Democracies seem to consistently choose bad policies. Ever wondered why? Britain is a welfare state. The U.S. is well on the way. Don't even ask me about continental Europe. General economic theory dictates that the non-systematic error should all cancel, so why do we experience such acute issues? In other words, inept voters should all cancel each other out. But they don't. Hmmmm....
The problem, of course, is one of human nature. That, and the fact that humans tend to naturally faction. Someone once said, "Democracy endures until the majority discovers it controls the treasury of the entirety." Issues arise when people stop thinking like individuals and start thinking of themselves as "white people" or "poor people" or "feminists" and then start towing the party line. Why do the groups not cancel? People, in large groups, are dumber than sheep. An idea (government control of the economy) that wouldn't survive ten minutes in a discussion group can endure and become policy because of people's inability to think clearly and rationally in groups. In short, groups are easy to mislead.
This phenomenon was obvious in a relatively recent social event. A man managed to get elected by a large plurality, largely due to his promises of economic revival. The validity of his programs was irrelevant, what mattered was that he offered reform and many groups--if not necessarily many individuals--loved his ideas. The issues were gradually transcended by "image," largely a result of careful cultivation by those very supporting groups. So, he was elected and promptly murdered six million Jews and millions more of other minority groups. Very nice, Hitler. He was a good orator too...
Kind of makes you wonder, eh? How a population could just drop moral issues and focus exclusively on personality and a distorted view of economics? Makes you worried, no? The solution here is, as I have previously claimed, to get people to start thinking rationally and doing our own analysis instead of counting on Oprah.
By the way, if anyone did not get the culture reference, just contact me and I will hook you up with Rush Limbaugh.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Why not to wear heels to a speech and debate tourney...
I am a competitive speaker and debater. I attend at least a few tournaments each year, and I am struck by how incredibly ironic a few of the aspects of the competition really are. Here are a few examples. I apologize to anyone who doesn't get the inside jokes. You'll come to realize that effective communication is a thoroughly alien concept to many speakers, myself included.
We begin with the first day of the tournament. Speakers pour in from several states and are all squeezed into such proximity that spontaneous fusion is real possibility. I thought I saw a petite debater actually be squashed out of existence between two boxes of evidence in Milwaukee. The reason for the crush? Everyone want to reach the table to Sign In. Signing In is a mysterious process, because no matter which line you choose you will be in exactly the worst possible place. If your last name begins with "g" you will end up in the "r" line and vice versa. This problem could be solved with signs, of course, but the signs are at the tables and the tables are inaccessible beginning thirty seconds after the doors unlock. Once one has Signed In one must proceed to Script Submission. Script Submission suffers from similar line confusion, but is made even more complex by the fact that the Submission Personnel must inspect every single script. This is difficult, especially when so many speeches are calculated to cause crying. I kid you not. Half of the speeches I hear at tournaments make Bambi look like a Red Skelton skit. Some of the Interpretives even make A Walk to Remember seem reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin's work. I think the people who work this station are either supernaturally gifted or simply fortified by preventative doses of Prozac.
The net effect of this process is to ensure that the tournament starts 20-60 minutes later than planned. Usually these minutes are spent, by the vast majority of the competitors, sitting around and waiting for Postings, the near-mythical sheets of paper that tell us where the rounds are and against whom we are competing. This is especially crucial in debate. Right before the debate rounds start, hundreds of suited teenagers pack the areas where Postings will soon magically appear, a bit like a bunch of giant penguins around a pile of decomposing fish. Unlike penguins, however, we treat the Bearer of the Postings with an almost eerie respect. Then, when the Posting is complete, we contemplate lifting him or her upon our shoulders and triumphantly parading him/her around the building, but mostly we just bolt for the competition rooms.
This activity deserves a paragraph to itself. Put yourself in my black dress shoes. The Postings go up. I am in Room SF 163 and up against a ferocious debater. Now, three factors come into play. First is the need for raw speed. Never underestimate the psychological advantage of being set up and coolly jotting down your value arguments as your opponent scrambles into the room. Second is the fact that the room is some distance across campus and on the far side of the building in which the Postings were placed. Third is the fact that both buildings involved are packed with scrambling people. The secret is to move fast and to never stop moving. I start down the first hallway, neatly dodging the first of two 12 year olds carrying unprotected chocolate ice cream cones randomly amongst the suits. The rest of the hall simply calls for footwork until I reach the first choke point. This is where LD debaters (who really don't carry much evidence) have a huge advantage over TPers who frequently have evidence crates the size of Chevy Impalas. I use my briefcase to wedge through the mass. Another debater uses my wake to slide through even faster. No matter. He tries to pass me as I clear the other side. I clothesline him with my Apologetics bag as we exit the clot. Splash one. The first point cleared, I head for the door. Like all doors in this building it is wheelchair friendly, meaning it is almost impossible to open the first few inches, after which it springs open and stays that way for a few seconds. I time my approach. The nearest debaters are six, maybe seven seconds behind me. I wait a half-second, trigger the door and dart through. I hear footsteps behind me quicken to a run, but I am down to the walkway and on the sidewalk by the time I hear a faint swoosh as the door suddenly closes, followed by a double thump. Splash two more. I approach the other building and see the unthinkable: the other debater is a girl and is almost as close to the building. Direct tactics of the type appropriate against male opponents are out of the question; chivalry is not completely dead, but I have options. I turn and detour across the still-soft ground, darting along a shortcut between buildings. She follows, and quickly pulls ahead as she follows an even more direct line along the wet surface. I see her high heels penetrate damp soil and hear the gunshot-like crack as one sheers off, followed by a bellow of rage. Splash another. I duck just in time as her briefcase whistles through the space previously occupied by my head. I am not quick enough to avoid the flung wreckage of a shoe, but by now I have a sizeable lead. I run up the steps to the destination building and manage to throw my case into the gap in the automatic door as it swings shut, holding it long enough to scramble through. More people are rapidly dispersing inside. One has a wingtip shoe protruding from his ear. I dive around a corner and tuck and roll as two TP teams collide and their evidence collections reach critical mass. The ensuing blast throws open the door to my room. I whip out my flowpad and notes, sit, and manage to scrape together my composure. One point three seconds later my opponent walks in. "Hello," she says, smiling. "Hope you haven't been waiting long." Both her shoes are intact. Spares, of course, but all in all a successful run. I was doing pretty well to take out one set. "Hi," I reply. "Not too long. Glad to see you got here okay. Some of these folks are barbarians."
