Friday, November 21, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Wolfram's Rule 34 (XKCD)
If I understood it myself, I'd explain it, but here are a few spam-free links that discuss it:
http://stackoverflow.com/questions/302369/wolframs-rule-34-in-xkcd
http://fakerake.com/2008/282/wolframs-rule-34-for-xkcd-readers/
http://atlas.wolfram.com/01/01/34/01_01_1_34.html
The 1st includes the 2nd and 3rd, as well as some others.
The original comic: http://www.xkcd.com/505/
http://stackoverflow.com/questions/302369/wolframs-rule-34-in-xkcd
http://fakerake.com/2008/282/wolframs-rule-34-for-xkcd-readers/
http://atlas.wolfram.com/01/01/34/01_01_1_34.html
The 1st includes the 2nd and 3rd, as well as some others.
The original comic: http://www.xkcd.com/505/
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Head in the sand
Photo of statue at Stanford University, San Fransisco, showing a result of the 1906 earthquake. Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Agassiz_statue_Mwc00715.jpg
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Change.gov
The office of the President-Elect has its own website. They've already begun. Check it out at: http://change.gov/
X-ray Chapter 6, part 5
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Five hours later they were still sitting there, having merely stepped across the sidewalk at one o'clock to get their lunch. Marcus's newspaper, open to the classified section, lay spread out on his lap; Marcus himself lay back on the seat with his eyes closed. Ian lay similarly situated, but the presence of the steering wheel meant that his newspaper spread onto the dashboard. His coffee, now cold, sat on the corner of the dashboard, but this did not save it from being knocked over when the computer beeped, jerking Ian out from a confusing dream and causing him to shove the rest of his newspaper onto the dash as he scrambled to pull up the dispatch: another shift was open, this one late in the evening. Ian passed this information onto Marcus, who had already read it for himself and who closed his eyes and immediately went back to sleep. Ian turned his attention to the mess of cold coffee, paper cup and sodden newspaper on the dashboard, while the larger part of his mind tried to recapture and interpret his dream, which had something to do with Sara and her twin sister.
"Sara doesn't have a twin sister," Ian's mind protested after several seconds. "She has two brothers, neither of whom were her twin. At least the newspaper soaked up most of the coffee," he added aloud, albeit softly. He took the coffee cup (now all but empty, whereas it had been two thirds full when he had set it on the dashboard) and the newspaper and stepped around through the light rain to the trash can at the corner. Though he continued to try to recapture his dream for several minutes, he eventually had to acknowledge that its essence had dissipated entirely. He gave up and fell back to sleep.
Two hours later the shift was just about over, and Marcus leaned over the MDT to nudge Ian awake. "It's about time to head back, Ian," Marcus said.
Ian blinked his eyes in the light and regained his bearings. "We didn't have any calls," he said at last.
In response, the MDT beeped. Marcus shook his head sadly, and Ian remembered that one of the unofficial lessons of the Academy was to never say, never even think the call volume was light.
"Can't walk," said Marcus, reading the computer display. He read off the address and gave Ian directions.
First Post|Previous|Next
Five hours later they were still sitting there, having merely stepped across the sidewalk at one o'clock to get their lunch. Marcus's newspaper, open to the classified section, lay spread out on his lap; Marcus himself lay back on the seat with his eyes closed. Ian lay similarly situated, but the presence of the steering wheel meant that his newspaper spread onto the dashboard. His coffee, now cold, sat on the corner of the dashboard, but this did not save it from being knocked over when the computer beeped, jerking Ian out from a confusing dream and causing him to shove the rest of his newspaper onto the dash as he scrambled to pull up the dispatch: another shift was open, this one late in the evening. Ian passed this information onto Marcus, who had already read it for himself and who closed his eyes and immediately went back to sleep. Ian turned his attention to the mess of cold coffee, paper cup and sodden newspaper on the dashboard, while the larger part of his mind tried to recapture and interpret his dream, which had something to do with Sara and her twin sister.
