Took The Day Off

     The paint has come off the window frames around the living room windows, especially the sills.  Those windows are original to the house, so the wood's over a century old, and it holds paint...badly.  There's time enough this Fall to slap some modern white primer on them and I was planning to do so this weekend, until the weather service predicted rain.  So here goes, and while it won't be pretty, the bare wood is even less so.

     I'll also be trying to vote.  The line at the early voting site was at least a half hour long Tuesday, and I couldn't spare the time.  Today, I can.  If it doesn't work out, I'll go to the regular polling place with Tam on  Tuesday.  I can show exactly why I have become enthusiastic about voting, too -- these guys, who are delighted by Donald Trump's Republican party and see our present moment as their chance to press even more in that direction.  I'd like to tell you they're a joke, cartoonish figures from a Margaret Atwood novel, but it has never been safe to ignore their kind: at one time Afghanistan was one of the more forward-looking and egalitarian of Muslim nations; at one time, Germany, humbled and staggering, was nevertheless a leader in freedom of thought and intellectual pursuits at all levels.  It didn't last.  Decency and fairness are fragile states which require looking after.  If people don't maintain them, authoritarianism and hierarchy is ever ready to fill any gap, ooze through any crack, stamp on the weak and woo the powerful.  If civilization is only a coat of paint, it's the paint that preserves the essential structure underneath; lose it, and the whole thing is threatened.

     So I'm voting.  It's just one vote, but I've got it and I'm gonna use it. 

Unexpected Physics

      Oldies TV network Me-TV has been running The Wizard of Oz film most of this month, along with various (old) behind-the-scenes shows about it.  And they've run The Wiz, the much later reinterpretation of the first Oz story (and one that correctly puts Dorothy in silver shoes -- the ruby slippers in the classic film were substituted because the red stands out wonderfully in Technicolor).

     The Wiz was playing this afternoon while I did my various chores, and I'd watch for a bit whenever I took a break.  I was doing just that when Dorothy (Diana Ross) and Toto (some nice stage dog) encountered an unrecognizable Micheal Jackson as The Scarecrow, being hounded by crows who were singing--  They were singing--  Oh, wow!

     What they were singing was social commentary, expressed in the informal or joking version of the laws of thermodynamics:
     1. You can't win.
     2. You can't break even.
     3. You can't quit the game. 
     Economics is known as "the dismal science," but let me tell you, thermodynamics is pretty dour, too.  In The Wiz, the Scarecrow is as crab-bucketed a character as ever was, literally pulling quotes by great thinkers out of his head while the crows caper around him, eating the products of the garden he's supposedly protecting and chortling about how stuck he is, unable to get ahead, unable to walk away.  I hope this isn't a spoiler for anyone: Dorothy eventually shoos them off and gets the scarecrow to walking, in a dance number that shows off Jackson's remarkable abilities.  And in the meantime, audiences have had one of the fundamental truths of the universe sung at them.

     Of course, humans are localized entropy-reversers.  We may not win at thermodymanics, but we can cheat a little.  We can push back, and that's what Dorothy does for the Scarecrow: helps him stand up and start pushing back.

     I am far from the first person to notice this.  One of the others is a huge physics geek, and dug into the history of the plain-language version of the three laws.  It's worth watching!

Peposo

     I made peposo for dinner last night, and it was fantastic!

     Put too much salt on the meat at the start, and had to dilute the broth at the end.  Next time, I'll do better.  But what even is peposo, and why is it a big deal?

     Well, it's kind of connected to one of the most famous domes in the world, Filippo Brunelleschi's vast brick dome on Florence Cathedral, a job he inherited with no blueprints or guidance from the man who'd spent most of his life designing and managing the construction of the rest of the building.  The style didn't provide sufficient support for a masonry dome -- and he chose something slightly lighter but even less strong for the job!  It's one of the first examples of an engineered structure, with hidden tension elements and an internal design that keeps the whole thing hanging together by its own weight, while guiding stresses to supports and pitting force against force to minimize the worst.