This process repeats six times during prelim rounds for debates and four times for speech. The mood is less frantic on the subsequent days when we usually run on time. This allows for more effective use of elbows. There are also great shows of heroism and courage. Consider, for example, protecting the timers. Almost everything in this post is either hyperbole or mere fiction. Not this. Some guy off the street showed up after the end of a competition day and tried to steal the timepieces we need for both speech and debate. One of the moms, a small but evidently quite ferocious woman, managed to retain the timers. This cleptomaniacal creep is lucky, though, that he did not run afoul of either the tournament director or my mother. Remember the scene and the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark? These ladies have a stare that can melt your face clean off. Tournament directors deserve medals. If we ever get serious about negotiating with North Korea we should send in the Indy tournament director. She could stare steadily into Kim Jong Il's eyes and say, "You don't want to do that, Kim. I have the power to make you miss your round. I don't want to have to do that, Kim. So just shut the reactors down." It would work instantly, and the only thing we'd have to concede to North Korea would be a new pair of pants for Mr. Il.
Not everyone associated with our tournament has the Stare, but some other intimidating individuals are the judges. There are two types of judges: parent and community. Parent judges are people with kids in the tournament (but in a different event than the one being judged). Community judges are volunteers. Let me be clear here. Few judges are mean and without these fine volunteers tournaments would be impossible. The problem is that, while judging, judges often look quite intent. A lot of concentration is usually in evidence, and this frequently prevents laughter, a major downside when one's speech is meant to be funny. Nothing tops letting loose a joke that has three judges thrashing in their seats with laughter while the fourth clearly does not get it and the last is wearing an expression that implies he hates his life and speaker is Not Helping. Even worse is going immediately after a speech calculated to make the judges cry. Especially when yours is a funny speech. Here you are, telling funny stories and jokes to illustrate your points even as the tear stains are just beginning to dry. Just great.
Responsive judges are more fun in every event, but especially debate. My favorite judges are ones who nod when they like or agree with a point. This way, I have a good idea of how I'm doing relative to my opponent. A bit stranger, but still encouraging, are judges who nod all the time. I can say, "Hundreds of thousands are dying in Darfur because of blind idealism," and he just nods, slowly. My opponent says, "Well, millions are dying in Darfur because of evil pragmatism." He nods at exactly the same rate. I say, "The petaflop barrier has been broken because of Darfurian idealistic analysis of the Categorical Imperative's effect on climate change in conjunction with the ban on CFC's but only in months not containing the letter "e" and due to the increased levels of awesome following the release of Halo 3." He keeps nodding. Cautious probing with a pen reveals that the judge is animatronic. The real one is somewhere else in the room. She is playing with an Etch-a-Sketch and has already handed me the win because she likes my tie.
The last tournament went pretty well for me. I won Apologetics, Impromptu, LD debate, placed in a few other things, and got first overall. I love these events, but that doesn't mean they make sense. Still, hard to top in terms of sheer intensity, eh? Football has nothing on this...
We begin with the first day of the tournament. Speakers pour in from several states and are all squeezed into such proximity that spontaneous fusion is real possibility. I thought I saw a petite debater actually be squashed out of existence between two boxes of evidence in Milwaukee. The reason for the crush? Everyone want to reach the table to Sign In. Signing In is a mysterious process, because no matter which line you choose you will be in exactly the worst possible place. If your last name begins with "g" you will end up in the "r" line and vice versa. This problem could be solved with signs, of course, but the signs are at the tables and the tables are inaccessible beginning thirty seconds after the doors unlock. Once one has Signed In one must proceed to Script Submission. Script Submission suffers from similar line confusion, but is made even more complex by the fact that the Submission Personnel must inspect every single script. This is difficult, especially when so many speeches are calculated to cause crying. I kid you not. Half of the speeches I hear at tournaments make Bambi look like a Red Skelton skit. Some of the Interpretives even make A Walk to Remember seem reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin's work. I think the people who work this station are either supernaturally gifted or simply fortified by preventative doses of Prozac.
The net effect of this process is to ensure that the tournament starts 20-60 minutes later than planned. Usually these minutes are spent, by the vast majority of the competitors, sitting around and waiting for Postings, the near-mythical sheets of paper that tell us where the rounds are and against whom we are competing. This is especially crucial in debate. Right before the debate rounds start, hundreds of suited teenagers pack the areas where Postings will soon magically appear, a bit like a bunch of giant penguins around a pile of decomposing fish. Unlike penguins, however, we treat the Bearer of the Postings with an almost eerie respect. Then, when the Posting is complete, we contemplate lifting him or her upon our shoulders and triumphantly parading him/her around the building, but mostly we just bolt for the competition rooms.