"Sara doesn't have a twin sister," Ian's mind protested after several seconds. "She has two brothers, neither of whom were her twin. At least the newspaper soaked up most of the coffee," he added aloud, albeit softly. He took the coffee cup (now all but empty, whereas it had been two thirds full when he had set it on the dashboard) and the newspaper and stepped around through the light rain to the trash can at the corner. Though he continued to try to recapture his dream for several minutes, he eventually had to acknowledge that its essence had dissipated entirely. He gave up and fell back to sleep.
Two hours later the shift was just about over, and Marcus leaned over the MDT to nudge Ian awake. "It's about time to head back, Ian," Marcus said.
Ian blinked his eyes in the light and regained his bearings. "We didn't have any calls," he said at last.
In response, the MDT beeped. Marcus shook his head sadly, and Ian remembered that one of the unofficial lessons of the Academy was to never say, never even think the call volume was light.
"Can't walk," said Marcus, reading the computer display. He read off the address and gave Ian directions.
First Post|Previous|Next
How big is the White House?
During the Truman administration, the White House's original wooden skeleton was replaced by a steel one. This required gutting the house, leaving only the exterior walls. This photo was taken during that time. Note the construction equipment: it's inside the White House.That's a big house.
Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Truman71-305-1.jpg
Monday, November 10, 2008
X-ray Chapter 6, part 4
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The next day was Saturday, the fifth and last day of Ian's first week. He met Marcus in the break room, having a discussion with a man whom Ian recognized as Andy’s partner. “Ian, this is Jeremy,” said Marcus, and the man extended his hand.
Ian took Jeremy’s hand and shook, looking him in the eye and nodding once. “You’re Andy’s partner,” he said.
Jeremy nodded. “He’s off today, though. Angie’s on.” He glanced at his watch, made a few remarks to Marcus from which it appeared that Marcus had asked his advice on a difficult-to-start car, and was collecting his radio from the table when a woman walked in – a rather striking woman, Ian thought, if perhaps somewhat thin. She had a face that nature had intended to be pleased or even jolly, but right now it wore a frown. “Are we ready?” she asked Jeremy, ignoring Ian and Marcus. “Dispatch gave us an EtOH down on Bourbon Street. Hi, who are you?” she said, suddenly noting Ian’s unfamiliar face, “I’m Angie. Are you coming?” She asked, already having turned her attention back to Jeremy. “¡Ándale! ¡Arriba!” she said, banging her knuckle against the table top for emphasis before turning to leave.
“It's probably only Bobby," Jeremy said, slinging the radio holster over his head and shoulder and following her out. Ian and Marcus continued to hear them squabble for another several seconds until they turned the corner into the garage and their voices cut off abruptly.
"Bobby's one of our frequent fliers," Marcus said in response to Ian's questioning look. "We see him several times a week."
Ian crossed to the sink, found a mug that looked to be clean, and poured himself some coffee from the machine on the counter. "Truck isn't in yet?" he asked.
"Truck? Oh, you mean bus. No. Not yet."
Ian nodded. A map of the area hung on the wall opposite the sink. Ian walked over and considered it "I don't see any Bourbon Street," he said after several minutes.
Marcus smiled. "It's Derben Street actually," he said, joining Ian and pointing it out on the map. "Several blocks are nothing but liquor stores, though. They're known as Bourbon Street. Erin and Smiley just walked past; we should get our narcs and radios."
Smiley, who also answered to the name of George, was a short, mildly obese man whose belly bulged out in front of him, pulling his uniform shirt tight. His face reminded Ian of Mikhail Gorbachev, less the port-wine stain. His name tag read Guinness. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He offered his hand Ian as he walked into the office, introducing himself ("I'm Smiley, three-five X tour one. You must be Steele.") and pumping Ian's hand vigorously.
"Uh, yes," said Ian, allowing his hand to be pumped, "yes, Ian Steele."
