September 2006 Archives

links for 2006-09-30

Is There Really That Much Difference?

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Yesterday’s crop went like this:

I was impressed by your qualifications and have no doubt you will do well in law school and thereafter.

Your resume is impressive and I have no doubt that you will be successful in your future endeavors. I wish you the best of luck with your search…

Although you were a highly qualified candidate, I have chosen someone else to fill that position. I wish you great success in your legal career.

All of which reminds me something I’ve heard before, somewhere:

You’re a great guy, but I don’t like you in that way

links for 2006-09-29

Metro NY recently ran this fascinating interview with Michel Gondrey about his new film, The Science of Sleep, wherein he talks a bit (OK, it’s really the real subject of the interview) about unrequited love:

AB: You think giving handmade gifts led to rejection?

MG: Me, yes, I was rejected. I showed too much love. If I was in a relationship with my girlfriend, she would cry and show much happiness. But when it’s someone you are not with, it shows how much you would like to be with that person. If she doesn’t want to be with you, it’s difficult.

AB: One of the best presents I ever received was from a boy I didn’t like in that way. It was terrifying.

MG: Yes! They try to love you! And that’s why you don’t like them! It’s crazy! It kills me! Girls who I liked so much and I made presents for, they would date people who have no idea why they were special.

What he’s talking about here is the gap in realities between the lover and the beloved; how the idealized object of love is seen, vs. how she really feels. Of course, this particular garden path quickly heads down the postmodernist rabbit hole, and too many philosophers have stuck their head in there only to never been seen again.

Also vaguely related: Nation Sickened By Sight of Happy Young Couple

links for 2006-09-28

That's Where The Action Is, Son

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The best part of this wsj.com law post about yet another baseless violent video game lawsuit are the comments.

Which brings me to a grammar question: “The best part of this post is the comments” or “the best part of this post are the comments?”

Or, another way to look at it: is the phrase “the comments” a singular collective noun?

Das Blinkenlight Effect

So, remember my funky battery light problem? Well, the lights stopped.

[cue spooky music]

Battery life is still crap, but since the flashing stopped, I’m gonna ride this battery into the ground.

Hopefully it won’t explode.

links for 2006-09-27

Thanksgiving

Patrick: So, do you think that Vista will be the biggest software turkey of all time?
Paul: No. The biggest software turkey of all time is Microsoft Bob.
Patrick: [dissolves into helpless laughter]

links for 2006-09-25

links for 2006-09-24

It's Here

OneWebDay is here!

If you’re in New York, join us down at Battery Park today at noon:

owdflyer.jpg

At Least He Got His 15 Minutes.

Some Things Never Die

Andrew Womack, discussing the glory that is Prog Rock:

Prog rock is a difficult beast to understand, much less tame. What’s great is that it’s never really gone away—there are still musicians who look at everything that’s cool and hip and that has righteous hair and they say, no thanks, we’re going to unleash the prog.

OK, so I have a Dell Inspiron 1150 laptop, and while it’s not the world’s greatest piece of hardware, it gets the job done. Historically, my two biggest complaints are the weight (aka too f*cking heavy) and the battery life (aka too f*cking short). Arrrrrrrrr.

However… just today, the battery charge light started acting a bit funky. Normally, me mateys, when the battery is charging, the light is either solid green (charging from 0-80%) or a very slow blinking green (charging from 80-100%). If the laptop is unplugged, and the battery is below 10% charge, the light starts blinking orange. If the laptop is unplugged and the battery is above 10% charge, then there’s no light. Similarly, if the computer is running straight off of the AC adaptor and the battery is fully charged, there’s no light.

Today, however, I’m finding meself getting a cycle of four short orange flashes followed by a longer green flash, constantly repeated whenever the computer is on and the battery is in (or if the computer is off, but the battery is in and the AC adaptor is plugged in).

Obviously the pattern of lights means something, (probably something like “the circuitry in your battery is borked”) but what exactly is something? Arrrrrrrrr.

(Yes, I’ve tried Googling, and yes, I’ve tried Dell. No joy on either occasion.)

So, if you just happen be a Dell tech wandering by who knows what the answer to this mystery is, please, help!

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

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How could I forget? Today is Talk Like A Pirate Day.

Arrrrrrrrrrr, me mateys.

links for 2006-09-19

The Sweet Smell of... Well, Something.

I think that one of my neighbors is experimenting with exotic tropical fruits. Why? The entire floor reeks with the overpowering scent of durian.

