.
Your art may be touching lives in ways you never see
I am happily married.
But, I have an uncle who never was married, and I will take this moment to talk about him.
I’ll leave his name out, but I called him “Uncle Eddie”. Oh, he was the youngest brother of my maternal grandmother. Technically, he was a “great uncle”, but in our family we called all male relatives, and male friends (of our parents) uncles.
He always showed up at family gatherings, and he would always palm me a few hundred dollars. This was in the 1960’s, so that would be like giving a 11 year old boy a couple of thousand dollars today.
He worked as a bartender all his life. I think that was his first or second job out of High School.
He retired as a bartender.
He lived in this enormous multi-bedroom Victorian-style row-house all by himself. It had five bedrooms, and three bathrooms. A drawing room, a living room, a study, but he spent most of his time in the kitchen when we would visit him.
He was only a few years older than my mom, but overall a nice quiet man.
I noticed that he had a desk in his study that he used often enough. It was cluttered with books, papers and all sorts of brick-a-brack. He also seemed to have a favorite chair in the living-room.
His house was decorated in grandparent style, and my inference is that he inherited it, and kept everything was it was for decades.
He also had lots and lots of the latest gadgets and technologies. He had a super-high end stereo that amazed me. Something that I lusted over.
He never visited us alone, or came with a companion.
He came with my other relatives… always.
And so I don’t know if he had any girlfriends or what that story was. But he did work at a private upscale country club, so he probably knew more than his fair share of potential date-potential women, I guess. I really don’t know.
He once had a cat that he was really attached to. But once the cat died, he just didn’t get another one. He also used to have a dog outside in the back yard, but it also passed on.
He was a quiet, pleasant man.
Insightful. He would observe, and he would ALWAYS come up to me, look me in the eyes and ask how I was doing. He would listen to me. Nod his head a few times. Not really ever giving me advice, but jsut being present in my life.
Gosh! Just writing this is causing me to tear-up. Damn it!
He was a great man. Perhaps the only other male family member (aside from my Uncle Robert) who ever took the time to be present in my life, and care.
That being said.
He always ate well. Really well. And he always had money. Lots of money.
He didn’t own a car, that I know of. But he was a simple man from a previous generation and lived his life on his terms. Good or bad, right or wrong.
And gosh darn it, I do miss him.
Today...
Chicken Parma
Our inspired rendition of the classic Chicken Parmigiana. Tender chicken cutlets, encrusted with Parmesan cheese and seasonings, are topped with marinara sauce and mozzarella.
Prep: 15 min - Cook: 25 min - Yield: 4 servings
Ingredients
- 1/4 cup plain dry bread crumbs
- 1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
- 1/2 teaspoon McCormick® Garlic Powder
- 1/2 teaspoon McCormick® Perfect Pinch® Italian Seasoning
- 1 pound thin-sliced boneless skinless chicken breasts
- 3 tablespoons oil, divided
- 1 cup marinara or spaghetti sauce
- 1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese
Instructions
- Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
- Mix bread crumbs, Parmesan cheese, garlic powder and Italian seasoning on plate.
- Moisten chicken lightly with water. Coat evenly with bread crumb mixture.
- Heat 2 tablespoons of the oil in large nonstick skillet on medium heat.
- Cook 1/2 of the chicken pieces for 3 to 4 minutes per side or until golden brown.
- Transfer chicken to foil-lined 13 x 9 inch baking pan. Repeat with remaining chicken, adding remaining 1 tablespoon oil if necessary. Spoon sauce evenly over chicken. Sprinkle with mozzarella cheese.
- Bake for 5 to 10 minutes or until heated through and cheese is melted.
- Serve with cooked spaghetti, if desired.
Nutrition
Per serving: Total Calories: 398 Sodium: 478mg Fat: 22g Carbohydrates: 13g Cholesterol: 100mg Protein: 37g Fiber: 1g
Why did China react so strongly to Japanese Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi’s recent comments about Taiwan?
That's an example of brilliant strategy
Of course China knows Japan is too weak to be a threat today
This is simply creating a unified enemy
The Chinese just don't see US as an enemy. They see the US as competition
They don't see India as anything
However Japan?
Japan is different
Every Chinese gets ROUSED at Japan and UNIFYING CHINA through cold blooded national hatred of Japan is excellent strategy
Unification of all Chinese
A Lot of Taiwanese Chinese HATE Japanese
They watch Douyin, they watch Kuaishou
This alienates the DPP in Taiwan
This helps Mainland China politically
So all this rage is good for China
Good for Chinese unity
Helps bring many formerly neutral Taiwanese to choose their side more carefully
TOP "Rescue from Mars" Reactions | The Martian | Movie Reaction | First Time Watching
How does the concept of "trickle-down economics" relate to the difficulties in achieving affordable housing for different generations?
Well there is no ‘trickle down economics’.
And even if there was…. which there is not…. but if there was, it still has nothing to do with affordable housing.
These two things are not connected.
The reason your housing where you live is unaffordable, is because you voted for that. Your housing is expensive, because the fool voters in your city, voted for fool politicians, that put in place fool regulations and controls and interventions in the market, and thus your market for housing is insanely priced.
You voted for it.
You know, I really don’t know exactly what to say to people, because this is one of the most obvious, self-evident aspects of the world.
The way that business works, is that whatever the cost of the product or service is, you pay for it, plus a little bit more, and that’s the profit that keeps the business going.
Meaning…. if the cost to build the product is $1,000, then you the customer pay $1,000, plus another $100, in profit, and that’s your price. $1,100.
