's probably required somewhere in ACA-Obamacare. It sounds like something Congress would want.
How To Annoy People
Extensive background checks? Check.
Delays? Check.
Verifying permission-to-purchase has been duly authorized? Check
Assuming buyers only want to make the purchase for bad reasons? Check.
Refusing to sell if they're out of their "normal" neighborhood? Check.
Finding cash transactions "suspicious?" Check.
Creating a blacklist of anyone refused and sharing it with all locations? Check.
Report any transaction you're even the least suspicious about to police? Check.
What is it? Firearms sales in MA or CA? Federal rules for sales of deadly chemicals? BATFE explosives-sales rules?
Nope: internal policy at Walgreen's for selling prescription pain medicine.
As a sufferer of chronic -- and, lucky me, usually low-level -- pain, I know about the suspicion, dismissive treatment and general difficulty of getting strong pain meds. Even a lot of the doctors treat you as just another drug-seeking opportunist instead of someone who wants to get the pain down to a dull roar so they can get on with life. (Side effects of the meds can be no darned picnic, either.)
CVS lost my prescription business over a decade ago, when the store was frequently out of a non-narcotic, non-pain-treating and relatively common medication that I take. Walgreen's always has my prescription drugs in stock and they even have a convenient drive-up window; but their latest antics have me wondering if perhaps I should go elsewhere.
Delays? Check.
Verifying permission-to-purchase has been duly authorized? Check
Assuming buyers only want to make the purchase for bad reasons? Check.
Refusing to sell if they're out of their "normal" neighborhood? Check.
Finding cash transactions "suspicious?" Check.
Creating a blacklist of anyone refused and sharing it with all locations? Check.
Report any transaction you're even the least suspicious about to police? Check.
What is it? Firearms sales in MA or CA? Federal rules for sales of deadly chemicals? BATFE explosives-sales rules?
Nope: internal policy at Walgreen's for selling prescription pain medicine.
As a sufferer of chronic -- and, lucky me, usually low-level -- pain, I know about the suspicion, dismissive treatment and general difficulty of getting strong pain meds. Even a lot of the doctors treat you as just another drug-seeking opportunist instead of someone who wants to get the pain down to a dull roar so they can get on with life. (Side effects of the meds can be no darned picnic, either.)
CVS lost my prescription business over a decade ago, when the store was frequently out of a non-narcotic, non-pain-treating and relatively common medication that I take. Walgreen's always has my prescription drugs in stock and they even have a convenient drive-up window; but their latest antics have me wondering if perhaps I should go elsewhere.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Reality Catches Up To The Hidden Frontier
One of the premises of my I Work On A Starship yarns is that the "Edgers," the somewhat anarchic refugee refuseniks who stumbled into a Lukewarm War with Earth* have better stardrive tech than any Earth nation, apparently as a result of picking up some [spoiler omitted] tech and their own further work. Another premise is that the whole notion of the FTL or "Jump" drive as Earth forces know it developed from some notion that Richard Feynman dreamed up half-idly as the Manhattan Project wound down, and (unbeknownst to him) was developed by others
Fast-forward to this Wired article, which ledes with, "Physicists reported this week the discovery of a jewel-like geometric object that dramatically simplifies calculations of particle interactions and challenges the notion that space and time are fundamental components of reality." But wait, there's more! "...the traditional machinery of quantum field theory, involving hundreds of Feynman diagrams worth thousands of mathematical terms, was obfuscating something much simpler. 'The number of Feynman diagrams is so explosively large that even computations of really simple processes weren’t done until the age of computers,' ...it became apparent that Feynman’s apparatus was a Rube Goldberg machine."
That's a bit rearranged but nevertheless, there you have it: two different ways of describing/predicting very basic interactions, one enormously simpler/faster than the other. And it's Feynman.
And yet some people still doubt that the Hidden Frontier might be real.... ;)
_________________________________________
* Or at least the U.S. and in-the-know NATO allies, and, separately and a lot lower-key, the USSR.
Fast-forward to this Wired article, which ledes with, "Physicists reported this week the discovery of a jewel-like geometric object that dramatically simplifies calculations of particle interactions and challenges the notion that space and time are fundamental components of reality." But wait, there's more! "...the traditional machinery of quantum field theory, involving hundreds of Feynman diagrams worth thousands of mathematical terms, was obfuscating something much simpler. 'The number of Feynman diagrams is so explosively large that even computations of really simple processes weren’t done until the age of computers,' ...it became apparent that Feynman’s apparatus was a Rube Goldberg machine."
That's a bit rearranged but nevertheless, there you have it: two different ways of describing/predicting very basic interactions, one enormously simpler/faster than the other. And it's Feynman.
And yet some people still doubt that the Hidden Frontier might be real.... ;)
_________________________________________
* Or at least the U.S. and in-the-know NATO allies, and, separately and a lot lower-key, the USSR.
"I'm Not One To Complain, But..."
Aw, who'm I kidding? I'm a whiner, at least sometimes.
The recurring I-don't-know-why inflammation thing in my upper right jaw, where a tooth root punched through the bone years ago (resulting in the loss of two teeth, various surgeries, arguments with oral surgeons about there being a hole in the bone and weren't they apologetic when they found it?) has opened up again and is extremely painful. It's been ramping up since Thursday or so, when some kind of lesion opened up in the middle of the scar and has gotten steadily worse. Ibuprofen and salt-water rinses aren't helping much.
I'm going to try to get into my dentist's early this morning, so 'scuse me if I'm scarce. Actually writing this Sunday evening and preparing to go back to bed, 'cos I sure can't get much done awake.
Darned if I know what this is. The hole in the bone has been patched up twice and the docs -- an oral surgeon-endodontist (dentist)/ENT-surgeon (M.D.) -- were very careful to biopsy everything and have it looked over. Nothing unusual turned up. But it keeps coming back. It'd been pretty infrequent and mild. This time it's not mild.
0533 ETA: Or maybe not "off to the dentist." It appears to have been snowing steadily most of the night and just getting to work could be challenge enough.
