And I quote:
Researchers from Pennsylvania found that a high IQ score required both high intelligence and high motivation but a low IQ score could be the result of a lack of either factor.
And I quote:
Researchers from Pennsylvania found that a high IQ score required both high intelligence and high motivation but a low IQ score could be the result of a lack of either factor.
The District of Columbia cares about its pedestrians. It cares so much it puts signs in the middle of busy thoroughfares, reminding drivers that people on foot have a right to cross the street without being run over.
It doesn’t take long for the signs themselves to be run over:
The sign boasts a curious combination of words and pictures, for the convenience of the hurried and harried commuter: “D.C. LAW [stop sign] FOR [silhouette of pedestrian] WITHIN CROSSWALK.” At least, that’s what is shows before it has been battered by passing cars and inevitably knocked off its mooring in the middle of the street (in this case, upper Wisconsin Avenue). The poor sign usually gets replaced eventually, only to be wiped out again. And again.
This would be almost funny if it weren’t for the fact that actual pedestrians are knocked over, sometimes fatally, at an alarming rate in the District and surrounding ‘burbs. I have seen cars stop for pedestrians in the crosswalk, and I have also seen them not stop. I remember seeing someone who looked like Chris Matthews shout at a car that failed to yield to him crossing Wisconsin Ave. near the “social Safeway”: “Know the law!” (and maybe a few other choice words). This was a few years ago, before the signs started appearing … and getting whacked. And he was right: the law protected the rights of pedestrians in crosswalks back then, just as now. What’s touching is Matthews (or his doppelgänger) actually expected drivers to know that!
Personally, I think you’d have to be crazy to expect anyone to stop for you when you’re in the crosswalk. People in cars just hate to stop. Period. For anything. It’s a fact.
When I cross with the green light at any intersection, I always look left and right five times before stepping off the curb, and glance over my shoulder for turning cars when I’m in the street. And I’m ready to run for my life.
So, I appreciate these visual reminders of pedestrian rights. They’re really cute. Maybe they’ve saved a life or two. But it’s a bad sign they all get flattened, don’t you think?
On March 16, I thought I was going to a run-of-the-mill protest downtown after work. As it turned out, I became part of a crowd occupying the lobby of an office building, and it was an attempt at push-back against corporate interests in politics, so it was a “corporate takeover” of sorts.
It all started when word got out on the internet that Haley Barbour’s lobbying firm on 13th Street was going to play host to Republican legislators from Wisconsin—the folks carrying water for Gov. Scott Walker in his drive to smash public-employee unions in that state. It was assumed money would be changing hands, and a lot of people thought it would be appropriate to make a bit of noise about it.
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VqVXzZpcRX8[/youtube]
Some bloggers called it “Madison on the Potomac.” As noted at Daily Kos, after a rousing rally inside the building, we all walked out into a street that had been blocked off. Then people walked off down G Street—in the street, an impromptu parade—and ended up in front of the White House. After a while, some people went home, but others decided to pay a visit to the US Chamber of Commerce, right across Lafayette Square. A friend almost got locked inside that building by an unamused guard (I had been wandering around the square, trying to locate him visually or by phone).
I wish I could say my presence had any effect (all my marching certainly didn’t prevent the Iraq war, or any other war). But it’s just too maddening to just sit and watch the stuff that goes on out there. Sometimes you have to speak with your body.
“Are you now, or have you ever been, a Muslim?” (Photo: New York Times)
Rep. Peter King (R-NY), IRA supporter, didn’t say that, as far as I know. But that’s what I “heard” at his “hearing” on home-grown Muslim terrorism (supposedly a greater threat than other forms of domestic terrorism, but not so). I heard the shadow of Sen. Joseph McCarthy (R-WI), sibilating despicably from the nether world.
Meanwhile, Banana Republicans in Wisconsin and Ohio are using legislative tactics that have a distinctly foreign whiff to them in their electorally unmandated drive to destroy public-sector unions.
And our president (D in name only) has endeared himself to his Republican friends by reopening military tribunals at Guantánamo.
