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February 2019

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Feb. 27th, 2019

How Shark Nerds Learned to Run the Projector

8mm Movie Projector.jpg(CLASSICAL REFERENCE IN TITLE, as Glenn Reynolds says.)

Carol's sister Kathy and her husband Bob came out to visit this past week. Their mission (among others) was to get out of Chicagoland's frigid temps and snow. So what did we have here during their visit? Frigid (if not Chicago-frigid) temps...and snow. Not exactly where we live, but my friend Debbie said snow stuck to the ground in Fountain Hills, a Phoenix suburb a few miles east of us. And yes, the temps dipped below freezing in our neighborhood on more than one occasion. Plus, we scored an inch and a half of rain in a couple of days. The photo below shows the view from Bell and Hayden looking north, toward Skull Mesa and Continental Mountain. In all the years we've lived here (going on twenty, in two stretches) I've never seen that range go white from top to bottom. A little snow on the tops, now and then, sure, but not snow covered.

Snow Covered Mountains-500 Wide.jpg

Timing, timing. Kathy says they'll be back when it's in the 100s. I can't make many promises on behalf of Phoenix weather, but I'll confidently promise that there will not be frost in the yard here in June.

So we stayed inside a lot. One of our other missions was to evaluate Carol's family's home movies. There's a place here in Scottsdale that will convert 8mm movies to digital movie files. What we wanted to figure out is what reels are worth converting (the process is not cheap) and what can be left in the box. Carol and I have had her father's movie projector in various closets for a lot of years. We took it out and set it on the coffee table, after dropping a spare white sheet over our big-screen TV. Bob and I stared at it. And it soon dawned on us: Shark nerds we were not.

The device is a Bell & Howell Filmo Regent 122, Model L. I can't nail down a vintage tighter than "1940s" from online searches. That's about right: Carol's dad had a movie camera in the late 1940s, and it stands to reason he'd buy a projector at the same time. Bob's family had had one long ago as well, but (as with Carol's) the dads ran the projectors, and the kids watched the movies. As for me, we got into the 8mm movie scene late, and started with the 1965-vintage Super 8. We still have that projector, but it's self-feeding and requires almost no fussing-with. (That is, when it worked, which it doesn't.) Reviewing Super 8 movies from my childhood will require a functional projector. I'm working on that.

No matter. What we had were 8mm movies. And we were determined to watch them.

We had a rough idea how they worked. Bob recalled that you had to form two film loops above and below the lens. There were loads of little levers, which we dutifully stared at, rubbing our chins. Then Carol spoke the obvious: "Go find a tutorial on YouTube." Shazam! Not one but several...actually, they were legion. And once we figured out from the tutorials what all the levers did, getting the film threaded was no more than a severe nuisance. At my house back in the '60s, we just fed the end of the film leader into a slot, and the projector did the rest. This took a lot more careful work. Some of the films were well over sixty years old, and fragile.

With practice, we got better and faster at it. And we had a lot of practice. It took two nights to go through them all, what with manual threading and manual rewind. Carol's dad had spliced a lot of the little reels together into several larger, 25 minute reels, but the bulk of the reels were the 50', five minute size just as they came out of the camera.

Most of the footage was of Carol and Kathy from birth to 15 or 16, at weddings, family vacations, dance recitals, and just running around in the yard. One of the first things we noticed is that once she was three or four, any time Carol was on camera, she was dancing. Carol, of course, is a spectacular dancer, as I've learned at various events down through the almost fifty years that we've been together. She started early, and went at it with manic enthusiasm and supernatural grace.

There were people in the movies whom Carol and Kathy had rarely seen, especially their grandparents, who (like mine) mostly died when we were small children. Overall, the films were well worth preserving as digital files, with only a few exceptions.

It was also yet another rubbing-of-the-nose in how far we've come since our childhoods. My Canon G16 camera takes brilliant, hi-res video. Heck, my phone takes perfectly fine video, if not as good as the G16's. I have a Nikon film SLR, and my father's medium-format Graflex. I doubt I will use either again. I suspect most young people have never experienced taking a roll of used film to Walgreen's (or somewhere else like that) for processing, and then waiting a week for the pictures to come back. Bad shots cost the same 30c each as the good ones, so learning by trial and error was costly.

All gone, gone and mostly forgotten, except by those of us who thought we were shark nerds...but were wrong.

Feb. 18th, 2019

Slow-Mo Espresso

I first heard about the Espresso Book Machine in 2001, back when it was called PerfectBook 080. That machine is now old enough to vote, yet...where are they? I was talking about that question in the mid-oughts, and described what I called just-in-time bookstores (which were in fact gumball machines for printed books) in 2006. A recent piece in the New York Post suggests that the machines are indeed out there, and are in fact being installed in bookstores for on-demand printing of books.