2044 ETA: Didn't go. Weather was too poor. Took Vitamin I and kept my tongue off it and while things were neither "hunky-dory" nor were they "jake," it worked out. --For those who are late to the story, this particular misadventure began well over a decade ago and the worst of it stretched out over the first 4 or 5 years. It's long past and a round dozen specialists couldn't fix it, so don't you start. It just is. It's like ugly wedding-gift furniture, something to be lived with.
The recurring I-don't-know-why inflammation thing in my upper right jaw, where a tooth root punched through the bone years ago (resulting in the loss of two teeth, various surgeries, arguments with oral surgeons about there being a hole in the bone and weren't they apologetic when they found it?) has opened up again and is extremely painful. It's been ramping up since Thursday or so, when some kind of lesion opened up in the middle of the scar and has gotten steadily worse. Ibuprofen and salt-water rinses aren't helping much.
I'm going to try to get into my dentist's early this morning, so 'scuse me if I'm scarce. Actually writing this Sunday evening and preparing to go back to bed, 'cos I sure can't get much done awake.
Darned if I know what this is. The hole in the bone has been patched up twice and the docs -- an oral surgeon-endodontist (dentist)/ENT-surgeon (M.D.) -- were very careful to biopsy everything and have it looked over. Nothing unusual turned up. But it keeps coming back. It'd been pretty infrequent and mild. This time it's not mild.
0533 ETA: Or maybe not "off to the dentist." It appears to have been snowing steadily most of the night and just getting to work could be challenge enough.
2044 ETA: Didn't go. Weather was too poor. Took Vitamin I and kept my tongue off it and while things were neither "hunky-dory" nor were they "jake," it worked out. --For those who are late to the story, this particular misadventure began well over a decade ago and the worst of it stretched out over the first 4 or 5 years. It's long past and a round dozen specialists couldn't fix it, so don't you start. It just is. It's like ugly wedding-gift furniture, something to be lived with.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
The Luckiest/Unluckiest Cosmonaut
If Boris Volynov offers you a ride back to Earth from orbit, be sure to wear your seat belt. Russian cosmonauts come from a slightly different tradition of space-traveler than NASA's astronauts, but both groups are similarly skilled, tough and resourceful. To the extent the various space agencies can select for luck, they have.
But Boris has been oversupplied with luck both good and bad; in 1969, he piloted Soyuz 5 on an ambitious mission, docking with Soyuz 4 and transferring two crewmen to the other vehicle. Soyuz 4, now fully crewed, reentered without incident. Not so for Soyuz 5, with Volynov flying solo; the "equipment module" at the rear of the reentry capsule didn't disengage and he went planing in, nose-first. There's a hatch in the nose of a Soyuz; there is no heat shield at that end and the hatch seals began to, well, melt. As things went from worse to even worse, Volynov's luck changed: the hardware holding the equipment module burned through and eventually the automatic orientation control worked the capsule around so it was flying heat shield first. Then bad luck returned: the parachute had taken more heat than it was designed for and only partially deployed and as the hurtling capsule approached the ground the retrorockets...didn't fire. Wikipedia tells us this resulted in "...a hard landing which almost wrecked the module, and broke some of Volynov's teeth."
Bear in mind that a regular Soyuz touchdown is more like a car crash than a carnival ride; what a cosmonaut calls "a hard landing," would have most people seeking other employment as soon as they stopped seeing stars.
Not Volynov! Undaunted, he continued with the program and in 1976, he was the pilot for a two-man crew that docked with Salyut 5, one of the military "Almaz" series. The information available online is conflicting, but generally agrees that the mission was cut short after his partner fell ill and they had to return to Earth for treatment. (It would appear the cause was nitric acid fumes from a propellent tank, leaking into the space station's life-support system.)
It was not an easy return. Latches jammed on undocking and initial efforts to free the spacecraft only got it stuck, connected to but unable to redock with the space station. After an hour and a half, ground controllers worked out a release procedure and relayed it to the cosmonauts, who were finally able to unhook. Their troubles weren't over; as they reentered, strong winds buffeted the capsule, retrorockets fired unevenly, and Volynov made another harder-than-usual landing.
On first reading his online biography, I thought he must be the unluckiest space traveler alive but the more I consider it, the more I think he's the luckiest: on every mission, he has encountered far more trouble than most of his peers see in a lifetime -- and each time, he has survived with no more than minor injury. That takes more than mere luck: it takes a degree of cool-headedness few men could have managed in the same circumstances. Boris Volynov did it, twice, and lived to tell the tale.
But Boris has been oversupplied with luck both good and bad; in 1969, he piloted Soyuz 5 on an ambitious mission, docking with Soyuz 4 and transferring two crewmen to the other vehicle. Soyuz 4, now fully crewed, reentered without incident. Not so for Soyuz 5, with Volynov flying solo; the "equipment module" at the rear of the reentry capsule didn't disengage and he went planing in, nose-first. There's a hatch in the nose of a Soyuz; there is no heat shield at that end and the hatch seals began to, well, melt. As things went from worse to even worse, Volynov's luck changed: the hardware holding the equipment module burned through and eventually the automatic orientation control worked the capsule around so it was flying heat shield first. Then bad luck returned: the parachute had taken more heat than it was designed for and only partially deployed and as the hurtling capsule approached the ground the retrorockets...didn't fire. Wikipedia tells us this resulted in "...a hard landing which almost wrecked the module, and broke some of Volynov's teeth."
Bear in mind that a regular Soyuz touchdown is more like a car crash than a carnival ride; what a cosmonaut calls "a hard landing," would have most people seeking other employment as soon as they stopped seeing stars.
Not Volynov! Undaunted, he continued with the program and in 1976, he was the pilot for a two-man crew that docked with Salyut 5, one of the military "Almaz" series. The information available online is conflicting, but generally agrees that the mission was cut short after his partner fell ill and they had to return to Earth for treatment. (It would appear the cause was nitric acid fumes from a propellent tank, leaking into the space station's life-support system.)