     And here's the thing: brickwork is slow.  If you've ever had the pleasure of watching professional brickmasons at work, you know that when the whistle blows, they're a blur of motion, each step blending into the next, mortar applied, bricks laid, everything squared and trimmed in motions that might well be a dance.  (And at break time, it all stops on a dime, bam!  Only to start again at the same pace when time's up.  --Because it's a process; only rarely does one mason work alone.)  But it still moves one brick at a time, and past their normal speed, you cannot hurry it: one flaw can doom an entire wall.

     Brunelleschi's masons were building a dome hundreds of feet up.  The main route up and down was  a complex winch he'd designed, and even by the standards of the Middle Ages, it was slow.  At noon, bringing the whole crew down for lunch and hauling them back up afterwards took time, far too much time.  You don't ask brickmasons to work without lunch -- especially not when you're the high-and-mighty builder at ground level and they're way up there, assembling a dome that will bring your reputation crashing down with it if it fails.  (Also, they've got a lot of bricks up there -- oops, one less, look out below!)

     While Brunelleschi was negotiating for more bricks from his supplier, he noticed the brickmakers would set out covered ceramic pots right by the kilns at the start of their day, and haul them back at noon, with the most delicious aroma wafting out when they lifted the lid and speared out chunks of meat.  What -- the stories tell us he asked -- was that stuff?  Oh, nothing much, really, they said -- they'd buy tough meat, cover it with wine and toss in some salt and a lot of black peppercorns, and let it bubble away for half the day or longer in the heat of kilns.

     Brick holds heat.  The builder was buying as much brick as the place could sell him, and they were shipping it still warm.  What if they made more of that beef and wine stuff, and shipped it to building site with the bricks?  He'd make 'em a deal on it....

     And so (or so they say), every wagonload of bricks arrived at the cathedral with a hot pot of stew, got winched up to the dome, and he had a couple of shelters built up by the base of the dome where the crews could have their lunch.  And you thought DoorDash was new!

     It still isn't a complicated recipe, and the outcome is still pretty magical.  Cracked peppercorns and Chianti, a little garlic and olive oil to brown the beef in before simmering, and two or three hours of simmering, mostly under a lid -- you would never predict the outcome, which is not especially peppery or wine-flavored, just tender and full of umami.

     Tam and I had our peposo with steamed mixed vegetables and good crusty Italian bread, and agreed we'd have it again.  It's not a difficult entree to prepare, and the result more than repays the small effort.  Those brickmakers had the right idea. 

I've Figured It Out!

      Various teams and individuals have been searching for Amelia Earhart -- or what's left of her airplane -- ever since she disappeared, especially after WW II.

     And it's a fascinating mystery; as things stand, both the famous pilot and her navigator Fred Noonan are under a bit of a cloud, which is almost certainly unfair to both of them.  But as long as there's no evidence, all anyone has is guesses about what happened and why.

     Many of the teams have been connected with Purdue University, where Earhart was a guest lecturer -- but more than that, the university put up the bulk of the money for the Lockheed Electra airplane she was flying when she went missing!

     Purdue's administration is, um, not to put too fine a point on it, parsimonious.   There's an expedition to a likely prospect just offshore of a tiny Pacific island right now.  (Don't get too excited -- the wings and fuselage of an airplane are not too dissimilar in outline to many kinds of ocean-going vessel; the Pacific is vast and has seen plenty of war, storm and plain bad luck afloat, and how likely is a nearly 90 year old, mostly aluminum airplane to survive in shallow salt water?)  You've got to wonder, though -- if they do  find the plane, is Purdue still holding on to an insurance policy, waiting to collect if they can come up with solid evidence the plane went down?

The Semi-Ancient World, Through Dr. Stephen Ressler's Eyes

     The centuries between the Romans and us -- the so-called Dark Ages -- were darkened by plagues and population loss, by painful decentralization across Europe.  But people did plenty of interesting things.  Progress continued.  Last night, Tam and I finished watching The Great Courses series "Understanding the Marvels of Medieval Technology," conceived and taught by this guy, as kewl an engineer as there is (also a retired Brigadier General). Highly recommended geek history!

     If you enjoy the late Henry Petroksi's books, this will probably be right up your alley.

About "A.I." And Data Centers

     You want to know what I think about so-called "Artificial Intelligence?" I think it ought to be banned while there's still less there than meets the eye, while it still hasn't got hands.

