Thursday, August 11, 2005
Oughta kept feeding the ticks
Planned Parenthood videos
Oh, sweet baby jebus. If you only have dialup, download the first one. 40 mb. This piece of trash is the main reason I occasionally view the Saturday morning kids' shows. Sweet baby jebus is crying. Captain Planet. The kids' news shows. Nye, the New York Times Guy. teevee is wunderfl, got a rap ad hawking "fly" back-packs wid deese pockets fo de fone! Flash fly rap stuff! Catchy drum beats. I have tried many times to understand the ebonic message. The kids must get it. When the LSM finally gets done planting Saint Jennings the Asswipe, I'll look again. Goddamn, as sorry a reporter/journalist as he was, the 44 day death by having his lungs et by cancer wasn't deserved. Many folk died his way during my time working at the VA hospitals. Brutal, miserable way to die.
I've had two old friends pass with the lung cancer, one went really quick. The other was my grandfather's fishing companion. He outlived grandad by a few years, was a hell of a lot older than him, finestkind type of man. He'd known me from birth and we were still the best of friends when we last met in 1972. He had very few days left as the treatment (very high dose whole-body radiation) for the cancer had pretty-much killed him. 92 years old and his mind was just as gentle and knowing as it was when he was first known by self. My granny was the 'kid' that evening the last time I saw Mr. White. She left us "gentlemen" to sit in the parlor and talk of old times. Me, being only 22, had not a lot of old times that should occupy his time. There was a big bag of nasty 'nam shit that was corroding me, was fully involved with Hale, Caltech, and getting paid by Carnegie, the important stuff for me was Harry's discourse of the wonderful life he and Vivian (might be wrong with her name) had had when they were youngsters in Venezuela. No, he didn't repeat old stories. Harry died with all his mental parts totally clear.
Oh lordy do I have decades of stories including Harry, my grandad, and, of course, my dad! Finestkind times for a young mugwump!
Harry knew he was going to die, probably within the next week. The cancer had pretty-much eaten him up and the radiation treatments at the VA had pretty-much char-broiled him. Granny made him a fresh from the garden salad for dinner that evening and I shared with them. Poor Harry was being humorous and totally correct. He was cooked meat. We smelled it. Roasted, large smell that I've whiffed too many times since. The smell of death.
As an aside, granny was close to being the worst cook ever. I was co-op'ed many times when she went to tend the Montgomery family holdings. My sorry cooking at the age of 7 was better, and since grandad was old merchant marine, I was finestkind! God only knows what they ate during his years at sea! Granny grew great fruit and veges and if it wasn't cooked, it was good stuff. Her mother, Mama Mamie (whose bed I own) had eleven children and probably taught granny how to ruin otherwise decent food!
Oh lordy, I gotta do better than THAT! Granny set a fine table and for most all the time I've memory of, her and grandad's place was where the GATHERING happened twice each year. Yeah, I'll try to recall and relate many, many years of the best place in the world to be. Long before Ctrl-Alt-Delete became a way of fixing life (lawyers, un-marriage, gummit, etc.) and my particular life was on it's way to 2,000,000 air miles fixing other peoples fubars, her place was where to get recharged. Always lots of good stuff that needed fixin' after grandad died, she needed to go fishing sometimes, and there was always the fancy teas and collectibles I thought she needed! That, and I always let myself in for her critique of what I was doing wrong. BTW, she was always 100% right. Always. Every. bit. even. now. ...and she's been dead for over six years.
It's been a half-century since cooking for Authur Fitzgerald. It's also been a big bag of years since I've cooked for anyone. Nina, my last best friend and former wife, happily munched through my interpretation of a BC restaurateur's idea of a roast. ...with lots of goodies. ...she needed good food. Three daze on a Greyhound? Good god, I'd probably be trying to eat my shoes if I had to do that again. The next time I'll get on a bus will be in a pine box if the body is found and someone wants it in a different place.
That was years ago and a delightful evening. We'll be friends forever as long as there is lots of miles between!
* * * * * *
A bit of old fun:
Impure Mathematics
Richard A. Gibbs
The Best Of The Journal of Irreproducible Results, 1983
Once upon a time (1/t), pretty little Polly Nomial was strolling across a field of vectors, when she came to the edge of a singularly large matrix. Now Polly was convergent, and her mother had made it an absolute condition that she must never enter such an array without her brackets on. Polly, however, had changed her variables that morning, and, feeling particularly badly behaved, she ignored this condition on the grounds that it was insufficient, and made her way in amongst the complex elements.
Rows and columns enveloped her on all sides. Tangents approached her surface. She became tensor and tensor. Quite suddenly, three branches of a hyperbola touched her at a single point. She oscillated violently, lost all sense of directrix, and went completely divergent. As she reached a turning point, she tripped over a square root which was protruding from the erf, and plunged headlong down a steep gradient. When she was differentiated once more, she found herself, apparently alone, in a non-euclidean space.