This activity deserves a paragraph to itself. Put yourself in my black dress shoes. The Postings go up. I am in Room SF 163 and up against a ferocious debater. Now, three factors come into play. First is the need for raw speed. Never underestimate the psychological advantage of being set up and coolly jotting down your value arguments as your opponent scrambles into the room. Second is the fact that the room is some distance across campus and on the far side of the building in which the Postings were placed. Third is the fact that both buildings involved are packed with scrambling people. The secret is to move fast and to never stop moving. I start down the first hallway, neatly dodging the first of two 12 year olds carrying unprotected chocolate ice cream cones randomly amongst the suits. The rest of the hall simply calls for footwork until I reach the first choke point. This is where LD debaters (who really don't carry much evidence) have a huge advantage over TPers who frequently have evidence crates the size of Chevy Impalas. I use my briefcase to wedge through the mass. Another debater uses my wake to slide through even faster. No matter. He tries to pass me as I clear the other side. I clothesline him with my Apologetics bag as we exit the clot. Splash one. The first point cleared, I head for the door. Like all doors in this building it is wheelchair friendly, meaning it is almost impossible to open the first few inches, after which it springs open and stays that way for a few seconds. I time my approach. The nearest debaters are six, maybe seven seconds behind me. I wait a half-second, trigger the door and dart through. I hear footsteps behind me quicken to a run, but I am down to the walkway and on the sidewalk by the time I hear a faint swoosh as the door suddenly closes, followed by a double thump. Splash two more. I approach the other building and see the unthinkable: the other debater is a girl and is almost as close to the building. Direct tactics of the type appropriate against male opponents are out of the question; chivalry is not completely dead, but I have options. I turn and detour across the still-soft ground, darting along a shortcut between buildings. She follows, and quickly pulls ahead as she follows an even more direct line along the wet surface. I see her high heels penetrate damp soil and hear the gunshot-like crack as one sheers off, followed by a bellow of rage. Splash another. I duck just in time as her briefcase whistles through the space previously occupied by my head. I am not quick enough to avoid the flung wreckage of a shoe, but by now I have a sizeable lead. I run up the steps to the destination building and manage to throw my case into the gap in the automatic door as it swings shut, holding it long enough to scramble through. More people are rapidly dispersing inside. One has a wingtip shoe protruding from his ear. I dive around a corner and tuck and roll as two TP teams collide and their evidence collections reach critical mass. The ensuing blast throws open the door to my room. I whip out my flowpad and notes, sit, and manage to scrape together my composure. One point three seconds later my opponent walks in. "Hello," she says, smiling. "Hope you haven't been waiting long." Both her shoes are intact. Spares, of course, but all in all a successful run. I was doing pretty well to take out one set. "Hi," I reply. "Not too long. Glad to see you got here okay. Some of these folks are barbarians."
This process repeats six times during prelim rounds for debates and four times for speech. The mood is less frantic on the subsequent days when we usually run on time. This allows for more effective use of elbows. There are also great shows of heroism and courage. Consider, for example, protecting the timers. Almost everything in this post is either hyperbole or mere fiction. Not this. Some guy off the street showed up after the end of a competition day and tried to steal the timepieces we need for both speech and debate. One of the moms, a small but evidently quite ferocious woman, managed to retain the timers. This cleptomaniacal creep is lucky, though, that he did not run afoul of either the tournament director or my mother. Remember the scene and the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark? These ladies have a stare that can melt your face clean off. Tournament directors deserve medals. If we ever get serious about negotiating with North Korea we should send in the Indy tournament director. She could stare steadily into Kim Jong Il's eyes and say, "You don't want to do that, Kim. I have the power to make you miss your round. I don't want to have to do that, Kim. So just shut the reactors down." It would work instantly, and the only thing we'd have to concede to North Korea would be a new pair of pants for Mr. Il.
Not everyone associated with our tournament has the Stare, but some other intimidating individuals are the judges. There are two types of judges: parent and community. Parent judges are people with kids in the tournament (but in a different event than the one being judged). Community judges are volunteers. Let me be clear here. Few judges are mean and without these fine volunteers tournaments would be impossible. The problem is that, while judging, judges often look quite intent. A lot of concentration is usually in evidence, and this frequently prevents laughter, a major downside when one's speech is meant to be funny. Nothing tops letting loose a joke that has three judges thrashing in their seats with laughter while the fourth clearly does not get it and the last is wearing an expression that implies he hates his life and speaker is Not Helping. Even worse is going immediately after a speech calculated to make the judges cry. Especially when yours is a funny speech. Here you are, telling funny stories and jokes to illustrate your points even as the tear stains are just beginning to dry. Just great.
Responsive judges are more fun in every event, but especially debate. My favorite judges are ones who nod when they like or agree with a point. This way, I have a good idea of how I'm doing relative to my opponent. A bit stranger, but still encouraging, are judges who nod all the time. I can say, "Hundreds of thousands are dying in Darfur because of blind idealism," and he just nods, slowly. My opponent says, "Well, millions are dying in Darfur because of evil pragmatism." He nods at exactly the same rate. I say, "The petaflop barrier has been broken because of Darfurian idealistic analysis of the Categorical Imperative's effect on climate change in conjunction with the ban on CFC's but only in months not containing the letter "e" and due to the increased levels of awesome following the release of Halo 3." He keeps nodding. Cautious probing with a pen reveals that the judge is animatronic. The real one is somewhere else in the room. She is playing with an Etch-a-Sketch and has already handed me the win because she likes my tie.