     I still think there's a very large element of scam to it, and a lump of self-delusion equally as large.  It's the Internet meme, "If friend-shaped, why not friend?" writ large: "A.I." usually simulates an affirming if not outright obsequious collaborator.  There is still nothing inside the box; it can't feel pain, it has no theory of mind, and there is no actual self-awareness at the center of it.  Say it kills us all, or brings about a golden age: either way, there's no part of it that knows what's going on, or that grasps the difference between Utopia and Ragnarok.

     "A.I." is deadly the way a four-year-old with a handgun is deadly, only more so, because the code has no emotional bonds to Mommy or Daddy and it never will.  When research is done on these simulated-intelligence programs, it should be sandboxed and firewalled as if it was refined plutonium, not offered up for any fool to play with.

     And as for the data centers it (and, apparently, everything else) runs on, they're an enormous vulnerability, and one I thought we'd outgrown.  Go back a step or two in technological development, and they're an approximate analog to telephone switching centers ("telephone exchange"); CLifford Exchange was (and is) near my house, just a few blocks over and north on College Avenue.  Typical of post-WW II exchanges, it was a semi-hardened building: very few windows, stout steel doors, thick brick and concrete walls, backup power.  It wouldn't survive an atom bomb, but it has shrugged off storms, floods, being struck by vehicles, tornadoes and civil unrest without a mark.  The only destruction it has suffered was the loss of the larger of the two buildings that once comprised it: telephone switching equipment is minuscule these days, and the real estate was worth more than the empty building.

     Data centers are built using the same methods and materials as your nearest Target, Meijer or Walmart, just like the ones that have the roof peeled off in summer storms or get looted during riots.  Their best physical security consists of chain-link fences and ordinary locks.  If they're so darned important, how come they're built like big-box stores or modern warehouses?

     At one time, the distributed nature of a pretty clever computer (or three) on everyone's desk and, eventually, in everyone's purse or pocket, all interconnected via the Internet, was seen as a great strength, and the fat nodes on the network were understood as weak points that the system was designed to route around in case of individual failure.  Suddenly it's utterly vital to stick one or two or a dozen around every county seat?

     In Frank Herbert's Dune series,* computers are strictly limited in function and computing power; centuries before the setting of his stories, machine intelligence had reached great heights of power and tyrannical authority over humanity, and was only defeated after a long and bitter struggle.  High drama indeed, later novelized as The Butlerian Jihad, named ostensibly after a key character in the battles, though probably a nod to a 19th-Century utopian novelists's cautions about machine intelligence.  Maybe the time to deal with that sort of thing is before it becomes a problem?

     In February 2024, writing about the possible overturning of Chevron, I included "Artificial Intelligence" on a list of things about which I preferred our generally ineffectual Congress get expert advice, but now I'm wondering if the Feds are listening to the right kinds of experts -- better philosophers than tech moguls, better ethicists than software engineers.

     The price of getting this wrong is exorbitant.  
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* The first book is great; I think it kind of tapers off from there, though not for lack of worldbuilding.

Getting The Lead Out

     I bought a filtering water pitcher, and the reason is--

     City water tastes pretty lousy if it sits for more than a few minutes.  I drink bottled water and I'd been thinking about a filter carafe for a long time, but, well, what motivated me is that the LSLRP crew has been working two blocks over, and it worried me.  That's the Lead Service Line Replacement Program, our local water (and gas) utility's effort to replace lead pipe from the main to the "meter pit," which around here is more likely to have a shut-off valve in it while the actual meter lives in your basement and is connected to a wireless access port on the outside wall of your house.

     I hadn't been too worried; my house was built in 1924, the water line into the house is galvanized, and I was okay, right?

     Apparently not.  Between ordering the pitcher and receiving it, I got a letter advising me that what I keep thinking of as "L-Slurp" was in the neighborhood, swapping out the old lead pipes and yes, my house was on the list.

     Apparently, I've been running on leaded for twenty years.  Probably not much -- our various water utilities (the thing kept getting bought up and going bankrupt) have known for years and been careful about the chemicals they used, but, still.

     Like smoking, the best time to give up lead is before you start and the second-best time is right now. (And yes, the filtering widget I bought, a well-known name brand, promises it really does remove the lead, honest, cross their heart.)