Now whatever that product cost is, that’s what you pay plus more. If the cost is $5,000, then you pay $5,000, plus $500 for profit, and that’s your price. $5,500.
If the cost of the product goes up, the business does not eat that cost. They pass it onto you.
So how does this apply?
Understand, every fee…. every permit…. Every regulation…. Every tax…. Every single cost of any kind, that is imposed on business by government, is passed onto…… >YOU<.
You pay it. You pay it all. You pay for every government program, every mandate, every government caused delay. Just a delay, imposes a cost onto business, and that cost goes to you.
So when you vote for “affordable housing laws” that cost is passed onto you.
When you vote for protections for the wild spotted flying rabbid womp-rat, that cost is passed onto you.
When you vote for ‘energy efficiency rules’, that cost is passed onto you.
When you vote for “taxes on those evil corporations”, that cost is passed right along to you.
This is the regulation cost of a multi-family housing. Like apartments and condos. Over 40% of that cost is just government. Just government!
YOU VOTED FOR THAT. Or someone did.
Look at this:
This is the cost of regulations on a single-family home. It’s almost $94,000.
Now in comparison, in 1983, my parents purchased a 3 story, 4-bedroom home for $103,000.
So today, the cost of the REGULATIONS ALONE…. are almost as much as an entire house 40 years ago.
YOU VOTED FOR THAT.
Has nothing to do with trickling and or some evil economic system…. YOU VOTED FOR IT.
YOU VOTED FOR IT.
You demanded government save you from those evil corporations, and they regulated the crap out of everything, and now you can’t afford a home.
YOU DID THAT.
Stop trying to make up stuff to blame. You voted badly, you got bad politicians, and they put in place bad laws and regulations.
You are getting exactly what you voted for.
Physical Games
Written in response to: "Write a story that includes the line "I don’t know how to fix this" or "I can't undo it.""
Justin Taylor
Science Fiction Suspense Thriller
“F = ma? This is the best we can do in 2025? For Pete’s sake, people, quantum mechanics is the future!” the old man cried.
Representative Mallory clutched her apple pin like pearls. “Mr. Crane,” she began, “you want to ignore gravity? What do you want? Our oceans flying off the planet? Our children floating to Mars? This is no matter for debate, you imbecile!” Her voice rose, startling the half-asleep clerk.
The Speaker of the House, an exhausted-looking man with his tie hanging off his neck lopsidedly, banged the gavel. “Order,” he exclaimed. “This is our ritual, and I will not have it disgraced by petty insults! Ladies and gentlemen, these laws must pass, or…” His voice trailed off. He need not say what would happen. Everyone knew. The chamber fell silent. The universe seemed to be holding its breath.
Representative Crane shouted out of his seat, propelled with fury. “The apple fell, the theory stood, but we are smarter than a 17th-century wig-wearing halfwit!”
The chamber thundered with applause and heckles at the same time. All members leapt to their feet to make their shrillish voices heard. Representative Mallory fell back into her seat after sufficiently heckling the gray-haired man from Vermont.
The clerk was jerked awake by all the commotion. She began watching the pendulum swing and felt herself swooning back to her drowsy state. The tension of the room nevertheless coiled into electric danger. Time was slowly running out.
By mid-morning, the previous years of ceremonious bipartisanship faded from memory. This was now an all-out political boxing match, and neither side would hold any of their punches. Amendments were proposed to the laws; filibusters were lengthy and dull. Someone proposed tabling the discussion until later, when Congress could learn to get along. This only elicited criticism from his side as a traitor—an insider from across the aisle. The laws themselves waited patiently for approval, nearly forgotten in all of the mounting personal attacks. The atmosphere grew thicker and thicker. Outside the chambers was no different.
Organizers for both the Newtonian and Einsteinian camps began behaving like their leaders. Newtonians threw apples; Einsteinians threw textbooks. They waved signs reading “Support Newton!” and “Embrace Relativity!” One man stood in the middle, turning from side to side with a sign that simply read “Reality is Independent of Politics.”
No one appeared to recognize that the universe was listening and judging the partisan shenanigans. The entire world held its breath as the clock ticked.
By afternoon, the many congressmen and women had drunk a nation’s worth of coffee. Cups littered the floor and desks. Every seat contained a slumping member of Congress, yawning and raising their fists as much as they could. The old folks had missed lunch, and it showed. The Speaker of the House fixed his posture, rubbed his temples, and proclaimed the final vote. His voice echoed off the rotunda and vaulted off the walls.
“First motion,” he continued, “to reaffirm the validity of Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity, for the sake of our world.” The roll call began.
“Aye,” the Einsteinians called one by one. Each Newtonian shouted “Nay” and gave looks that could kill to their opposition. Despite all the efforts of the Einsteinians and their ideological commitments, the motion failed. A pin could be heard in both chambers. The nation looked on as the second vote began.
“Aye,” all of the Newtonians shouted with arrogance. “Nay,” the Einsteinians said resentfully. Another down-the-aisle vote. The floor erupted. The Speaker of the House straightened his papers, stood calmly, and proclaimed, “Both motions have failed. The House is adjourned.” He left the chamber without another word. Gasps uttered around the country. Silent indifference manifested beyond the borders.
Lawmakers grasped their desks and closed their eyes. They began blaming one another for what was coming. “How could you do this?” and “Party over reality? Really?” shouted representatives.
“Hold on to something!” Representative Mallory screamed. The pendulum stopped swinging. The lights hummed. Knuckles went white. Sweat poured. Parents around the nation hugged their children.