The last tournament went pretty well for me. I won Apologetics, Impromptu, LD debate, placed in a few other things, and got first overall. I love these events, but that doesn't mean they make sense. Still, hard to top in terms of sheer intensity, eh? Football has nothing on this...
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Spread
I did some reading today on Von Neumann machines. To any reader who is not a complete nerd, John Von Neumann was a Hungarian-American mathematician born in 1903. He did some work on the Manhattan Project and the later hydrogen bomb project. Anyway, a Von Neumann machine is a device that, in addition to carrying out its primary function, is capable of self-replication. The only non-living Von Neumann machines in existence today are viruses. And, like Von Neumann's theoretical machines, viruses are generally not terribly good things to have around long-term. I'd contend that ideas are like Von Neumann machines. Richard Dawkins (someone of whom I am not fond) proposed that memes (cultural constructs) are capable of complex evolution and replication. This, I think, is the result of a much simpler idea. Rather, the result of two ideas.
First of these is the idea that ideas multiply and propagate. This should be fairly obvious. Let's say I decide that it is "cool" to wear hats inside out (and not just when the Cubs are behind). Suppose further I am someone anyone cares about regarding popular fashion. The idea to wear caps backward spreads to a few friends and then to a few more and so on exponentially until the entire hat-wearing population of the world look like idiots who can't figure out which way to wear caps. This wouldn't actually happen though, of course. Why? Because the idea of inverse hat-wearage lacks inherent force. To propagate, an idea must be one that can really spread itself. Consider democracy. Democracy, once established, tends to want to spread. The same is true of most religions. The ideas that endure are the ones that either claim to be necessary or that really bring some tangible benefit. In other words, the ideas that survive are the ones that shape their surroundings to encourage spread. If we regard ideas as Von Neumann machines, this second idea has some startling implications.
If ideas are capable of altering their surroundings and of replication, then we have an explanation for why ideas evolve over time. An idea arises under a given set of conditions and then alters them. Under new conditions the idea may or may not be capable of survival so it will have to change. The variants of an idea that survive will be adapted to the new environment will continue propagation and further alter the environment in a continuous cycle. This cycle occurs because an idea will invariably result in an environment ill-suited to its continuation. Democracy again provides an example. Democracy is popular (almost by definition) but democracies usually choose bad policies. This causes a new form of government (usually a less friendly one) to step in a restore power/order to a chaotic situation. Then the system slides back the other way over time.
What can we learn from this? Any idea, even after successful implementation, will tend to suffer distortion over time. This is why, if an idea is to last, it must be tied to something it is powerless to directly change. This, I assert, is where the U.S. Constitution failed. The ideas in the document were subject to interpretation, and interpretation was based in external conditions. External conditions were altered by the Constitution, and the feedback loop has caused some, ah, issues. The solution? No clue, except one. Contrive a system that cannot be altered by its own influences. Isolate an idea from its effects and allow it to spread to the limits of its jurisdiction. Thus, stability is attained. The drawback is that it limits the idea's operational lifetime. Unable to evolve, it will die rather abruptly. Still, this may be worth the cost if the idea can last long enough. An example of this would be a constitution with no means of amendment. Change would come suddenly but only after a considerable period. This may be preferable to gradual decline. Pick your poison. The world of self-replicating, evolving entities is a bizarre one, but limitation of evolution may delay damage.
First of these is the idea that ideas multiply and propagate. This should be fairly obvious. Let's say I decide that it is "cool" to wear hats inside out (and not just when the Cubs are behind). Suppose further I am someone anyone cares about regarding popular fashion. The idea to wear caps backward spreads to a few friends and then to a few more and so on exponentially until the entire hat-wearing population of the world look like idiots who can't figure out which way to wear caps. This wouldn't actually happen though, of course. Why? Because the idea of inverse hat-wearage lacks inherent force. To propagate, an idea must be one that can really spread itself. Consider democracy. Democracy, once established, tends to want to spread. The same is true of most religions. The ideas that endure are the ones that either claim to be necessary or that really bring some tangible benefit. In other words, the ideas that survive are the ones that shape their surroundings to encourage spread. If we regard ideas as Von Neumann machines, this second idea has some startling implications.
If ideas are capable of altering their surroundings and of replication, then we have an explanation for why ideas evolve over time. An idea arises under a given set of conditions and then alters them. Under new conditions the idea may or may not be capable of survival so it will have to change. The variants of an idea that survive will be adapted to the new environment will continue propagation and further alter the environment in a continuous cycle. This cycle occurs because an idea will invariably result in an environment ill-suited to its continuation. Democracy again provides an example. Democracy is popular (almost by definition) but democracies usually choose bad policies. This causes a new form of government (usually a less friendly one) to step in a restore power/order to a chaotic situation. Then the system slides back the other way over time.
