Check your speed

You know, we are awash with individual and collective criminality, incompetence and downright dumbfuckery in our government, and I just can’t with it. So I’m digging into my archives and sharing a story told by Brian Shul, Maj. USAF (Ret), of his days as a pilot of the world’s fastest jet, the SR-71.

Shul flew 212 missions during the Vietnam War. He was shot down and crash-landed in the jungle, hid for days before he was rescued and suffered such severe burns that he was first told he wouldn’t survive, and then that he’d never fly again. After months in hospital, he passed his flight qualification and went on to fly a variety of aircraft until he retired in 1990.

Among those craft was the SR-71 Blackbird, which was in service from the 60s through the 80s; it was retired and briefly reactivated in the 90s. The SR stood for strategic reconnaissance, and the Blackbird was outfitted with a shedload of cool tech to accomplish that. In addition, it flew at speeds exceeding Mach 3, and could outrun just about everything, including missiles.

Shul’s story isn’t really about any of that, except for the speed. What it is about is that fighter-pilot willie-waving that I saw a lot of on the fringes of an F-14 Tomcat fighter squadron. It’s a great story, and Shul does it justice. Settle back and crank up the volume.

You’re welcome.

Gratitude Monday: the dog days

You know—we are well and truly in the dog days of summer, and yet for almost a week we here in the District They Call Columbia have had the most beautiful weather. Instead of temperatures and humidity adding up to a triple-digit heat index, it’s been more like high 70s-low 80s and practically no humidity at all.

I worked from home Wednesday through Friday, waiting for Comcast (don’t even ask) and a flock of electricians to come give estimates on various fixes needed about the place. And—mirabile dictu—I had the patio door and upstairs windows open all day, every day; no air conditioning needed.

It was wonderful listening to the birds out by the feeders during the day, and to whatever it is that makes night noises. (Even though at times I had to increase the volume on my TV to drown out the critters.) If you have not experienced a summer along the Mason-Dixon Line, you don’t know what a blessing this is.

So that’s my gratitude for today. Even though I’m still waiting for three of the five quotes to come in, I’ve had nearly a week of perfect summer weather.

Gratitude Monday: Weathering summer

All last week the Metro D.C. area was engulfed in your typical summer weather: temps in the 90s (with no discernable cooling off after sundown), humidity almost the same, and a consequent heat index hovering in the low three digits.

Each morning, when my colleague in the next office, who also came here directly from California, arrived at my doorway, we’d moan about how hot and miserable it is. Because—even when it’s hot in California, there’s almost never the humidity you find here, and you can count on the temperature dropping by 20 degrees at night.

“Eighty-three degrees at 0520 today,” I said on Friday.

“That’s brutal.”

“And 91 degrees last night at 2130.”

“Brutal, man.”

By 1130 on Friday, the heat index had hit 105, and I was already worried about making it home on the 50-minute Metro ride, without anything to drink.

(Yeah, I know—“eating, drinking and smoking are prohibited on any Metro train or property.” But since Metro staff turn a blind eye to it, you see it all the time, especially in the summer. Maybe it’s just the tourons doing it, but I doubt it. Metro staff might step in if families started hauling out their KFC-and-two-litre-bottles-of-Pepsi and handing round the cole slaw to each other, but I doubt it. That train has left the station, as it were.)

(As an aside: Metro would have a better case to make for prohibiting beverages—and even food—on their trains if they could convince passengers that they had a reasonable expectation of getting to their destination in a timely manner, and therefore they wouldn’t feel obliged to provide sustenance for a five-hour journey from Foggy Bottom to West Falls Church.)

Then there was a later forecast for possibly very strong storms moving into the area late in the afternoon, with the hope that at least they’d break the heat spell. Man, it’s always something, eh?

Okay, as I walked the block from work to Metro Center, there were clouds, but no sign of imminent rain. I got on my Silver Line train and started working on some spreadsheets until we emerged from underground past Ballston. At that point, you could see the almost-black clouds blanketing the north and west, and I thought, well—hope it’s not too bad on my quarter-mile walk from my station to my car.

Then I cranked up my mobile phone to check what fresh hell the administration was causing, via Twitter. And when I looked up around Tysons, the rain had started. Back to Twitter and a couple of miles past Spring Hill I noticed that the train had slowed a whole lot, until about a mile before Hunter Mill when it just…stopped.

And the rain was pouring down around the car’s windows in sheets. It was like going through a car wash—absolute sheets. I watched cars on the toll road driving through it with their emergency blinkers going, and recalled rain like this when I drove once from Houston to Lafayette, La. That was so bad that you could barely see the front of your own car, much less anyone in front, behind or on either side.