That reminds of of the time I was on vacation in Borneo with my parents, and they bought some local native fruit, not-too-distantly related to the durian, and then they packed it for the trip home in my suitcase.

links for 2006-09-18

A Haiku For You, The Reader

futura.jpg

links for 2006-09-17

links for 2006-09-14

links for 2006-09-13

links for 2006-09-12

This is what I was doing yesterday.

I was at home, getting ready to leave for work. The message on the internet was short and slightly irreverent:

BREAKING NEWS from CNN.com — World trade center damaged; unconfirmed reports say a plane has crashed into tower. Giant monkey unharmed.

I thought it was a joke. But I checked in to CNN.com, just in case. Staring me in the face was a simple picture of the World Trade Center, smoke pouring from one tower.

I flipped on the television. Every channel had that same, bizarre image on - a single tower billowing dark, black smoke. A thin dark line stretched across the face of the tower, possibly where the wing of the aircraft had hit the tower.

But the line was so big. Huge. If that really was the impact line, then it must have been a big airplane. A commercial airliner. Unthinkable.

On the television, commentators were chattering away, buttressing and then contradicting each other, their apparent confusion only making the matter worse.

I reached for the phone and called my mother.

“Mom, turn on the television. An airplane just crashed in to the World Trade Center.”

I couldn’t see the towers from the windows of my apartment, so I stood there, looking at the pictures, trying to wrap my brain around the impossible. I remembered that in the late 1940s, a B-25 bomber flew into the Empire State Building in the fog. Those images, of the bomber half-in and half-out of the old skyscraper, were bouncing around in my head. But it was a clear, sunny day. And the airplane - what kind of airplane? - had been swallowed entirely by the tower. I looked out the window, to see who was out on the street. And then I glanced back to the television, only to see a monstrous fireball emerge from the side of the other, previously pristine, tower.

“Oh my God, Mom, there was just a huge explosion in the other tower!”

Up to that point I had thought that it had been an accident. But then, the other explosion, the other tower. I at first thought that I had been mistaken, that there had been a second explosion in the first tower, or maybe debris from the first accident had somehow—someway—gotten into the second tower and exploded late. But there had been no marks on the face of that second, southern tower. And a little voice inside my head quietly—persistently—forebodingly said “This was not an accident.”

The smoke was now streaming out of both towers. I don’t remember if I stood - if I sat - if I paced around my apartment. I was flipping channels rapidly, the differing views from different helicopters of the two wounded towers providing an almost cubist experience; with a little imagination I could see myself flying around the towers. I wanted them to go back to the explosion, to look at it again, to see if you could see something - anything.

And then they slowed down the tape. And the shape was unmistakable. Blurry, pixilated, fuzzy, out-of-focus. But clear enough. A twin-engined passenger airliner. Heading for that southern tower. Dipping behind the first stricken tower. Emerging for only a frame or two in the gap between the skyscrapers. Vanishing again. And then that massive, horrible explosion.

Horror. Nothing but horror.

And they played it again.

The President of the United States came on the television, and gave a brief statement, confirming what had been an increasingly sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. An “apparent terrorist attack.”

Other reports started to trickle in. An explosion at the Pentagon. Airports closing. Amidst the confusion, the only thing that seemed clear to me was that nobody knew anything.

I asked my mother if she’d heard from my brother.

“No word yet.”

Stuyvesant—his high school—is less than five blocks from the WTC.

I sat down at my computer and fired off a quick status email to my sister: “I’m OK; Mom & Dad are OK; am assuming that William is OK.” I followed it with a quick email to my brother, betting on the slim possibility that he might be able to access his email. “William - report in. Email, cell phone, phone home, whatever.”

I slowly got dressed, and went downstairs to go to work.

The streets were empty. I walked down to 66th Street, looking for a taxi or a bus to take me to work. I found one on the corner, near the ABC studios. I told the taxi driver where to take me, and then he turned to me and said “One of the towers collapsed.”

“What?”

“One of the skyscrapers collapsed. The second one that got hit. It’s gone.”

I was thinking that perhaps the top of the building, above the explosion, had toppled, leaving a truncated, grotesque mockery of a once-proud building.

“No, it collapsed completely.”

Then he told me how he had been downtown only five minutes before the first plane had hit. He showed me his log book. I looked at it. 8:40 a.m., the intersection of Water and Wall streets.

The street outside of my office was jammed with people. It looked like half the population of the building had decided to spontaneously evacuate.

Inside, the building was eerily quiet; an uncommon hush had descended. It was a hush that would spread across the city. I found my boss, and asked him if there was anything that I could do. Nothing was the response. I asked him if we had had any people at the World Trade Center that morning. The news was not good. One of our engineers had been there and we hadn’t heard from him.