Nothing happened. People waited. Still nothing. The minutes passed, and not a thing had happened. “Maybe there’s a delay,” a man at a bar said to his fellow patrons. “Reality takes a minute, I suppose.”
The world remained stubbornly intact. Representative Crane stood. “That’s it? Nothing?”
“We’ve fought over nothing?” a Newtonian asked. Crane shrugged helplessly.
The Speaker re-entered the chamber, his tie fixed, looking up at the wondrous paintings of indifferent philosophers and gods. Nobody spoke for a long time. A few members shuffled out, quiet as mice. They avoided eye contact with reporters who were screaming questions and even some insults.
The Sergeant at Arms collected the gavel and paperwork from the Speaker. He looked into the Speaker’s beady eyes and said quaintly, “See you next April.”
By midnight, the story of the pointless ritual was everywhere. Politicians resigned, parties dissolved, and voters demanded change now that the jig was up. When asked about his next actions for a disillusioned country, the President said only, “I don’t know how to fix this. Our nation is forever scarred.”
Above him, the stars carried on their patient, endless work. They burned, collapsed, and drifted. No approval was needed.
Why do some people prefer driving regular cars over their luxury Rolls Royce for daily use?
Fantastic question! I was that guy. At the time that I had the Phantom, I also had a Lexus LS and later an S550. I rarely drove the Phantom which is why I sold it. A car like a Phantom can only be valet parked and only at special places where they are familiar with the car. You can’t just leave it in any parking lot. People want to key it or do other things like put a foot on the bumper or something to make it look like it’s their own.
They are fine if you’re going to quickly stop at a store, but you can’t just go to the mall or do anything like that without significant risk. I realized after I bought the car that I much preferred to go through life a lot more anonymously without attracting attention from anyone and nobody pays attention to an LS or an S-class, ever. They are like driving a Honda and I preferred that. I could go anywhere, park anywhere and not worry about someone doing something to the cars.
It’s other practical things, like to you can’t just run it through the car wash, so getting it dirty means you have to find a hand wash place that takes a couple of hours, and they have to know how to treat the paint, etc., so it all becomes an ordeal. I’d typically wash it myself, but that would take me about three hours to get it looking snappy again. Way easier to get in the other cars and just go.
Our First Time Reaction to: ELO- Mr. Blue Sky | DID NOT EXPECT THIS AT ALL!
Why won't China and India work together to draw new border lines, instead of India repeatedly insisting on the McMahon Line, which China has never recognized?
Thanks for the request.
China did try with a very pragmatic proposal - a territory swap floated by Premier Zhou Enlai in 1960 and was reportedly floated as late as the late 1980s, suggested that China would formally recognize the McMahon Line (effectively accepting India's claim to Arunachal Pradesh in the east), in return for India accepting Chinese control over the Aksai Chin plateau in the west (part of the Indian union territory of Ladakh claimed by China).
This deal that gave India with a territory that as of 2024 had a population of 1.58 million people and a GDP of $5.7 billion while the Aksai Chin plateau that China occupied is largely unpopulated - yet thisl was not. acceptable to India, which maintains a claim to the entirety of Aksai Chin and considers all of Arunachal Pradesh its integral territory.
This is the gap between the two countries.
Pictures
Why do commercial airline pilots walk around their aircraft before take-off? What are they looking for specifically?
Seen below is a photo I took during a through-flight walkaround of an Airbus 319. See if anything looks odd or out of place…….
I have done thousands of walk-arounds of commercial airline aircraft and, to be honest, almost never found anything amiss, but here’s a good example of why pilots always do walk-arounds. The answer to the question of “what are they looking for specifically” would be: anything weird, leaking or out of place.
Depicted in the photo is the underside of an Airbus 319 taken from a vantage point between the main landing gear looking at the belly of the airplane. (As an aside, the presence of dollar bill in the picture is an old Air Force safety officer trick: a dollar bill is six inches long and makes for an impromptu scale reference.)
The weird out of place object dangling out of the belly of airplane is a mechanic’s air pressure testing tool.
So, what was it doing there? To understand how this was possible it’s necessary to review a couple of facts about the Airbus. Unless the main landing gear is in the process of moving up or down, the landing gear bay doors are shut and faired against the belly of the airplane, they just pop open and slam shut whenever the gear is in motion.
This airframe had undergone an overnight check at the previous stop and a portion of this check involved confirming the proper air pressure charge on the hydraulic accumulator, a component which is mounted inside the left landing gear bay. To access this unit the mechanic must first unlatch the gear door, make his examination and then re-close the door. On this occasion, however, when the mechanic buttoned up the gear door he left his tool lying in the landing gear bay.
Apparently what subsequently happened was that when we lowered the landing gear on approach to our next destination, the air pressure tool was dislodged and fell partially out of the airplane before being wedged into the closing door.
The tool caused enough deformation to the door and frame that the airplane was taken out of service for repairs before it flew again.
And that’s why commercial pilots walk around their aircraft before takeoff.
SCAMMER CRIES Watching Himself Lose $25K!
Are you as tired of AI, artificial Intelligence, writings, art, stories and questions as I am?
My personal experiences with AI have been fairly neutral, so I don’t have the kind of strong feelings that a lot of people have on it.
I generally can’t identify AI writing or art. I’m way too autistic; I assume everything everyone tells me is real unless I know that specific person to be a liar (or to have been a liar in the past). Even when people point out things like em dashes and strange sentence construction, I’m like, …so? I also use strange sentence construction and punctuation? What’s wrong with that? But then I not-infrequently get accused of being AI, so…yeah.