The recession drags on, millions of homeowners are “under water” with their mortgages, and it’s raining like hell right now.
But 26 short years ago, we drove home from Bethesda at about six in the morning with a little thing in the back seat, slouched in the outsized car seat—a bundled-up pink thing that had first seen the light of night at the birthing center just hours before. (Not to be confused with the bundled-up flying thing at right, which is a bit older.) So it’s a happy day—or, I should say, a happier-than-usual day.
About a month ago Laura was walking along 41st Street up around Military Road as the winter sunlight was fading. A young man walked up to her and said: “Can you tell me which way is west?”
The sky might not have looked quite like this,* but it was pretty obvious where the sun was setting—they were at an intersection with a clear view of the horizon. Laura looked at him closely, thinking: “Are you serious?” When it was clear the guy wasn’t joking, she pointed toward Wisconsin Avenue: “That way.” The guy said, “Thanks,” and headed that way.
Maybe at some point on the next block he slapped his forehead and said: “D’oh!”
Or maybe not.
Makes you wonder.
__________
*I took this back in December.
A very belated (i.e., posthumous) “happy birthday” to the greatest street photographer you’ve probably never heard of: Vivian Maier. She’s right up there with Cartier-Bresson and Winogrand, and she was totally unknown during her lifetime. She is unknown no longer, and bound to become very well known as time goes by.
Here’s a tiny sampling of her work, most of which was left behind as unprinted negatives or undeveloped film—caught moments, impromptu portraits, urban abstracts:
[h/t to Todd W.]
Smartphones are amazing in a lot of ways, but the sight of the 2GB microSD card was … well, almost ludicrous. I had a flashback to a 360KB 5¼-inch floppy disk, and the big old piece of machinery needed to read it and write to it. There are 32GB microSD cards out there, so we’re looking at an increase of capacity of five orders of magnitude, while the storage medium itself has become smaller by a factor of—what, fifty? sixty? Likewise for the devices needed to move the data around: the analogue of the disk drive in a cell phone is a tiny fraction of its granddaddy in the old IBM XT. Good-bye moving parts (not counting electrons), hello greater reliability and durability to go along with the insane miniaturization. I don’t think you have to be a hayseed to be impressed. (You just need to be over forty, probably.)
To kick off the new year, here’s a story by a Russian writer with a very Polish name: Sigismund Krzhizhanovsky. I’m just starting to explore his works, only a few of which have appeared in English. I thought I’d add to that little pile by translating a short piece called “The Land of the Nots” (Страна нетов). Some of the language is little strange and stiff, to my ear; I’ve tried to preserve those qualities without making the translation unreadable. Any defects in the English version are, of course, mine.
Those appearing for service to the great sovereign put down as Ises; the rest as Nots.—From a 17th century scribe’s book
I am an Is. And I am an Is precisely because I belong to the great Is nation. I cannot not be. I think this is clear and acceptable enough.
But how to explain to you, most honorable Ises, how existence puts up with these Nots, how somewhere out there, on its outermost fringes, say, on one of the most pathetically far-flung planets, it allows the strange little world of Nots to arise and grow—that is going to be very difficult. And yet the Land of the Nots is a fact. I have been there myself, and what follows will back up my declaration.
One overphilosophized Not said: “Being cannot not be without turning into nonbeing, but nonbeing cannot be without then becoming being,” and this is so accurate it’s hard to believe how a Not, a nonexistent entity, could, in a handful of words, come so close to the truth.
To get right to it: the bizarre Land of the Nots that I visited appears to the Nots to be a flat sphere; above the apparent flatness over the course of regular intervals of time, which, as the wisest Nots have proved, does not exist in and of itself, apparent risings and settings of a sun that is actually stationary relative to the Nots’ little world, which gives rise to shadows that are small, then big, appear, then disappear; so that it is impossible to say with any certainty whether the shadowy body exists or not. In fact, the Nots teach their little Nots that shadows are thrown off by some sort of bodies, but if you think about it properly, it’s impossible to know precisely whether shadows are thrown by things or things by shadows—so it might make sense to toss away as pure seeming not only their things and their shadows but the Nots themselves with their seeming surmises.