It was not an easy return. Latches jammed on undocking and initial efforts to free the spacecraft only got it stuck, connected to but unable to redock with the space station. After an hour and a half, ground controllers worked out a release procedure and relayed it to the cosmonauts, who were finally able to unhook. Their troubles weren't over; as they reentered, strong winds buffeted the capsule, retrorockets fired unevenly, and Volynov made another harder-than-usual landing.
On first reading his online biography, I thought he must be the unluckiest space traveler alive but the more I consider it, the more I think he's the luckiest: on every mission, he has encountered far more trouble than most of his peers see in a lifetime -- and each time, he has survived with no more than minor injury. That takes more than mere luck: it takes a degree of cool-headedness few men could have managed in the same circumstances. Boris Volynov did it, twice, and lived to tell the tale.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
The News From Colorado
It's as depressing as it was predictable: when the media harps and harps on the anniversary of a mass shooting, when politicians wallow in old blood to push through new laws, it is well-night inevitable that some weak-minded fool with a head full of simmering resentment is going to decide the best way to resolve their own situation is to shoot a person or persons who was no actual threat, in some location most people would consider safe.
Notice how well Colorado's shiny new gun laws worked. They have strict limits on how many rounds a gun's magazine can hold: the shooter used a shotgun, holding six shells or less. They've got universal background checks: an 18-year-old quite often has a clean (empty) record and sails through a background check, so there was no legal barrier to the shooter buying the gun -- if he didn't simply take it from home. There's a Federal law about guns on school grounds: he walked right through it.
Laws might make you feel better but they cannot stop someone determined to harm others. Setting up high-attention situations that appeal to people with the kind of personality flaws that make for this variety of murder has a significant probability of the crime being attempted.
One of my co-workers asked, "What's the matter in Colorado?" I didn't have an answer at the time. In hindsight, I wonder if it isn't that politicians and the media can't stop picking at the scab.
And how convenient that it came along just a day after the Paul Barrett article on how "Gun Control Is Basically Dead," in a state where a highly-politicized effort for harsher gun control is facing plenty of pushback.
If it looked any hinkier, I'd be putting together a tinfoil hat, except for the research showing they do more harm than good.
Notice how well Colorado's shiny new gun laws worked. They have strict limits on how many rounds a gun's magazine can hold: the shooter used a shotgun, holding six shells or less. They've got universal background checks: an 18-year-old quite often has a clean (empty) record and sails through a background check, so there was no legal barrier to the shooter buying the gun -- if he didn't simply take it from home. There's a Federal law about guns on school grounds: he walked right through it.
Laws might make you feel better but they cannot stop someone determined to harm others. Setting up high-attention situations that appeal to people with the kind of personality flaws that make for this variety of murder has a significant probability of the crime being attempted.
One of my co-workers asked, "What's the matter in Colorado?" I didn't have an answer at the time. In hindsight, I wonder if it isn't that politicians and the media can't stop picking at the scab.
And how convenient that it came along just a day after the Paul Barrett article on how "Gun Control Is Basically Dead," in a state where a highly-politicized effort for harsher gun control is facing plenty of pushback.
If it looked any hinkier, I'd be putting together a tinfoil hat, except for the research showing they do more harm than good.
Friday, December 13, 2013
Ew. (Accidental Screencap)
Is there a dead rat in the studio?
The result of a keyboard fumble but you have to admit, his expression certainly fits the graphic.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
House To FCC: "Fairness" Is Unfair
The FCC has been making noise about getting back into being "News Police," making sure for every bit of airtime someone is hectoring you about one side of any issue, someone else gets to nag you about the other side of it.
Besides being idiotic -- you can (and probably will) just turn the knob -- it's a highly-subjective mess and would force stations to replace popular programming with unpopular programming.
Some members of the House Energy and Commerce Committee think so, too, and have asked the FCC to remember there is, still, a First Amendment.
Will the Commission listen? Time will tell.
Besides being idiotic -- you can (and probably will) just turn the knob -- it's a highly-subjective mess and would force stations to replace popular programming with unpopular programming.
Some members of the House Energy and Commerce Committee think so, too, and have asked the FCC to remember there is, still, a First Amendment.
Will the Commission listen? Time will tell.
Lucida Dreaming: Drawing Tool? Seeing Tool!
Unless you study Art or Art History, you may never have heard of a lucida. What is it? It's an art tool.
You see, the Old Masters cheated. There's a point in the history of Western art where flat painting with very good perspective pops up and never goes away. Oh, throughout as much of the history of representing things as has been left to us, there has been gifted work; sculpture got very good very early and an as result, many civilizations left us quite realistic 3-D images, faces of the past gazing right pack. But drawing and painting were a bit* hit-and-miss until determined artists, along about the Renaissance, started after this business of transferring what they saw to their drawing surface. The clever among them developed cheats: a wire grid to peer through, forcing the artist to maintain a single viewpoint and breaking the image up into smaller, more manageable sections (a sort of digitization process); the camera obscura, which allowed a person with the space to set one up and good night vision a way to just about trace their subject onto the canvas -- and the camera lucida, a kind of a trick done with mirrors (a special prism, actually) that superimposes an image of the subject and the accusingly blank page with no darkened room or onionskin paper required.
Of course, you do still have to be able to draw; but if you were having trouble transferring what you were seeing to the paper, a ludica is just the gadget. They're still around, and while big professional versions don't cost what they did back when the prism was hand-ground from rock crystal and the adjustable mounting was hand-crafted by skilled artisans, they're still a chunk'o'change. And the nervous-minded may think you look odd totin' one in the park, too.
A couple of clever present-day artists wanted to change that. Wanting a tool students could afford (and carry around without having to spend a lot of time talking to the police), they did the Kickstarter thing and rapidly found themselves fully-financed and sold all of their initial run. I found out just too late to order one of the very first.
Their lucida is back -- and now sold by Amazon. I ordered mine this morning.
_______________________________
* A bit -- a Roman with money could, it appears, get his l'oeil quite well-tromped, for example. But that's not what I'm on about just now.