I’m even worse with art; I don’t even see when someone has six fingers. I’m a very easily-immersed, and consequently easily-fooled, person, which is part autism and part choice. I keep a Facebook folder of interior decor ideas, and probably half of them are AI, and I don’t see it until someone points it out to me. Often not even then. I do wish people would clearly label things as AI, but I don’t really get mad unless someone labels something as NOT AI when it is. (I was pretty annoyed about this “painting”, for example, which said it was an oil painting of Vienna. I’ve never been to Vienna, and I really loved the vibe of this and wanted to visit and probably set a book there.)
Not crediting the creator because they said it was an oil painting and I don’t think liars deserve credit. Plus it was on one of those vague Facebook pages where the same things get reposted under a dozen different names anyway. This one annoyed me - I really wanted to go here!
I occasionally get videos in my Facebook feed that are clearly AI, even to me, but I either ignore them, watch them and forget them, or on rare occasions I watch them and smile.
Teacher friends have told me their jobs have been a nightmare since AI became widespread. I can only sympathise from a distance - I stopped teaching in 2016, before it was a big problem. I’m not currently working and therefore don’t have to deal with it in a work capacity.
I worry about the environmental impact, and the impact it will have on people’s ability to write and think for themselves, but again, it’s from a distance. I have not been personally affected by it so far, and I lack the imagination to foresee when and how I might be. I fully understand that a day will likely come when I am affected and have strong negative feelings about it, I just can’t actually picture that day. I’m not particularly imaginative.
I personally use AI rarely, at least rarely on purpose (I can’t seem to turn it off on web searches). Sometimes when I search for medical things, I get an AI answer, which I always verify with legitimate sources - I treat it much like Wikipedia when I was in high school - but it’s often a good start point for research. And I’ve asked it to recommend books for me based on my favourite books (I haven’t yet read any of the recommendations, but I need to read at least one this year as “A book that an AI chatbot recommends based on your favourite book” is one of the five (out of 300!) prompts I have left for this year’s reading challenges). And once I asked it to make me a picture of a Christmas bouquet I once made at a workshop, in the days before smartphones. With the right prompts, the bouquets were pretty close to what the real thing looked like, though for some reason they didn’t want to add poinsettias.
I can’t quite remember the wording I used, but it was something like “very large red and white Christmas bouquet with anemones, hellebores, poinsettias and greenery”.
So, for a combination of reasons, I feel fairly neutral towards AI. I use it rarely, and always in small ways that benefit me personally. I have little to no personal experience of it being used in negative ways, though I know it happens. I inhabit an anime world probably more than the real world, and as such I have a higher tolerance for things that don’t look real to others. And I accepted a long time ago - as a small child - that the world is strange and chaotic, and my defence against feelings of uncertainty or fear or lack of control was to make a conscious choice to believe wholeheartedly in everything at the time I’m experiencing it instead of agonising over what’s real and what isn’t.
How is it possible to shoot down nuclear missiles without detonating the warhead?
Mostly it’s possible because the vast majority of the nuclear weapons in the world today are what we call “one point safe.” This was not always the case.
“One Point Safe” or OPS means that there is no way for a detonation which begins at any single point in the warhead’s chemical explosives to trigger a nuclear explosion. OPS designs were phased into the US nuclear stockpile in the early Cold War with a formal standard declared in 1968 following a series of concerning incidents in which nuclear weapons were were mishandled.
Like that time the Air Force almost nuked North Carolina.
On January 24, 1961 Walter Tulloch and the rest of his B-52 crew were participating in Operation Cover All (which later became Operation Chrome Dome). Both Cover All and Chrome Dome were ongoing US Air Force programs that kept American bomber crews constantly aloft and armed with nuclear weapons so that, should the Soviets launch a surprise attack, American planes wouldn’t be destroyed on the runway and could strike back.
This map is from Operation Chrome Dome and shows a different route than Tulloch would have flown.
Tulloch took off from Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, about an hour outside of Raleigh, late on January 23rd. The B-52 is a heavy aircraft and it burns a lot of fuel getting into the air so Tulloch was scheduled to meet up with a refueling tanker shortly after midnight to top off his tanks for the long flight into Northern Canada.
B-52 refueling in flight. It’s a French tanker but you get the idea.
Tulloch wasn’t the only B-52 aloft on this route; his plane and the ones ahead of it made up a “ladder” of bombers which ensured that there would always be an aircraft holding just outside of Soviet airspace with plenty of fuel.
But Tulloch’s B-52 was the only bomber aloft that day with a fuel leak in the right wing. The refueling crew spotted the issue and he was ordered to divert out over the ocean to burn off his fuel before returning to base. By the time Tulloch arrived at his ocean holding point, however, the leak had gotten worse and he diverted immediately for home.
And that was when the wing failed.
Passing through 10,000 feet on approach to Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, the right wing of of Tulloch’s B-52 collapsed, throwing the plane into an uncontrolled descent. Abandoning a bomber isn’t as automated as abandoning a fighter and, of the eight person crew, 5 made it safely to the ground.
But this story is not about those five surviving crew members nor the three that perished in the crash. It is about what they were carrying.
Like every other B-52 in the “ladder” Tulloch’s bomber was carrying a hot, piping load of American nuclear diplomacy in the form of two Mark 39 Mod 2 hydrogen bombs.
The Mark 39 is an old-school, Cold War citybuster. It’s an 11 foot (3.5 meter) long 6,500 pound (3,060 kg) monster which generate 3.8 megatons of explosive force when detonated. That’s 253 times more powerful than the bomb that destroyed Hiroshima. These weapons were the stuff of nightmares: ham-fisted nuclear brutality delivered with no regard for precision, accuracy, or humanity.