Remember my blue-green Volvo? Of course you don’t. You remember my green-blue Volvo.
In any case, I’m thinking about the problem of color again, so watch out.
Blame it on the University of Chicago and its blasted alumni magazine. The latest issue has a fascinating article on new findings about how the brain processes what the eye sees.
For instance, when we see a stop sign, we think we see a red octagon, but we’re really seeing a red thing and an octagonal thing—perception of color and shape involves different neural pathways. A third area of the brain turns the two properties into a single object: the redoctagon. Things may be holistic out there, but in here [tapping his head] they ain’t.
And when things go wrong, light gets shed on these processes:
Some rare neurological disorders exemplify the brain’s separation of object properties, rendering patients unable to identify whole objects—a process called object representation. “So I say to you, ‘Touch the square,’ you can do it. ‘Point out the green thing,’ you can do it. But if I say, ‘Point out the green square,’ you can’t,” [neuroscientist Steve] Shevell says.
Color—its “reality” and its perception—presents real challenges. Newton cracked his brain over it; so did Goethe. But it’s still a big mess, if you ask me.
A coworker used to talk about the “green” navigational elements on our website. I’d say, “You mean those blue bits?” We didn’t come to blows over it, but we never resolved it, either. The fact remains, they’re basically bluish with a hint of green. Trust me.
Our CFO, on the other hand, once mentioned the “brown” areas on the home page. The rest of us looked at each other incredulously. They’re burgundy! (Or at least, by consensus, a shade of red.) There must be something wrong with her monitor! Only there wasn’t.
It’s a truism that everyone sees things a little differently, and apparently it’s even more truistic for color (even leaving aside questions of taste* or pathologies like color blindness). So who, if anyone, gets to decide what’s green and what’s blue? Are there people with “perfect tint” like those with “perfect pitch”? And if I get such a person to color-correct my monitor, what good would it do if everyone else sees each color their own way?
To illustrate the problems the brain faces, or creates, in the area of color perception, look at these rings (which appear in the article cited above):
The top two circles each include an identical orange ring. Same with the blue rings in the bottom pair—they’re identical. To satisfy myself that this is actually the case, I made circles outside the rings, against the white background, and used an eyedropper in my graphics program tool to fill them with the orange and blue tones in the rings. Mouse over the image to see the result.
Seeing is believing? Well, yes and no.
__________
*Why, just today just such an issue came up. I had replaced a couple of spotlight bulbs in the upstairs hallway with compact fluorescent lamps. My dear wife lost no time expressing her hatred of the “ugly green light” they produce. Now, I readily admit that standard CFLs throw a greenish cast. But it doesn’t kill me like it does her. (She says she’s more visual than I am, that’s why I don’t care; but it seems to me the word she’s looking for is picky.)
Encoding (aka code pages)? No one gives a damn about encoding!
True enough. It’s so deeply geeky, it’s hard to imagine any normal person knowing the difference between CP1251 and KOI8-R, for instance. Windows had code pages coming out the wazoo. And then there was ASCII … Anyway, it was a big pain to some people.
Then along came UTF-8 (aka Unicode), and thing settled down nicely, especially on the web. It’s a universal character set that’s also backward compatible (unlike its cousins UTF-16 and UTF-32). It can render just about every language and tons of weird characters. Who could ask for anything more‽
See that? It’s a punctuation mark I used when I was in high school, only back then I made it by hand: a combination of a question mark and exclamation mark. On a typewriter (link supplied for those under 40), you could overtype the one on top of the other, or just type them sequentially—know what I mean?!
But with UTF-8, if you know the code (U+203D), you can insert it in all its unitary glory.
Not mention you can type in Russian (Не дай мне Бог сойти с ума …), Japanese (ぢ )*, Sanskrit (मा)—whatever.
Because this website uses UTF-8 for its base encoding, you should be able to see all that stuff. If you can’t, maybe you need to get your computer world-compatible.
Is that cool or what‽
__________
*Since I have no idea what I’m saying, I’d better restrict myself to a single character.