I’m feeling a little under the weather tonight, so all I have to offer is a handful of interesting links.
Here’s an item about construction of three-dimensional objects by swarms of autonomous drones acting without central guidance.
Here’s one about evolutionary music-composition algorithms.
This item covers a topic that gets far too little attention from the mainstream media, these days at least: vomiting caterpillars.
Here’s a video illustrating the “rolling-shutter effect“. (More images here.)
And here are some thoughts about a clock that could outlast the Universe.
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As for that eternal clock that just keeps on ticking after the universe ends . . .
Does anybody really know what time it is?
Does anybody care?
A philosophical conundrum worthy of William James.
Jeffery Hodges
* * *
A question for the ages, Jeffery.
Perhaps William James can also unravel the mystery of what twenty five or six to four means as well.
I always thought it was 25 minutes or 26 minutes Before 4 o’clock In the morning.
S’all relative fellers. Depends on which timezone the observer and his or her I-Pod is in.
Still – I’d say we best pick up and move to Triangulum.
Dom, if you’ll pick up the fee for the U-Haul, I’ll drive. Malcolm reads the map, Peter and Jeff will load our stuff.
I saw Chicago (or Chicago Transit Authority, as they were known then) in 1968, shortly after their first double album was released.
I quickly learned why people buy double albums: not only because you get twice as much music, but also because of the excellence of the album covers in seed and stem removal.
From Wikipedia:
While it has been speculated that the song’s lyrics are drug related, that rumor has been largely dismissed. Lamm himself says that the title is “just a reference to the time of day,” and that “the song is about writing a song. It’s not mystical.” The time of day in reference is 3:35 AM (or 3:34 AM), which would then be 25 (or 26) minutes to 4 AM.
Gotta make a change in our trip plans.
Henry reads the map. Malcolm shifts to the loading crew.
Peter schedules munchie stops. And drinks. I’ll handle piss stops.
Peter. Might want to see about getting a trailer we can hitch to the U-Haul – I’m reliably informed the intergalactic junk food places and beer stores don’t accept credit cards.
I want a pony. Can we have a pony?
Sure Henry, we can provide you with a pony.
That is “if” the autonomously swarming drones I spent awhile searching for where I’d seen it mentioned can hold a “pony formation.”
http://www.wired.com/dangerroom/2012/06/ff_futuredrones/
In other news (Malcolm) I see something’s been declassified that has something to do with “some,thing/body” I sent you a disk on somewhile back. Oddly enough – the feller who was being interviewed for what he knew “might have been happening” at Wright Patterson died not a long time ago.
Does this schematic look kinda familiar?
http://www.wired.com/dangerroom/2012/10/the-airforce/
The most important criterion in any food purchase is shelf life. With an adequate supply of Ring Dings, Milk Duds, and Raisinets, there’s no need to make food stops.
When our host and I were youths, we worked stamping numbers on plastic cards. Next door to our employer was a general store which sold everything from school supplies to manure. The proprietress was born around the time of the Civil War, and most of her inventory seemed to date from that period. One day, Malcolm found a Reese’s Bar which was five years past its expiration date. That’s the kind of food we need for a road trip.
True enough Peter.
Except that I require fairly high-fiber content at least occasionally. Maybe you can locate the fruitcake that travels around the world during the Christmas holidays. And no – not the talking fruitcake, that’d be me.
But tell me, any of that manure the next-door general store had on sale resemble horse biscuits?
I’m thinking if the swarm drones can’t hold formation I can tell Henry, “See your pony is near!” thataways we won’t risk losing the navigator. Bad enough being lost driving cross-country, don’t know we could recover being lost intergalactically.
Looks like I need to clarify something about a certain disk I mailed without having ever placed it myself into a dvd player and which I never, ever even actually knew what it contained.
All I did was read the shipping label which was addressed: To Malcolm P, c/o JK – and not being one to pry into anybody else’s business – I merely and simply (without opening the package) sent the unopened package to Brooklyn.
I even went so far as to have the person at the Post Office lick the stamps.
I never inspected the manure, but I remember the sign out front: Manure, Fifty Cents a Basket.
Which led me and the kid down the street to compose a ditty: Manure, fifty cents a basket, get it while it’s hot …
Peter?
I never claimed I ever knew a thing about horse-shit. All I promised as to promiselying Henry a pony even though it had to be an autonomously swarming pony – I couldn’t obviously promise.
Speakers Up!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3j8mr-gcgoI&feature=related
You however Peter, promised we’d get to Triangulum – cause you’d known [knew] the Civil War era lady selling Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and by chance lives in California.
Henry we realize is a Scientist and should be able to read a map. Malcolm even though he can tote boards – on intergalactics, there’s not much call for that.
Dom’s gonna get us a U-Haul. Dom trusts me to drive. Dom trusts you Peter to handle Ding-Dongs and Raisenets. So wha…?