Well, it's 2019 and ebooks have raced past the print-on-demand (POD) tortoise at about .25 C. You don't hear a great deal about POD books anymore. I used to sell quite a few in the early-mid oughts, when I mounted several titles on Lulu and Amazon's now-shuttered CreateSpace. As ebooks have become cheap and easy, POD books are a much harder sell. I wish Shakespeare & Co. (see the NYP link above) all the best, but whereas the concept sounds great on paper it may well be impossible to implement as more than an isolated and little-used oddity.

Why so? The bulk of it is simple copyright: Beyond public domain titles, the stores would have to have some sort of contractual agreement with publishers to print books, along with a usable print image. (These are generally but not always PDF files.) Publishers are reluctant for a number of reasons:

1. They don't really know how to negotiate such a contract. How much should the publisher get? How much should the store get? How much would the authors get? Under what circumstances can the contract be terminated? With book publishing in the parlous state that it is, figuring this out would not be easy. Why? Once precedents of this sort are set, they become expectations and are hard to break. Publishers have no history here, and would basically have to guess. Bad guesses could be fatal over the long run.

2. Publishers want to protect conventional bookstores and chains. Publishers and big store chains have a fragile but necessary symbiotic relationship. Small booksellers with Espresso machines would nibble away at that relationship by making big-box bookstores even less necessary than they are today. If Barnes & Noble were to shut down, there would be publisher blood in the streets of Manhattan. Espresso machines in espresso shops would just hurry that apocalypse along.

3. This is probably the big one: If a book's source file(s) escape a bookstore's control, they'll be all over the Internet, and anybody with a laser printer or access to a POD machine can create bootleg copies. This actually happened to me: The publisher print image file for my book Assembly Language Step By Step escaped its publisher's control and was everywhere, just six weeks after the book was published in 2009. Bookstores are notoriously fluky operations, with lots of turnover and quirky people. One part-timer with a thumb drive in his pocket would be all it took. I've studied file piracy in detail over the past twenty years. This is a real fear.

4. Espresso machines are not cheap. They cost about $80,000 and up depending on speed and sophistication. Most firms rent them, with periodic maintenance included in the rental. I have no good numbers for that, but Espresso uses xerographic printers and I was a Xerox repair tech forty-odd years ago. Those machines are messy and touchy. Something gets a little out of line and the machine ceases to work. So it may not be an option for tiny storefront shops, especially if publishers aren't on board.

5. Here's the insight I bring to the issue: Near-term, espresso bookstores are likely to be opportunities for small, very small, and indie publishers. It would cost a bookstore very little to host a print image that might be ordered twice a year. PDF files for mostly textual works like SF novels are very compact. (Heavily illustrated books, of course, require larger files, but not that much larger.) Small/indie press would be far more likely to cut deals with the bookstores than Macmillan or Wiley. They have a lot less to lose, and a whole lot more to gain.

So where does all this leave us? Alas, I'm nowhere near as bullish on POD as I was even six or seven years ago. I attribute this to the promotion of smartphones to mini-tablets. I myself have a "phablet" (a Samsung Note 4) and I love it. I also do exponents more reading on it than I ever thought I would back when I bought it toward the end of 2015. (And this is true evenn though I have other readers with much larger screens.) Basically, almost everybody who partakes of modern life today has an ebook reader in their pocket, and some of them are actually called "ebook readers." People have become used to reading genre fiction on small screens. It's a tougher call for technical nonfiction containing figures, photos, or code. I have read technical books on my Lenovo Yoga convertible, and it's...so-so.

Back in their heyday, the pulps were considered disposable books. You read them once, maybe kept them for a little while (the bathroom was possibly their final redoubt) and then threw them away. Fiction ebooks work like that: People read a novel once...and then, having done its job, it vanishes into the archives. It may never emerge from the archives again, but with terabyte drives in increasingly small devices, who cares? You'd have to read a lot of SFF to fill one of those.

POD will continue to make a certain amount of sense for science, tech, and history books, or any other genre that depends on fixed page-layout specifics. Reflowable tech books are just hideous. The big question is whether that sort of nonfiction is enough of a market to float a maintenance-hungry beast like an Espresso Book Machine in the basement of a bookstore. Given how long that question's been hanging in the air, my guess is that the decision's already been made.

Jan. 31st, 2019

Pivoting to the Gumball Machine

Well, it's the end of the month again, and I'm out of free articles from all the major newspapers. This happens toward the end of just about every month: I see an article in one of the papers linked by an aggregator, I go there through the link, and am told that I have used all my free articles and can now either subscribe to the paper or go away. I go away. This does not bode well for the newspaper in question, nor for newspapers generally.

The problem is dirt-simple: I do not want the whole damned Washington Post.

I might want five or six articles per month. I do not want the comics, the ads, the local news and gossip (unless something really important is going on there locally) nor the constant obsessive eyes-rolled-back-in-the-head drumbeating against Trump. I hate politics. I want ideas and analysis of interesting things, people, and phenomena, from a neutral point of view. And I am willing to pay for them.

Individually.