About That Eye Infection

     I was diagnosed with an eye infection in my non-dominant eye some time back, and prescribed steroid-antibiotic eye drops to treat it.  My eye got better at first and then it started getting worse, so I kept using them and called my eye doctor.

     By the time of the appointment, I was over a week past when I ought to have stopped using the drops.  Turns out I should have.  They're pretty harsh.  They ended the infection, all right, then started attacking my cornea, producing much the same symptoms as the original infection.

     So now I'm on some other drops, steroid only, and they're helping, but I might not get everything back.  Could be that one's always going to be a little less sharp.  Plain eyedrops help.

     Being one of those little old ladies who always bugs the doctors was not among my ambitions, but I've got to stop figuring everything will work out.  Sometimes it doesn't.

Free Philip Glass Concert!

     Okay, maybe it's not exactly his style, but if you're not claustrophobic -- and I most definitely am not -- and you put in the earplugs and remember to ask for a blanket -- which I certainly did -- there's something restful about relaxing cozily inside an MRI in a loose-fitting hospital gown and scrub pants with your eyes shut while the machine does its thing:

     CLACK! Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock.
     Brzzt-brzzt-brzzt-brzzt-brzzt (pause)
      Brzzt-brzzt-brzzt-brzzt-brzzt (pause)
       Brzzt-brzzt-brzzt-brzzt-brzzt (pause)
        Brzzt-brzzt-brzzt-brzzt-brzzt (pause)

     CLACK. Tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic, clunk.
     Braaap!   Braaap!   Braaap!   Braaap!   Braaap!   Braaap!   Braaap!  
     Braaap!   Braaap!   Braaap!   Braaap!   Braaap!   Braaap!   Braaap!  

     And so on, for nearly half an hour, while I drifted, toasty and half-asleep, trying to work out plot developments in a short story and counting repetitions.  This was all lower back, and while I did feel strangely warm from time to time, I didn't experience the thing that sometimes happens when they're looking at your skull: spinning rings of white light, apparently when the scanning RF beam intersects some part of the eye or optic nerve.  Anyway, I have been plenty magnetized to last me for awhile.

     MRI machines use a series of clever tricks to take a look at your innards, including the parts too soft and squishy to register in any detail on an X-ray, and while an MRI is generally louder and larger than an X-ray machine, the part that's actually scanning you is a little less intense.  The dodge is, the huge electromagnet you're inside has lined up each and every tiny proton in each tiny atom, and the detector is just looking to see how much they wiggle when the scanning beam zips by.  Each pass of the beam results in a series of data points, ρ (rho) much amplitude at an angle of φ (phi) over and over and over, and they slowly build an image in the form of a series of  "slices."  Smart processing software can turn that into a 3-D model or show flat projections at various angles, but it takes a lot of samples -- which is why it takes so long and you're not supposed to move while it's happening.

     If you're not much minded to panic, it's a good time to relax, half-dozing.  Might as well; you're not going anywhere until it is over.

     Despite my very best intentions, I walked to the room with a couple of metal clips in my hair.  The techs give you the once-over, twice, before you cross the threshold, and spotted them.  "Don't feel too bad about it," one of them told me, "I confiscated two lighters from a guy just last week.  I still can't figure out why he brought them."

     What they found out about my back, I don't know yet.  Maybe some time next week.

It's All About Image

      A part of my day will be about imaging -- they're going to stick me in an MRI machine* and look at my back.  It's still giving me some trouble; a week back at work has caused an increase in pain in my lower back, despite reduced physical activity and desk chairs that are far better than the old-fashioned wooden one I use at home.

     There might be some answers in a closer look.  Or not, and there's a limit to what they can do to fix spines anyway.  But at least they're looking -- and I'm still exercising.
________________
* They have not, despite what you may have heard, been renamed "America machines."

The B*stard Theory

     Still waiting on more examples, but so far, my theory about what it takes to run a successful human spaceflight program is holding water.

     Of course, it takes talented engineers, and plenty of them; of course it takes access to resources -- money will do, but money and actual materiel is even better.  And it takes a decent manufacturing base.  Countries with those things, and a will to send stuff into space, can and do run space programs: Japan, the European Union, India.