"Good to meet you. Marcus here giving you a hard time?" Smiley asked with a grin. "I guess I should be signing my morphine over to you. And here's your radio and keys. Are you driving today? You'll need to get fuel. Good to see you, [Marcus's last name]" shaking Marcus's hand. "You keeping out of trouble? Okay, I have to pick up my kid, I'll be seeing you. Good to meet you, Steele," he called over his shoulder, exiting the room and leaving Ian feeling slightly exhausted.
Out in the ambulance, Ian discovered the Smiley had been right: they did need fuel; the front tank showed just over one-quarter full, and the rear tank showed even less. Once they checked their gear, Marcus directed Ian over Station 16 for fuel.
Once they had refueled (this involved an ancient fuel pump whose mechanical display squeaked as the number-bearing wheels spun) they drifted slowly over to 199 and Maxwell streets, where they parked next the fire hydrant at the corner, locked the ambulance, and stepped into the bodega part way down the block.
When they returned, the computer was beeping, and Ian's heart jumped -- they had missed a call. Marcus seemed unperturbed, though, as he calmly called up the dispatch info. "They want someone to cover a tour three shift, starting at five," he said as he folded back the plastic tab of his coffee cup's lid. "Standard overtime rate. Time-and-a-half," he added, seeing mild confusion on Ian's face.
"But we get off at six," Ian said, "why are they asking us?"
"They're asking everyone, Ian. And sometimes they'll let you do it, if they're really stuck."
Ian considered this. "What's standard overtime?" He finally asked.
"Standard overtime is time-and-a-half for the first 16 hours, then it's double-time after that. If you're mandated, though, you multiply that by one half. There are also differences -- well, increases for low staff levels, very low staff levels, and extremely low staff levels. If the situation was right, Ian, you can make five times your base pay. I don't think anyone's done that."
"Five times," Ian repeated.
"Five times," Marcus nodded.
First Post|Previous|Next
The next day was Saturday, the fifth and last day of Ian's first week. He met Marcus in the break room, having a discussion with a man whom Ian recognized as Andy’s partner. “Ian, this is Jeremy,” said Marcus, and the man extended his hand.
Ian took Jeremy’s hand and shook, looking him in the eye and nodding once. “You’re Andy’s partner,” he said.
Jeremy nodded. “He’s off today, though. Angie’s on.” He glanced at his watch, made a few remarks to Marcus from which it appeared that Marcus had asked his advice on a difficult-to-start car, and was collecting his radio from the table when a woman walked in – a rather striking woman, Ian thought, if perhaps somewhat thin. She had a face that nature had intended to be pleased or even jolly, but right now it wore a frown. “Are we ready?” she asked Jeremy, ignoring Ian and Marcus. “Dispatch gave us an EtOH down on Bourbon Street. Hi, who are you?” she said, suddenly noting Ian’s unfamiliar face, “I’m Angie. Are you coming?” She asked, already having turned her attention back to Jeremy. “¡Ándale! ¡Arriba!” she said, banging her knuckle against the table top for emphasis before turning to leave.
“It's probably only Bobby," Jeremy said, slinging the radio holster over his head and shoulder and following her out. Ian and Marcus continued to hear them squabble for another several seconds until they turned the corner into the garage and their voices cut off abruptly.
"Bobby's one of our frequent fliers," Marcus said in response to Ian's questioning look. "We see him several times a week."
Ian crossed to the sink, found a mug that looked to be clean, and poured himself some coffee from the machine on the counter. "Truck isn't in yet?" he asked.
"Truck? Oh, you mean bus. No. Not yet."
Ian nodded. A map of the area hung on the wall opposite the sink. Ian walked over and considered it "I don't see any Bourbon Street," he said after several minutes.
Marcus smiled. "It's Derben Street actually," he said, joining Ian and pointing it out on the map. "Several blocks are nothing but liquor stores, though. They're known as Bourbon Street. Erin and Smiley just walked past; we should get our narcs and radios."