You see, the Old Masters cheated. There's a point in the history of Western art where flat painting with very good perspective pops up and never goes away. Oh, throughout as much of the history of representing things as has been left to us, there has been gifted work; sculpture got very good very early and an as result, many civilizations left us quite realistic 3-D images, faces of the past gazing right pack. But drawing and painting were a bit* hit-and-miss until determined artists, along about the Renaissance, started after this business of transferring what they saw to their drawing surface. The clever among them developed cheats: a wire grid to peer through, forcing the artist to maintain a single viewpoint and breaking the image up into smaller, more manageable sections (a sort of digitization process); the camera obscura, which allowed a person with the space to set one up and good night vision a way to just about trace their subject onto the canvas -- and the camera lucida, a kind of a trick done with mirrors (a special prism, actually) that superimposes an image of the subject and the accusingly blank page with no darkened room or onionskin paper required.
Of course, you do still have to be able to draw; but if you were having trouble transferring what you were seeing to the paper, a ludica is just the gadget. They're still around, and while big professional versions don't cost what they did back when the prism was hand-ground from rock crystal and the adjustable mounting was hand-crafted by skilled artisans, they're still a chunk'o'change. And the nervous-minded may think you look odd totin' one in the park, too.
A couple of clever present-day artists wanted to change that. Wanting a tool students could afford (and carry around without having to spend a lot of time talking to the police), they did the Kickstarter thing and rapidly found themselves fully-financed and sold all of their initial run. I found out just too late to order one of the very first.
Their lucida is back -- and now sold by Amazon. I ordered mine this morning.
_______________________________
* A bit -- a Roman with money could, it appears, get his l'oeil quite well-tromped, for example. But that's not what I'm on about just now.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Ain't Got Much
It's a slow morning inside my head -- and outside it, too. "Self-centered world leaders snap selfie at funeral" isn't doing much for me -- it's just sad and, as Tam points out, was once Not The Done Thing. That was then. It's been the Age of Self-Aggrandizement for quite awhile now.
Then there's the new anti-gun blog, where counter-argument has yet to rub a sore spot on the ego of the guy who set it up. Go and argue if you like. Me, any more I'd about rather beat a brick wall with a wooden baseball bat, or yell down a well. You might ask, "But what about the undecided?" T'hell with 'em. If they even exist at all: the man or woman who will sift through page after page of dry statistics before making up their mind that their own life is worth defending has the soul of an adding machine. Such persons are rare. Nope, most folk are moved by anecdote and personal experience. If you want to help gun rights up close and in-person, be nice to a newbie online, at the range or at the sporting-goods store. Don't be The Scary Guy at work or in your neighborhood, be the friendly person who happens to to own firearms.
I've made up my mind: I'll own guns. Elected and appointed officials can dink with the laws all they like and all it'll do is vary the degree of difficulty, awkwardness and risk. Life is easier when you can stay inside the law and that makes working keep the legislative idiocy within bounds and even roll it back a worthwhile effort. But don't kid yourself: new, restrictive laws don't make eeeevil guns vanish, they only create new (and often unwitting) lawbreakers.
Then there's the new anti-gun blog, where counter-argument has yet to rub a sore spot on the ego of the guy who set it up. Go and argue if you like. Me, any more I'd about rather beat a brick wall with a wooden baseball bat, or yell down a well. You might ask, "But what about the undecided?" T'hell with 'em. If they even exist at all: the man or woman who will sift through page after page of dry statistics before making up their mind that their own life is worth defending has the soul of an adding machine. Such persons are rare. Nope, most folk are moved by anecdote and personal experience. If you want to help gun rights up close and in-person, be nice to a newbie online, at the range or at the sporting-goods store. Don't be The Scary Guy at work or in your neighborhood, be the friendly person who happens to to own firearms.
I've made up my mind: I'll own guns. Elected and appointed officials can dink with the laws all they like and all it'll do is vary the degree of difficulty, awkwardness and risk. Life is easier when you can stay inside the law and that makes working keep the legislative idiocy within bounds and even roll it back a worthwhile effort. But don't kid yourself: new, restrictive laws don't make eeeevil guns vanish, they only create new (and often unwitting) lawbreakers.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Same Old, Same Old -- In Space
The opinion piece is four years old but richly deserves mocking nevertheless: space writer James Oberg is bedwettingly horrified that the Russians still carry guns into space.
Oberg has written extensively about the Russian space program and is well aware that cosmonauts have landed off-course several times, out where the bear and wolf and hostile locals roam. He's well aware of it and brushes it off with, "...any off-course vehicle would have the entire U.S. rescue team at their disposal almost immediately.."
Riiiight. Because there's nothing at all difficult about sending a U.S. recovery team, hardware and all, to get in the way of a Russian operation in Kazakhstan, and no touchy issues of national and professional pride involved to slow efforts down, either.
It's the same argument against bearing arms you hear from other fools: "The police will protect you." Yes, when you need help immediately, the State is only minutes -- or, in the case of misaimed space travelers, hours or even a day -- away. What could possibly go wrong in that time?
But Oberg is still fretting -- 'cos, in the middle of one of the most hostile environments imaginable, aboard a space station filled with horrible (and readily accessable) ways to die -- there are also, packed away in the puzzle-pieces-fit survival kits in a couple of Soyuz capsules, g-u-n-s.
Pssst, James? There's a whole lot of hard, hard vacuum out there, too, and toxic coolant and high-voltage electricity and pure oxygen and probably even some nitrogen tetroxide, of which only a little dab'll snuff ya. There are even hammers and sharp, pointy objects. Firearms are the least of the crews' worries. If someone flips out (or goes coldly murderous) on ISS, they can obtain the means to do harm by merely reaching out.
Alas, he's still worried, in part because there's foreigners aboard ISS, and all of them -- each and every one of those mean, scary, nasty, awful people -- will have access to guns.
Just like they do on Earth.
Grow up, James. The Russians have guns in space. They're not going to give them up.
(For a little more woo and scolding on nitrogen tetroxide, along with some jaw-droppingly blithe puffery, try this PBS article.)