What can we learn from this? Any idea, even after successful implementation, will tend to suffer distortion over time. This is why, if an idea is to last, it must be tied to something it is powerless to directly change. This, I assert, is where the U.S. Constitution failed. The ideas in the document were subject to interpretation, and interpretation was based in external conditions. External conditions were altered by the Constitution, and the feedback loop has caused some, ah, issues. The solution? No clue, except one. Contrive a system that cannot be altered by its own influences. Isolate an idea from its effects and allow it to spread to the limits of its jurisdiction. Thus, stability is attained. The drawback is that it limits the idea's operational lifetime. Unable to evolve, it will die rather abruptly. Still, this may be worth the cost if the idea can last long enough. An example of this would be a constitution with no means of amendment. Change would come suddenly but only after a considerable period. This may be preferable to gradual decline. Pick your poison. The world of self-replicating, evolving entities is a bizarre one, but limitation of evolution may delay damage.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Pool Pics
These photos are part of my "motion experiments" project. They all involve high apeture and low shutter speed. The last one is probably the best, the other two would probably look better in black and white.
My computer crashed twice while I was writing this...
I like computers. Really, I do. But I just don't understand some of their...eccentricities. Imagine if today's operating systems were cars.
Windows XP
This is a Volkswagen Microbus fifteen feet long with the engine of a Pinto. It's large, wobbly, cartoonish, and seems to heavy for the available power to move it an inch. Upon entering the vehicle we find large, squishy seat cushions in primary colors. They are actually quite comfortable once one overcomes the sensation of returning to kindergarten. Time to drive. Insert the key into the ignition and turn it. Three to five minutes later, the engine starts. Now gently press the accelerator. Nothing happens. But what did you expect? We need Service Pack One. Time to get out and push. After four hours of painful dragging, pleading, shoving, we manage to navigate the Macrobus to the Microsoft dealership. There we receive Service Pack One: 15,000 pounds of armor plate to protect against attackers. The engine now gives a sort of feeble moan when started. But not to fear, Service Pack Two has been released! It strips off the 15,000 pounds of armor plate and installs 15,000 pounds of Kevlar. Also included are extra rubber bands for the engine.
Windows Vista
This is a slight upgrade. Vista is a conversion van. It is painted an attractive designer color and has a smooth, understated interior. Lifting the hood, however, reveals that the engine in encased in a solid block of epoxy to prevent any amateur mechanics from tinkering. The overall effect, though, is rather better than XP. Now turn the key. A light comes on in the dashboard. "Are you sure you want to turn on Vista?" Hit yes. Five to eight minutes later, the engine starts. Now look at the gear selector. Your options are Documents, Pictures, Music, and Games. Click Music. The little light switches back on. "Are you sure you want to listen to music?" Hit yes, maybe a bit more firmly this time. It opens Windows Media Player, or WMP. If Iraq had been discovered to be developing WMP, Obama would not be President. Microsoft can get away with it. But your Vista system was not really meant for playing music or typing documents. No, it exists mainly to update itself. You can't turn in on, turn it off, or touch it without having to visit the dealership for chunks of armor plate until the smooth, designer interior looks like the inside of a blender full of random nuts and bolts. Even then, it asks, "Are you sure you want to attack your computer with an axe?" "Are you sure you want to withdraw the axe from the keyboard?" "Are you sure you want to prepare to swing again?" "Are you sure y--"
Mac OS X
This is a shiny white Lamborghini Murcielago. It's fast, pretty, and no one else you know owns one. Upon entering the vehicle, we find that the seats automatically adjust, the mirrors change angle, and the engine starts, emitting a low, powerful hum. You begin to pull onto the highway, anxious to put the car through its paces, only to be informed that the interstate is not Mac-compatible. It turns out that only 4.5 percent of roads in this nation will allow the use of your Lamborghini. Even more disturbingly, the car seems to drive itself. Everything happens almost magically and without clear input, although your checking account seems to be empty and mine is swiftly draining. It's been fun, but it is also time to move on to Linux. The doors will not open. The locks close again as fast as we can open them. Once you buy a Mac and "experience" it, there is no escape. Luckily for you, I remembered to pack an acetylene torch.
Linux
I'm not yet sure what the Linux car is, because all we currently have is two tons of assorted parts and assembly instructions derived by consensus. Its incarnations range from a Corvette to a Beetle. Thanks to my prodigious programming and system design skills, ours is a bird fountain with three awkwardly positioned wheels.
You'll note that the software industry is not receiving a massive bailout. Perhaps they are just not worthy. But I suspect that the government still uses a single, enormous, convoluted abacus.
Windows XP
This is a Volkswagen Microbus fifteen feet long with the engine of a Pinto. It's large, wobbly, cartoonish, and seems to heavy for the available power to move it an inch. Upon entering the vehicle we find large, squishy seat cushions in primary colors. They are actually quite comfortable once one overcomes the sensation of returning to kindergarten. Time to drive. Insert the key into the ignition and turn it. Three to five minutes later, the engine starts. Now gently press the accelerator. Nothing happens. But what did you expect? We need Service Pack One. Time to get out and push. After four hours of painful dragging, pleading, shoving, we manage to navigate the Macrobus to the Microsoft dealership. There we receive Service Pack One: 15,000 pounds of armor plate to protect against attackers. The engine now gives a sort of feeble moan when started. But not to fear, Service Pack Two has been released! It strips off the 15,000 pounds of armor plate and installs 15,000 pounds of Kevlar. Also included are extra rubber bands for the engine.