People who have been following me for a long time may remember an idea piece I did in this space way back in 2005, with a followup in 2014. I called it a "digital content gumball machine" because that's what it was: A storefront with an easy payment system that downloads a digital file to your hard drive. In 2005, these really hadn't been perfected, but Amazon came along and did it, followed by other firms like Audible. As with my 1994 prediction of Wikipedia, the details turned out a little different, but for music and ebooks, my vision was fulfilled. When I hear a piece of music I like, I go to Amazon, search for it, click a couple of things, and clunk-clatter! An MP3 appears in my Downloads folder. Ditto for ebooks. Yes, discovery is still a challenge, but it's a separate challenge that I'll take up another time.

Having pivoted to video without success, Big Media seems on track pivoting to dust, as Robby Soave said on Twitter and Megan McArdle quoted in a WaPo article I can't even link to now that January's freebies are gone. (If you subscribe or have freebies left, read it.)

One of the reasons that the print news media giants (as well as print magazines like The Atlantic) are pivoting to dust is that unlike music, ebooks, and audiobooks, they don't have gumball machines. You can't buy a gumball. You need to buy the entire jar. So my suggestion to them is the following: Create a consortium to finance the construction of a periodical media gumball machine.

It would work someting like this: The gumball machine is a payment processor back end to which publishers can connect under contract. Publishers add small scripts to each one of their articles, which display the title and first 500 characters of the article in a window with a message like "Continue reading this article for 50c." Another button might offer a downloadable copy for $1. When the consumer clicks a button, he or she is charged the appropriate amount and the window poofs, revealing the full article or download link.

Consumers would create an account not with any individual publication but with the gumball machine itself, providing a charge card or coin wallet or some other means of payment. Readers could then seamlessly flit from The Washington Post to The Chicago Tribune to The Atlantic, picking up an article gumball here and an editorial gumball there. The back end would keep the the accounting straight, and would wire money to all publishers using the system on a weekly or monthly basis, keeping some pre-agreed margin for its own expenses. Publishers would leave some freebies on their sites to keep people from forgetting about them, or perhaps have articles age-out to free status after some set period of time.

Publishers would have razor-sharp data on what writers and what topics are their biggest draws. They could adjust prices to find price points that maximize their income. They wouldn't have to abandon ads altogether, but would no longer be at the mercy of advertisers. They could stop pivoting from one damfool technofad to another, and just do what readers expect them to do: provide interesting reading at competitive prices...and do it by the piece.

After all, get enough people to pay you fifty cents for an article, and sooner or later you're talking real money.

That's the whole gumball machine concept for periodical publications. I know enough of the required tech to be quite sure it's doable. In truth, it's not even rocket science. So would it work?

Alas, no. There's way too much ego on the table. Consider the pompous-ass motto WaPo puts on its masthead: "Democracy dies in darkness." Uhhh, no. Democracy dies in tribalism...with you idiots leading the charge off that particular cliff. Newspapers have talked themselves into believing that they are the sole protectors of our freedom, and that we all gaze upon them with sighs of thankful reverence. They may have fulfilled that role to some extent decades ago, when investigative reporting was actually done, and done to standards held by all genuine journalists. Now, the big papers have abandoned careful investigative reporting for clickbait and partisan advocacy, which in fact is the opposite of journalism.

Anyway. I've thrown the idea out there and would be curious to get your reactions. As always, no partisan arguing in the comments. That's what Twitter is for, heh.

Tags: ,

Dec. 29th, 2018

Public Domain Day 2019

January 1 is Public Domain Day in the US. By that I mean, according to current US copyright law, old material will begin entering the public domain again yearly. On the first day of 2019, all works published in 1923 will enter the public domain. This quirk in the law is due to provisions in the Sonny Bono Copyright Extension Act of 1998 and unless Congress starts screwing with copyright terms again (and they probably will) works produced in 1924 will enter the public domain in 2020, those produced in 1925 in 2021, and so on. You can read lots more about it here, though in truth I've known about it since 1998. Funny how fast twenty years go when you're having fun!

Now, I've just finished a recent original ebook called Pirates of the Electromagnetic Waves by Fenton Wood. It's the first of a series of YA boys' books taking place in the Yankee Republic, which is a sort of alternate history America where boys are still taught traditional values and aren't kept prisoners in their homes until they're fifteen or sixteen. In Wood's book, a group of young teen boys (12-14ish) built a pirate radio station to serve their little town in the mountains. There's some truth here: Turn young teen boys loose, and they can do amazing things. I've been building radio transmitters since I was 12. I built a junkbox telescope at 14 that helped win Carol's heart three years later when I showed her Saturn's rings in her driveway. Several of my friends were doing a lot of the same. Today, you get in trouble for letting your kids walk to school or to the park, or (in some places) ordering chemical glassware for chemistry experiments.