     To successfully send humans into space, and bring most of them back, you need one more thing: an utter bastard at the top.  Three of the four entities that have done so demonstrate this: The Soviet Union, the United States, and SpaceX.  Two of the principals were trained engineers, though the details of their spacecraft were designed by others; the third is a coder (or was; it takes about fifteen minutes away from that work to get out of date, and he's been a business promoter for decades now).  All three were or are relentless promoters.  All three accommodated the political environments in which they operated, without regard to moral hazard.  And all three were or are pretty much bastards.  They're not the precise same kinds of bastards: raw and relentless, charming and driven, or weird and unflagging, but they're all relatively amoral.  They all chugged on through anything that got between them and their goal.  And though they all got people into space, none of them quite got to where they wanted to be.

     I'm waiting on another example.  Obscurity still conceals China's guy(s); India's manned space program is supposedly still on track, but they're quiet about it.  But there's almost certainly some kind of bastard behind the scenes, driving the detail people, navigating bureaucracy, moving with little regard to the feelings and careers of others.

     I'm deeply skeptical of "Great Man" theories of history.  Getting human spaceflight programs up and running may be an exception. 

Star City

     I finished the first season of Apple TV's Star City a few weeks ago.  It's the Russian-side companion to their alternate history series For All Mankind, in which the Soviet Union barely beats the U.S. to the Moon and the Space Race never stops.

     The latter series shows events from the U.S. side, and the hardware is mostly familiar to anyone who grew up with NASA-inspired articles in the Sunday supplement and national magazines.  It provides about as much view into details of the USSR's space program as we ever got in real life: clunky, overbuilt equipment and cosmonauts who got the job done through grit and fatalistic determination -- or died trying.  Where America succeeded or failed in plain sight, the Russians announced results after the fact, or swept them under the rug when things went wrong.

      And that's what Star City is about: exploring space under paranoid totalitarianism and sometimes despite it, using improvised hardware, taking chances the West never would.  The hardware is...well, it's very Russian.

     Watching the series, I thought the clunkiness and improvisation was a little overplayed.  Surely the real-life Russians had better stuff, despite the awful politics?  Tamara's been reading The Wrong Stuff: How the Soviet Space Program Crashed and Burned, by John Strausbaugh.  He certainly looks to have done his homework, and the real Soviet space program was, if anything, even iffier than the TV series makes it out to be.  Oh, the Russians had (and still have) plenty of fine engineers, and Sergei Korolev was (and needed to be) even more determined an organizer, manager and overall rocket designer than Werner von Braun.  But circumstances far outside his control resulted in an effort that had to brute-force everything and accept huge risks.  One reason the R-7 launch system, direct ancestor to today's Soyuz, has been able to become ever more capable though incremental improvement is that it was a crude (but workable) mechanism to begin with; better alloys, better machining, better construction techniques and better electronics have kept it usable, and increased the payload carried on the large amounts of thrust originally needed just to get the stack of stages off the ground and headed for space.

     The Wrong Stuff makes an excellent companion volume to Star City, for all that it slightly undermines the big "what if..." of the series: what if Russia got there first?  But the real "what if..." is a different question: what if Korolev had not been so terribly abused under Stalin's purges that his time in the gulags left him physically damaged and headed for an early death?  If anyone could have led the way to getting the N-1 launcher working and pulled off a Moon landing with Russia's equipment, he would have been the guy; but as things went, he was gone long before the deadline.

     In For All Mankind's timeline, the USSR is still together by the early 2010s -- but it's not quite the same place it was, having loosened up just a little under the pressure to compete (and sometimes cooperate), largely peacefully, in space and at home.  But after one season of Star City, it's clear that even making that small amount of progress will be a long, hard road.

Radium Water! Now -- With Vitamins!

      The thing about "A.I." is that there's a lot of smoke over very little fire -- and every coat-tail riding grifter and half-baked amateur futurist is emitting their own clouds, huddled over the flames and seeing the Promised Land (or at least a fat bank account) in their glow.