Smiley, who also answered to the name of George, was a short, mildly obese man whose belly bulged out in front of him, pulling his uniform shirt tight. His face reminded Ian of Mikhail Gorbachev, less the port-wine stain. His name tag read Guinness. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He offered his hand Ian as he walked into the office, introducing himself ("I'm Smiley, three-five X tour one. You must be Steele.") and pumping Ian's hand vigorously.
"Uh, yes," said Ian, allowing his hand to be pumped, "yes, Ian Steele."
"Good to meet you. Marcus here giving you a hard time?" Smiley asked with a grin. "I guess I should be signing my morphine over to you. And here's your radio and keys. Are you driving today? You'll need to get fuel. Good to see you, [Marcus's last name]" shaking Marcus's hand. "You keeping out of trouble? Okay, I have to pick up my kid, I'll be seeing you. Good to meet you, Steele," he called over his shoulder, exiting the room and leaving Ian feeling slightly exhausted.
Out in the ambulance, Ian discovered the Smiley had been right: they did need fuel; the front tank showed just over one-quarter full, and the rear tank showed even less. Once they checked their gear, Marcus directed Ian over Station 16 for fuel.
Once they had refueled (this involved an ancient fuel pump whose mechanical display squeaked as the number-bearing wheels spun) they drifted slowly over to 199 and Maxwell streets, where they parked next the fire hydrant at the corner, locked the ambulance, and stepped into the bodega part way down the block.
When they returned, the computer was beeping, and Ian's heart jumped -- they had missed a call. Marcus seemed unperturbed, though, as he calmly called up the dispatch info. "They want someone to cover a tour three shift, starting at five," he said as he folded back the plastic tab of his coffee cup's lid. "Standard overtime rate. Time-and-a-half," he added, seeing mild confusion on Ian's face.
"But we get off at six," Ian said, "why are they asking us?"
"They're asking everyone, Ian. And sometimes they'll let you do it, if they're really stuck."
Ian considered this. "What's standard overtime?" He finally asked.
"Standard overtime is time-and-a-half for the first 16 hours, then it's double-time after that. If you're mandated, though, you multiply that by one half. There are also differences -- well, increases for low staff levels, very low staff levels, and extremely low staff levels. If the situation was right, Ian, you can make five times your base pay. I don't think anyone's done that."
"Five times," Ian repeated.
"Five times," Marcus nodded.
* * *
First Post|Previous|Next
Sunday, November 9, 2008
STO'B 15
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Twenty-four hours later Badger had completed all of her major repairs, except for her rudder, which neither her commander nor her carpenter had yet figured out how to address. A thousand minor repairs remained, but for the moment all hands had been called aftt to witness punishment. They stood there in the waist, heads bare, facing Philip and his officers on the quarterdeck. Sergeant Harris and his marines lined the gangways, bayonets fixed, ready to suppress any sign of unrest.
"Master at Arms," called the Captain, "bring forward the first case."
The master at Arms, a burly man with arms like an ape, led a slight, light-haired seaman aft, stopping a few feet short of the quarterdeck. "Seaman Wright." he announced hieratically, "charged with neglect of duty on the night of the fourth, allowing the enemy to approach undetected to such a point as he was able to attack and severely injure this sloop, Badger, and kill some 24 persons of her crew, and injure another 12 persons."
"Well, Wight, what have you to say for yourself?" asked Captain Fitton.
Wight touched a knuckle to his forehead. "Yes, your honour, which I am sorry as what's happened, like, with that French brig and all, but as I tolds Mr Grey here-"
"Your eyes are not the issue, Wight," interrupted the lieutenant. "It is your neglect of duty."
"No, your honour, which I didn't neglect-"
"Then how did the Chasseur get so close?" asked Fitton.
"The Chasseur, your honour?"
"The Chasseur, the Frenchman," said Grey. "If you did not neglect your duty then how did she get so close?"
When no answer appeared, Captain Fitton turned to the officers assembled on the quarterdeck. "Have his officers anything to say for him?"