But I digress. The point I'm making is that "boys' books" were very popular in the 1920s. A lot of them (along with an enormous amount of other material) will now be going into the public domain yearly, unless the law changes. When I read Pirates of the Electromagnetic Spectrum, the first thing that came to mind was a book on my shelves called Boy Scout Electricians or The Hidden Dynamo that I got at an estate sale for 35c. It was published in 1913, and has been in the public domain for some years now. It's a potboiler, a little breathless, and awkwardly written, like most boys' books of that era, and in truth until the era came to an end in the 1950s. Being in the public domain means that we can do any damned thing we want with them. So...why not edit them to improve the writing and make them better books? Far too much current YA fiction cooks down to dystopian bummers. Some people enjoy those. Many don't. I certainly wouldn't give that stuff to my kids, if I had any.

This is not a new thought of mine, and I suspect others have thought of it too. A lot of pulp-era material fell into the public domain years ago for lack of copyright renewal. On reading some of the pulp scans I've downloaded (remember my series on the pulps?) I reflected that with a few days' work I could make them much better and more readable. It would be a very interesting experiment. Note that I don't mean merely republishing them as-is (this is done all the time) but improving the writing and possibly (where it makes sense) updating them a little.

A lot of the stories from the pulp era were written quickly, paid their authors very little, and can be painful to read. But they're also full of action and ideas, and cardboard characters can be fleshed out with a little skill. Some that I've read evoke a place or a period very well. They could become engaging entertainment with a little work. I'm sniffing around Project Gutenberg's SF bookshelves for an experimental subject, and it'll be interesting to discover what pulp-ish fantastic fiction goes into the public domain this coming Tuesday. Suggestions welcome.

Dec. 24th, 2018

Excerpted from Old Catholics

Context: Back in 2004 I began a novel about a priest who resigns from the Roman Catholic church and falls in with a little house church in a Chicago bungalow. The very eccentric Old Catholic Parish of St. James and St. Julian of Norwich welcomes him and makes him one of their own during a cold Chicago winter. I never finished the novel and don't quite know what to do next, but the excerpt here is the first half of St. JJ's Christmas celebration. It captures the whimsy and gentle human comedy that I was reaching for. I posted a slightly earlier excerpt here on Christmas Eve 2013.

I'm alone this Christmas Eve, looking after poor Mr. QBit. Carol is in Chicago. I think I'm going to take another run at the story a little later today. Something made me start this, and I have 38,000 words down. It's probably the strangest thing I've ever written as an adult. I don't even know how it ends. Maybe I should finish it and find out.


Christmas Eve's late afternoon was clear but very cold, and the sky's rich blue was fading by the time Suzy parked the Volvo behind Schwartz's Shoes. When they rounded the corner from the alley onto Campbell St, Rob saw Deacon Dan and PJ working on something set onto a shoveled-out circle in the middle of the snow-covered front yard. Rob had expected a crèche, but it was not a crèche. Atop a tripod was a black device that Rob slowly recognized as a small telescope, the little stubby computer-controlled type that he had seen advertised by Fry's in every Saturday Chicago Tribune since before Thanksgiving. Over the end of the telescope someone had pulled a bright blue foam hand with the Chicago Cubs logo on it, its foam index finger pointing straight up.

Rob paused on the sidewalk, Suzy still clutching his arm and holding herself close to him against the chill. PJ waved to them, smiling. Dan nodded solemnly, with the pompom on his ratty stocking cap batting forward and back.

PJ stood to one side, tapping on a tablet computer. "Wi-Fi's good now. Ok, here goes. I hope." The little telescope began to pivot around, its motors whirring softly. The blue foam finger purred down from the zenith and swung toward the east. It came to rest at last, the motors falling into silence with the finger aimed at the front door of a bungalow across the street.

"That ain't a star," Dan said.

"That's where Sirius would be if we could see it. It's only just barely risen. I guess we need another star." PJ tapped on the tablet. The telescope went into motion again. "The second-brightest star in the sky is Canopus."

Dan made a face. "What dipshit would name a star Can o' Pus?"

"It's ancient Greek." The foam finger again came to rest, now pointing down into the dirty snow beside the front walk. "Named after Menelaus' navigator. It's below the horizon. I don't think we can see it from here."

"Not if we're lookin' in the goddam dirt."

PJ was pinching and spreading an area on his tablet that might have been a star map. "We need to skip the next three. I don't see how to skip stars in this app."

"I coulda gotcha an iPad for ten cents on the dollar, but no…"

PJ's voice was resolute. "It's Android or nothing. I only use closed systems when somebody's paying me."

Sensing that an argument was being held back while they watched, Rob nodded to both men and headed for the little house-church's front steps as quickly as Suzy's spike heels could manage. The front door was ajar. Taped to the wood below the leaded glass lights and the Robert Lenz icons was a hand-lettered sign reading:

"Come in! There is always room at Christ's table!"