Oberg has written extensively about the Russian space program and is well aware that cosmonauts have landed off-course several times, out where the bear and wolf and hostile locals roam. He's well aware of it and brushes it off with, "...any off-course vehicle would have the entire U.S. rescue team at their disposal almost immediately.."
Riiiight. Because there's nothing at all difficult about sending a U.S. recovery team, hardware and all, to get in the way of a Russian operation in Kazakhstan, and no touchy issues of national and professional pride involved to slow efforts down, either.
It's the same argument against bearing arms you hear from other fools: "The police will protect you." Yes, when you need help immediately, the State is only minutes -- or, in the case of misaimed space travelers, hours or even a day -- away. What could possibly go wrong in that time?
But Oberg is still fretting -- 'cos, in the middle of one of the most hostile environments imaginable, aboard a space station filled with horrible (and readily accessable) ways to die -- there are also, packed away in the puzzle-pieces-fit survival kits in a couple of Soyuz capsules, g-u-n-s.
Pssst, James? There's a whole lot of hard, hard vacuum out there, too, and toxic coolant and high-voltage electricity and pure oxygen and probably even some nitrogen tetroxide, of which only a little dab'll snuff ya. There are even hammers and sharp, pointy objects. Firearms are the least of the crews' worries. If someone flips out (or goes coldly murderous) on ISS, they can obtain the means to do harm by merely reaching out.
Alas, he's still worried, in part because there's foreigners aboard ISS, and all of them -- each and every one of those mean, scary, nasty, awful people -- will have access to guns.
Just like they do on Earth.
Grow up, James. The Russians have guns in space. They're not going to give them up.
(For a little more woo and scolding on nitrogen tetroxide, along with some jaw-droppingly blithe puffery, try this PBS article.)
Monday, December 09, 2013
Black Ice
The weather is bad.
Tam: "Up in Boone County, they had black ice like we saw in the parking lot on the interstate."
Roberta: "There's a parking lot on the interstate?"
Tam: "No, black ice like we saw in the parking lot."
Roberta, musingly: "It just doesn't seem like a very good idea...."
Tam: [Exasperated look]
It was a bad idea, in fact; an emergency vehicle stopped and helping people at an accident was struck by another car. 50 wrecks around metro Indianapolis alone and at least one fatality.
Be careful out there.
Tam: "Up in Boone County, they had black ice like we saw in the parking lot on the interstate."
Roberta: "There's a parking lot on the interstate?"
Tam: "No, black ice like we saw in the parking lot."
Roberta, musingly: "It just doesn't seem like a very good idea...."
Tam: [Exasperated look]
It was a bad idea, in fact; an emergency vehicle stopped and helping people at an accident was struck by another car. 50 wrecks around metro Indianapolis alone and at least one fatality.
Be careful out there.
After You're Done Wrestling Darwin, Try Tolkien
It's not just Neanderthals -- orges? goblins? -- our ancient but modern-human ancestors were foolin' around with; nope, researchers have evidence they were dating Denisovians (ooh, elves? Maybe?) and one more, unnamed group of hominids, too.
"Mark Thomas, an evolutionary geneticist at University College London, described the ancient environment to Nature as a 'Lord of the Rings-type world.'"
Yes, that's what the man said. I'm starting to suspect that Pratchetts's Discworld novels may be something of a documentary.
"Mark Thomas, an evolutionary geneticist at University College London, described the ancient environment to Nature as a 'Lord of the Rings-type world.'"
Yes, that's what the man said. I'm starting to suspect that Pratchetts's Discworld novels may be something of a documentary.
Sunday, December 08, 2013
Hating On Amazon Drones?
What? Why? --If I read one more joke or see one more idiotic cartoon about shooting down Amazon drones for the "free prize inside," I'm gonna start screaming.
What is it with you people? There's free stuff behind plate glass at the TV store, too, and in every UPS, FedEx and USPS truck. All you have to do is pick up a brick or a rock and go smash; all you have to do is threaten the driver -- or take him out. All you have to do is...shoot down the drone.
Yeah? Do that and you're a looter. Do that and you have overstepped the bounds of civilized behavior. Is that your drone? I already had to wait an extra day after paying a premium for 1-day delivery and now you wanna get all butthurt over a nice, positive, civilian application of an otherwise death-dealing technology that might've put my order in my hands on time and without exposing a delivery driver to the hazards of winter weather and winter drivers.
Yeah, go shoot down an unarmed drone. You'll show that dirty-bad ol' Jeff Bezos. You'll show that person waiting on an order of stuff they wanted.
Idiots.
(It would seem I have to spell this out for some people. See, you're not robbing from a wicked robot, you're stealing from the poor slob who ordered whatever it's carrying. And as for the weenies worrying about "normalizing drones," go take a seat over there with the hand-wringers from the Brady bunch and Mr. Horowitz's CSGV: they're all weepy over "normalizing military weapons in civil society," too. Maybe you can clan up and ban private scary black rifles and private drones together! There are drones in your future. It's inescapable. Do you want all of them to by run by the police and the military, or do you want to get to know some flying-model aviation hobbyists and a 1%er shopkeeper, and possibly preserve some sliver of a loophole to drone 'em right back?)
Is it possible that so many people have never lived in neighborhoods where packages and letters are stolen from front porches and mailboxes? It stops being amusing real fast once it has happened to you.
P.S., if, after all I have written, you're still thinking, "Ha, ha, lighten up girlie. Free stuff from shooting down drones is just a funny, funny joke," then you're reading the wrong blog and you're not going to like my "lib'ral, commie notions" about property rights being the root of all rights and the initiation of force against others being wrong and immoral. Get the hell out and don't come back.
What is it with you people? There's free stuff behind plate glass at the TV store, too, and in every UPS, FedEx and USPS truck. All you have to do is pick up a brick or a rock and go smash; all you have to do is threaten the driver -- or take him out. All you have to do is...shoot down the drone.
Yeah? Do that and you're a looter. Do that and you have overstepped the bounds of civilized behavior. Is that your drone? I already had to wait an extra day after paying a premium for 1-day delivery and now you wanna get all butthurt over a nice, positive, civilian application of an otherwise death-dealing technology that might've put my order in my hands on time and without exposing a delivery driver to the hazards of winter weather and winter drivers.
