Archive for the 'haterade' Category

29
Nov
14

Contact patches are important, you stupid motherfuckers

It snowed last night.  Then that snow melted, and now the molten snow has once again frozen, and I’m treated to the dulcet tones of people in FWD vehicles examining the merits of “my tires are slipping — give it more gas!

I guess I don’t really expect the ugly bag of mostly water from across the street to understand vehicle dynamics, anti-squat, and slip ratios, but I’m shocked by the number of otherwise mentally competent individuals I meet who don’t seem to give a single solitary fuck about the condition of their cars’ tires.

Listen up, y’all: Your car responds to your control inputs rather than careening into oncoming traffic if and only if  the four little patches of rubber between it and the road, each about the size of a small child’s footprint, behave as they should.  Worn-out summer tires designed to channel a few mm of water at 20degC are going to prove themselves woefully inadequate to the task of dealing with 8mm of ice crystals on top of a chaotic ice-water-tarmac interface at -5degC, which is probably about the temperature where your summer tires are thinking they’d rather not be viscoelastic but would prefer to turn into hilariously inefficient ice skates.

27
Jul
14

Green power: Still what you don’t want to hear

Tyler Cowen reminds us that the most cost-effective low-carbon power source is nuclear.

If all the costs and benefits are totted up using Mr Frank’s calculation, solar power is by far the most expensive way of reducing carbon emissions. It costs $189,000 to replace 1MW per year of power from coal. Wind is the next most expensive. Hydropower provides a modest net benefit. But the most cost-effective zero-emission technology is nuclear power. The pattern is similar if 1MW of gas-fired capacity is displaced instead of coal. And all this assumes a carbon price of $50 a tonne. Using actual carbon prices (below $10 in Europe) makes solar and wind look even worse. The carbon price would have to rise to $185 a tonne before solar power shows a net benefit.

(He’s actually quoting Petr Beckmann at The Economist.)

This is a good time to remind ourselves that the majority of Green Power advocates — or at least the loudest ones — aren’t optimizing for power sources that reduce pollution; they are instead optimizing for power sources that minimize their own fears.  Climate change is scary, so coal and oil are out.  Energy corporations are scary, so natural gas (Fracking!  OMG ONOZ!) and oil (Oilsands!  Pipelines!  Greasy otters!) are out.  Nuclear power is about as scary as it gets, so that’s a non-starter even if it means reverting to all the other scary power sources (see for example what Europe’s doing right now post-Fukushima).

I’m not unsympathetic.  I don’t like scary things, either.  I’d rather avoid choking on smog during my morning commute or turning into a skin crayon as I’m dragged along the highway by a Prius driver dicking around with s/h/its cellphone.  (“Oh sorry, I’ve never seen someone use that crosswalk!”)  But, like GI Joe said back when I was a kid, “Knowing is half the battle!”  And knowing that, say, thorium thermoreactors are about as benign as anything designed to be exothermic is likely to get is rather empowering when it comes to tackling all those other fears.  (I would love to be educated on better alternatives, should any exist, in the comments.)

23
Jul
14

Vive la hellaflush libre

Oh, Québec.  You’re so… so… would you fucking separate already?!

For those among you who aren’t acquainted with “hellaflush” — and if you aren’t, you might want to stop reading now and think about something nice instead — this is basically the automotive equivalent of forbidding people from wearing saggy pants.  It’s of dubious utility and can be imaginatively construed as a safety risk, but mostly it’s associated with non-white youth who may or may not be up to no good. Therefore, it enrages and terrifies old people who, if there was a loving and merciful god out there, would be dead (or at least too deep in the grips of dementia to legislate) by now.  Did you miss my subtle implication?  This is Québec’s ruling class being racist again.

“Oh, but negative camber and stretched-out tires are dangerous!”  Yes, they are.  So is not mounting winter tires when the temperature drops below freezing — probably about a factor of ten more dangerous — but I don’t see a law about that.  For that matter, driving in rain or snow (or summer swarms of insects) with worn-out windshield wipers is about the closest you’re likely to come to vehicular manslaughter without actually trying to murder someone (or being Ted Kennedy) but nearly everyone fuckin’ does that as a matter of course.  Replacing those wiper blades every couple of seasons is haaaaaard.

Hey, how many people actually check the wear indicators on their tires more than once every never?  I’m just asking questions here.  Obviously, Québecois must be pretty up on their car maintenance if hellaflush is at the top of their road-safety hit list.