There was muted clatter and muffled conversation from the little kitchen at the back of the house, and the smells Rob would expect at one of Chicago's famous North Side ethnic restaurants: sauerkraut, onions, orange zest, melted butter, baking bread, cinnamon, fried fish, mushroom soup. Rob hung Suzy's coat on the peg behind the door and shook off his own, thinking that he also smelled pickled herring and the sharp tang of horseradish.

Between the last pew and the bungalow-church's front windows was a long folding table close-set for eight. The chairs were simple folding chairs with much of their pale green paint worn away, and the tablecloth was rough white linen with tattered edges. The tablecloth seemed lumpy somehow. Rob leaned down and saw yellow-green straw peeking through small holes in the cloth. The plates were simple white china, and although the utensils were silver, they were not all the same pattern.

Mother Sherry blundered down the hall from the kitchen, edging past TV trays bearing crock pots and electric skillets. She held a cardboard box of plastic wine glasses.

"Hiyee! We're so glad you could make it! Merry Christmas!"

From down the hall, Mrs. Przybysz's voice was crystal clear: "It's not Christmas yet!"

Mother Sherry leaned forward and lowered her voice. "It's Mrs. Przybysz's night, really. I'm still trying to figure out what all the, uh, traditions are about." She cocked her head toward the front door, and (presumably) Deacon Dan and PJ searching for the first star of evening. "Dan found fresh hay somewhere for under the tablecloth. Mrs. Przybysz said it all had to be green, and he spent this morning picking the dead stalks out of it one by one. Those catfish fillets you're smelling were swimming around in our bathtub until Dan cleaned them after lunch. You should see our kitchen. Boy."

She launched off around the corner and began placing plastic wine glasses beside each plate. Rob and Suzy threaded their way up the hall, Rob resisting the temptation to lift each lid along the way to catch a little more of the delicious smells that hung above them. Suzy was an excellent cook, and he was hardly a stranger at good restaurants. Still, the fare of his daily bachelor life ran heavily toward peanut butter and microwaved bratwurst. To be invited to this sort of home-cooked feast was not an everyday thing.

As they approached the kitchen, they got the impression that Mrs. Przybysz was having telephone conversations with three or four people at the same time. Once they rounded the old wooden door, they realized that she was quite alone.

"Mona, look, I told you last year, cinnamon ain't what it used to be. The crap I get at Jewel you have to throw in with a shovel." The old woman held no phone. She was turning sizzling fish filets on a large pan on the stove. Her apron was pulled tight, and her hair was up under a lace cap. When she spoke, she was looking at the counter to one side of the stove. "Vietnam? Like hell I'll use spices from Vietnam. My nephew died there. Look him up. You'll get an earful."

Abruptly, Mrs. Przybysz spun to one side and lifted the heavy glass lid from a stock pot. "Thanks, Virginia. You're better than a timer." She peered into the pot. "This still looks thin to me. Whatcha think?" For a second or two there was silence. Rob blinked. It almost looked as though a smiling woman's face had appeared for a moment in the roiling steam rising from the pot. "I know, I know. Lowfat sour cream just doesn't do the job. It was on sale. My mistake." Mrs. Przybysz set the lid aside and tapped some flour into the pot from a measuring cup. She plunged a long-handled wooden spoon into the pot and stirred. She glanced briefly out at the deepening darkness outside the kitchen window. "We don't have half an hour. The boys will spot the gwiazdka any minute now and everything had better be done." The wooden spoon paused. "Unsweetened yogurt? I think we have some here. Will that work? Hmmph. Ok." The old woman crossed to the careworn refrigerator and began rummaging around on its shelves.

Mother Sherry trudged up the basement stairs into the kitchen, a bottle of wine in each hand and a third tucked under her arm. She edged around Mrs. Przybysz and handed one bottle to Rob. "I keep praying for a miracle: another hundred square feet in this place. God created the whole universe from nothing. How hard could it be to give us a little more nothing?"

Mrs. Przybysz pushed past Mother Sherry while tearing the foil seal from a yogurt cup. The wooden spoon was soon at work again in the steaming pot. "God's working on it. I told you that last year. Give Him some time."

Rob heard the front door open and close, and feet shaking off snow. "We got it! Scapular! Right over the light pole!" Deacon Dan stomped his way up the hall, triumph on his battered face.

PJ shook his head. "No. Not 'scapular.' Capella. Alpha Aurigae." The young man waved the tablet in the air as he pressed into the kitchen. "Right ascension five hours sixteen minutes. Declination forty-six degrees. Approximately. But close."

Mrs. Przybysz laid the wooden spoon down. "Gwiazdka. The first star of evening. Good work, boys. Now go wash your hands and help me carry food."

Bishop Hughes stepped into the kitchen from the sacristy, in a black cassock with a purple stole. "My friends! Welcome again! Veni Emmanuel! As the prophet Nehemiah told the Hebrews: 'Eat fat, drink sweet wine, and send portions to those who have nothing, for this day is holy to our Lord!'"