Windows Vista
This is a slight upgrade. Vista is a conversion van. It is painted an attractive designer color and has a smooth, understated interior. Lifting the hood, however, reveals that the engine in encased in a solid block of epoxy to prevent any amateur mechanics from tinkering. The overall effect, though, is rather better than XP. Now turn the key. A light comes on in the dashboard. "Are you sure you want to turn on Vista?" Hit yes. Five to eight minutes later, the engine starts. Now look at the gear selector. Your options are Documents, Pictures, Music, and Games. Click Music. The little light switches back on. "Are you sure you want to listen to music?" Hit yes, maybe a bit more firmly this time. It opens Windows Media Player, or WMP. If Iraq had been discovered to be developing WMP, Obama would not be President. Microsoft can get away with it. But your Vista system was not really meant for playing music or typing documents. No, it exists mainly to update itself. You can't turn in on, turn it off, or touch it without having to visit the dealership for chunks of armor plate until the smooth, designer interior looks like the inside of a blender full of random nuts and bolts. Even then, it asks, "Are you sure you want to attack your computer with an axe?" "Are you sure you want to withdraw the axe from the keyboard?" "Are you sure you want to prepare to swing again?" "Are you sure y--"
Mac OS X
This is a shiny white Lamborghini Murcielago. It's fast, pretty, and no one else you know owns one. Upon entering the vehicle, we find that the seats automatically adjust, the mirrors change angle, and the engine starts, emitting a low, powerful hum. You begin to pull onto the highway, anxious to put the car through its paces, only to be informed that the interstate is not Mac-compatible. It turns out that only 4.5 percent of roads in this nation will allow the use of your Lamborghini. Even more disturbingly, the car seems to drive itself. Everything happens almost magically and without clear input, although your checking account seems to be empty and mine is swiftly draining. It's been fun, but it is also time to move on to Linux. The doors will not open. The locks close again as fast as we can open them. Once you buy a Mac and "experience" it, there is no escape. Luckily for you, I remembered to pack an acetylene torch.
Linux
I'm not yet sure what the Linux car is, because all we currently have is two tons of assorted parts and assembly instructions derived by consensus. Its incarnations range from a Corvette to a Beetle. Thanks to my prodigious programming and system design skills, ours is a bird fountain with three awkwardly positioned wheels.
You'll note that the software industry is not receiving a massive bailout. Perhaps they are just not worthy. But I suspect that the government still uses a single, enormous, convoluted abacus.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
5.56 NATO and the Hague Convention
The Hague convention prohibits the use of weapons calculated to cause excessive structuring. This moratorium is construed to prohibit the use of hollowpoint rounds in warfare (unless the hollowpoint is for aerodynamic reasons). This makes about as much sense, in today's asymmetric warfare, as hand grenades made of cream cheese. Let's work our way down the reasons that the U.S. should adopt the hollowpoint 5.56 round and, ah, adjust its interpretation of the Hague convention.
1) Stopping Power
Currently, the standard round for U.S. forces is the 5.56 mm NATO round in either jacket (steel coated) or ball (solid, pointed lead) form. Fired from an M-16 or comparable rifle, this round develops a muzzles velocity of about 1100 m/sec and a kinetic energy of 7774 joules. This is the equivalent energy of baseball thrown at 706 miles per hour. More meaningfully, a 5.56 has the same momentum as a 210 mile per hour fastball. This is a fearsome amount of energy. Most of it is wasted. This bullet has a tendency to go straight through the target and continues downrange at a considerable speed. Now let's get something straight. When an insurgent charges a soldier with an AKS and who knows what else, what matters is stopping him as quickly as possible. This means imparting maximum momentum change into the target to create shock. A 210 mile per hour fastball will do this quite admirably. One that transfers only half of its momentum to the target will not. A hollowpoint round, on the other hand, expands on impact and thus becomes less aerodynamic upon entering the target and usually stops in it. Complete momentum (but incomplete energy) transfer occurs. This is why most people who carry handguns for self-defense use hollowpoint or softpoint ammunition.
2) Collateral Damage
This is a more serious issue. The 5.56 inflicts a lot of damage and, even in ball form, has formidable stopping power, but on passing through a target it keeps going. This is wasteful and extremely dangerous to anyone downrange. This bullet can go straight through someone, a few panels of drywall, and halfway into an innocent standing next door. A round that stops in the target is unable to do damage beyond the person hit.
3) Lethality
The irony of this is that, at least generally, ball ammunition is more likely to eventually kill the target than hollowpoint. Why? Think about it. How many holes does a person receive when shot by a round that stops in the target? One. When the rounds goes clean through? Two. And exit wounds are a lot nastier than entry ones. A person who is hit by a hollowpoint may be stopped cold, but provided a major organ has not been destroyed stands a decent chance of surviving. A person hit by ball ammunition is likely to bleed to death in the absence of professional medical help. This is even more ironic considering that the 5.56 was not originally developed to be consistently lethal. The reasoning was that in a war of attrition (say, with the U.S.S.R.) the enemy would have to spend more money and time treating wounded soldiers than burying dead ones. This logic is sound, but depends upon the enemy being able and willing to spend the time. Al Qaeda seems a bit reticent in this particular area, so we either end up treating terrorists ourselves or letting them die. I am a proponent of the least force necessary approach, and if we can instantly incapacitate an insurgent without necessitating either death or more expensive medical treatment, this sounds like a sound course of action to me.