03
Jul
14

The kids aren’t just all right, they’re out of your hair

Granted that this post is part of a lasing medium, but Elizabeth Nolan Brown gives us an article with a mildly optimistic title:

(Hat tip: Coyote Blog.)

For the better part of a decade now, folks have been fretting about “boomerang” kids, the 20- and sometimes 30-something children of boomers who’ve come flocking back to their parents’ nests under the duress of a poor economy.

[…]

The dire pronouncements tend to be based on U.S. Census Bureau data, which does show an increasing number of young adults—more than half of those under 25, according to the most recent data—to be living with their parents. But Derek Thompson at The Atlantictears through this gloomy prognosis with one simple fact: The Census counted students who live on college campuses as living in their parents’ homes.

That almost makes me want to start reading The Atlantic again.  Then again, I’ve been pretty happy since I stopped.  Let’s roll with happy.

Brown concludes:

Even this isn’t quite as scary—or at least not as singularly scary for young adults—when you put it into perspective. When (if) the job market improves, young adults will likely have an easier time slipping back into it than their older counterparts simply by virtue of being younger and cheaper, said Dan Schawbel, founder of Millennial Branding management and consulting firm.

Meanwhile millennials are only barely less employed than Gen X’ers, who make up 37 percent of unemployed Americans. The oldest Gen X’ers turn 50 next year, while the youngest hover around age 35. This is the generation in the prime of their “prime earning years.” Whither the concern for Gen X everybody?

(Emphasis added.)

I submit that “concern for Gen X”, much like “concern for Gen Y”, is being expressed in minimum wage increases, or advocacy therefor.  It ‘s after all pretty cheap for currently-employed Boomers to demand that new hires be paid more, even though this leads to fewer new hires under the drearily predictable logic of simple division.  Because I’m sure I’ll need to spell it out, here goes: If I’m an employer with a budget of $T to spend on new hires, and the minimum wage is $k, I will hire at most n = floor(T/k) people.  Increase k and n decreases, unless you somehow manage to increase T.  Any minimum-wage doves want to go publicly all-in on subsidizing big business?

(I’ll note in passing, because I haven’t been enough of a nerd yet today, that all three of those terms should be parameterized with respect to time.  Under what assumptions does it make sense to increase $T(t) to compensate for an increase in $k(t)?  What do those assumptions imply about current restrictive immigration policies?  Please show your work; you should be able to use LaTeX to mark up integrals.)

26
Jun
14

Misery lasers

So this is how outrage fatigue works, kind of.

Most lasers — actual devices that amplify light by stimulated emission of radiation — work by bouncing photons back and forth between mirrors through a lasing medium until — zot! — they slide through one partially-reflective mirror.  I’ll let you look this shit up on Wikipedia if you so desire, as I’m too drunk to muster the giveafuck myself.

Software lasers are a mildly fanciful generalization of the concept: They get packets bouncing back and forth between mutually-antagonistic routers (or mail servers, or whatever) until one or both of the “mirrors” melts into more or less euphemistic slag.  But the generalization is instructive.

A misery laser comes to happen when two or more people of similar political persuasion come together to bitch and moan about Things These Days.  One person will bring up a topic that annoys their compatriots; the next will riff off of that topic to reinforce the notion that Things Are Going To Hell; the third will say “yes, and…” (and elaborate!), and then the malaise and frustration will reflect off of the side of the room and propagate back towards the first person.

Efforts to inject optimism into the system are, as you might expect, doomed to failure.  You might as well shine a flashlight crosswise through a lasing medium.

Eventually, an optical laser will shoot coherent light off in one or the other direction of its major axis.  A software laser will eventually fuck up one or the other mail server (or whatever the fuck services were having a spat).  And eventually a misery laser will lead to an emotional breakdown, or perhaps (mostly) minor acts of physical violence.

This is why I don’t talk politics any more.  And when people around me do, I fantasize about being on a motorcycle, on a twisty road, half a continent away.  Continents are good for that; there’s usually a twisty road somewhere way the fuck far away.

21
Dec
13

Three food-related things that annoy me

In no particular order, for no particular reason.

1. “Diets don’t work!”

Diets work just the fuck fine.  Dieters, on the other hand, are usually stupid fuckups.