Must be Metro protocol to stop when faced with this kind of downpour, even though we were on raised tracks, so not really any danger of flooding. After some minutes, the train started up again, and we eased onward toward the final station.

Funnily enough, there wasn’t really any rain falling at the platform (I was in the first car, so no overhead structure), but when I emerged from the station, it was raining fairly steadily. And we were in downpoursville by the time I got home. And it indeed was somewhat cooler than it had been when I left work in D.C.

So here’s what I’m grateful for today: that nature here offers such a variety of weather—sometimes in the span of a few hours. That rain can make you pause and just watch it—even in a Metro train. And that this particular deluge meant I didn’t have to go out and water my plants, so I was spared the swarms of mosquitos that lie in wait for me.

None of this would you find in California.

smart move

On my way in to work the other day I came across this smart car from one of those car-sharing companies:

What caught my eye was this bumper slogan:

At the time I thought to myself, “Self—that little car dreams big.” But then I learned that car2Go is in fact a subsidiary of Daimler, which owns the smart brand, as well as Mercedes-Benz.

Well played, Daimler. Well played.

Gratitude Monday: the best of civilizatiion

We are at the apex of a DC summer here. I own up to the fact that, if I want to have a change of seasons, I’m going to have to put up with some discomfort. But honestly, weather, give it a rest, will ya?

Don’t believe me? Here’s the forecast as of yesterday:

Friday afternoon, the Metro car I rode on my 30-minute commute home had no air conditioning. Three middle-aged guys dressed in Hawaiian shirts, Bermuda shorts & walking shoes got on at McPherson Square, noticed the oven-like state and hopped off at Farragut West to try a different car. (I actually didn’t mind it so much for myself, but I had a container of overpriced macaroons I’d bought at the downtown farmers’ market; they’re made with sweetened condensed milk, and I was afraid they’d melt. They did.)

Saturday I had to run some errands, including going to the library, which doesn’t open until 1000. By the time I got home at 1100, my brain was pretty much fried. It was such a relief to be out of that miserable, stifling heat.

So, as that miserable, stifling heat continues unabated, I’m grateful for two things: an automatic ice maker and air conditioning. How did a society that invented both of these things ever get sidetracked into Pokémon Go and assault weapons?

Property values

One of the things I liked about walking around the Valley They Call Silicon was monitoring real estate prices. You’d see a For Sale sign go up, note the million-dollar price tag, and then the next day (or, generally at most, the next couple of days) you’d see the triumphant SOLD placard.

Almost always the purchase price would be more than the asking price.

Almost never did you see the dreaded “Price Reduced” addition. That inevitably denoted a complete pesthole like this one.

Well, I was walking around the town of Vienna (Virginia) at the weekend and came across this rather sad sign:

Almost as though owner-agent Terry Douglas just couldn’t bear to put that notification that all her high hopes have been dashed.

Here’s the domicile in question, a palais de pretension (yes, I made that up that franglais expression) if ever I’ve seen one:

It turns out that, after four months on the market, Terry has lowered the price (“huge reduction”, according to the online listing) by $30,000. To $1,569,000.

Yeah, okay, it’s 6000 square feet. With hardwood floors. And really astonishingly ugly cabinetry in the 4.5 bathrooms and the kitchen.

But what I find interesting that the listing shows it as having been built in 2015, and the last sale of the property was 1 July 2014, at $620,000.

Which means that the last sale was of the house that formerly occupied the property, which was then demolished to make way for this ludicrous monstrosity. And, in fact, one of the online listings shows the previous structure, with a surprisingly frank description:

It’s definitely unprepossessing, but I’m not sure that the new house is all that much of an improvement. And apparently househunters agree with me.

Deck the halls, and cats beware

Is it too early for heart-warming Christmas stories? Especially with rustic English accents? I mean, it is almost Labor Day, so some stores are already crowding out their Halloween displays for lit-up reindeer, right?

Well, too bad—here it is, courtesy of the BBC:

Fa-la-la-la-la to you and yours.

Check it out again

It seems that I’m not the only patron of the Santa Clara County Library District to have noticed that their new web interface sucks eggs. I went there over the weekend to renew a couple of items coming due and in the process discovered this notice:

I’m just wondering how long it’ll take them to flip the Back switch on it?

Gratitude Monday: A tragic high-tide accident

During my morning walk on Saturday I listened to Scott Simon interview architect Renzo Piano. Not about his stunning public and private buildings, but about an entirely different design form.

Sandcastles.

Piano, 77, has been building sandcastles man and boy, and has taught his children (ranging in age from 50 to 16) the craft for quite a long time as well. He says you can build them whatever your age, but it helps to think like a child. This is an approach to art that completely resonates with me.

