Herbie

Remember those old Disney movies with the sentient Volkswagen?  It was a fun take on our tendency as a species to anthropomorphize our vehicles.  And as a kid with few friends, I found the idea of being besties with a car to be a very reasonable movie premise.  So it was that my favorite in the series became Herbie Goes Bananas.  It involved a Hispanic orphan who gets into wacky adventures with the car, culminating in them foiling a plot to steal Aztec gold by a gang of enterprising bandits.  That touch of Indiana Jones in the story must have really taken me in.

Anyway, another individual with a goofy sense of humor must have found meaning in these films too, for we witnessed this in the parking lot during a Target run:

Not exactly a Volkswagen, but no matter.  See you around, Ocho.

–Simon

Whippet Ingenuity

Dogs can be clever when the need arises, though certainly some exhibit this more than others.

Whippets are not winter dogs.  Their short hair and predilection for cuddling conditions them for warm and comfortable environments, and the bitter cold of February simply does not meet these requirements.  In the past, the whippets have simply burrowed deep into blankets and cushions, at times even becoming invisible to the unsuspecting human who wishes to sit upon the couch (resulting in a rather canine-sounding whoopie cushion).  But Poppy took a novel approach, and actively sought ambient heat, apparently not content to merely preserve her own.  It seems like an obvious solution for a dog, but I find it awfully darned funny.

Here she is on a heating register
I thought Man’s mastery of fire was part of what made us different from animals–apparently not

I later found the thermostat cranked up to 90, although I didn’t catch her in the act, so blame seems to point elsewhere.  It would seem that the whippet’s ingenuity is just one example of an inter-species female desperation for heat.

The thermostat will stay at 64!

–Simon

Olympics and VPN

I run a VPN server at home.  This is for 2 reasons: to remotely access local services, and as a security measure to encrypt my phone’s traffic.  These reasons are what I feel to be the primary purpose of VPNs.  This is also what allows me to work at home with a company computer.

However, a consequence of this tunneling is that, from the perspective of any server to which the computer connects, that computer appears “physically” to be at the VPN’s emergence point.  This result, what I consider to be a mere auxiliary function, has caused VPN services to experience a surge in popularity for the sole reason of bypassing geolocation restrictions.  I snub my nose at those who subscribe to services for this reason, as I envision Millennials, deluded with a sense of feeling smarter than everyone else, bypassing “The Man” in order to access streaming content–with no appreciation for the actual security benefits that VPNs provide.

Then the 2018 Olympics arrived and I found myself unwilling to endure yet another year of NBC’s coverage.  Between their endless commentary and commercial breaks every 5 minutes, they’ve done everything in their power to make these events unwatchable.  And they succeeded, at least for me.  So I did exactly what I just expressed my condescension against, and shopped for VPN providers.

I stumbled across a site that actually explained the history of VPNs and their technology, a refreshing divergence from the usual array of clickbait-y sites (a la Gizmodo):

www.bestvpn.com/vpn-encryption-the-complete-guide

Given the comprehensiveness of the supplied information, I took their opinions to be acceptably educated, and subscribed to a month’s service from their top recommendation, www.expressvpn.com.

When the Olympics arrived, I connected to a server in Toronto and loaded the CBC’s live stream.  And behold!:

The CBC is mercifully low on commercials and commentary; and they stream live, rather than delaying for time zones.  I’d launch into some self-righteous rhetoric about runaway capitalism interfering with something who’s inherent purpose is contrary to this value, but I’m content to just go watch some more events and stop blogging.

Because, really, when’s the last time anyone in the US got to watch curling?

Simon

See the Light

I hate what the information age has done to information.  By democratizing its access, we’ve devalued it entirely, which in turn has rendered its pursuit a non-viable economic model.  Instead, its value is now determined by aggregation.  The facts themselves are now worthless, but if one has enough sheer volume of facts, then they can drive traffic and by extension, capitalize upon secondary ad revenue.

So with the information itself demonetized, no incentive exists to analyze it–just to present it in a quickly digestible form.  The result is the same sub-1000-word article on every website.  Any academic value it originally had is diluted by this copy-paste method.  No one’s vetting the research, and very few are doing any original research.

I encountered this phenomenon while indulging in a casual curiosity.  The Super Bowl was playing, and there are few things I have less interest in watching, so I ate a can of sardines.  (I forced the child to try one for the character-building experience).

Delicious fish having been consumed, I was left with a can of oil.  I recalled hearing that the fish/olive oil made a good base for an improvised oil lamp (of course it would, seeing as that was the primary purpose of originally harvesting olive oil, which was a major step for humanity towards achieving ubiquitous and affordable artificial light–facts apparently lost to history).  So I rolled up a piece of paper towel into a wick, stuck it in the can, and lit it.  And, unsurprisingly, it burned with the steady flame of an oil lamp.

As I watched the flame, I wondered where I had read that article, who’s purpose was to list the unconventional sources of lighting one might find in their kitchen, for use in an emergency.  So I took to the Internet.

And this is where I became irritated with the scenario outlined in the first two paragraphs of this post.  I wouldn’t have much considered that the lists contained the same substances.  After all, there’s only so many combustible liquids in a typical residential building.  But what grabbed my attention was that every article added in the little quip about how burning the sardine oil would make the house smell like fish.  That was because, it didn’t.  The little flame is insufficient to bring the contents of the can to the volatiles’ vapor point, and the oil that was actively combusting was heated to the point where anything which would have smelled was denatured.  It was a clean, odorless lamp.

This indicates to me that the original author of the article probably put in the humorous aside, meant to be nothing more than a small joke, and was subsequently copied as a priori fact by content harvesters looking to add information to their own catalogues.

So for fuck’s sake people, do a little bit of original research.

It also bears mentioning that the sardine lamp burned out sometime after I had fallen asleep, so you do get several hours’ worth of illumination from it.  And the sardines were good.

–Simon

Sidecar Revisited

I suspected this.  I knew that, were we to order a certain drink too many times, that it would immediately see a revival.

I recently wrote about a certain shared experience, wherein Liz needed a pretentious cocktail and after discussion decided upon the sidecar.  It was appropriate for the occasion, being classic yet not terribly well-known despite its former ubiquity.  This combination reliably produced a good drink devoid of embellishment, and reasonably priced.  Yet this hidden gem apparently would not be content to stay in shadow, and as I perused the beer shelves at the grocery, saw this cocktail mockery…mocking me.  MOCKERY!:

And like a fool, I encouraged this, because I bought it.  Damn my curiosity!

But it was good.  It was a hoppy ale with an orange accent, a significant improvement in orangy beer over that Blue Moon crap.  Yet the seed hath been sewn, and I suspect that soon we shall see the humble sidecar rebirthed from ashes, off in a blaze of glory to mediocre Americana restaurants everywhere–ultimately to share in the cruel and adulterated fate of the Manhattan.  Alas, sidecar, we hardly knew ye for what you were.

–Simon