     The latest comes from the very top: the current administration in Washington, DC* is pushing a "golden age of science" built around applying A.I. to, well, everything.  Exactly how anyone is supposed to do actual science -- which is based on working out the actual facts about actual things and ideas -- using a tool that has a great and apparently inherent tendency to just make up plausible bullshit, no one can say.  In practice, it hasn't worked out, and the scientific journals have the same problem with specious A.I-generated article as fiction publishers do with A.I. dross that falls short of human efforts (and takes several pages to do so†), and the same problem with made-up A.I. citations as the legal profession.

     A.I. doesn't create new stuff; it uses the old stuff we already knew to create patterns of plausible stuff.  It may be able to pick out patterns in data that elude humans, too; but those results must be evaluated very carefully by subject-matter experts to determine what's real and what is only another "hallucination."  A.I. fools us in much the same way we fool ourselves, so it's not a simple task.

     Poorly understood by most people, with characteristics even the people who work developing it are struggling to understand, A.I. today occupies the same cultural space that radium (and radioactivity in general) did over a century ago, or vitamins a few year later.  The radium thing did not turn out so very well; vitamins did better.  The hype and hoopla‡ lingered, as the hype and hoopla from A.I. is now.

     Maybe let's not be in such a hurry to gulp it down by the gallon.
________________________
* Here's a question for later: if the District of Colombia ever achieves statehood, will we start calling the Pacific coastal state "Washington, AC," or "Washington, OG?"  Or something else?  Yeah, yeah, the new state would be called something like District of Colombia, or maybe just Capitol District (for all those Hunger Games fans out there), but the city is Washington and you know we'll keep on using the old, familiar synecdoche.
 
† The problem is not so much that the writing is lousy -- Sturgeon's Law predicts 95% of all unsolicited fiction people send in is unpublishable -- as it is the sheer volume.  Typewriters let us write faster than we can think, and word processors let us edit so quickly that getting it right in the first draft no longer matters, but A.I. churns out fiction in greater volume than any collection of editors and assistants can manage to read.  There are gems in the slushpile, and 5% of the total was a sufficiently productive return at the pittance paid "first readers" to sort through it.  0.5% is not, and if A.I. was capable of recognizing the flaws well enough to sort through it, it wouldn't be creating so much unusable work.
 
‡ Even for vitamins: for awhile, every breakfast cereal advertised itself as so packed with vitamins that between them and the sugar, there couldn't have been much room left for grain.

Hooray For Breakfast!

      Today, I managed to make it to Good Morning Mama's in time to enjoy their home-made corned beef hash, with a scrambled egg on top.  Between physical therapy and doctor appointments, I have only managed that once before during this extended leave.

     Speaking of doctors--  I've had a minor irritation in my left eye for weeks,  I thought it might be an ingrown eyelash (the ancient Romans, who would pluck an eyelash for luck much as you might knock wood, were so plagued by ingrown eyelashes that the tools to deal with the problem were part of every physician's instruments).  My family doctor, back in July, thought it was more likely an allergy and had me start using over-the-counter allergy-relieving eye drops, but the problem continued and was getting a little worse.  I finally called my eye doctor's office.  They wanted to see me the next day, if not sooner.

     After one of the more awkward eye exams I've had (it's not easy to get a good look at the inside of an eyelid), he told me it was an infection, with a couple of cloudy spots, and phoned in a prescription for steroid-antibiotic eye drops.  Even a single day later, I think they're working.  The infection caused a funny feeling along the edge of my eyelid, like there was a little something in there that wouldn't wash away.  If you get that kind of sensation, don't ignore it even if it's not that bad; it could be something that won't go away on its own.  (And no, it's not eyelash mites gone wild.  Those, the eye specialist tells me, have such distinctive symptoms that they're easy to diagnose.)

I'm Not Sure

     I don't know how well I'm recovering from my back problems, or adjusting to them, or whatever I'm supposed to be doing.

     The defect was there all along.  I just set it off, woke it up or irritated it with my efforts at yard work on the last day of May.  It's not going to heal; the bone was always wrong and it's not one a surgeon can fix.  Here it is August, and if I forget and bend over to pick up debris two or three times within a few minutes, I feel it.  The physical therapy exercises make my back hurt, too.