You must first resign yourself to the knowledge that creating a sandcastle is a completely in-the-moment exercise. (“Totally useless,” he says.) Water—an integral component of construction—also carries the inevitability of its destruction. Whatever you build is going to get washed away before you pack up the beach towels. Deal with it.

(This is one of the reasons I totally love baristas who create latte art: it’s never going to last longer than the first sip. But it’s gorgeous while it’s there, and “the usefulness is in the act of the doing.”)

There are, of course, lots of elaborate sandcastle competitions, where people use all manner of tools to fabricate elaborate confections; I like that Piano is a hands-on kind of guy. I can attest to the sense of satisfaction that comes from both the feeling and the sound of small hands packing mud-like clomps of sand into place. You can use a pail and plastic shovel, but—as in making pastry—the magic is in the fingers.

I also like the way the architect connects the lessons learned while racing the waves to principles necessary for architects designing skyscrapers: physical laws, intuition, forces of nature.

So today I’m grateful for overhearing the conversation about the joy of creating something beautiful, of approaching it with the clarity of a child and of carrying the benefits with you long after the waves have washed away your creation.

Just happy to see you

Let it not be said that homeowners in the Valley They Call Silicon lack a sense of humor. Because I have the photographic evidence to the contrary right here:

(They also have very tiny hats.)

You’re welcome.

Not in Kansas any more

Okay, here in the Valley They Call Silicon, it’s not all bleeding-edge thought leader ninja rockstar paradigm-shifting next-big-thinging. We also care about exercise.

Plus, there’s our fashion sense.

And here’s what can come of the vortex of paragraph one and paragraph two:

Yeah, you’re not going to see this sort of thing on your way to work, are you?

All synched up

Oh, my—ordinarily I’m not a fan of synchronized swimming, or any activity that purports to be athletics while involving the use of fake eyelashes and the Tammy Faye Bakker style of makeup.

However, this example has come to my attention and I have only enough energy left to slap it up here because I’m laughing too hard.

I give them at least a 9.4, and bugger the East German judge.

Dairy intake

Okay, we’re headed into the dog days, so I thought, well, time for something animal-related that’s just plain funny.

First off, I give you Bob and Dice, two cats who like yoghurt.

Bob just goes for it, possibly thinking that there’s enough for both of them. Dice is not having that, and Bob doesn’t seem to figure out what’s happening.

Perhaps he’s used to it; although he looks rather befuddled. At least there’s no fur flying.

And then we have Daisy and Cooper, two dogs who obviously like McDonald’s ice cream. If you can watch this without cracking up, you need to have your sourpuss intake adjusted.

At first I felt sorry for Cooper, because he shows such anxious longing, it was just heart wrenching. Then he went into action.

Actually, I had to watch it a couple of times, because I think he shot into hyperdrive, and I wasn’t sure what I’d just seen.

It’s videos like these that make me think the whole Internet is worth it.

Whoa, man--like, psychedelic!

A friend of mine led me to this very colorful video. No, not that kind of colorful—beautiful, amazing and delightful colorful.

Post by Denise Deitz.

(If you really need an explanation for why this does what it does, okay. It’s about reducing the surface tension on the milk. But does that really matter?)

It’s supposed to be an activity for kids (although in my opinion, you want to closely supervise kids and food coloring), but I think everyone should try it.

It’s the sort of result that people used to consume many strange natural and chemically-produced substances to achieve. And you can do it for pennies. With no post-experience downer, man.

Oh—you’re welcome.

Oh--and his soap ISN'T funny

It’s Friday, so time for a little something different. And, you know, our antipodean brothers and sisters just take a different approach to public service announcements. Even for subjects that everyone knows aren’t amusing.

You’ll recall the video from the Victoria police laying out in pretty much words of one syllable what’ll happen if you drive drunk. (“You’ll be stuffed!”) Well, the Aussies aren’t the only ones who know how to frame the problem for the target audience.

Here’s a video from New Zealand pointing out how stupid you are when you’re high, and therefore how stupid you’re going to be behind the wheel if you try driving while loaded.

Here’s what I want to know—what does a grown man want with 12 frosty pigs?

No, wait; never mind. I think that falls into the category of TMI.

The cure for what ails you

My friend the Pundit’s Apprentice sent this round to his email list recently. I find it strangely compelling, since I’ve often wondered whether the world would operate better for me if I just banged my head against a wall long enough to turn my brain to mush. I overthink pretty much everything.

Thing is—I’ve got a rather uneasy feeling that you can accomplish the same thing, without resorting to MinusIQ™ drugs; because it really does seem to me that the very act of signing up for a Twitter account lowers your IQ by at least 27 points. Along with the concomitant shedding of grammar, circumspection, civility and all sense of actions (and words) having consequences.

(Actually, the company that produced it has other very compelling—if not as amusing—videos on its site. Have a look: www.sleepthinker.com.)