Yeah, go shoot down an unarmed drone. You'll show that dirty-bad ol' Jeff Bezos. You'll show that person waiting on an order of stuff they wanted.
Idiots.
(It would seem I have to spell this out for some people. See, you're not robbing from a wicked robot, you're stealing from the poor slob who ordered whatever it's carrying. And as for the weenies worrying about "normalizing drones," go take a seat over there with the hand-wringers from the Brady bunch and Mr. Horowitz's CSGV: they're all weepy over "normalizing military weapons in civil society," too. Maybe you can clan up and ban private scary black rifles and private drones together! There are drones in your future. It's inescapable. Do you want all of them to by run by the police and the military, or do you want to get to know some flying-model aviation hobbyists and a 1%er shopkeeper, and possibly preserve some sliver of a loophole to drone 'em right back?)
Is it possible that so many people have never lived in neighborhoods where packages and letters are stolen from front porches and mailboxes? It stops being amusing real fast once it has happened to you.
P.S., if, after all I have written, you're still thinking, "Ha, ha, lighten up girlie. Free stuff from shooting down drones is just a funny, funny joke," then you're reading the wrong blog and you're not going to like my "lib'ral, commie notions" about property rights being the root of all rights and the initiation of force against others being wrong and immoral. Get the hell out and don't come back.
Saturday, December 07, 2013
The Little Tank That Just Couldn't.
From a news story sent out by A Professional news service, written (or rewritten) by A Professional news writer, professionally:
"...gave it another try, and the tank it rolled backward again through another guardrail and down an embankment."
The text of the original story, filed by one of those scribbling, barely-literate hacks at a local newspaper, far from the lofty heights of A major wire service Provider, seems remarkably free of such child-like distortions. A gem among those poor, benighted savages who eat raw meat and type using only the index fingers of both unwashed hands. Isn't that amazing?
Yahoo link. Be sure to read the ads, lest you make the baby Mammon cry! Can't find the story on A Professional wire service's site, or I'd give them a link, too, free for nothin'. Here's a screencap, edited down to the minimum.
(Note to A--- P---'s legal department: do a search on "parody" and "fair use," mmmm-kay?)
(N.B. In the old days, a story like this, sent over a teletype circuit at a blazing 50 Baud, would have broken out in "BUST IT BUST IT BUST IT" a few words after the glitch, followed by a resend under a slugline that included "RESENDING." 'Cos you don't want to send stuff like that to the paying customers at newspapers and broadcast stations.)
"...gave it another try, and the tank it rolled backward again through another guardrail and down an embankment."
Then the little tank cried and cried. "Oh, try harder, little tank," Jeffrey said. The little tank roared and road and spun its treads, but went nowhere. The little tank, it just couldn't. The little tank was sad. Jeffrey patted it and sat beside it until the Sheriff came to help. He dried off its tears so it wouldn't rust.
The Sheriff was a big, happy man, like Santa Claus without a beard. "Oh no, little tank," he said. "You've got yourself in quite a pickle. Why were you playing so close to the freeway? You might have been hurt!"
He was right. The little tank and Jeffrey had rolled backwards all across the freeway, down an embankment and nearly into a cold, wet ditch. Then they had climbed out, the treads of the little tank going "clank-clank-clank," and tried to climb the big hill again. They crossed the freeway three times and never looked both ways. Or even one way. And there were cars and trucks zooming right past!
The little tank started to cry again. Jeffrey cried, too. Their Mommies had told them to never, ever play near the freeway.
The Sheriff was nice. He told them they were very lucky, and not to cry because they were safe now. He gave both of them hankies that had a star and the word "SHERIFF" on them in big, gold letters. The Sheriff got on his radio and called their Mommies and a big, big wrecker. Jeffrey and the little tank were going to okay.
The text of the original story, filed by one of those scribbling, barely-literate hacks at a local newspaper, far from the lofty heights of A major wire service Provider, seems remarkably free of such child-like distortions. A gem among those poor, benighted savages who eat raw meat and type using only the index fingers of both unwashed hands. Isn't that amazing?
Yahoo link. Be sure to read the ads, lest you make the baby Mammon cry! Can't find the story on A Professional wire service's site, or I'd give them a link, too, free for nothin'. Here's a screencap, edited down to the minimum.
(Note to A--- P---'s legal department: do a search on "parody" and "fair use," mmmm-kay?)
(N.B. In the old days, a story like this, sent over a teletype circuit at a blazing 50 Baud, would have broken out in "BUST IT BUST IT BUST IT" a few words after the glitch, followed by a resend under a slugline that included "RESENDING." 'Cos you don't want to send stuff like that to the paying customers at newspapers and broadcast stations.)
Does Their Reach Exceed Their Grope?
Or is it just their hubris? In the wake of revelations about the Feds spying on, well, everyone, an NRO spysat just went up with this mission patch:
Yeah. We don't have an Orbital Hilton or a tourist lodge on the moon and Pan-Am can't run you up there on a shuttle -- in fact, they're struggling to make the trains run on time while NASA astronauts have to bum a lift from the Russians.* But our .gov can bigawd tune in every cel-phone call, walkie-talkie and baby monitor everywhere, and read everyone's e-mail and web-browsing history to boot. China plans to put a missile base on the Moon and this country's space program is all about listening at keyholes and peering in windows.
It makes me as proud as the protagonist in a Greek Tragedy, it does. And I lurves me some Big Brother, especially when he dresses up like Cthulhu and looms. Just gimme a minnit to urp neatly into my shirt pocket first, 'kay?
________________________________
* Russians are to spaceships as Cubans are to classic cars, as near as I can tell.
It makes me as proud as the protagonist in a Greek Tragedy, it does. And I lurves me some Big Brother, especially when he dresses up like Cthulhu and looms. Just gimme a minnit to urp neatly into my shirt pocket first, 'kay?
________________________________
* Russians are to spaceships as Cubans are to classic cars, as near as I can tell.
Friday, December 06, 2013
No.