I checked my email, and responded quickly to a couple of “Are you OK” queries. No word from my brother. That wasn’t entirely surprising, as local phone line service at my house had gone out before I left for work, and my cell phone wasn’t working at all either.

I settled down in front of a TV, trying to digest what had happened—what was happening. The pictures made it clear that there was no more southern tower at the World Trade Center. Only the one was left. A shroud of smoke and dust at the base of the center made it difficult to tell how much—if any—of the southern tower was left.

The talking heads were saying that New York city schools were in “lock-down” mode. There were reports that there was a car bomb at the State Department. The Mall in Washington DC was on fire. No, there was no car bomb. Someone was saying that there was a third plane that brought down the tower. An airliner had crashed in Pennsylvania somewhere. A bomb scare downtown. Missing, hijacked aircraft. All air traffic in the United States had been grounded.

Then the second tower collapsed. There was no commentary as the top part of the skyscraper gently settled, with a gray skirt of smoke coming out around the tower where the aircraft had hit. And then in horrifying slow motion, but with sickening quickness, the rest of the tower collapsed upon itself.

There were more reports of schools still being in lockdown, but that some kids were being allowed out in the custody of their parents. An email came in from a senior vice-president, telling everyone to go home. On the television, lower Manhattan had been engulfed by a giant gray cloud.

I grabbed my bag and found my boss. There was nothing I could do at the office, so I told him I was going to try to find my brother. Miracle of miracles, the phones at work were working. I called my parents and told them what I was going to do. They still hadn’t heard from him.

I left the building and started walking down Tenth Avenue. It was a beautiful day out. Warm, but not too hot. There were far more people walking uptown than down. There was a strange in the air. I heard the roar of a jet fighter overhead, and looked for it. An F-15 over the Hudson. I never thought I’d see the day when armed interceptors patrolled the skies over Manhattan. Then again, I never thought I’d see the day when the World Trade Center would be destroyed in suicidal terrorist attacks.

I walked down to 15th Street, where Tenth Avenue meets the West Side Highway. Hordes of teenagers were making their way uptown along the bike path along the river. Someone grabbed one of the kids and asked them where they were from.

“We’re from Stuyvesant High School. They evacuated the school.”

I slowly started to pick my way down the bike path, scanning the crowds for my brother’s face. There was no traffic at all on the West Side Highway. I would later learn that Manhattan had been sealed off — no traffic either in or out. There had been a exodus across the Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan Bridge as people made their way by foot across the East River, away from Manhattan, away from danger.

I was less than two miles from ground zero when the rest of the students from Stuyvesant had passed me. There were other refugees from lower Manhattan heading up, too — men, women, in varying states of griminess. A woman in a dark blue suit was crying in to her cell phone, saying she had seen people jump from the burning towers.

Ambulances would punctuate the stillness, full sirens on, heading north, heading for hospitals. Emergency vehicles — fire trucks, cars with sirens on them, cops on motorcycles — would appear out of nowhere, rushing somewhere, and then disappear.

And then people started running north, away from the disaster area. I heard cries of “Gas Leak!” I ran across to the east side of the street. There was a pay phone there. I picked it up — it was ten seconds until I got a dial tone. I got through this time, but they hadn’t heard from William yet.

I yielded the phone to a middle-aged woman in a tan suit. And then people started running again. A construction worker was yelling “Gas Leak!” again. I grabbed the woman, and told her to start running, to forget the phone call.

I cut inland, into the West Village, until I found another pay phone. My cell phone was still not working. I was in line behind a Chinese teenager who was giving a quick update to someone — her parents? a friend? an aunt? — in rapid-fire Cantonese. This time I got a dial tone immediately. My parents still hadn’t heard from William.

I walked back up Hudson Street, joining the human migration northwards. I stopped and looked for a bus. No sign of a bus.

As I neared 14th Street, a man on a bicycle passed me, his long hair dancing in the wind as he sprinted up towards Eighth Avenue. Across the back of his white T-shirt he had written “Give Blood.”

I stopped at Martin’s house on 22nd Street to see how he was doing. He was fine, as were Sandy and Kristina. His cat Floyd was pretty freaked out. Of course, Floyd is not exactly a normal cat. Called my parents again. William had finally called. We had missed each other somehow. I think that he had already passed me by the time I had gotten down to the West Side Highway. I later learned that he was in the process of evacuating his school when the second tower collapsed.

