2011

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Lord Martin Rees is president of the Royal Society.

Newmark’s Door pointed me to “Ten Questions Science Must Answer,” a cool Guardian article by astronomer Martin Rees,  in which he asked scientists to produce the most pressing questions the discipline should be trying to answer. Manchester physicist Brian Cox has an interesting one.

Can we make a scientific way of thinking all pervasive?

This would be the greatest achievement for science over the coming centuries. I say this because I do not believe that we currently run our world according to evidence-based principles. If we did, we would be investing in an energy Manhattan project to quickly develop and deploy clean energy technologies. We would be investing far larger amounts of our GDP in the eradication of diseases such as malaria, and we would be learning to live and work in space – not as an interesting and extravagant sideline, but as an essential part of our long-term survival strategy.

One only has to look at the so-called controversies in areas such as climate science or the vaccination of our children to see that the rationalist project is far from triumphant at the turn of the 21st century – indeed, it is possible to argue that it is under threat. I believe that we will only be able to build a safer, fairer, more prosperous and more peaceful world when a majority of the population understand the methods of science and accept the guidance offered by an evidence-based investigation of the challenges ahead. Scientific education must therefore be the foundation upon which our future rests.”

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Affetto is a robot baby that moves its face like a human. “He” has been created so that researchers can learn about social development by studying people interacting with the bot. Still, pretty creepy. (Thanks IEEE Spectrum.)

"It makes me really upset to look at it."

Real BUTTERFLY Taxidermy Display from Evolution NYC!! – $40 (Greenpoint/ Williamsburg)

My ex-boyfriend gave me this for my birthday and it makes me really upset to look at it so I’m selling it. If it doesn’t sell within a week or so I’m just going to throw it in the trash and pretend like it never happened (just like he did with our relationship).

A daguerreotype of young Abe Lincoln, from 1846 or 1847.

Three passages from The Prairie Years, Part 1, the opening section of Carl Sandburg’s lyrical book about Abraham Lincoln’s life up until the Civil War.

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“Offut talked big about Lincoln as a wrestler, and Bill Clary, who ran a saloon thirty steps north of the Offut store, bet Offut that Lincoln couldn’t throw Jack Armstrong, the Clary’s Grove champion. Sports from miles around came to a level square next to Offut’s store to see the match; bets of money, knives, trinkets, tobacco, drinks were put up, Armstrong, short and powerful, aimed from the first to get in close to his man and use his thick muscular strength. Lincoln held him off with long arms, wore down his strength, got him out of breath, surprised and ‘rattled.’ They pawed and clutched in many holds and twists till Lincoln threw Armstrong and had both shoulders to the grass.”

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“The Clary’s Grove boys called on [Lincoln] sometimes to judge their horse races and cockfights, umpire their matches and settle disputes. One story ran that Lincoln was on hand one day when an old man had agreed, for a gallon jug of whisky, to be rolled down a hill in a barrel. And Lincoln talked and laughed them out of doing it. He wasn’t there on the day, as D.W Burner told it, when the gang took an old man with a wooden leg, built a fire around the wooden leg, and held the man down until the wooden leg was burned off.”

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“When a small gambler tricked Bill Greene, Lincoln’s helper at the store, Lincoln told Bill to bet him the best fur hat in the store that he [Lincoln] could lift a barrel of whisky from the floor and hold it while he took a drink from the bunghole. Bill hunted up the gambler and made the bet. Lincoln sat squatting on the floor, lifted the barrel, rolled it on his knees till the bunghole reached his mouth, took a mouthful, let the barrel down–and stood up and spat out the whisky.”

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Carl Sandburg on What’s My Line? in 1960:

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As the current Republican-led Congress takes aim at PBS, let’s recall Mister Rogers going to Washington in 1969. (Thanks Reddit.)

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Journalist Jacob Riis was one of the early adapters of flash photography.

This classic photograph of a Bohemian family rolling cigars in New York in 1890 was taken by Jacob Riis for his book, How the Other Half Lives. As was usually the case with immigrant families, the entire clan, even the children, were involved in the industry, which was conducted over long hours in the cramp tenement in which they lived. It was a hard-knock life, and as the following excerpt from a 1898 article in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle about a cigar-making family makes clear, it was sometimes hard to fathom:

“CIGAR MAKER’S SUICIDE: John Wachtel, 50 years old, a cigarmaker, who lived with his wife and three children on the third floor of the tenement at 48 Morgan avenue, in the Eastern District, committed suicide there shortly after 2 o’clock this morning by shooting himself in the abdomen with a .32 caliber revolver. Wachtel had been drinking heavily for some time. Latterly he entertained the impression, which was groundless, that his oldest daughter, Abbie, was disobedient. The girl helped him to make cigars and her hours were sometimes unusually long. Wachtel for the past few weeks frequently quarreled with his wife regarding his daughter’s supposed disobedience. The mother generally took her daughter’s part and this seemed to annoy Wachtel all the more. He left the house yesterday about 2 o’clock. Wachtel did not reach home until 2 o’clock this morning. A quarrel ensued, after which Wachtel went to the front room and shot himself.”