     Am I making progress?  I don't know.  The howl-at-the-Moon pain of the first few weeks hasn't come back, and I am grateful for that, but I can tell it's waiting in the wings, and it makes me timid.  Or maybe just careful.  It's frustrating.

Sociology? History?

      It'll be a PhD thesis subject some day, I'm just not sure in which department: Is Republican rage at Dr. Anthony Fauci primarily driven by his refusal to validate quackery during the Covid pandemic, or by his earlier work in helping find effective treatments for HIV/AIDS?

     There's a certain subset of the Right, especially the Religious Right, that was delighted they could cast gay sex as a death sentence, and Dr. Fauci played a huge part in taking that away.  He was a low-key villain for the nutjob Right ever after, and the more widespread craziness over Covid opened the door to spreading that loathing.

     Now they're promising to get him behind bars, one way or another -- for doing what was at the time his job.

     Sorry, horse dewormer is still not a miracle cure for viral illness.  Vaccination is an effective tool in stopping the spread of disease.  AIDS was not the wrath of God.  You can stick your fingers in your ears and chant, "No, no, no," all you like, but it's still true.

The Doctor Says

     I'm off for four more weeks.  Well, the doctor actually prescribed light duty, still not lifting any more than fifteen pounds, and that's a downcheck for work, where they require us to be able to lift fifty pounds -- or at least be able to try.

     That's a lot of weight, and far more than I routinely lift.  There are plenty of good workarounds.  The kicker is, there's a possibility of overhead work, and you really don't want to be dropping expensive, heavy equipment, especially when expensive people are working not too far away.  I don't like it but I understand it.  I'll do my exercises and hope for improvement.

Doctor Today, Dentist Tomorrow

      Saw my regular doctor today for general follow-up on my back and some discussion of long-term prognosis.  It is, as I suspected, partially a dice roll: I should avoid undue stress, but even then, it may flare up from time to time.  I've got a glitchy back now.

     I did very well on blood pressure (see what six weeks off gets you?).

     Tomorrow, the dentist will probably not give me good marks for tooth-grinding.  It's been a problem all my life, and some times more than others.  These are tooth-grinding times, and I bear the marks.

Looking Back

     The thing about a gerontocracy is that it crumbles away at the upper edge: with age comes power, but nobody lasts forever; the same "bathtub curve" that explains why most of a batch of light bulbs or hard drives fail around the same time shows that the men at the top, once they get there, die off.*

     Lindsey Graham went last night, younger than many but a year older than the age at which his father passed.  His political career followed an interesting path, one that led Anne Applebaum to feature him prominently in a prophetic 2020 article on the compromises some people make and others do not, when power outstrips constitutional limits and trumps political philosophy.  It's worth reading.
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* The horrific second-order effect is that the ruling elite of a gerontocracy has little or no interest in the future: they're not going to be around for it, after all, and so they'll take their pleasures now, and leave dealing with the consequences for those who will come after.

Hooray, Hoo... Oops?

      Got my FMLA paperwork today,* which is good.  It's got me covered through my next ortho doctor's appointment.

     Then I read on down, seeing which boxes are ticked.  Like this one: "Due to the condition, incapacity is permanent or long term and requires the continuing supervision of a health care provider (...)."

     Yeah.  See, per the specialist, my back was never right, and having been riled up once,† from here on it's a matter of managing it.  I'm not a candidate for any kind of hardware (or knifework, and I'm happy about that), but I will never again dance the maskirovka while balancing a 25-pound sack of potatoes on my head.  Or is it dance the mashed potatoes while balancing a 11.34-kilogram matryoshka?  It doesn't matter, they're both out.  Along with some other stuff.  I'm going to have to go a little slower and more carefully now.  If they'll let me.

     Guess I need to save up for a lightweight telescoping ladder.  That ham antenna isn't going to fix itself.
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* Wait, I'm in the Five-Meter Liberation Army now?
 
† Unfortunately for me, they've got X-rays from 2021 to compare the current set to, and things have, in fact, moved a measurable amount, no squinting required.  I'm not gonna be able to BS my way out of this and take more Tylenol to cover, the way I do with most migraines.  It's spondylolisthesis, which until last month, I thought was the name of a general who marched an army out of Greece and fought the Persians to a faretheewell.