My mother has a saying: "Use the proper tool for the proper job." Although she'd be aghast to find she'd been quoted in a post about the 5.56 NATO round, she raises an excellent point. We need to adapt to fight the war we are actually in, not the ones of thirty years ago. This means using the correct tools, and maybe a bit of common sense.
1) Stopping Power
Currently, the standard round for U.S. forces is the 5.56 mm NATO round in either jacket (steel coated) or ball (solid, pointed lead) form. Fired from an M-16 or comparable rifle, this round develops a muzzles velocity of about 1100 m/sec and a kinetic energy of 7774 joules. This is the equivalent energy of baseball thrown at 706 miles per hour. More meaningfully, a 5.56 has the same momentum as a 210 mile per hour fastball. This is a fearsome amount of energy. Most of it is wasted. This bullet has a tendency to go straight through the target and continues downrange at a considerable speed. Now let's get something straight. When an insurgent charges a soldier with an AKS and who knows what else, what matters is stopping him as quickly as possible. This means imparting maximum momentum change into the target to create shock. A 210 mile per hour fastball will do this quite admirably. One that transfers only half of its momentum to the target will not. A hollowpoint round, on the other hand, expands on impact and thus becomes less aerodynamic upon entering the target and usually stops in it. Complete momentum (but incomplete energy) transfer occurs. This is why most people who carry handguns for self-defense use hollowpoint or softpoint ammunition.
2) Collateral Damage
This is a more serious issue. The 5.56 inflicts a lot of damage and, even in ball form, has formidable stopping power, but on passing through a target it keeps going. This is wasteful and extremely dangerous to anyone downrange. This bullet can go straight through someone, a few panels of drywall, and halfway into an innocent standing next door. A round that stops in the target is unable to do damage beyond the person hit.
3) Lethality
The irony of this is that, at least generally, ball ammunition is more likely to eventually kill the target than hollowpoint. Why? Think about it. How many holes does a person receive when shot by a round that stops in the target? One. When the rounds goes clean through? Two. And exit wounds are a lot nastier than entry ones. A person who is hit by a hollowpoint may be stopped cold, but provided a major organ has not been destroyed stands a decent chance of surviving. A person hit by ball ammunition is likely to bleed to death in the absence of professional medical help. This is even more ironic considering that the 5.56 was not originally developed to be consistently lethal. The reasoning was that in a war of attrition (say, with the U.S.S.R.) the enemy would have to spend more money and time treating wounded soldiers than burying dead ones. This logic is sound, but depends upon the enemy being able and willing to spend the time. Al Qaeda seems a bit reticent in this particular area, so we either end up treating terrorists ourselves or letting them die. I am a proponent of the least force necessary approach, and if we can instantly incapacitate an insurgent without necessitating either death or more expensive medical treatment, this sounds like a sound course of action to me.
My mother has a saying: "Use the proper tool for the proper job." Although she'd be aghast to find she'd been quoted in a post about the 5.56 NATO round, she raises an excellent point. We need to adapt to fight the war we are actually in, not the ones of thirty years ago. This means using the correct tools, and maybe a bit of common sense.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
But wait, there's more!
I hate infomercials. So I wrote one. I will give five dollars to whoever convinces Billy Mays to actually do this.
"Hi, Billy Mays here for UberOxiDiciPutty, the solution to all your household, global, and spiritual problems!" Random hand gestures that imply he is wearing invisible handcuffs and trying to stab you through the television screen.
"UberOxiDiciPutty is a Scientific Discovery made Right Here in America by German Engineers using Japanese Electronics and assembled by Swiss Craftsmen from Genuine Components." More gestures. The television creaks ominously.
"Do you have leaky pipes? UberOxiDiciPutty is the solution! Just apply it!!!!! So easy this untrained, unpracticed child can use it!!!!!!!!!!!!" Enter a frightened looking seven-year-old. She keeps glancing offstage, as though her parents are being held at gunpoint until she fixes the pipes.
"Here, Mandy--"
"I'm Stephanie."
"Whatever, brat. Now watch as Melanie mends those pipes in a snap!" The camera zooms in extremely close to the pipes so only Stephanie's hands are visible. They seem oddly large, hairy, and professional looking. The hands throw some UberOxiDiciPutty at the pipes. They stop leaking.
"And just like that Melanie fixes the pipes!!! Wouldn't you like to be able to fix your pipes?" Stephanie begins crying. "What's this? UderOxiDiciPutty can fix that!" Billy splatters approximately a kilo and a half of noxoius UberOxiDiciPutty into Stephanie's eyes. Her head bursts into flame. Parental voices cry out, followed by a scuffling noise and a warning shot.
"And just like that, UberOxiDiciPutty quiets upset children!" Stephanie manages to plunge her head into the tub of water awaiting the laundry demonstration.
"Why thank you, Melanie!!! I almost forgot!!! Even though I'm reading from a teleprompter!!! UberOxiDiciPutty is to stains as Rosie O'Donnell is to a buffet!!!" He grabs a pile of shirts that look like they've been home to a family of sick badgers for a few years. One of them is actually oozing something that looks suspiciously like warm roofing tar. Billy throws the entire pile into the water.
"Now watch the power!!!! Just one scoop of UberOxiDiciPutty can clean all of these clothes!!! They will look like new!!!" He tosses another handful of crud into the water. Smoke and steam erupt from the surface. A terrified badger scrambles out of the tub, it's fur falling out even as is mauls a cameraman. Billy pulls out a shirt, apparently from immediately behind the tub. It is gleaming white and has a faint halo of light surrounding it. He hastily yanks off the tag.