Just "No."
It doesn't help saying it but hey, at least I did something? Gotta git out and shovel.
There's another 3" or more on the way during the day. And the trash has to go out. And Tam-of-the-injured-shoulder has the stubborns, and swears she can haul the cans out front. "Can" and "should:" not actually synonyms. So, laters; I gotta boot up, glove up, lay hold and heave.
ETA: Photo is from last night. There's another 1.5" - 2" on top of that and the forecast calls for another three or more by the end of the day.
There's another 3" or more on the way during the day. And the trash has to go out. And Tam-of-the-injured-shoulder has the stubborns, and swears she can haul the cans out front. "Can" and "should:" not actually synonyms. So, laters; I gotta boot up, glove up, lay hold and heave.
ETA: Photo is from last night. There's another 1.5" - 2" on top of that and the forecast calls for another three or more by the end of the day.
Thursday, December 05, 2013
Project A119: Nuke The Moon
Not another chapter in I Work On A Starship. Not the IMAO Moon-nuking-for-world-peace proposal, now over a decade old. Nope, the very real USAF Study of Lunar Research Flights, Project A119 from the late 1950s.
"According to one of the leaders of the project, physicist Leonard Reiffel, hitting the moon with an intercontinental ballistic missile would have been relatively easy to accomplish, including hitting the target with an accuracy of about two miles."
Okay, then. That'll put a scare in themRooshians aliens.
(The Wikipedia article says the USSR thought about it, too. Luckily both sides had better sense, 'cos you know, if one had, the other would want to do so, too and next thing you know, the Moon would be totally unrecognizable and the Apollo astronauts would've had to wear lead longjohns.)
"According to one of the leaders of the project, physicist Leonard Reiffel, hitting the moon with an intercontinental ballistic missile would have been relatively easy to accomplish, including hitting the target with an accuracy of about two miles."
Okay, then. That'll put a scare in them
(The Wikipedia article says the USSR thought about it, too. Luckily both sides had better sense, 'cos you know, if one had, the other would want to do so, too and next thing you know, the Moon would be totally unrecognizable and the Apollo astronauts would've had to wear lead longjohns.)
Wednesday, December 04, 2013
Harmonious Folk
I'm told Dylan did a version of this--
Yeah, well. 'Druther have this one.
Is there any darned thing left that some sick weasel -- corporate penny-shaver or green-weenie or regulator run amok -- isn't trying to replace (or already has) with some ersatz edition made out of cheap, biodegradable plastic slathered in bright colors, all misinterpreted, bendy and useless, and destined to end in tatters along the side of a crumbling road? Anything at all, except maybe the human voice? And they'll try'n sell you a chopped-up, cut-rate digitized version of that, too, and claim the tinny simulacrum droning in your earbuds is "just as good as the real thing."
It ain't.
Maybe this is a little reminder, a glimpse of memory of a description of a sniff of a full Sunday dinner that's been cooking all day, laid out in the fair-to-middling best china on a freshly-launder tablecloth on a cool Fall afternoon.
Yeah, well. 'Druther have this one.
Is there any darned thing left that some sick weasel -- corporate penny-shaver or green-weenie or regulator run amok -- isn't trying to replace (or already has) with some ersatz edition made out of cheap, biodegradable plastic slathered in bright colors, all misinterpreted, bendy and useless, and destined to end in tatters along the side of a crumbling road? Anything at all, except maybe the human voice? And they'll try'n sell you a chopped-up, cut-rate digitized version of that, too, and claim the tinny simulacrum droning in your earbuds is "just as good as the real thing."
It ain't.
Maybe this is a little reminder, a glimpse of memory of a description of a sniff of a full Sunday dinner that's been cooking all day, laid out in the fair-to-middling best china on a freshly-launder tablecloth on a cool Fall afternoon.
Glowing Wind Blows In Lunar Solar Power?
Vast amounts of (electrical) power and a Moon colony by 2030? Count me in!
It's an ill wind that blows no good and the "hot" wind for Fukushima has left Japanese engineers and futurists wondering how they'll keep the lights on. One idea reboots an old notion: solar power from orbit, beaming down microwaves or lasers. Inefficient? Sure, but with the Sun on the other end of the line, who care? Atmospheric losses are low and you let the beams spread and pick them up on huge "rectennas" or broad, floating solar collectors.
But where the original concept called for solar power satellites in orbit, Shimizu takes another approach: "paving" the Moon in solar cells and transmission facilities in a broad ring around its equator. Crazy? Maybe; but it does avoid the tricky parts of trying to build really big structures in orbit, and keep techs around to work on 'em. Mind you, it's on a scale that makes damming the Strait of Gibraltar and lowering the Mediterranean Sea look like a Science Fair project, but the payoff would be even bigger.
...Look for it to get shouted down by the same idiots who don't understand RF field strength that doomed the original SPS, but if Japan gets cold enough, they'll try something and I sure hope this is still on the table.
It's an ill wind that blows no good and the "hot" wind for Fukushima has left Japanese engineers and futurists wondering how they'll keep the lights on. One idea reboots an old notion: solar power from orbit, beaming down microwaves or lasers. Inefficient? Sure, but with the Sun on the other end of the line, who care? Atmospheric losses are low and you let the beams spread and pick them up on huge "rectennas" or broad, floating solar collectors.
But where the original concept called for solar power satellites in orbit, Shimizu takes another approach: "paving" the Moon in solar cells and transmission facilities in a broad ring around its equator. Crazy? Maybe; but it does avoid the tricky parts of trying to build really big structures in orbit, and keep techs around to work on 'em. Mind you, it's on a scale that makes damming the Strait of Gibraltar and lowering the Mediterranean Sea look like a Science Fair project, but the payoff would be even bigger.
...Look for it to get shouted down by the same idiots who don't understand RF field strength that doomed the original SPS, but if Japan gets cold enough, they'll try something and I sure hope this is still on the table.
Opinion: Savages.
You do not put milk in Earl Grey tea. Not ever.
Outrageous. Unacceptable. Do these ignorant barbarians on the Internet not know what a dad-blasted bergamot is?
