Thursday, June 9, 2011

Doomsday Plane

The U.S. Air Force has offered a rare glimpse inside the President's "doomsday" plane recently.

The aircraft is said to be able to withstand the ultimate worst-case scenarios, such as nuclear blasts and asteroids.

The $223 million plane is on standby 24 hours a day, 365 days a year and is fitted with radiation and electromagnetic pulse.

The plane is specifically designed to run the government and the military from the air in the event of nuclear war.

The aircraft runs on 165,000 pounds of state of the art electronics and is protected by an electromagnetic pulse shield.

It is capable of flying for days without refueling and can reach speeds up to 620 miles per hour.

The plane also has a five mile long cable that extends out of its back to help gain reception to communicate with anyone on the ground, as well as nuclear submarines.

"[We] drop is down and [it] transmits coded message traffic to U.S. submarines," Captain W. Scott Ryder told ABC News.

"Give us the phone number of anybody, anytime, anyplace, anywhere on earth, we can get a hold of them," Master Sergeant Joe Stuart of the U.S. Air Force added.

The plane weighs 410,000 pounds and utilizes a 112-person crew that sleeps nearby so it can take-off within five minutes of an attack.

"If the command centers that are on the ground in the United States have a failure of some sort, or attack, we immediately get airborne. We're on alert 24/7, 365," Ryder told ABC News. "Constantly there's at least one alert airplane waiting to get airborne."

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Empty Trash. Buy Milk. Make History.

by Gal Beckerman

On the eve of their marriage in 1682, Hans Hürning and Barbara Herrenmann, like all German couples of their time, invited a local official into each of their homes to catalog every single one of their possessions. The resulting list was exhaustive. It included not just their land and livestock, like his 3 hens and 1 beehive, but every article of clothing (his new calfskin trousers, her old black taffeta bonnet), assorted household goods (1 fire-bucket, 1 grain-husking basket, 1 dung-fork with iron tines), and even the wooden items she made while apparently planning her future (1 diaper-chest without ironwork, 1 cradle). It’s something to behold, a total catalog of a human’s belongings captured — as perhaps only the Germans could — in a meticulously organized and scrupulously detailed list.

Three hundred years after Hans and Barbara made their lists, a graduate student named Sheilagh Ogilvie began searching through the archives of central German villages for a dissertation topic. In every town she visited there would inevitably be reams of such lists, and she was shocked to find how pervasive and untouched these household inventories were. They had been produced by the local municipalities at marriage and death from at least the 17th century onwards, and in many cases nobody had looked at them for centuries: The sand used by scribes to blot the ink just after writing would often fall out onto her lap.

At the time, there were simply too many for her to try to research. But three years ago, armed with computing capabilities that did not exist in the 1980s, Ogilvie — now a professor at the University of Cambridge — began an ambitious project to process every one of the thousands of lists from two towns in the Württemberg region, beginning with the year 1602 and up until the late 1800s.

What has emerged so far is not just a glimpse of German life over three centuries, but also confirmation of a theory of Europe’s economic development. The team has already gone through 28,000 handwritten folios, representing 460,000 separate items of property and their monetary values, and by providing this sort of granular detail into what people owned from 1600 to 1900, Ogilvie has been able to track the beginning of consumerism. When did women start buying butter and beer at the market, instead of churning or brewing at home? When does the first nutmeg grater or coffee cup appear, indicating the arrival of exotic goods? Or for that matter, when do villagers start wearing an imported cotton fabric like calico? These small indicators lend support to a new understanding of the period before the Industrial Revolution, when historians like Ogilvie posit that there was an “Industrious Revolution,” increased consumption of luxury items that led to a desire for more income, changing people’s working habits and spurring the creation of faster, more efficient production models.

A household list might seem a fairly modest starting point upon which to build a whole theory of economic development. But in fact these types of lists are becoming increasingly important to historians — documents produced not as a message to posterity, like a memoir or diplomatic record, but as a simple snapshot of everyday life. Taken as a group, lists offer a rare window into the building blocks of society, economy, and culture — one that is becoming only more valuable as historians gain the processing power to make sense of them.

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Papa Legba

[ed. I'd love to find a clean video version of this song being performed by either Talking Heads or Pop Staples, but alas, there doesn't seem to be one. Rompiendo la monotonia del tiempo = Breaking the monotony of time.]


Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Beginners

by Andrew O'Hehir

I totally lost my heart to Mike Mills' "Beginners," and I don't think I want it back. A multi-talented, multimedia dude whose work includes graphic design, music videos, documentaries and now feature films (his first was "Thumbsucker" in 2005), Mills is the kind of person who would be completely irritating if he weren't both so sincere and so authentic, a nearly impossible combination in our calculating age. You might say that the same description applies to "Beginners," which is a sad, sweet, funny and ultimately unforgettable love story about a man and a woman and a father and son, and also ranks among the most affectionate and sensitive portraits of homosexuality ever crafted by a straight person.

If I tell you that "Beginners" is rooted in Mills' own story, and that after Mills' mother died a decade or so ago his father came out to him, found a much younger lover, and spent a few years as a Pride-flag-flying, book-club-joining, socially active Los Angeles gay senior before his own death, that leads you toward one understanding of what kind of movie it is. Christopher Plummer plays the dad, Hal, in a generous and heartbreaking performance that I hope will not be forgotten come Oscar time, and Ewan McGregor plays the autobiographical protagonist, a depressed and lonely graphic designer named Oliver. I have no idea how the public perceives McGregor at this point, and he's certainly not the red-hot leading man he once was. But I can't be alone in thinking he's getting better and better all the time. He seeks out understated roles in mid-size quality films ("I Love You Phillip Morris," "The Ghost Writer," now this), and he has that mysterious Dean-Brando-Pacino ability to take a moment when nothing is officially happening and make it urgent and powerful.

But that description also might make it sound as if "Beginners" were a sweet, slight personal story, with a possibly tedious political agenda, and doesn't convey anything about how subtle and beautifully crafted it is. Drawing on his experience as a designer and his knowledge of film history, Mills has created a complex work of collage and montage, with a mixed-up chronology that breathes naturally and never feels arty or artificial. Indeed, while "Beginners" isn't one-fifth as showy or as labored as Terrence Malick's "Tree of Life" -- the standard of comparison for all self-reflective family films at the moment -- it actually considers many of the same questions about mortality and loss and memory and parenthood, and employs a similar narrative strategy (minus the dinosaurs and the direct address to supernatural entities). Mills' direction and Kaspar Tuxen's natural-light camerawork feel lo-fi and naturalistic, but from its first moments "Beginners" is an ingenious construction that tells several stories at once.

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Super 8

[ed.  I don't know if this is out yet.  It sounds pretty good.]

by Andrew O'Hehir

So "Super 8" is more like a mannered impression of a great '70s summer movie than the real thing, but that makes it just about perfect for our age of simulated sincerity. It's an expertly constructed thrill ride with wonderful atmosphere and tremendous good humor; if its heart of gold is artificial, that won't stop you from enjoying the heck out of it. This much-hyped collaboration between writer-director J.J. Abrams and producer Steven Spielberg, who have known each other since Abrams was a child, is such a meta-conscious movie-movie fugue state that it goes well beyond concepts like homage or tribute into realms like "demonic possession" or "priestly ritual."

As you probably know by now, "Super 8" is a monster movie about a group of small-town kids in 1979 Ohio who are making a monster movie, and I guess it's that faint touch of postmodernism that makes it not exactly like a Spielberg project that didn't quite get made 30 years ago. Otherwise, the Spielbergian impersonation is uncannily complete, from the half-disillusioned, half-idealized portrayal of chaotic suburban family life to the secret confraternity of kid culture to the faint stirrings of political correctness to the overdetermined, almost architectural sentimentality of the last act. I kept fighting off the feeling that "Super 8" had actually been made by, say, Michael Haneke or David Lynch, in an opaque conceptual-art spirit of mockery. Or that some form of illicit horror-movie congress has occurred between director and producer: They merged, like the two women in Bergman's "Persona." Or Abrams has eaten Spielberg's brain and is wearing his skin.

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Balls Out

by Kevin Mcalester

How to throw a no-hitter on acid, and other lessons from the career of baseball legend Dock Ellis

Thirty-five years ago, on June 12, 1970, Pittsburgh Pirate and future Texas Rangers pitcher Dock Ellis found himself in the Los Angeles home of a childhood friend named Al Rambo. Two days earlier, he'd flown with the Pirates to San Diego for a four-game series with the Padres. He immediately rented a car and drove to L.A. to see Rambo and his girlfriend Mitzi. The next 12 hours were a fog of conversation, screwdrivers, marijuana, and, for Ellis, amphetamines. He went to sleep in the early morning, woke up sometime after noon and immediately took a dose of Purple Haze acid. Ellis would frequently drop acid on off days and weekends; he had a room in his basement christened "The Dungeon," in which he'd lock himself and listen to Jimi Hendrix or Iron Butterfly "for days." A bit later, how long exactly he can't recall, he came across Mitzi flipping through a newspaper. She scanned for a moment, then noticed something.