"Just like new!!!! No, it's better!!! This shirt is now imbued with the strength of UberOxiDiciPutty!!!! We stitched together a parachute from shirts treated with this amazing substance!!!" A skydiver leaps out of an airplane. We briefly see a parachute of shirts opening above him. The camera cuts to a skydiver standing on the ground, grinning. He gives a thumbs-up. He is wearing a different color than the diver who left the aircraft. The audio is indistinct, but screams are just discernible in the distance.
"And that's not all!!!!!! UberOxiDiciPutty offers the perfect means to prepare for inlaws and family get-togethers!!!" Camera cuts to a woman snickering as she balances a bucket of UberOxiDiciPutty on top of the front door. "Let's hear her mention my cooking now," she cackles. The ceiling over the bucket begins to blacken.
"Order now!!! $19.95 will get you a full tub! Two more payments of $19.95 will get you a tub full of UberOxiDiciPutty!!! But you must call now!!! Now!!! Now!!! But wait!!!! We will include, free, a set of premium asbestos cleaning gloves with a lifetime warranty!!!!!" Billy Mays passes out from lack of oxygen. His hands continue to gesture, causing the TV screen to crack. A small drop of UberOxiDiciPutty falls from the table and lands on his head. A faint sizzling noise begins. The badger, now completely hairless, darts over and begins to eat one of his hands. Stephanie throws a bucket of UberOxiDiciPutty over both of them. The result, ranking among the greatest moments in television history, levels most of southern California. She deserves a medal. She needs a wig.
"Hi, Billy Mays here for UberOxiDiciPutty, the solution to all your household, global, and spiritual problems!" Random hand gestures that imply he is wearing invisible handcuffs and trying to stab you through the television screen.
"UberOxiDiciPutty is a Scientific Discovery made Right Here in America by German Engineers using Japanese Electronics and assembled by Swiss Craftsmen from Genuine Components." More gestures. The television creaks ominously.
"Do you have leaky pipes? UberOxiDiciPutty is the solution! Just apply it!!!!! So easy this untrained, unpracticed child can use it!!!!!!!!!!!!" Enter a frightened looking seven-year-old. She keeps glancing offstage, as though her parents are being held at gunpoint until she fixes the pipes.
"Here, Mandy--"
"I'm Stephanie."
"Whatever, brat. Now watch as Melanie mends those pipes in a snap!" The camera zooms in extremely close to the pipes so only Stephanie's hands are visible. They seem oddly large, hairy, and professional looking. The hands throw some UberOxiDiciPutty at the pipes. They stop leaking.
"And just like that Melanie fixes the pipes!!! Wouldn't you like to be able to fix your pipes?" Stephanie begins crying. "What's this? UderOxiDiciPutty can fix that!" Billy splatters approximately a kilo and a half of noxoius UberOxiDiciPutty into Stephanie's eyes. Her head bursts into flame. Parental voices cry out, followed by a scuffling noise and a warning shot.
"And just like that, UberOxiDiciPutty quiets upset children!" Stephanie manages to plunge her head into the tub of water awaiting the laundry demonstration.
"Why thank you, Melanie!!! I almost forgot!!! Even though I'm reading from a teleprompter!!! UberOxiDiciPutty is to stains as Rosie O'Donnell is to a buffet!!!" He grabs a pile of shirts that look like they've been home to a family of sick badgers for a few years. One of them is actually oozing something that looks suspiciously like warm roofing tar. Billy throws the entire pile into the water.
"Now watch the power!!!! Just one scoop of UberOxiDiciPutty can clean all of these clothes!!! They will look like new!!!" He tosses another handful of crud into the water. Smoke and steam erupt from the surface. A terrified badger scrambles out of the tub, it's fur falling out even as is mauls a cameraman. Billy pulls out a shirt, apparently from immediately behind the tub. It is gleaming white and has a faint halo of light surrounding it. He hastily yanks off the tag.
"Just like new!!!! No, it's better!!! This shirt is now imbued with the strength of UberOxiDiciPutty!!!! We stitched together a parachute from shirts treated with this amazing substance!!!" A skydiver leaps out of an airplane. We briefly see a parachute of shirts opening above him. The camera cuts to a skydiver standing on the ground, grinning. He gives a thumbs-up. He is wearing a different color than the diver who left the aircraft. The audio is indistinct, but screams are just discernible in the distance.
"And that's not all!!!!!! UberOxiDiciPutty offers the perfect means to prepare for inlaws and family get-togethers!!!" Camera cuts to a woman snickering as she balances a bucket of UberOxiDiciPutty on top of the front door. "Let's hear her mention my cooking now," she cackles. The ceiling over the bucket begins to blacken.
"Order now!!! $19.95 will get you a full tub! Two more payments of $19.95 will get you a tub full of UberOxiDiciPutty!!! But you must call now!!! Now!!! Now!!! But wait!!!! We will include, free, a set of premium asbestos cleaning gloves with a lifetime warranty!!!!!" Billy Mays passes out from lack of oxygen. His hands continue to gesture, causing the TV screen to crack. A small drop of UberOxiDiciPutty falls from the table and lands on his head. A faint sizzling noise begins. The badger, now completely hairless, darts over and begins to eat one of his hands. Stephanie throws a bucket of UberOxiDiciPutty over both of them. The result, ranking among the greatest moments in television history, levels most of southern California. She deserves a medal. She needs a wig.
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