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Her singing needs work, but yeah, nice sweater. (Thanks Found Footage Fest.)

From “Secrets of Magus,” Mark Singer’s incredibly fun 1993 New Yorker profile of sleight-of-hand genius Ricky Jay:

“Jay has an anomalous memory, extraordinarily retentive but riddled with hard-to-account-for gaps. ‘I’m becoming quite worried about my memory,’ he said not long ago. ‘New information doesn’t stay. I wonder if it’s the NutraSweet.’ As a child, he read avidly and could summon the title and the author of every book that had passed through his hands. Now he gets lost driving in his own neighborhood, where he has lived for several years—he has no idea how many. He once had a summer job tending bar and doing magic at a place called the Royal Palm, in Ithaca, New York. On a bet, he accepted a mnemonic challenge from a group of friendly patrons. A numbered list of a hundred arbitrary objects was drawn up: No. 3 was ‘paintbrush,’ No. 18 was ‘plush ottoman,’ No. 25 was ‘roaring lion,’ and so on. ‘Ricky! Sixty-five!’ someone would demand, and he had ten seconds to respond correctly or lose a buck. He always won, and, to this day, still would. He is capable of leaving the house wearing his suit jacket but forgetting his pants. He can recite verbatim the rapid-fire spiel he delivered a quarter of a century ago, when he was briefly employed as a carnival barker: ‘See the magician; the fire ‘manipulator’; the girl with the yellow e-e-elastic tissue. See Adam and Eve, boy and girl, brother and sister, all in one, one of the world’s three living ‘morphrodites.’ And the e-e-electrode lady . . .’ He can quote verse after verse of nineteenth-century Cockney rhyming slang. He says he cannot remember what age he was when his family moved from Brooklyn to the New Jersey suburbs. He cannot recall the year he entered college or the year he left. ‘If you ask me for specific dates, we’re in trouble,’ he says.”

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Not what I was doing as I prepared to turn 20. (Thanks Reddit.)

Ray Kurzweil: born and raised in Queens, New York. (Image by null0.")

The Week has a pretty good summation of Time‘s article about the always provocative Ray Kurzweil. The following part seems least likely of all to occur by 2045:

… And we will be able to bring the dead back to life
Kurzweil envisages a world in which biotechnology and nanotechnology are so advanced that the human genome ‘becomes just so much code to be bug-tested and optimized.’ Extending your life infinitely becomes reality, as does resurrecting failed organic material. ‘Death loses its sting once and for all.’ Kurzweil hopes to bring his dead father back to life.”

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"He successfully quelled the great dairy upraising of 1938, averting a desperate ice cream shortage in Chicago." (Image by ChildofMidnight.)

Omer L. Baumgartner had some life. An excerpt from his obituary:

“Born on a dairy farm in Walnut, Ill., Baumgartner was prodigious with the movement of manure from an early age, and exercising these and other talents, earned recognition for his National 4-H Grand Champion Dairy Heifer, Clementine’s Ramona, in 1930 at the age of 10. After this debut, and as the Depression raged, Baumgartner cut his teeth in the livestock industry while attending hundreds of county and state fairs, showing and selling cattle, frying oysters, skinning rabbits, and drinking whiskey. While still a freshman at the University of Illinois, he successfully quelled the great dairy upraising of 1938, averting a desperate ice cream shortage in Chicago, and was immediately recruited, without finishing college, by the state’s Guernsey Breeders Association as a field agent.

Despite never learning to cook anything other than fried oysters, Baumgartner attained the rank of captain during World War II for running mess halls feeding over 5,000 in Tennessee and Alabama for the Army Air Corps. He was wildly popular with the troops for his mess hours bongo drum performances accompanied by dancing girls. Baumgartner notably worked for L.S. Heath and Company, running the dairy division and inventing Heath Bar ice cream in 1951. He also co-ran Wilkinson’s Office Supplies with his wife Jattie Wilkinson Baumgartner, serving one-third of the state of Illinois and parts of Iowa. Baumgartner disliked vegetables his whole life. Despite consuming more than 2,000 pounds of butter, he never suffered from any kind of heart disease. His last meal was ice cream.”

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Let’s call it a glorious stalemate.

“All Watched Over
by Machines of Loving Grace”

by Richard Brautigan, 1968.

I’d like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.
I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.

I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.