Anyhow—it’s tequila o’clock on Funky Friday, so enjoy the possibilities.

Twitter goes to the movies

One thing about the Twitters is it’s a great place to get silly. Every once in a while someone starts a hashtag dare, and it’s off to the races.

After the Texas Lege banned feminine hygiene products in its hallowed chambers, #ReplaceAWordInAMovieWithTampon trended for a day or two.

You know: Lethal Tampon. A Fistful of Tampons and so on.

Then there was #TitlesWithNachos.

So you had Die Hard with Nachos, Where the Wild Nachos Are, Harry Potter and the Deathly Nachos, No Nachos for Old Men and… Well, you get the idea.

One of my favorites, and therefore my excuse for the Funky Friday post today, is #1letterwrongmovie. Change one letter in a movie title; get a whole new film.

What happened with this one was that the Photoshoppers came out in droves. It wasn’t enough to play with the words; they had to augment the images.

You do not want to be drinking anything while looking at these. Or, if you are, at least aim your nose away from your keyboard.

Nightmare on Elmo Street:

 

Pilates of the Caribbean:

Fat & Furious:

Iron Nan:

And—I can’t decide which wins the prize—Lord of the Wings:

Or Paws:

What do you think?

"You're drunk; & you missed the bowl"

For my Friday frivolity today, I offer you the latest in Singapore’s comprehensive, erm, comprehensiveness: the Pee Analyzer.

In an attempt to stem the tide of drunk driving, a posh nightclub has installed devices in the men’s room urinals that detect the alcohol level in a user’s pee. The devices are keyed to RFID cards that patrons get when they valet park their car, and the level is recorded on the card. If it’s over the legal limit, a sign lights up advising him he should consider alternative transport home.

(Not, you’ll notice, that he should stop drinking. It is in a bar, after all.)

The RFID card gets swiped again at the parking valet station, and the patron gets another chance to decide not to get behind the wheel.

This video ‘splains it all, although you have to wade through a lot of annoying music to get to it.

They claim that in a two-week period the pee analyzers ratted out 573 sloshed patrons, of whom 342 used the drive-home service or called a cab. I find those numbers not massively impressive—fewer than 40 per night? Although I suppose a lot of men’s room users could have been walk-in patrons.

As for women—they have to determine their level of consumption the old-fashioned way: waking up with a massive hangover, possibly in a bed not their own.

Pas de Maru, Pt. 3

You may not be aware of this but there was an Internet cat video festival last month. People actually gathered at the Walker Art Museum in Minneapolis to watch a curated collection of videos that people took of their cats and posted to the Web.

Then they voted on the “best cat video”.

While I’m sure it was as tough to decide amongst all the submissions as it is for AMPAS members to vote on the Best Picture Oscar, the Golden Kitty award went to…Henri, le chat existential.

(Maru was in the running, but his film was more of a live short, as opposed to the film noir that Henri’s tale represents.)

In case you’ve forgotten about Henri since I last posted about him, here’s the winning vid:

You can find some of the also-rans here. What do you think; did the people choose wisely?

Olympic protection

You’ll recall that there have been stories about the IOC and LOCOG getting all sniffy about enforcing the exclusivity clauses regarding their sponsoring corporations’ products. LOCOG’s Supreme Sport Lord even announced that you could be refused admission to an event if you, a paying ticket-holder, showed up in apparel advertising a sponsor’s competitor.

(Hey—maybe that’s why there have been so many empty seats at the various venues: those no-shows were banned for wearing Nike instead of Adidas; or a jacket touting Jaguar instead of BMW.)

But apparently there’s an official London 2012 prophylactic; and some wag has, er, salted the Olympic Village with a competitor’s party hats. Which naturally got tweeted and set the LOCOG brand Gestapo into overdrive trying to gather in all the contraband condoms.

Yes, there are to be no rubbers except those supplied by Durex, and I suppose a brand called Kangaroo Condoms (tagline: “For the gland downunder”) just really doesn’t speak to the Olympic Spirit.

What I find interesting is that, as a measure of its corporate largesse, Durex has already supplied 150,000 condoms to the 10,000 athletes, and they still have a few days to go. If they’ve already run out of prophylactics, then we really have to salute their energy and endurance. If past Olympics are any guide, 150,000 was kind of a lowball. US target shooter Josh Lakatos commented on the 2000 Games at Sydney: “I’ve never witnessed so much debauchery in my entire life.”

(Condoms have been supplied to Olympians ever since 1992. At the Beijing Games, they were printed with the Olympic motto, “Faster, Higher, Stronger”.)

Let me also say that, as a UCLA alumna, I’m relieved that at least the interlopers weren’t Trojans.