"Dock," she said. "You're supposed to pitch today."

Ellis focused his mind. No. Friday. He wasn't pitching until Friday. He was sure.

"Baby," she replied. "It is Friday. You slept through Thursday."

Ellis remained calm. The game would start late. Ample time for the acid to wear off. Then it struck him: doubleheader. The Pirates had a doubleheader. And he was pitching the first game. He had four hours to get to San Diego, warm up and pitch. If something didn't happen in the interim, Dock Philip Ellis, age 25, was about to enter a 50,000-seat stadium and throw a very small ball, very hard, for a very long time, without the benefit of being able to, you know, feel the thing.

Which, it turns out, was one of the least crazy things that happened to him on that particular day.

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Prove It All Night


Steven Spielberg - On the 30 Anniversary Of Jaws

Ahoy, squirts! Quint here. Let me set the stage for this. I put my feelers out a couple months back with some people at Dreamworks (with much help from mega publicist Deb Wuliger) about getting Steven Spielberg on the phone to talk Jaws, the idea being we could time it to its pending anniversary.

That was the pitch, but that was all cover. I really just wanted to talk to the director of my favorite movie of all time ABOUT my favorite movie of all time. I’m sure my ruse was as transparent as clean plate glass window (I don’t hide my geekiness very well), but the kind souls around Spielberg allowed my request to make it to him and I heard back an enthusiastic yes right before Memorial Day weekend.

We were going to schedule a time between then and June 20th, which was the latest the interview could go up as that was the anniversary of the release of Jaws in 1975, but as of Thursday afternoon I hadn’t heard anything back.

I went to the Alamo’s Super 8 marathon, which included a surprise screening of Super 8, followed by Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Scanners and John Carpenter’s The Thing and when I got home at nearly 4am I checked my email to find out Spielberg had an opening in his schedule for 12:30pm my time the next morning.

Of course I had to watch Jaws while compiling a list of questions, so that gave me a little more than 4 hours of sleep before the interview.

I went in not knowing how much time I had with Spielberg… it could have been 5 minutes or 50, I had no idea… but I was bound and determined to milk my time for as much as humanly possible.

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The Renaissance Man

by Ed Yong

How to Become a Scientist Over and Over Again.


Erez Lieberman Aiden is a talkative witty fellow, who will bend your ear on any number of intellectual topics. Just don’t ask him what he does. “This is actually the most difficult question that I run into on a regular basis,” he says. “I really don’t have anything for that.”

It is easy to understand why. Aiden is a scientist, yes, but while most of his peers stay within a specific field – say, neuroscience or genetics – Aiden crosses them with almost casual abandon. His research has taken him across molecular biology, linguistics, physics, engineering and mathematics. He was the man behind last year’s “culturomics” study, where he looked at the evolution of human culture through the lens of four per cent of all the books ever published. Before that, he solved the three-dimensional structure of the human genome, studied the mathematics of verbs, and invented an insole called the iShoe that can diagnose balance problems in elderly people. “I guess I just view myself as a scientist,” he says.

His approach stands in stark contrast to the standard scientific career: find an area of interest and become increasingly knowledgeable about it. Instead of branching out from a central speciality, Aiden is interested in ‘interdisciplinary’ problems that cross the boundaries of different disciplines. His approach is nomadic. He moves about, searching for ideas that will pique his curiosity, extend his horizons, and hopefully make a big impact. “I don’t view myself as a practitioner of a particular skill or method,” he tells me. “I’m constantly looking at what’s the most interesting problem that I could possibly work on. I really try to figure out what sort of scientist I need to be in order to solve the problem I’m interested in solving.”

It’s a philosophy that has paid dividends. At just 31 years of age, Aiden has a joint lab at MIT and Harvard. In 2010, he won the prestigious $30,000 MIT-Lemenson prize, awarded to people who show “exceptional innovation and a portfolio of inventiveness”.  He has seven publications to his name, six of which appeared the world’s top two journals – Nature and Science. His friend and colleague Jean-Baptiste Michel says, “He’s truly one of a kind. I just wonder about what discipline he will get a Nobel Prize in!”