And in the early morning hours of January 24, 1961 two of them fell out of the sky onto Goldsboro North Carolina.
In theory the accidental detonation of the Mark 39 bombs should have been all but impossible. The weapon’s “arming rods” had to be removed and an electrical Arm/Safe switch engaged to even enable the detonation circuitry. Withdrawing the arming rods both enabled a barometer which the bomb used to measure altitude and started a generator and timer. By combining the results of the timer and the barometer the bomb could work out how fast it was falling and from what altitude and therefore if it was being deployed with a parachute or not. That information set the delay interval (42 seconds in the case of a parachute descent) after which the capacitor banks would charge. Then all that remained was for the bomb’s trigger circuit to fire. In the case of the Mark 39 Mod 2, that was a nose-impact sensor: the bombs were fused to detonate when they hit the ground.
Between the arming rods, the barometer, the timer, and the Arm/Safe switch, it should have been all but impossible for the bombs to detonate. But of the four safety systems standing between the sleepy town of Goldsboro North Carolina and 3.8 million tons of instant sunrise, three failed.
That is a 3.8 megaton hydrogen bomb tied to a tree stump by its parachute cords
A 1969 report from Sandia National Labs (declassified in 2013) found that there was ample reason to believe that an electrical short in the Arm/Safe switch would have been enough to trigger a full nuclear detonation. In other words, we came this close:
The Goldsboro incident and others like it — and there were others — lead the United States to conclude that its nuclear weapons needed to be engineered around safety from the start. That accidental detonation had to be an astronomically remote possibility rather than merely prevented by the incorporation of a single switch.
The design principles by which this is accomplished are highly classified because they are part of the function and internal geometry of the weapons themselves. But for the purposes of this question this means that there is no real way to apply a physical shock to an American nuclear weapon which will cause it to generate more than about 4 pounds worth of yield from a nuclear detonation.
That doesn’t mean it’s safe to mishandle nuclear weapons. We’re still talking about masses of exotic, toxic radio-chemicals surrounded by formed high explosives. If there were an accidental detonation of those high explosives near you it would ruin your whole week and you would definitely be on the news. But school children probably wouldn’t know your name a century from now.
So that’s progress.
What's a small, everyday cultural difference in Russia that you found particularly striking or memorable?
Hello from Russia. I took this photo yesterday in Moscow metro when I was returning from work. How do I know that all three women are not from around here - especially the one in the middle with the suitcase?
It is very safe in Moscow because this is Putin’s window shop to prove to the West that Motherland is great. There are cameras everywhere. Police officers at every corner. Riot police at every square. People are much better off relative to the rest of the country. Nobody here worries that their bag might get snatched or suitcase stolen if they lose vigilance.
However, outside of the capital city, crime is rife, and street robbers are everywhere. If you’re not vigilant you gonna get mugged, and the police won’t be catching the thieves because they get kickbacks to turn a blind eye on street crime.
The woman in the middle of the photo is clutching the handle of the suitcase with both hands. She’s afraid that if she dozed off, somebody might steal her suitcase.
The women to the left and right wrapped their hands around their handbags and used their left hand to lock the right hands in a tight grip to hold the smartphones.
These women are not from Moscow - their habits of dealing with the robbers by holding tight to their personal belongings gives them away.
In fact, Moscow police officers know that and they would ask out of town folks who behave suspiciously to show their passport and to ask what they’re doing in Moscow.
This lady on the left is a Moscovite. She is relaxed and not worried that somebody might snatch her handbag. There’s even a trace of smile on her face.
There are still plenty of very poor people in Moscow, especially among the retirees. Against the backdrop of a modern tram there is this elderly woman who was moments before I took the photo rummaging in the minimalist trash can looking for scraps of food, pulling out a half eaten chocolate glazed curd.
Sir Whiskerton and the Nocturnal Network
Ah, dear reader, you’ve returned once again to join me, Sir Whiskerton, in another delightfully absurd adventure! Today’s tale involves phantom frequencies, underground raves, and the surprising discovery that art, once released into the world, takes on a life of its own. It was a mystery that led us from the quiet barn to the heart of the moonlit woods, revealing a secret society of our most dedicated critics. So, turn down the lights and prepare for the hushed, after-hours tale of The Nocturnal Network.
The Phantom Frequency
It began with a faint, rhythmic thumping that was just on the edge of hearing. I was enjoying a contemplative midnight stroll when I noticed it—a ghostly echo of the very same chill lo-fi beats DJ Fader Fuzz had been broadcasting from the barn at sundown.
Curious, I followed the sound to its source: Fader Fuzz himself, standing at the edge of the pasture, his head cocked, his large headphones amplifying the distant sound. He was tracking a signal.
“Anomaly detected,” he purred, his voice a low hum in the darkness. “A low-fidelity rebroadcast of my ‘Twilight Grazing’ mix. The compression is criminal. Someone is pirating my vibe.”
He had assumed it was a rival, perhaps the slick city fox MC Vulpes trying to steal his sound again. His pride was wounded. “They are leaching my sonic integrity,” he stated, packing his mobile deck into a repurposed feed bag. “I must investigate.”
Being the farm’s designated guardian of order (and profoundly curious), I naturally accompanied him. Ditto, of course, followed, whispering “Sonic integrity!” into the night.
The Moonlit Rave
The trail of tinny bass led us deep into a clearing in the woods we rarely visited. And there, we witnessed a scene of such utter absurdity that even my composure was tested.