She was being watched however. That smooth operator, Curly Pi, was lurking inner product. As his eyes devoured her curvilinear coordinates, a singular expression crossed his face. Was she still convergent, he wondered. He decided to integrate improperly at once.
Hearing a vulgar function behind her, Polly turned round, and saw Curly Pi approaching with his power series extrapolated. She could see at once, by his degenerate conic and his dissipative terms, that he was bent on no good.
"Eureka" she gasped.
"Ho, ho!" he said. "What a symmetric little polynomial you are. I can see that you are absolutely bubbling over with secs".
"Sir", she said, "keep away from me. I haven't got my brackets on.
"Calm yourself my dear" said our suave operator, "your fears are purely imaginary".
"i, i" she thought. "Perhaps he's homogeneous then?".
"What order are you?" the brute demanded.
"Seventeen", replied Polly.
Curly leered. "I suppose you've never been operated on yet?" he said.
"Of course not" Polly cried indignantly. "I'm absolutely convergent".
"Come, cone," said Curly. "Lets off to a decimal place I know, and I'll take you to the limit".
"Never" gasped Polly.
His patience was gone. Coshing her over the coefficient with a log until she was powerless, Curly removed her discontinuities. He stared at her significant places and began to smooth her points of inflexion. Poor Polly. All was lost. She felt his hand bonding to her asymptotic limit. Her convergence would be gone for ever.
There was no mercy, for Curly was a heavyside operator. He integrated by parts. He integrated by partial fractions. The complex beast even went all the way round, and did a contour integration. What an indignity! Curly went on operating until he was completely and absolutely orthogonal.
When Polly got hone that evening, her mother noticed that she had been truncated in several places. But it was too late to differentiate now --- the seeds having been sown. As the months went by, Polly increased monotonically. Finally, she generated a small, but pathological, function, which left surds all over the place, until she was driven to distraction.
The moral of this sad story is this: It you want to keep your expressions convergent, never allow them a single degree of freedom.
* * * * * *
Got to end this with linkage to what Dr. Sanity posted:
A Motive For Berger's Bizarre Behavior?
She's got it pegged. Read it.
* * * * * *
"The prestige of government has undoubtedly been lowered considerably by the prohibition law. For nothing is more destructive of respect for the government and the law of the land than passing laws which cannot be enforced. It is an open secret that the dangerous increase of crime in this country is closely connected with this."
My First Impression of the U.S.A. (1921) - Albert Einstein
Oh, sweet baby jebus. If you only have dialup, download the first one. 40 mb. This piece of trash is the main reason I occasionally view the Saturday morning kids' shows. Sweet baby jebus is crying. Captain Planet. The kids' news shows. Nye, the New York Times Guy. teevee is wunderfl, got a rap ad hawking "fly" back-packs wid deese pockets fo de fone! Flash fly rap stuff! Catchy drum beats. I have tried many times to understand the ebonic message. The kids must get it. When the LSM finally gets done planting Saint Jennings the Asswipe, I'll look again. Goddamn, as sorry a reporter/journalist as he was, the 44 day death by having his lungs et by cancer wasn't deserved. Many folk died his way during my time working at the VA hospitals. Brutal, miserable way to die.
I've had two old friends pass with the lung cancer, one went really quick. The other was my grandfather's fishing companion. He outlived grandad by a few years, was a hell of a lot older than him, finestkind type of man. He'd known me from birth and we were still the best of friends when we last met in 1972. He had very few days left as the treatment (very high dose whole-body radiation) for the cancer had pretty-much killed him. 92 years old and his mind was just as gentle and knowing as it was when he was first known by self. My granny was the 'kid' that evening the last time I saw Mr. White. She left us "gentlemen" to sit in the parlor and talk of old times. Me, being only 22, had not a lot of old times that should occupy his time. There was a big bag of nasty 'nam shit that was corroding me, was fully involved with Hale, Caltech, and getting paid by Carnegie, the important stuff for me was Harry's discourse of the wonderful life he and Vivian (might be wrong with her name) had had when they were youngsters in Venezuela. No, he didn't repeat old stories. Harry died with all his mental parts totally clear.
Oh lordy do I have decades of stories including Harry, my grandad, and, of course, my dad! Finestkind times for a young mugwump!
Harry knew he was going to die, probably within the next week. The cancer had pretty-much eaten him up and the radiation treatments at the VA had pretty-much char-broiled him. Granny made him a fresh from the garden salad for dinner that evening and I shared with them. Poor Harry was being humorous and totally correct. He was cooked meat. We smelled it. Roasted, large smell that I've whiffed too many times since. The smell of death.