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obert Krulwich’s blog ran an image of James C. Boyle’s odd nineteenth-century invention known as the Saluting Device, which was an automated system that would tip men’s hats for them, no hands necessary. It never caught on. An excerpt from the 1896 patent:

“Be it known, that I, James C. Boyle, of Spokane, in the county of Spokane and State of Washington, have invented a new and improved Saluting Device, of which the following is a full, clear, and exact description.

This invention relates to a novel device for automatically effecting polite salutations by the elevation and rotation of the hat on the head of the saluting party when said person bows to the person or persons saluted, the actuation of the hat being produced by mechanism therein and without the use of hands in any manner.”

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Nikola Tesla in his offices on East Houston Street in NYC.

Nikola Tesla prognosticating in the New York Times in 1909:

“It will soon be possible, for instance, for a business man in New York to dictate instructions and have them appear instantly in type in London or elsewhere. He will be able to call up from his desk and talk with any telephone subscriber in the world. It will only be necessary to carry an inexpensive instrument no bigger than a watch, which will enable its bearer to hear anywhere on sea or land for distances of thousands of miles. One may listen or transmit speech or song to the uttermost parts of the world. In the same way any kind of picture, drawing, or print can be transferred from one place to another. It will be possible to operate millions of such instruments from a single station. Thus it will be a simple matter to keep the uttermost parts of the world in instant contact with each other.”

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"It's going in the trash." (Image by Father of JGKlein.)

Huge Batman bust with broken ear

Swing by and pic it up because after the weekend its going in the trash

He now walks into Chuck E. Cheese’s with head hung low. (Thanks Reddit.)

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"He was a kind of mathematical troubadour." (Image by Kmhkmh.)

Even in a field marked by eccentricity, mathematician Paul Erdös was an odd number. The Hungarian published more papers than any other mathematician in history, even though he never really had an official post or a home or any money. He just traveled around the world, crashed with an array of academics and worked on seemingly unsolvable problems. He hardly slept or ate. This peripatetic pattern and self-abnegation continued until his death in 1996. An excerpt from Jeremy Bernstein’s 1998 Atlantic essay, which meditates on Paul Hoffman’s biography about the monomaniacal human computer, The Man Who Loved Only Numbers:

“Around 1950, when I was an undergraduate in mathematics at Harvard, my tutor George Mackey remarked that he was having a visitation from Paul Erdös.

I had never heard of Erdös (the correct pronunciation seems to have been ‘air-dish’ although I always used ‘air-dosh’), but Mackey explained that he was a kind of mathematical troubadour. He had no actual position — not because he was not offered them, but because they would interfere with his modus operandi.

Erdös migrated rapidly among 25 or so countries. He carried all his belongings in one small suitcase and a shopping bag, the greater part of which was filled with his mathematical papers and notebooks. He had no interest in clothes and even less in money. He needed three or four hours of sleep. He would arrive at a place and announce, ‘My brain is open,’ then proceed to collaborate with any and every mathematician who could keep up with him.

His collection of interesting unsolved problems in almost every field of mathematics, but especially in the theory of numbers where he probably did his most enduring work, seemed inexhaustible. What was exhaustible was the stamina of the mathematicians he landed on. Erdös would knock at a colleague’s door. ‘Hello’ he’d begin. ‘Let n be prime and letf(n) be defined as…’ After a few days of this, friends would be ready for a vacation.”

Paul Erdös tells an anecdote about a mathematician even odder than himself:

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"In this book are powerful satires to help restore your sanity."

This 35¢ Ballantine paperback collection of pieces by some of the most famous humorists of the 1950s is so out of print that even Amazon doesn’t seem to have a readily available bare listing for it. Within its 154 pages are essays, illustrations and song lyrics by Robert Benchley, S.J. Perelman, James Thurber and Ogden Nash, among others. Leading off the book is “The Night the Old Nostalgia Burned Down: My Own New York Childhood,” a ridiculous “memoir” by Frank Sullivan. He’s all but forgotten now, but Sullivan was a prominent humorist for the New York World and the New Yorker from the 1920s to the 1950s. A page about him on a website about Saratoga Springs (his hometown) recalls Sullivan as being “known for his gentle touch and for the collection of fictitious characters he created: Aunt Sally Gallup, Martha Hepplethwaite, the Forgotten Bach (a member of the Bach family who was tone deaf), and Mr. Arbuthnot, the cliché expert.” An excerpt from his piece in The Wild Reader:

“Father was very strict about the aristocratic old New York ritual of the Saturday-night bath. Every Saturday night at eight sharp we would line up: Father; Mother; Diamond Jim Brady; Mrs. Dalrymple, the housekeeper; Absentweather, the butler; Aggie, the second girl; Aggie, the third girl; Aggie, the fourth girl; and the twelve of us youngsters, each equipped with soap and a towel. At a command of our father, we would leave our mansion on East Thirtieth Street and proceed solemnly up Fifth Avenue in single file to the old reservoir, keeping a sharp eye out for Indians. Then, at a signal from Papa, in we’d go. Everyone who was anyone in New York in those days had a Saturday-night bath in the reservoir.”