A gathering of the farm’s nocturnal residents was in full swing. A family of possums swayed gently on a low-hanging branch, their eyes closed, getting down to the chill beats with a kind of blissful, vacant serenity. Rufus the Raccoon and his crew were using overturned mushrooms as tables for their stolen berry cocktails, their little paws tapping in time.
Presiding over it all from a high branch was Sedgwick the Owl, his head bobbing in a slow, scholarly rhythm.
Fader Fuzz stepped into the clearing, a look of stern accusation on his face. The music, emanating from a speaker made of a hollowed-out log and a salvaged smartphone, screeched to a halt.
Rufus the Raccoon froze, a half-eaten berry poised at his mouth. “Uh, hey, Fuzz. We can explain.”
But it was Sedgwick who spoke, his voice a calm, resonant boom in the quiet night. “Ah, the artist himself. A pleasure. We were just analyzing your use of the ambient cricket sample in the third movement. The way you layered it over the pond frog croak was… inspired. Truly captures the essence of midsummer melancholy.”
Fader Fuzz was speechless. This wasn’t theft. This was… a listening party.
The Critic and the Broadcast
Sedgwick fluttered down to a stump, adjusting his imaginary spectacles. “Your work, Master Fuzz, possesses a rare depth. The track ‘Root Structure’—a brilliant commentary on the hidden, interconnected life beneath our feet. Though, if I may offer a critique, the transition at 2:17 is a tad abrupt. It disrupts the hypnotic flow.”
One of the possums, stirred from his trance, mumbled, “Yeah, man. The flow.”
Fader Fuzz looked from the serious owl to the blissed-out possums, to the nervous raccoons. The anger drained from him, replaced by a dawning sense of wonder. These weren't pirates. They were his most attentive audience. They weren't leaching his vibe; they were living it.
“You… you understand the sub-bass thematic elements?” Fader Fuzz asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
“But of course,” Sedgwick replied. “It represents the slow, turning world. Now, about that hi-hat…”
The Moral of the Story
That night, the secret rave became an official listening session. Fader Fuzz plugged his deck into the log-speaker, and for the first time, the Nocturnal Network heard his music in high fidelity. The possums sighed in collective ecstasy. Rufus the Raccoon declared it “way better than the fuzzy version.”
The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Your art may be touching lives in ways you never see. The song you sing in your barn may be the very thing that scores the moonlight dance of creatures you never meet. It is a humbling and beautiful truth.
Fader Fuzz, deeply moved, made a new commitment. Every night, as the sun sets, he now starts a dedicated, low-power broadcast: “Night Vibe with Fader Fuzz.” It’s a special mix, designed just for his nocturnal fans, with smoother transitions per Sedgwick’s notes and extended bass solos for the possums to bliss out to.
And so, the farm’s symphony now plays in two movements: the sunlit beats for the day-walkers, and the moonlit mixes for the creatures of the night. It is a perfect, if peculiar, harmony.
As for me, I find the new, official night music far preferable to the tinny, pirated signal. It’s much easier to sleep to.
The End.
TOP '23 Years of Messages' Reactions 😭 Interstellar (2014) Movie Reaction Compilation Mashup
What is the most obscure historical fact you know?
Well the first part of this most people know about, although I have added some obscure facts about the battle that many may not know. What comes after that I don’t think many know because it is rarely talked about, but it should be known. So, here we go. I hear those Cavalry bugles blowing.
The Battle of the Little Big Horn or as many called Custer’s Last Stand.
210 men lay dead in that field including George Armstrong Custer. There were also dead cavalry soldiers, native scouts and civilians.
Many of the men in the US Cavalry were not even Americans but immigrants from different countries. And many of these died with Custer.
The US Cavalry during the Indian Wars was made up of the following:
- 57% of the men were born in the United States.
- 43% were foreign-born immigrants.
- Immigrants from Ireland made up 15% of the regiment, with 34 Irish-born men dying in Custer's battalion alone.
- 15% were from Germany
- 5% came from England with others from Canada, Denmark, France, Italy, Scotland, Switzerland, and other European countries.
- Troops who found the bodies found most of Custer's dead men stripped of their clothing, ritually mutilated, and in a state of decomposition, making identification of many impossible. The bodies had been stripped, scalped, pin-cushioned with arrows, and mutilated by Indian women venting their anger at the army, while the fly-covered corpses were bloated and blackened from three days under the summer Montana sun.
Custer was one of the few who had not been scalped (at this time he had short hair and was balding), and he was found on Last Stand Hill in a sitting position between two soldiers. He was naked except for his socks, with two bullet wounds: one in his temple and one in the left chest and the sharp points of an awl had been pushed into his ears. I myself feel that the temple shot was done by himself as he knew what was coming. Many years later, Brig. General Godfrey confided to a friend that Custer also had an arrow forced into his penis, a detail that was kept quiet to spare his widow. The dead were identified as best as the could be and buried where they had fallen.
Custer had brought his dogs with him and two of his brothers and a nephew died with him. Plus his brother in law James Calhoun also in the 7th. Cavalry with Custer.
George Custer's parents, Emanuel Henry Custer and Marie (Ward) Kirkpatrick Custer, were both alive after his death at the Battle of the Little Bighorn in 1876. Emanuel died on November 17, 1892, in Monroe, Michigan. Marie died on January 13, 1882. Just days after the battle was over, the nation’s citizens were shocked to learn of the tragedy, Emanuel and Maria Custer received official notification from the Department of the Army that not only their son George Custer was killed in the battle, but so were four other members of their family. Losing three sons, a grandson, and a son in law in that battle had to be very hard on them. I can’t imagine.