They had not. The Captain nodded to the bosun's mate, standing by with his cat,"strip him and seize him up."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Twenty-four hours later Badger had completed all of her major repairs, except for her rudder, which neither her commander nor her carpenter had yet figured out how to address. A thousand minor repairs remained, but for the moment all hands had been called aftt to witness punishment. They stood there in the waist, heads bare, facing Philip and his officers on the quarterdeck. Sergeant Harris and his marines lined the gangways, bayonets fixed, ready to suppress any sign of unrest.
"Master at Arms," called the Captain, "bring forward the first case."
The master at Arms, a burly man with arms like an ape, led a slight, light-haired seaman aft, stopping a few feet short of the quarterdeck. "Seaman Wright." he announced hieratically, "charged with neglect of duty on the night of the fourth, allowing the enemy to approach undetected to such a point as he was able to attack and severely injure this sloop, Badger, and kill some 24 persons of her crew, and injure another 12 persons."
"Well, Wight, what have you to say for yourself?" asked Captain Fitton.
Wight touched a knuckle to his forehead. "Yes, your honour, which I am sorry as what's happened, like, with that French brig and all, but as I tolds Mr Grey here-"
"Your eyes are not the issue, Wight," interrupted the lieutenant. "It is your neglect of duty."
"No, your honour, which I didn't neglect-"
"Then how did the Chasseur get so close?" asked Fitton.
"The Chasseur, your honour?"
"The Chasseur, the Frenchman," said Grey. "If you did not neglect your duty then how did she get so close?"
When no answer appeared, Captain Fitton turned to the officers assembled on the quarterdeck. "Have his officers anything to say for him?"
They had not. The Captain nodded to the bosun's mate, standing by with his cat,"strip him and seize him up."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Gun sales are up
The news is reporting that gun sales are up, including assault rifles, as some people are worried that a democratic President, coupled with a Democrat-controlled Congress, will place new limits on gun sales.
Where have these people been for the last few months? Do they really think that the government's priority is suddenly going to become gun control come January 20th?
And honestly, who really has a need for an assault rifle, anyway?
Where have these people been for the last few months? Do they really think that the government's priority is suddenly going to become gun control come January 20th?
And honestly, who really has a need for an assault rifle, anyway?
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
History in the making
Sometimes you know that you're in a historic moment. If you had asked me a year ago if it was possible for the United States to elect an African American President, I would have said "no, too many people aren't there yet." Racism isn't over. But if President Obama does a decent job, it will become weaker.
Of course, there's the rub. Obama does not have an easy task. He's made a lot of promises, and there are large expectations. How he'll be able to meet those expectations is beyond me; the country is broke. Even if it wasn't, the expectations are so high that I don't know that it's possible for anyone to meet them. And no doubt there are any number of people waiting and hoping he will fail, because he's black, or Muslim (he isn't), or because he eats baby seals for breakfast (he doesn't). Some people seem to have forgotten what it means to be an American. Or perhaps they never knew.
I give President-elect Obama real credit for saying, last night, that everyone is going to have to work together, and make sacrifices for the United States to succeed. He's absolutely right, and President Bush, Jr's biggest mistake may have been to pretend otherwise. Working together, the nation, and the world, can pull through.
Americans are fascinated with World War II. Then, the enemies were clear, and everyone worked together to defeat them. If the US can recapture that spirit - if only it can recapture that spirit. In the next several months we'll know.
Of course, there's the rub. Obama does not have an easy task. He's made a lot of promises, and there are large expectations. How he'll be able to meet those expectations is beyond me; the country is broke. Even if it wasn't, the expectations are so high that I don't know that it's possible for anyone to meet them. And no doubt there are any number of people waiting and hoping he will fail, because he's black, or Muslim (he isn't), or because he eats baby seals for breakfast (he doesn't). Some people seem to have forgotten what it means to be an American. Or perhaps they never knew.
I give President-elect Obama real credit for saying, last night, that everyone is going to have to work together, and make sacrifices for the United States to succeed. He's absolutely right, and President Bush, Jr's biggest mistake may have been to pretend otherwise. Working together, the nation, and the world, can pull through.