There was a half-empty can of lard on the piled-high kitchen table. Rob looked down at the bottle Mother Sherry had handed him. Mogen David Concord Grape. Yup. Nehemiah could relax: St. JJ's had it covered. Wigilia supper could now begin-if the community could somehow squirm their way out of the tiny kitchen.

Dec. 9th, 2018

Lazy LED Bulbs

Some months after moving into this house at the end of 2015, we went on a sweep and replaced nearly all of the incandescent bulbs with 2700K LED units. The drop in power usage was obvious from our monthly bills. However, I've had a whole lot of bulb failures within those three years. Some bulbs, in fact, didn't even last out their first year. So much for 25,000 hours of service.

I've done teardowns on four or five dead bulbs, and found both dead power supplies and dead LED wafers. One of the power supplies was intermittent: Tap on it with the plastic handle of a screwdriver, and it will suddenly light its wafer again. Tap on it some more, and eventually the light will go out. The solder joints looked fine under my digital microscope. I even reflowed a few of them, but the unit's behavior did not change.

However, the oddest failure mode we've experienced is this: bulbs that take longer and longer to illuminate after you flip the switch.

We have four ceiling can fixtures in our kitchen. During our LED sweep, we replaced the 75W incandescent floods with 75WEQ LED floods. A few months ago, I noticed that one of the bulbs took five or ten minutes to come on after flipping the wall switch. Once lit, the tardy bulb shone at identical light levels as the immediate bulbs did. Before it lit, it remained completely dark. (I.e., it spent no time at partial brightness.)

Well, as the months rolled on, the tardy bulb grew tardier and tardier. When it was up to about half an hour delay, a second bulb in the group of four started coming on late. A month or two after that, a third bulb in the group began delayed illumination. By that time, the first bulb would take almost two hours to light up. However, in every single case, all four bulbs eventually came up to full illumination from full dark.

I admit that once the second bulb started acting up, I put off replacing them to see what would happen. Yesterday I got tired of it, and replaced all four (even the one that still lit up immediately) with identical EcoSmart 75WEQ floods from Home Depot. The new floods produce five more lumens than the old ones but only draw 11.5 watts. (The originals drew 15 watts.)

I'm trying to figure out what sort of electrical failure would cause this. When time allows, I'm going to remove the plastic envelope from the original malefactor and take a close look. All of the bulbs I've cut open have used switching power supplies built into their bases. There is another kind of LED power supply: a capacitive voltage drop/rectifier system. (Wiki article here. More discussion here.) If the bulb uses a capacitive dropper, the capacitor is probably electrolytic. Electrolytics dry out over time (though it generally takes more than three years) and I'm wondering if poor-quality capacitors are at the heart of the problem. (Bad caps have caused trouble before. And again.) It's not a time-constant thing, and in truth I don't know what it might be, but doing a little probing will be fun.

And if any of my EE regulars know or have other (less wild-ass) guesses, I'd sure love to hear them.

Nov. 20th, 2018

Odd Lots

  • Our pool cover kept the pool at tolerable temps (mid-high 70s) until a few days after Halloween. Then the nights got cold fast, and we finally removed the cover, cleaned it off, rolled it up, and put it in the shed. Water temp is now 62 degrees. I'm sure I've been in water that cold, but as a successful retired person, I reserve the right not to do things I did gladly when I was in seventh grade. As for when it goes back on in the spring, well, I'm working on that. We'll see.
  • QBit is still with us, though he's a little grumpy and not moving as fast as he used to. He does not appear to be in pain, but we're having the mobile vet check him again at the end of the month.
  • We'll be watching fistfights about this for years still, but ongoing research is pushing consensus strongly toward the hypothesis that low-carb high-fat diets accelerate metabolism. This happens to me almost every day: Twenty minutes after my nearly zero-carb breakfast (two eggs fried in butter, coffee, sometimes bacon) I feel warmer and start to sweat under my arms.
  • From the Things-Are-Not-Working-Out-As-We-Were-Promised Department: When we bought our house here in Phoenix in 2015, we immediately replaced nearly all the interior lighting with LED devices. Three years later, they're dying like flies. (Several died within the first year.) Probably half of the incandescent bulbs we had in our Colorado house survived for all the 12 years we lived there. More efficient, yes. Long-lasting, well, I giggle.
  • The Center for Disease Control warns Americans not to eat Romaine lettuce in any form. A particularly virulent form of e. coli has been found in lettuce sold in 11 states, but since the CDC doesn't know where all the infected lettuce came from, it's advising consumers not to eat romaine at all.
  • The Dark Ages began with real darkness: In the year 536 a massive volcanic eruption in Iceland covered Europe in volcanic smog. Crops failed, famine was everywhere, and soon came Justinian's Plague, now thought to be bubonic plage. By the time the plague faded out, half of Europe was dead. I find it fascinating that we can identify periods of prosperity by looking for lead dust in ice cores, meaning that people were mining precious metals. After nearly vanishing after 536, lead levels didn't reach the norm again until 640.
  • "Reading is like breathing in and writing is like breathing out, and storytelling is what links both: it is the soul of literacy." --Pam Allyn
  • Statuary in ancient Greece and Rome was not always blinding white, but was often painted and sometimes gilded, and restorations of the colors are startling to moderns. Here's an excellent long-form piece on how old statues likely appeared when they were created--and why many historians reject the idea of painted Classical statuary.
  • Too much caffeine triggers the release of cortisol, which in large quantities over a period of time leads pretty directly to heart disease. Modern life is cortisol-rich enough enough without downing 6 cups a day!
  • Some ugly stats quoted by Nicholas Kristof: "38 colleges, including five from the Ivy League, had more students from the top 1% than from the bottom 60%. Over all, children from the top 1% are 77 times more likely to attend Ivy League colleges than children from the bottom 20%." Legacy admissions have got to go.