The soldiers had single shot rifles, Model 1873 Springfield carbines, which was prone to malfunction. The natives had repeating rifles such as the Spencer carbine.
Some of the horses? Strange things happened to some of the horses. One horse was found over 300 miles away from the battle site, having made its way back home. Another was found shot in the forehead, missing its rider. One was captured by the Sioux, sold, and eventually ended up in the possession of a Canadian Mountie who named it "Custer".
Lt. WW Cooke, Custer’s adjutant was a Canadian. Those Canadians always get into the picture don't’ they?
But the obscure fact few people know about is that among the dead with Custer was a Black American named Isaiah Dorman, the only black man killed in the fight. Custer hired him as an interpreter. Forman started out with the Montana Column and caught up with Custer at the Rosebud with a message and when he attempted to return to Fort Lincoln, Custer ordered him to remain with him.
According to Private Roman Rutten, ‘During a wild ride I passed Isiaih, whose horse had been shot. The black man was on one knee, firing carefully with a non-regulation sporting rifle. He looked up and shouted, "Goodbye, Rutten.”
According to a native survivor, “We passed a black man in a soldier's uniform and we had him. He turned on his horse and shot an Indian through the heart. Then the Indians fired at this one man and riddled his horse with bullets.”
Isaiah Dorman Perished with Custer’s at the Little Big Horn battle on June 25th, 1876.
Is it true that Lake Erie might eventually drain due to the movement of Niagara Falls, and how long could that actually take?
Yes.
The hard dolomite cap of the Niagara Escarpment pretty much acts as a natural dam to contain Lake Erie. Its surrounded by those rock formations on all sides, and it pretty much exists because previous glaciations dug a hole in the dolomite that a lake can sit in.
Now, Lake Ontario used to be much deeper than it is now. If you come to Toronto, you can see where the lakeshore used to be - next to what’s now Davenport Road where there’s a steep escarpment. That’s because the lake was dammed by a glacier near what’s now Kingston, Ontario. Lake Ontario used to drain south into the Hudson River valley and out by New York City.
However, when the ice dam burst, pretty much all the water in Lake Ontario formed the St. Lawrence River and the water level dropped quickly - even past its present level. Lake Ontario now drains through that valley.
And, at some point in the future, the rock layer that forms the current Niagara River will erode all the way back to Buffalo where it will meet the soft sediment of Lake Erie. This already happened once in history right here.
This is the Niagara Whirlpool. It too was once a big hole in the hard Dolomite rock, filled with water and sediment. For over a thousand years it was filled with water that flowed into the nearby Niagara Falls, north of the Whirlpool’s current location. Then all the dolomite fell away and the entire Whirlpool emptied in a single day as a new falls set up where the dolomite continued further south.
So, eventually, without the rock restricting the flow, the water from Lake Erie will essentially form a tsunami down the entire Niagara Gorge. The water level of lake will collapse rapidly and since the bottom of Lake Erie is higher than the top of Lake Ontario, all the water in Lake Erie will disappear into Lake Ontario leaving a series of rapids where the lake used to be.
The good news is that natural erosion of the gorge is slow due to water used for electricity production and it only moves back a fraction of an inch a year. It’s more likely a new ice age will cover the lake than it will erode back to the lake. In any event, it won’t happen for thousands of years even if erosion rises to historic levels.
Ritual on The Run
Written in response to: "Someone’s most sacred ritual is interrupted. What happens next?"
Nataleigh M
Fiction Science Fiction Suspense
This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.
He skidded to the hotel, put it in park, grabbed his 1911, tucked it in his coat, and got out without turning off the car. Thanking himself for wearing a suit, he tossed the keys to the valet and entered the mostly empty lobby. A few fat businessmen chatted up women at the bar. Daniel noted them and scanned the room. No one was above suspicion. At the desk, he checked his watch: three minutes left.
“One room, make it quick, please.” He handed the young girl his credit card before she could ask for it.
"O-Okay, and a name for the room, Sir?” Her hands hesitated over the keyboard.
“Daniel Fischer.”
She hastily typed the name into her computer and sprang for the key. Her eyes darted all around the lobby, and her hands trembled as she handed him his card and key.
“Room 413. Anything else I can help you with tonight, Sir?”
“Yes, someone is going to come ask for me in a moment. Tell them my room number and send them up.”
“Y-Yes, Sir. Enjoy your stay.” She replied, but Daniel was already speed-walking to the elevator.
He pressed the button to call the elevator and heaved a sigh of relief when it immediately dinged and opened. He glanced at his watch: only two minutes remained. He jumped in the elevator, pressed the button for the top floor, and, feeling it lurch upward, prepared himself for another attempt. As he steadied himself against the wall, he closed his eyes.
Five. He sucked in all the air his lungs could hold. Four. He emptied his breath. Three. His nerves were buzzing. Two. He let the breath go and felt electrical sparking all through his body. One.
Daniel squeezed his eyes shut.
Come on, come on….
And then suddenly, his head rang as if someone had used his body as a bell clapper. He could feel each blood cell rushing under his skin. Opening his eyes slowly, his mind cleared of fog, and he looked around the elevator as it came to its stop. The doors opened to the top floor.
Chin up, chest out, hands in pockets, Daniel stepped out and strolled to his room. He knew he was finally one step ahead, and it was a great relief to him after weeks on the run from hidden assassins.