Americans are fascinated with World War II. Then, the enemies were clear, and everyone worked together to defeat them. If the US can recapture that spirit - if only it can recapture that spirit. In the next several months we'll know.
Today's front page
Obama wins the Presidency, as seen around the world: http://www.newseum.org/todaysfrontpages/default_archive.asp?fpArchive=110508
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The 4th of July, the 1st Tuesday in November
I find it curious that we celebrate the day we declared our independence with parades and fireworks, but don't do the same on the day when we exercise it.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
STO'B 14
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Philip paused, looking across at the Chasseur. His ankle hurt abominably, swollen insode his boot where the Chasseur's cannonball had rolled into it. But he had to keep his lieutenant in countenance - the man was a splendid disciplinarian and he could not be on bad terms with him. "She's a flier," he said, "a good brig. She'll certainly be bought into the service."
"Yes, sir," said Lt Grey, relaxing somewhat, for in all likelihood the Chasseur represented his promotion. "Fourteen 18-pounders, plus two nine-pounders on the quarterdeck. Her hull hasn't suffered in the least, so we should make good work of her by the time we rejoin the fleet. She should fetch a pretty penny."
"Yes," said Philip, catching the smile from his lieutenant, "but she shouldn't have been able to get so close to us without us knowing."
"Boone was the maintop lookout, sir, and O'Keefe was in the foretop. but both are dead, sir."
"And the port side lookouts? I don't suppose that the man at the bow -"
"Luccock, sir."
"Luccock, would have seen anything, but the gangway and quarter men should have."
"Liddle and Wight, sir."
"Liddle and Wight. Who was it saw the brig first?"
"Liddle, sir."
"And Wight?"
"No, sir."
"I see." Wight should have seen the brig. So should Boone and O'Keefe, for that matter, but both were dead, which was but justice. Philip cast his eye over the Badger, pumping out the water that continued to work past the plugs, rudderless, her rigging and masts a mess. She had been caught sleeping, and she had suffered. "Place him in irons. We'll have the hide off of him in the morning. Liddle, too. How could he not see the brig until it was firing at us? Now, Mr Grey, I believe the maintopmast is ready to be swayed up, if you would be so kind."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Philip paused, looking across at the Chasseur. His ankle hurt abominably, swollen insode his boot where the Chasseur's cannonball had rolled into it. But he had to keep his lieutenant in countenance - the man was a splendid disciplinarian and he could not be on bad terms with him. "She's a flier," he said, "a good brig. She'll certainly be bought into the service."
"Yes, sir," said Lt Grey, relaxing somewhat, for in all likelihood the Chasseur represented his promotion. "Fourteen 18-pounders, plus two nine-pounders on the quarterdeck. Her hull hasn't suffered in the least, so we should make good work of her by the time we rejoin the fleet. She should fetch a pretty penny."
"Yes," said Philip, catching the smile from his lieutenant, "but she shouldn't have been able to get so close to us without us knowing."
"Boone was the maintop lookout, sir, and O'Keefe was in the foretop. but both are dead, sir."
"And the port side lookouts? I don't suppose that the man at the bow -"
"Luccock, sir."
"Luccock, would have seen anything, but the gangway and quarter men should have."
"Liddle and Wight, sir."
"Liddle and Wight. Who was it saw the brig first?"
"Liddle, sir."
"And Wight?"
"No, sir."
"I see." Wight should have seen the brig. So should Boone and O'Keefe, for that matter, but both were dead, which was but justice. Philip cast his eye over the Badger, pumping out the water that continued to work past the plugs, rudderless, her rigging and masts a mess. She had been caught sleeping, and she had suffered. "Place him in irons. We'll have the hide off of him in the morning. Liddle, too. How could he not see the brig until it was firing at us? Now, Mr Grey, I believe the maintopmast is ready to be swayed up, if you would be so kind."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
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