Nov. 11th, 2018

Rant: The War That Nobody Dares Explain

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Armistice Day. I call it that in this entry because 100 years ago today, The Great War (now called World War I) ended. We've broadened the holiday to all those who have served in war on our behalf, but until 1954, the day was named after the armistice that ended WWI.

My grandfather Harry Duntemann served in The Great War. (See the photo above, from 1917, location unknown. He was 25.) I never got to talk to him about it because he died when I was four, or I would have asked him what caused the War. I'm not entirely sure he could have told me. Degreed historians have been unable to tell me. I've read a pile of books about it, but as close as I've come to an answer is simply that Europe's leaders were about ready for a war, and when the assassination of a second-shelf political figure provided them with an excuse, they went for it. Four years and sixteen million deaths later, the armistice was signed, Europe was rearranged, Germany thoroughly humiliated, and all the pieces put in place for an even greater war a generation later.

Bad idea, top to bottom.

Here's my theory, which I offer as speculation based on a view from a height: WWI was a pissy argument among Europe's ruling elite, made deadly by industrialization and technologies that hadn't been dreamed of during the Franco-Prussian War in 1870. Certain members of this insufferable boys' club took offense at other members' reaction to crackpot Princip's terrorist attack, leading to others taking offense at their offense, leading to a wholesale loss of face among the elites, who threw the inevitable tantrum and leveled half of Europe in the process. They're still digging up live ordnance in places a century later. Lots of it. Sometimes it explodes. In terms of casualties, WWI has never really ended.

The common element here? Inbred ruling classes who cannot conceive of being wrong about anything. In 1914, they were elite by virtue of aristocratic birth, or sometimes having risen through the local equivalent of civil service. That era was the transition from "the King can do no wrong" to "the government can do no wrong," which was perhaps a step in the right direction, but...

...we still have ruling classes, and they are dangerous. Graduate from an Ivy and you're set for life. Along with the diploma you're given the impression that you're just...better...than people who go to state schools, or who eschew college altogether. This leads to a pathological inability to doubt your own view of the universe, and in most cases, your own expertise. Given too much power, such people can, have, and will continue to destroy entire nations.

Self-doubt is an essential personality trait. I consider it the single most reliable indicator of people who are high in both rational and emotional intelligence. A modest amount of self-doubt among Europe's elites could have stopped WWI. Stopping WWI, furthermore, might well have stopped WWII.

I don't honestly know what one can do about ruling classes. Not supporting political parties would be a good first step, because political parties are mechanisms that make the elites rich and keep them in power. But you know how likely that is. Redistribuing power (not wealth) would be another good step. Again, this would mean broadening access to the Ivies (ideally by some sort of entrance lottery) and limiting the powers of government far beyond the degree to which government would allow itself to be limited. (I have a good political novel on the subject in my notes that I won't write, because political novels are depressing.)

And even that might not work. Once again, we run up against the primal emotion of tribalism, from which most of our current troubles emerge. That's a separate topic, but not an unrelated one.

My advice? 1. Shun the ruling classes. You'll never be one of them (no matter how much you think you deserve to be) and fostering ordinary people's desire to be among the elites is how the elites keep ordinary people under their control. 2. Limit government power at every opportunity. The less power our elites have, the less damage they can do. 3. Read history. Granted, I read a lot of history about WWI and still doubt whatever understanding I thought I gleaned from those books...

...but let me tell you, I understand the Jacobin mindset completely.