Reaching the door, he pulled out the card and slowly entered the room. The lights were on. He swiftly checked each nook and cranny for hidden assailants. Deeming the room empty, he poured himself a hefty glass of tequila from the minibar. He sat in the armchair that faced the door. He unholstered his pistol and set it on the table next to him. He predicted he might not even need it when it came down to it. Years of being chased had refined his hand-to-hand combat skills. Anyway, he preferred the feeling of success he got from overcoming his enemies in the old-fashioned way. No weapons necessary.
Sipping his drink, he saw six minutes had passed and guessed he had two before his enemies arrived. That was fine; he ached for a good fight. He remembered the threat that started it all: “We know what you are." His body buzzed, eager to show them exactly what he was.
Suddenly, the door handle clinked as someone tried it from the outside.
Finally. Let’s get this show on the road.
They rapped four knocks upon the door. Daniel scoffed.
Do they think I would get up to open it for them?
And then the voice of a woman called out, “Daniel? Daniel? It’s me, let me in, come on.”
Daniel's blood turned to ice. He leapt up, yanked open the door, and saw Eve—long legs, alluring grin. A vivid memory flashed before him: their last goodbye. He couldn’t live with himself if she got hurt in his crossfire. So, he told her they couldn’t be together anymore. He had hoped to see her again one day after he had truly escaped his enemies. But seeing her now, he was more petrified than ever before.
“Dear God, you can’t be here right now, Eve! This is the worst time!” Daniel scolded her and grabbed her arm, pulling her into the room.
Confused by Daniel’s roughness, Eve retorted, “Well, sorry! I thought you would be excited to see me! I saw you walking in. Looked like you were up for company. The lady at the desk even told me you were expecting someone! Or were you just waiting for another -”
Daniel sat her on the bed and cut her off, “Oh, not that again! Not now, please. It’s not about you.”
“Oh, right! It’s about you, like always.”
“Seriously, please, keep your voice down. Now look, they are coming again.” A confused look spread on Eve’s face before she finally realized what Daniel meant.
“Oh, no. No, no, no,” Eve stood up and took off for the door, “That was enough excitement for me last time! I won’t do it again, Daniel,” her voice choked on the tears that were welling.
Daniel’s heart panged with guilt as the gravity of the situation became more real. He grabbed Eve’s arm, pulled her from the door, "Listen, Eve, I don’t want you here, but they know who you are now. It’s safer with me—" Shuffling sounded outside the door.
Daniel shoved her into the closet just next to the door and gave a low whisper, “You have to stay in here, okay? Do not come out until I tell you to.” He quietly shut the closet door and tiptoed to the armchair. Sweat drenched his suit, and his body pulsed with anxiety. Loud bangs on the door shook the room. Overcome with anticipation, he closed his eyes to steady himself. The stakes had been raised again.
Deep breath in. BANG! Deep breath out. He raised his right palm towards the door, feeling a familiar droning in his mind. He slowly opened his eyes, the air around him heavy as if it were electrically charged. Unlike last time, he felt a piercing pain at his temples, a sign that he was overexerting himself. Drawing the armed men to a halt, he knew he would not last very long and steeled himself for the battle to come.
Chicken Scaloppini
Yield: 4 to 5 servings
Ingredients
- Olive oil
- 1/2 cup chopped onion
- 4 finely chopped garlic cloves
- 1/2 cup chopped celery
- 1 1/2 tablespoon basil, or to taste
- 1 tablespoon marjoram, or to taste
- 1 (14.5 ounce) can diced tomatoes or 5 fresh seeded tomatoes
- Salt and pepper to taste
- 1 cup white wine
- 2 pounds boneless skinless chicken breasts (or equal amounts veal or peeled shrimp)
- 1/2 pound chopped mushrooms
Instructions
- Heat thin layer of olive oil in large sauté pan. Sauté onion and garlic for about 3 minutes; add celery. Sauté for 5 minutes more then add the basil and marjoram. Cook for 3 minutes; add tomatoes.
- Season with salt and pepper. Add the wine and simmer for 30 minutes on lowest heat setting.
- In the meantime, season chicken (or veal) with salt and pepper.
- Heat a thin layer of olive oil in a skillet and sauté until just browned. (If using shrimp do not saute. Just add to tomato mixture). Add meat to tomato mixture and cook until no longer pink, about 20 minutes for chicken or veal, 10 minutes for shrimp.
- Add mushrooms before serving and heat through.
- Serve over pasta.
What is Apple's biggest mistake?
Apple’s biggest mistake was that it failed to capitalise on the iPhone.
The iPhone, released in June 2007, was perhaps the most revolutionary step in a mass-market product in the history of humanity.
It took the phone from a clumsy product with a keyboard, to a beautiful intuitive one that a 3 year old could use, with an effortless marketplace to buy apps.
It was genius.
Within 10 years nearly half the planet would have a device broadly similar to the first iPhone.
It was only until March 2010 that Android was ready to ditch its keyboard with the HTC Nexus One - that’s almost 3 years later - and it was crap compared to the iPhone.
Not only that, by 2010, the iPhone had achieved 3 billion downloads and it had over 100,000 apps.
I mean, why would anyone buy an Android when it had no apps?
From this absolutely unassailable leadership position, Apple have been absolutely assailed.
But from 100% of the keyboard-less smartphone market they’ve gone down to around 10%.
Today mobiles run on Android, just like PC’s have run on Windows for 3 decades. The iPhone is a niche player in the market it once owned. And it’s going to go more niche.
Ok, fine, Apple is making US$141bn a year from their iPhones, far more than Android make. But Android have an almost monopoly position on the operating system running smartphones and soon it will dominate the app marketplace, and long-term they'll end up making multiple times what Apple will ever make.
It’s just a matter of time.
These Google guys just think so long-term…