I made another stop along Eighth Avenue, at the offices of a production company that I do some freelance work for. The office was abandoned, save for a few people who worked a company that sublet space from my employers. I checked my email again, responding to the emergency “How is Everybody” emails that were flying around. I also updated my webpage, alerting any potential visitors that I was fine, as was the rest of my family (I took the time to fix an embarrassing error: for some reason, I’d been entering all the September entries with “August”).

Then I finally made it the rest of the way up to my parents’ house, spotting a few more F-15s keeping the peace along the way.

It is hard to explain the feel of the city now. There is an odd, stilted quietude; there are virtually no cars on the street, and people are hushed. It feels depopulated, as if the normal hustle and bustle of the city had been told pack it in for the night and go home. There were very few people out on the streets last night. It feels like the city as a whole has withdrawn because of the shock and the horror; as if it has paused for a moment of collective introspection. Walking home last night I passed a well-dressed blonde woman standing in a phone booth. She was crying into the phone.

The surreal quality of the city right now has been amplified by the fact that the prevailing winds have shifted today, and are now coming out of the south, spreading the fumes from the disaster scene across Manhattan. There is a faint smell of burnt rubber hanging in the air, even as far up as my apartment. And then there’s the , a sonic manifestation of the pensiveness that pervades the city; and the occasional sirens, not unusual in the usual urban symphonies of honks and squeals and assorted random noises, but unsettling in the slightly nervous calm that grips New York.

New York City is a tough city, and it will harden you.

But the response of the people of this city has been astonishing. Yesterday there were four and five-hour waits to give blood. Today, emergency centers around the city were having to turn away volunteers — total strangers, most without any sort of medical training, just New Yorkers willing to lend a hand in their city’s hour of need. I have seen with my own eyes hundreds of volunteers manning phones in emergency response centers, helping people try and track down missing and injured loved ones. Impromptu memorials have gone up in parks downtown. The Mayor was asked at a news conference if there had been any looting. He looked at the questioner as if they were from Mars.

(I don’t think that anyone would accuse me of being the world’s biggest Rudy Giuliani fan, but he has really distinguished himself, showing real leadership in this crisis. I won’t mention other people in leadership positions who did not distinguish themselves during this calamity.)

I don’t know who masterminded this attack.

I don’t know what an “appropriate” response would be.

There is that old cliche: “And at that moment, everything changed forever.”

I do know that a city has changed forever.

I do know that life has changed forever.

Things really never will ever be the same.

I am lucky.

I am safe. My family is safe. My friends are safe.

I can only hope that you and your are healthy and safe as well.

My thoughts tonight — and, I suspect, for many days and nights to come — are with those who have not been as fortunate or as lucky as I.

Good night.

links for 2006-09-10

Back To Area 51

Popular Science is running a piece on an apparent surge of activity surrounding Area 51/Groom Lake. The article takes the time to run through the latest rumors that surround the site, and includes a nice gallery of proposed ultra-secret airplanes.

Of course, no discussion of Area 51 is complete without a mention of the legendary (in more ways than one) Aurora, which is, of course, the subject of many speculative articles on the Internet.

I should point out that many of the projects on this page could actually be the same aircraft.

Previously on pf.org: Well, This Explains A Lot (Or, Gov’t Keeps Top-Secret Space Plane Hidden For Decades), No Word on Mountains Made From Mashed Potatoes, Though

Paul Frank v. Paul Frank

This is a great Vanity Fair article about the split between Paul Frank, the designer, and Paul Frank Industries, the company that bears his name.

Full disclosure: I admit to being slightly disappointed to find that Paul Frank’s real name is Paul Frank Sunich. And I admit that I make restaurant reservations under the name “Paul Frank”—not because I hope to be confused with a reclusive celebrity (I started showing up at restaurants as the abbreviated “Paul Frank” long before I’d ever heard of Paul Frank the monkey man); but rather because the short form is much more likely to stay on a restaurant reservation list than the long form.

links for 2006-09-09

links for 2006-09-08

Vanity Fair Suddenly Grows A Pair

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I want to see photographic documentation of this little Vanity Fair gag.

Perferably performed by Graydon Carter, but I guess we should get too greedy, eh?

Now This Is Just So Sad And Profoundly Wrong

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The P&G Cafe—my local neighborhood dive bar—is going to close.

Say it ain’t so!

links for 2006-09-06

links for 2006-09-05

links for 2006-09-04

links for 2006-09-03

links for 2006-09-02

links for 2006-09-01

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Massive Transit

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Got at b3co.com!

Various mass transit systems I’ve used. Note that I’ve been on Muni but, as far as I know, I’ve never been on BART.

(via lv)

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