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It's Not About You

by David Brooks

Over the past few weeks, America’s colleges have sent another class of graduates off into the world. These graduates possess something of inestimable value. Nearly every sensible middle-aged person would give away all their money to be able to go back to age 22 and begin adulthood anew.

But, especially this year, one is conscious of the many ways in which this year’s graduating class has been ill served by their elders. They enter a bad job market, the hangover from decades of excessive borrowing. They inherit a ruinous federal debt.

More important, their lives have been perversely structured. This year’s graduates are members of the most supervised generation in American history. Through their childhoods and teenage years, they have been monitored, tutored, coached and honed to an unprecedented degree.

Yet upon graduation they will enter a world that is unprecedentedly wide open and unstructured. Most of them will not quickly get married, buy a home and have kids, as previous generations did. Instead, they will confront amazingly diverse job markets, social landscapes and lifestyle niches. Most will spend a decade wandering from job to job and clique to clique, searching for a role.

No one would design a system of extreme supervision to prepare people for a decade of extreme openness. But this is exactly what has emerged in modern America. College students are raised in an environment that demands one set of navigational skills, and they are then cast out into a different environment requiring a different set of skills, which they have to figure out on their own.

Worst of all, they are sent off into this world with the whole baby-boomer theology ringing in their ears. If you sample some of the commencement addresses being broadcast on C-Span these days, you see that many graduates are told to: Follow your passion, chart your own course, march to the beat of your own drummer, follow your dreams and find yourself. This is the litany of expressive individualism, which is still the dominant note in American culture.

But, of course, this mantra misleads on nearly every front.

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Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Kranium

by Charlie Sorrel

Cardboard Bike Helmet Better than Plastic


Kranium is a bike helmet that is made from the same cardboard used for the boxes you find at the supermarket. This material, along with some clever construction, turns out to be a lot better at absorbing impact than the more usual polystyrene-filled lids.

Anirudha Surabhi’s design absorbs four times more impact energy that the polystyrene equivalent, and — unlike regular helmets which break on impact — it survives longer. One Kranium was smashed five times in a row and still passed the British Standard (EN 1078) test.

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Manhattanhenge


Last night at roughly 8:17pm New Yorkers got a chance to experience “Manhattanhenge”, the semiannual occurrence where the setting sun aligns perfectly with east-west streets.  If you missed it don’t worry though, a second date this year is expected to take place on Monday, July 11 at 8:25 p.m.  
 
Photo Credit: Anthony Behar/Sipa Press via AP Images
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Longevity Dividend

by David Stipp

“I guess I don’t so much mind being old, as I mind being fat and old.” — Peter Gabriel

Our rising life expectancy has been nice for those who like being alive, but it seems a bummer for society as a whole. Even if Social Security doesn’t go bust as baby boomers slowly saunter into the sunset, their massive Medicare costs seem likely to crush the economy. Not surprisingly, further major gains in longevity, which researchers on aging have recently achieved with drugs in animals, is about the last thing deficit-obsessed policymakers want to see happen. Accordingly, less than 0.5 percent of the National Institutes on Health’s annual budget is allotted to basic research on aging.

But the idea that anti-aging researchers are tinkering with an economic Frankenstein’s monster rests on a conventional wisdom that is actually a mass hallucination — namely, the notion that when people live longer, they rack up greater health care costs.

Here are the facts: People who live an unusually long time tend to be healthier during their later years than shorter-lived people. That means longer-lived ones typically have lower medical costs during their golden years. This health dividend more than offsets the health care costs they accrue by outliving less healthy people.

The proof came out in 2003 in the New England Journal of Medicine. Analyzing Medicare data, federal researchers showed that elderly people in good shape at age 70 — meaning they had no difficulties performing tasks of daily living such as walking and shopping — could expect to live to 84.3, and after 70 they had average, cumulative health care bills totaling $136,000. In contrast, less healthy 70-year-olds with at least one limitation in daily-living activities could expect to live to 81.6 — nearly three years less — yet had cumulative medical bills of about $145,000 during their shorter remaining lives.