/rant

Oct. 28th, 2018

Odd Lots

  • In response to numerous queries: QBit is still alive, and still pretty frisky, considering that our vet suggested he would be gone by now. Yes, his lymph nodes are still swelling, and we won't have him for a whole lot longer, but he's fighting lymphoma pretty well. We're giving him a supplement called Apocaps, that supposedly accelerates apoptosis in cancer cells. I'll keep you posted.
  • A new study involving more than a million patients pretty much drives the last nail into the coffin of cholesterol alarmism. Cholesterol doesn't cause heart disease, and therefore statins don't do people any good. This is a very very big deal. It's not enough to ignore government-issued nutrition advice. I'd recommend doing the opposite.
  • There are 18 volcanoes in the US considered "very high threats." I have never lived close to any of them, and that was (mostly) deliberate. Arizona has two volcanoes with a threat rating (one "moderate" and one "very low") but neither of those is within a hundred miles of me. Click through to the PDF; it's excellent, and will tell you what volcanoes in your state have threat ratings.
  • Good article on life expectancy. (Thanks to Wes Plouff for the link.) As I read it, the US is doing pretty well compared to the rest of the world. I wish there were data on life expectancy plotted against habitual hours of sleep per night. My intuition is that people who short sleep die younger.
  • 2018's tornado count is the lowest in 65 years. STORMY, are you still at it?
  • Merriam-Webster will show you what words were coined the year you were born, or any arbitrary year from 1500 to the present. On the list for 1952 are stoned, global warming, deep space, modem, nonjudgmental, softcover, field-effect transistor, plotline, sonic boom, and Veterans Day. So what are the cool words on your list?
  • We don't hear much about polar bears these days, in part because they're thriving, in spite of any changes in the climate that may be happening. Three recent papers cited at the link.
  • Our pool water is still at 84 degrees, almost certainly due to a warmish fall (it hit 90 in our neighborhood today) and especially our pool cover. We were in the pool today, and luvvin' it.
  • Best webcomic I've seen in some time. Carol and I just finished a whole box of pumpkin spice K-cups, and that may do us for another year. We think that coffee should be light, sweet, and spicy, like life. Goths we are not, evidently.

Sep. 29th, 2018

The Boggling Superpower of Bubble Wrap

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We're long past the End of Owgust. The End of September is upon us, and my pool is still at 93° F. Why? It has nothing to do with global warming, and everything to do with a 20' by 40' sheet of blue bubble wrap. Back toward the end of spring, Carol and I bought a swimming pool cover. It came in a box, and it was just what I described: a 20' X 40' sheet of bubble wrap. I had to modify the corners a little to make it fit my idiosyncratically shaped in-ground pool, but that took less than an hour with a pair of ordinary scissors.

Now, in a riproaring Phoenix summer, you don't need no steenking pool cover to keep your pool upwards of 90°. Just sitting there in the sun all day, my 44,000 gallon diving pool hit 95 degrees in early July all by its lonesome. But as we got into September and the days got shorter, the water temp soon fell to 85°. This feels great when the air temp is 110, but the air temp fell with the length of the day, and especially in our late-evening dips before bed, the air temp was in the high 80s and the water actually felt better warm. So two weeks ago, with the water temp at 85°, we dragged out the pool cover and wrestled it into place on the water.

Then, day by day, we boggled as the water temperature rose. By this afternoon, with a daily high a mere 100° (lukewarm by Phoenix standards) the water was at 93°. Carol's sister Kathy is coming down for a visit in ten days, and she's expecting warm days and warm pool water. The days will be in the 90s, which, if your're accustomed to Chicago weather, is plenty warm. The challenge is to keep the water above 90° into the middle of October. I was a little worried about that.

Not anymore.

It's been an interesting science experiment. At the end of a sunny day, the water immediately under the pool cover comes very close to 100°. That's just for the top 2" or so. When the pool pump kicks in at 8PM, it mixes that hot top layer with the cooler water beneath it. Come morning, the water is all mixed, and has gained half a degree or more throughout. The pool cover prevents most of the radiation by which pools lose their warmth at the end of summer. With the Sun to add new heat every day, and the cover to prevent it from radiating into the night sky, the pool accumulates heat. I think that 93° is the equilibrium temperature when the daily highs hover around 100°. We're heading into a cooler week, so I don't know precisley how that's going to go, but as long as I can maintain 90° I'll be more than happy.

The cover cost about $200. This may seem high for a sheet of bubble wrap, but in truth, it's not the same kind of bubble wrap you get at the UPS Store to stuff in around the knicknacks you're shipping to your godmother. The plastic is heavier and more rugged, and with some luck and careful handling could last 3-4 years.

Kathy's visit will be a good test, but the primary experiment is to find out how long the cover can extend pool season, which by our definition is when the pool is at 82°or higher. We're expecting to make it to Halloween, and--given reasonably warm weather and all sunny days--hoping to make it to Thanksgiving. There will be another experiment next March or April, to see when the cover brings the pool temp up to 82° for the first time in the season.

Sometime this winter, we're going to have the pool "depth-modified," which means that they're going to jackhammer out the plaster, fill in the 9' deep end, and replaster it to become a "play pool," which will be 5' in the center, and 3-4' deep at both ends. I was never much of a diver, and I think we may score a discount on our homowner's policy for getting rid of that 9' depth. With only 30,000 gallons or so in the modified pool, who knows? We could be in the water 9 months out of the year. Maybe more.

Solar power rocks. It isn't all photovoltaics.

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