As an aside, granny was close to being the worst cook ever. I was co-op'ed many times when she went to tend the Montgomery family holdings. My sorry cooking at the age of 7 was better, and since grandad was old merchant marine, I was finestkind! God only knows what they ate during his years at sea! Granny grew great fruit and veges and if it wasn't cooked, it was good stuff. Her mother, Mama Mamie (whose bed I own) had eleven children and probably taught granny how to ruin otherwise decent food!
Oh lordy, I gotta do better than THAT! Granny set a fine table and for most all the time I've memory of, her and grandad's place was where the GATHERING happened twice each year. Yeah, I'll try to recall and relate many, many years of the best place in the world to be. Long before Ctrl-Alt-Delete became a way of fixing life (lawyers, un-marriage, gummit, etc.) and my particular life was on it's way to 2,000,000 air miles fixing other peoples fubars, her place was where to get recharged. Always lots of good stuff that needed fixin' after grandad died, she needed to go fishing sometimes, and there was always the fancy teas and collectibles I thought she needed! That, and I always let myself in for her critique of what I was doing wrong. BTW, she was always 100% right. Always. Every. bit. even. now. ...and she's been dead for over six years.
It's been a half-century since cooking for Authur Fitzgerald. It's also been a big bag of years since I've cooked for anyone. Nina, my last best friend and former wife, happily munched through my interpretation of a BC restaurateur's idea of a roast. ...with lots of goodies. ...she needed good food. Three daze on a Greyhound? Good god, I'd probably be trying to eat my shoes if I had to do that again. The next time I'll get on a bus will be in a pine box if the body is found and someone wants it in a different place.
That was years ago and a delightful evening. We'll be friends forever as long as there is lots of miles between!
* * * * * *
A bit of old fun:
Impure Mathematics
Richard A. Gibbs
The Best Of The Journal of Irreproducible Results, 1983
Once upon a time (1/t), pretty little Polly Nomial was strolling across a field of vectors, when she came to the edge of a singularly large matrix. Now Polly was convergent, and her mother had made it an absolute condition that she must never enter such an array without her brackets on. Polly, however, had changed her variables that morning, and, feeling particularly badly behaved, she ignored this condition on the grounds that it was insufficient, and made her way in amongst the complex elements.
Rows and columns enveloped her on all sides. Tangents approached her surface. She became tensor and tensor. Quite suddenly, three branches of a hyperbola touched her at a single point. She oscillated violently, lost all sense of directrix, and went completely divergent. As she reached a turning point, she tripped over a square root which was protruding from the erf, and plunged headlong down a steep gradient. When she was differentiated once more, she found herself, apparently alone, in a non-euclidean space.
She was being watched however. That smooth operator, Curly Pi, was lurking inner product. As his eyes devoured her curvilinear coordinates, a singular expression crossed his face. Was she still convergent, he wondered. He decided to integrate improperly at once.
Hearing a vulgar function behind her, Polly turned round, and saw Curly Pi approaching with his power series extrapolated. She could see at once, by his degenerate conic and his dissipative terms, that he was bent on no good.
"Eureka" she gasped.
"Ho, ho!" he said. "What a symmetric little polynomial you are. I can see that you are absolutely bubbling over with secs".
"Sir", she said, "keep away from me. I haven't got my brackets on.
"Calm yourself my dear" said our suave operator, "your fears are purely imaginary".
"i, i" she thought. "Perhaps he's homogeneous then?".
"What order are you?" the brute demanded.
"Seventeen", replied Polly.
Curly leered. "I suppose you've never been operated on yet?" he said.
"Of course not" Polly cried indignantly. "I'm absolutely convergent".
"Come, cone," said Curly. "Lets off to a decimal place I know, and I'll take you to the limit".
"Never" gasped Polly.
His patience was gone. Coshing her over the coefficient with a log until she was powerless, Curly removed her discontinuities. He stared at her significant places and began to smooth her points of inflexion. Poor Polly. All was lost. She felt his hand bonding to her asymptotic limit. Her convergence would be gone for ever.
There was no mercy, for Curly was a heavyside operator. He integrated by parts. He integrated by partial fractions. The complex beast even went all the way round, and did a contour integration. What an indignity! Curly went on operating until he was completely and absolutely orthogonal.
When Polly got hone that evening, her mother noticed that she had been truncated in several places. But it was too late to differentiate now --- the seeds having been sown. As the months went by, Polly increased monotonically. Finally, she generated a small, but pathological, function, which left surds all over the place, until she was driven to distraction.
The moral of this sad story is this: It you want to keep your expressions convergent, never allow them a single degree of freedom.
* * * * * *
Got to end this with linkage to what Dr. Sanity posted:
A Motive For Berger's Bizarre Behavior?
She's got it pegged. Read it.
* * * * * *
"The prestige of government has undoubtedly been lowered considerably by the prohibition law. For nothing is more destructive of respect for the government and the law of the land than passing laws which cannot be enforced. It is an open secret that the dangerous increase of crime in this country is closely connected with this."
My First Impression of the U.S.A. (1921) - Albert Einstein