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Slim's Time

by Lawrence Wright

When the credit window suddenly slammed shut last fall, the New York Times Company found itself with a four-hundred-million-dollar line of financing scheduled to expire in May, and no obvious way to raise the money. Advertising revenue at the Times was tumbling, as it was at every American newspaper, and the company was servicing $1.1 billion in debt, which was more than the business was worth. Standard & Poor’s had reduced the company’s credit rating to below investment-grade status, making it difficult for the paper to secure new financing. While Times reporters were chronicling the implosion of some of the country’s most significant brokerages, banks, mortgage lenders, and insurance companies, their own institution seemed to be on the verge of collapse.

In October, 2008, Chris Wood, a representative of SunTrust, an Atlanta bank that had loaned about eighty million dollars to the Times, approached Inbursa, a bank in Mexico City that belongs to Carlos Slim Helú, a Mexican businessman who is sometimes ranked as the richest man in the world. A month earlier, Slim had taken a substantial position in the Times Company. Wood asked Slim if he would lend the company two hundred million dollars. Discussions went on until Thanksgiving, when an informal agreement was reached. The terms were onerous: the loan was for six years, at an interest rate of fourteen per cent—essentially, the going rate for a junk bond—and it came with limitations on incurring further debt. But the negotiations hadn’t focussed on the interest rate; instead, they had centered on Slim’s demand for millions of dollars in stock-purchase warrants, which could dramatically increase his ownership stake in the company. The Times Company agreed to award Slim warrants on 15.9 million shares if he raised the loan amount to two hundred and fifty million dollars. The deal was finally signed in January. Slim became the company’s largest creditor and was poised to become one of its largest stockholders—after members of the Ochs-Sulzberger clan, which has controlled the Times since 1896.

A Times correspondent who covered Mexico for the paper was stunned when he heard that the company had been bailed out by a man he considered an exemplar of Mexico’s crony capitalism. “Slim is the consummate monopolist,” the reporter said. “Does being embroiled in a business culture of back-scratching and unseen forces make him a great partner for the Times? I don’t think so.”

In modern history, no one has dominated a major economy as overwhelmingly as Carlos Slim does that of Mexico—a country of a hundred and ten million citizens, in which the per-capita income is little more than ten thousand dollars. In August, 2007, Eduardo Porter, a member of the Times editorial board, wrote on the Op-Ed page, “Growing up in Mexico City, I always knew Mexico was an unjust country—a place where small coteries of the privileged control all power and wealth while half the population lives in poverty. But it never occurred to me that Mexico would have billionaires.” Porter was referring to a report in Forbes that listed, among the world’s nine hundred and forty-six billionaires, ten Mexicans, including Slim, and to an article in Fortune that named him the world’s richest man, worth, at the time, fifty-nine billion dollars—equivalent to five per cent of Mexico’s total annual production of goods and services. Comparing Slim to the robber barons of America’s Gilded Age, Porter observed, “It takes about nine of the captains of industry and finance of the 19th and early 20th centuries”—he listed John D. Rockefeller, Cornelius Vanderbilt, John J. Astor, Andrew Carnegie, Alexander Stewart, Frederick Weyerhaeuser, Jay Gould, and Marshall Field—“to replicate the footprint that Mr. Slim has left on Mexico.”

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Quick Thaw

by Harold McGee

Even in kitchens where fresh is king, the freezer remains a handy tool. There’s no easier way to deal with a bounty of meat from a big-box store or a butchering class or a C.S.A. share, or the haul from a fishing trip, or the unpredictable sighting of partridge and other rare birds in the Chinese market. In my house, the freezer is essential for drawing out the enjoyment of the prime mail-order meats that my mother sends for my birthday, and that arrive rock-hard under a block of dry ice.

Less handy, however, is the thawing process, which often requires planning a day or more ahead of the cooking. Food thaws slowly in the refrigerator, especially when kept in its plastic packaging, which is the method recommended by purveyors and the Department of Agriculture to minimize bacterial growth and the loss of juices. Thawing in cold water, 40 degrees or below, is safe and much faster — water transfers heat far more efficiently than air — but it can still take hours. I’ve never had much luck with the defrost setting on microwave ovens, which can start to cook one part of the food while the rest is still frozen.

Now there’s good news for last-minute cooks. It turns out that we can thaw frozen steaks and other compact cuts in as little as 10 minutes, without compromising their quality, and with very little effort. All you need is hot water.

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North Mississippi Blues

[ed. Hypnotic. Sadly, both gone now.]