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Don’t quit your day job, you bucket of bolts. (Thanks Reddit.)

"The woman who received the valentine caused the arrest of the lady who is charged with sending it" (Image by Quentin Massys.)

Back in the nineteenth century when Valentine’s Day was still known as “St. Valentine’s Day,” sending a comic valentine was at least as likely as sending a sentimental one. A comic valentine was a card that had a grotesque illustration which mocked the recipient’s most obvious flaw (big ears, weak chin, prominent brow, etc.) and contained a rude and abusive poem. It was generally thought of as a middle-class tradition, but even high society got into the act sometimes. The excerpts below from a trio of Brooklyn Daily Eagle articles recall the nasty tradition, which not everyone appreciated.

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“Making Valentines” (December 19, 1886): “The average citizen is not apt to receive a comic valentine descriptive of his principal fault or weakness with any degree of pleasure. He oftener gets mad and in some cases searches for the sender. McLaughlin Brothers’ factory in Brooklyn has, during the past ten months, turned out 15,000,000 comic and 5,000,000 sentimental valentines. With such advantages practical jokers and lovers will have plenty of material with which to work on February 14, Valentine’s birthday. The former prevalent custom of venting a petty spite by sending a comic valentine has comparatively died out in the eastern and Middle States. West of the Mississippi River the valentine has, however, a ready sale.”

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"Cyra'nose' de Bergerac."

“The Comic Valentine” (February 21, 1899): “The right of people to amuse themselves at the expense of others is contested by one woman who resides in the aristocratic portion of the Fourteenth Ward. She received a valentine representing a person with a large nose, and accompanied by doggerel rhymes, together with manuscript additions of a reprehensible character. The lady that sent this gift had been obliged to move from her chateau on North First street at the request of her landlord, and she accused the recipient of the gift of hastening her departure. The woman who received the valentine caused the arrest of the lady who is charged with sending it, and the case has proceeded so far as to be adjourned. Right or wrong in the accusation, the refusal of a person to be amused by reflections on one’s nose will be commended in many quarters where the misfortunes of the arch-type of sufferers, Cyranose de Bergerac, are still unknown. In some quarters of the city the sending of valentines that are called comic has been as absolutely discontinued as the New Year call.”

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Arrows in the butt. (Image by Martin van Maële.)

“Valentine Causes Murder” (February 14, 1900): “C.R. Stewart, grocer, died to-day from the effects of a shot fired by his son Louis, aged 19, in a quarrel over a comic valentine. The son, who is in jail, says he was protecting his mother from an assault made upon her last night by his father. Mr. Stewart had received an offensive valentine and had accused his wife of having sent it. She denied the accusation, and he attempted to assault her when the son fired the shot and afflicted the fatal wound.”

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Harry Gabriel Aronoff, who lived to 100 years old, had the very eventful experience of being a tank commander during WWII. An excerpt from his obituary in the February 13 San Diego Union-Tribune:

“He enlisted in the Army on March 16, 1941 and served as a tank Commander during World War II. He fought at the Battle of the Bulge in Normandy, and other places, he single-handedly captured eleven German soldiers after his landing in France. After WW II, Harry and Evelyn moved to San Diego where he worked as a meat cutter until he retired. For more than 50 years he volunteered at the VA and Naval hospitals, was elected to various positions with the DAV and was three times the DAV Commander. He also served as the Commander and Chaplin for the Jewish War Veterans. He is a life member of the Masons and Shriners.”

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Watch this six-bladed baby take off.

"This is what happens when you smoke a lot of weed."

looking to buy a GED (ny)

sadly enough i need my ged and don’t want to take the test, any idea on how i can get one, , i need it for a jod, and i want to take a class that requires it ,, so please let me know how we can get it,,

AND FOR ALL THOSE THAT WILL SAY , JUST TAKE THE TEST YOU LOSER, keep IT TO YOURSELF AND GET A LIFE JUST MOVE ON..THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU SMOKE ALOT OF WEED AND LET 15 YEARS GO BY, PLUS REALLY LAZY AND DON’T HAVE THE TIME, I WORK TWO JOBS.. BLA BLA BLA.

In 1999, preacher Jack Van Impe cheerfully used Y2K to scare the bejeezus out of his flock and raise some funds, with help from his brittle-boned wife, Rexella. They haven’t exactly toned down the rhetoric since. (Thanks Crunchy.TV.)

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