No. Most of them do not and would not even if one landed on their head with a label pinned to it, reading, "Behold, the bergamot."
I lay the blame for this outrage directly at the feet of the decline of Great Britain. They have Let Their Side Down and now English-speaking tea drinkers outside that island-bound nation are pouring milk into Earl Grey and drinking it (actually drinking it!), thinking, "Yes. Yes, this is how tea should taste."
Ugh. If the Brits were capable of making an acceptable cup of coffee, the asymmetry would be unbearable. Thankfully, they cannot -- for whatever happens, we have got the Chemex, and they have naught.*
Now, if we just had a nice plate of arrowroot digestives.
____________________________________
* "Whatever happens, we have got/The Maxim gun, and they have not" --Hilaire Beloc; sadly, he also wrote, "Is there no Latin word for Tea? Upon my soul, if I had known that I would have left the vulgar stuff alone." He was by birth French and never fully gave it up, just as one might expect.
Outrageous. Unacceptable. Do these ignorant barbarians on the Internet not know what a dad-blasted bergamot is?
No. Most of them do not and would not even if one landed on their head with a label pinned to it, reading, "Behold, the bergamot."
I lay the blame for this outrage directly at the feet of the decline of Great Britain. They have Let Their Side Down and now English-speaking tea drinkers outside that island-bound nation are pouring milk into Earl Grey and drinking it (actually drinking it!), thinking, "Yes. Yes, this is how tea should taste."
Ugh. If the Brits were capable of making an acceptable cup of coffee, the asymmetry would be unbearable. Thankfully, they cannot -- for whatever happens, we have got the Chemex, and they have naught.*
Now, if we just had a nice plate of arrowroot digestives.
____________________________________
* "Whatever happens, we have got/The Maxim gun, and they have not" --Hilaire Beloc; sadly, he also wrote, "Is there no Latin word for Tea? Upon my soul, if I had known that I would have left the vulgar stuff alone." He was by birth French and never fully gave it up, just as one might expect.
Monday, December 02, 2013
I May Not Know Art
...But I guess I have figured out what people don't like -- or at least won't comment on.
Edited to add: See, it's a joke, like? I wrote about books and writers, and people got wordy; I wrote about art and artists, and they sat there quietly picturing things. It's hard to type a painting; you can do it but it really calls for a monospaced font.
Edited to add: See, it's a joke, like? I wrote about books and writers, and people got wordy; I wrote about art and artists, and they sat there quietly picturing things. It's hard to type a painting; you can do it but it really calls for a monospaced font.
So We Went To See Matisse
Or some of his oeuvre, really, and don't let the French fool ya; he did actual work with his actual hands and though you may picture canvases bright with primary colors and primitive-looking images, the artist was well capable of capturing a model's likeness with a bare minimum of lines--
--which seems only fair, considering.
He moved between mediums quite fluidly:
And by now, the boys are all wishing they'd studied Art, too.
(Color? You wanted color? They have all of Jazz on the wall! Photos don't really do it justice, or mine don't; try these.)
It wasn't just Matisse-- here's Europa, takin' it on the lam (or being pitched the ol' bull, depending on how you want to read it).
Even the working walls are Art:
Tam got into the spirit of the thing, and over a late lunch, did her own impression of a Picasso:
A fun day spent with Tam and the Data Viking at the Indianapolis Museum of Art. There may be many museums like it, but this one is ours.
He moved between mediums quite fluidly:
(Color? You wanted color? They have all of Jazz on the wall! Photos don't really do it justice, or mine don't; try these.)
It wasn't just Matisse-- here's Europa, takin' it on the lam (or being pitched the ol' bull, depending on how you want to read it).
Even the working walls are Art:
"Day seven, -- or is it eight? -- trapped in William Gibson's mind. My partner swears she keeps catching glimpses of a gigantic and terrifyingly cerulean Formicidae but it can't be real. At night, we sleep in flimsy boxes, swaying high over water; by day, we search these sterile, well-lit corridors. Is there no way out? The ceilings are all the color of a television tuned to a dead station or an Amtrak engine pulling into one, fuzzily gray or a horribly flat, glowing blue."
Tam got into the spirit of the thing, and over a late lunch, did her own impression of a Picasso:
A fun day spent with Tam and the Data Viking at the Indianapolis Museum of Art. There may be many museums like it, but this one is ours.
 |
| M-I-C, K-E-- no, wait, wrong hat! |
Sunday, December 01, 2013
I Survived Family Thanksgiving
Almost didn't go. Almost didn't find the house even when I did go. Brought Tam along for moral support. Came home exhausted after two and a half hours and simply crashed, out like a light, entirely wrung out. Woke three hours later with a blinding headache, took Vitamin I and slept deeply again until morning.
This level of emotional reaction, unconscious though it is, is in some ways unfair of me. There usually aren't any majorly dreadful scenes at these events (just repercussions after, sometimes months after, over innocent remarks or who one did or did not speak to). On the other hand, I was once again reminded that even one two-year-old is a crowd. (And my sister's poor tomcat feels the same way only more so, and will complain about it to anyone who will listen. He's a good cat and has been around children before, so he simply evades -- and registers his objections with the grown-ups. For his part, the two-year-old loves, loves, loves the kitty, and would happily express his affection by hauling the critter around like a dishrag.)
Anyway, survived. General, if cautious, goodwill all 'round. One can scarcely ask for more.
This level of emotional reaction, unconscious though it is, is in some ways unfair of me. There usually aren't any majorly dreadful scenes at these events (just repercussions after, sometimes months after, over innocent remarks or who one did or did not speak to). On the other hand, I was once again reminded that even one two-year-old is a crowd. (And my sister's poor tomcat feels the same way only more so, and will complain about it to anyone who will listen. He's a good cat and has been around children before, so he simply evades -- and registers his objections with the grown-ups. For his part, the two-year-old loves, loves, loves the kitty, and would happily express his affection by hauling the critter around like a dishrag.)
Anyway, survived. General, if cautious, goodwill all 'round. One can scarcely ask for more.