The first category of stupid fuckup dieter who says shit like “diets don’t work” is the person who’s not actually dieting.  You’ve seen these people, maybe even shared a brain with one of ‘em.  “I’m on a diet; I started using organic pasta in the five pounds of fettuccine alfredo I eat every night.”  “I’m on Atkins; I can eat eleventy billion kcal of bacon and pork rinds as long as I don’t have carbs.”  “I’m going vegan.  Did you know Oreos are vegan?”  Brilliant strategy, cupcake; how many calories are you eating, and how many are you burning?  “Oh, well, I don’t have time to pay attention to that stuff.”  Sure you do, you just don’t want to.  You cannot beat thermodynamics with wishful thinking.

The second category of stupid fuckup dieter does in fact diet, and does so successfully.  Then, having demonstrated to themselves and the world that thermodynamics works exactly as you’d expect, this person throws physics the fuck away and expects diet magic to prevent them from regaining all their fat when they go back to eating the same shit, in the same quantities, that made them fat in the first place.  “I gained all the weight back; diets don’t work!”  That diet worked fine… while you were on it.  These sorts of people love to prattle on about “sustainable lifestyle changes” as if that’s somehow an alternative to dieting, rather than the obvious and sensible thing to do after dieting.

2. “Bulking is so haaaard!

These people, rather than making excuses for not putting any meaningful and thoughfully-directed effort into losing fat, are instead making excuses for not putting any &c. into gaining muscle.  Or, some times, just any kind of weight at all.  I mean, if you want to make sure you’re gaining muscle and very little fat, the food part gets a little fiddly and you have to work really hard in the squat rack — and I don’t mean curling 65 for a zillion sets of ten, either.  But the eating part?  Holy shitballs, bulking is fun and motherfucking easy at the recreational level.  (There are counterexamples.  You’re not one of them.)

Assuming you’re doing enough work in the gym (you probably aren’t doing that, either, but that’s another rant), start by drinking a litre of whole milk every day in addition to “eating like omg soooo much“.  Use it to mix your protein shakes or something.  (What’s that?  You’re “bulking” but not drinking protein shakes?  I think we’ve found the fucking problem, Sparky.)  If that doesn’t do the trick, add another litre of whole milk.  Keep going until it starts to work.  If you can’t “force down” all that food, it’s a pretty great sign that you’re not lifting hard enough.  Run a Smolov squat cycle or something, you’ll discover your appetite.  (“I don’t squat though, I think I read somewhere that it’s bad for your knees.  Does Smolov work with leg press?”  Kill yourself.  Also, I think we found the fucking problem.)

3. “I can’t eat healthy, I don’t have time to cook”

Bullshit.  It takes maybe fifteen minutes to prepare a batch of meat slop if you dice the cabbage (or use a food processor) instead of shredding it by hand.  Then you let it simmer for a while, during which you can perform all of the incredibly important tasks you’re pretending to have on your plate.  Or you can do what you actually want to do “instead of” cooking, like fapping to internet porn or watching CSI: Miami or some shit like that, as long as you take a minute every half hour or so to dig around in the pot with a wooden spoon and make sure the meat slop’s not carbonizing on the bottom of the pot.  There you go, roughly half an hour of aggregate effort and you have eight or ten meals.  Pack that shit in Pyrex and do it again in a couple of days.

“But eating the same thing over and over is boring!”  Fuck you.  Meal time is not a trip to Disneyland; it’s primarily about getting nutrition into your body, not entertaining you.  Do you insist that every trip to the gas station be a fun and novel experience?  No you don’t, because you’re not four years old.  Food is the same way.

——

In unrelated news, it’s christmas vacation season, and I’m planning to finally learn how to snatch properly over the course of my two weeks off.  My goal is to lift every day (except the 24th, the 25th, and the 1st, because the gym isn’t open those days), on the following programme:

  1. Do a bunch of heaving snatch balances until my brain gets cosy with the idea of diving under a loaded barbell
  2. Do a bunch of squat snatches until my form breaks down
  3. Do high-bar squats or front squats to a max double, then backoffs, with some chins or pullups after each set
  4. Do presses or push presses to a max double, then backoffs, with some chins or pullups after each set

Today I started with overhead squats, but I think that was a mistake.  I put the bar overhead for OHSQs by snatching it, and I think doing even three or four terrible, awful, no-good power snatches at the start of my workout poisons my real snatch form just a little.  My technique on snatches is fucking terrible, and I’m gonna try to accumulate 400 or so good reps over the course of my vacation time.  I would be surprised, but not shocked, if I come back to this blog on January 5th and giddily announce that I’ve snatched bodyweight.  I’m sitting around at about 165 (down 20 from March; fuck you again, “diets don’t work” guy), and my best power snatch is 145 — more of a muscle snatch, really, I probably dipped about an inch under that bar.  I’m clearly strong enough to snatch 165, I just don’t have the skill or the mindset to do it.  Yet.

16
Nov
13

Lovecraft has nothing on public transit

If you ever want to see people gripped by nameless, protean dread, all you have to do is get on a bus.

Most people on buses are students or commuters, their brains deadened by fatigue, oblivious to the horrors that surround them.  They squeeze into seats next to grubby strangers or hang listlessly from the handholds, staring with dull lidded eyes at smartphones and occasionally slurping from a cardboard cup of Starbucks.  They are mercifully unaware of the terror that envelops them and whisks them to work or school and thence back home
But some people in this waking nightmare are indeed AWAKE.  They are inescapably aware of the yawning abyss in which they travel, however desperately they may try to feign the dulled ignorance of their neighbours.
They can’t tell you what they fear, only that they fear it and that it is indeed fearful.
Seats are places of safety.  When an Awake rider boards a Bus, he or she scurries to the nearest empty bench.  But seats can also become traps, like foxholes can become graves under artillery fire; sitting constantly risks that one of the deadened, zombielike commuters might sit next to you, trapping you in the yawning horror of public transit with neither respite nor recourse.
Some of the Awakened will place bags or boxes on the seat next to them, like sleepless children whose blankets are their only protection against the carnassial things in the dark.  But this too carries risk, that of rousing one of the Oblivious from their stupor into indignant confrontation.  The wrath of a soul-deadened commuter may be less fearful than the ineffable terror of The Bus, but none of the Awakened dare risk being weakened by the former in the face of the latter.
Lacking the security of an unaccompanied seat, the Awake huddle near the exits, clinging desperately to this proximity despite the rude shocks of the Oblivious squeezing past them into the depths of the bus’s interior and the cacodaemoniacal scolding of the brusque and uncaring Driver.  Only when the opprobrium of the Oblivious threatens to boil over into violent action will the Awakened be pressed into the bowels of The Bus, pressed from all sides by sullen, looming crowds of the Oblivious and shriekingly distant from the portals that lead to the meager safety of the outside world.
Most dreadful of all of The Bus’s confines is the rear deck, up two steps from the main deck and with no exits of its own, only a single cramped portal leading to the rear doors.  The Awake will never enter the rear deck of an even remotely crowded Bus, and resist most desperately being chivvied into this area even when prodded by throngs of the Oblivious under the maddening lashes of the Driver’s instruction.  For even when trapped in the aisle between exits, if an Awake rider finds his path to an exit blocked by the Oblivious, he may still hope to find passage to the other exit; but any Awake so trapped on the rear deck has no recourse beyond panicked shoving and terrified shrieks.  (It is an article of faith among the Awake that a tap on the shoulder and a quiet “excuse me”, courtesies otherwise respected as a matter of course, are of no avail on The Bus.)
Once perilously ensconced on The Bus, the Awake peer desperately at the world outside as it whizzes past the windows in a dreamlike blur, their fear-dilated eyes searching for landmarks that might indicate progress towards the respite of Their Stop.  Any and every obstacle between themselves and this sanctuary is an object of the utmost horror, be it unexpected construction causing a blockage of traffic, inclement weather clouding the windows, or a mass of Oblivious commuters between themselves and the pull-cord or button that instructs the Driver to halt at Their Stop.  Faced with such impediments, the Awake become more and more agitated, but since the circumstances are beyond their control they rarely have any recourse but to stand, sweating and shaking, and pray to the uncaring gods that they may be granted timely exit from The Bus.
On occasion, whether by mischance or cruel conspiracy of fate, one of the Awake will board an unfamiliar Bus on an express route.  Thereupon, they will witness another traveller request egress at the next Stop, only for the hideous and uncaring Driver to pass a visible stop by with neither hesitation nor remorse.  This provokes within the Awake passenger such frantic terror that they may launch themselves at the nearest pull-cord or button, heedless to the leaden Oblivious in their way, and yank or pound frantically on this device to no apparent effect.  Even the other Awake on The Bus might turn in nervous curiosity to search out the source of the terror, and their apparent complacence in the face of endless purgatory drives the tresspassing Awake  to new levels of panic.
Then The Bus stops, and the unperturbed traveller exits, leaving the Awake to shudder at the apparent randomness of the Driver, granting sought-after escape or horrible imprisonment seemingly at his whim.



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