Youtube comments of ZGryphon (@ZGryphon).
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Ah, Thomas, my old friend. I wrote my undergraduate thesis in history on Midgley, years ago. One of the things that turned up in my research was that a number of Midgley's contemporaries, including members of his family, believed his death was not accidental, but a carefully engineered suicide prompted by despair over his condition. (Not, as some have speculated since, remorse over his inventions. There's no evidence he ever saw lead as anything other than a necessary evil, and no one on Earth had the slightest idea CFCs were anything but a harmless miracle until decades after his death.)
As an aside, the beneficial aspects of leaded gasoline during Midgley's lifetime weren't only economic. TEL led (as it were) to the development of high-octane fuel, particularly for aviation use, by American oil companies, which gave aircraft on the Allied side of World War II enormous performance advantages over their opponents. For example, the average octane rating of the gasoline German fighters had to settle for was about 65, as opposed to 100 or more for the RAF and U.S. Army Air Forces fighters they were up against after 1941. (By comparison, even the lowliest pump gas sold in the US today is in the mid-80s.)
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Ah, brake cleaner, or as my father the hobbyist mechanic calls it, "cut finding spray".
The subject of this video brings back fond memories from my misspent youth. I worked in an ISP network ops center where we had a lava lamp (to pass the time on the overnight shift, I guess). Once at the weekly NOC staff meeting, the manager chewed us out for misusing severity zero in the trouble ticketing system. Severity zero was for the worst problems, real future-of-the-company's-at-stake stuff, and someone used it for something that wasn't, causing the ticket system to page the manager at home in the middle of the night for what he didn't consider a good enough reason.
That night about 10:30, the bulb in the ops room lava lamp burned out, so I performed the required lockout/tagout procedures for failed electrical equipment, opened a severity zero ticket for it (complete with all the troubleshooting steps and a recommended course of action, which was for senior personnel to get a purchase order and buy a new bulb at OfficeMax), then escalated it to the manager for good measure. The next afternoon when I got in, the lava lamp was fixed and the ticket was marked, "Repaired per recommendation," and closed by the manager. He never said a word to me about it. :)
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Many years ago, the small-town newspaper I worked for assigned me to do a feature article on local WWII veterans for Veterans Day. One of the men I talked to, let's call him Harry, was part of the occupation force in Japan after the war. His job was to go around the countryside interacting with local leaders (the equivalents of town mayors and the like), trying to find caches of resources the IJA stashed for the invasion that never came so they could be distributed to the public. He had an English-Japanese phrasebook provided by the Army, but he usually worked through a translator rather than use it.
One day, while talking with a mayor-type he was getting along with particularly well, Harry decided to use the phrasebook and ask him a question directly, so he looked up what the phrasebook said was a respectful way of asking directions to the restroom and painstakingly read it out phonetically. There was a pause while the mayor and translator stared at him in amazement, and then the mayor burst out laughing. (Harry told me it was the first time he'd seen a Japanese person laugh.) When he could speak again, he explained through the translator that what Harry had just asked him was phrased in the most familiar, vulgar way possible--the equivalent of "Hey buddy, where's the sh*thouse in this dump?"
Sixty years later, he was convinced that whoever wrote that phrasebook for the Army did that on purpose. He never tried to use it again.
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When I was a kid in the late '70s, my parents still had one string, ancient even then, of C9s that were painted instead of made from tinted glass. They got even hotter than the tinted-glass kind. Like, lose-your-fingerprints hot. That was also back in the days when Christmas lights were wired in series, so when one bulb burned out, they all went out, making finding the dead one an incredibly tiresome process. Luckily, I had a nightlight that used the same size bulb, which my father would commandeer as a bulb tester. Ah, nostalgia.
In retrospect, it's really kind of amazing how terrible those old light sets were. Between that and pre-polarization appliance plugs, it's a wonder anyone survived the 1960s.
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To expand on the "belt type" concept a little: The ancient console humidifier I had in the '80s didn't have a belt, as such, but I could see how the system it used could have been set up to have one instead of the rigid structure mine had.
This is going to be a little wordy, since I'm trying to describe something that would better be shown in a picture, but basically, the water reservoir had a vertical rotating drum in it, kinda like a miniature Ferris wheel--the one in mine was about, say, 80% of the machine's height in diameter (it was about the same size as your modern woodgrain unit) by maybe eight inches wide. The edge of the drum was covered with an absorbent plastic wool material, sort of like a softer Scotchbrite. It would rotate slowly through the water at the bottom, and then the rotation would bring the wet part in front of a fan mounted at the top; this would cause the water caught in the absorbent material to evaporate, and the rotation of the drum would then carry the dried-out part back down into the water.
So, same basic principle as the console unit you have, but it got the water from the reservoir up to the fan by mechanical means. The capillary-action wick thing in modern units seems like it's basically the replacement for that arrangement, probably dreamed up in order to eliminate a moving part.
On the plus side, the surface of the drum being constantly dried out again by the fan meant that no given patch of it ever stayed wet long enough for anything to grow on it (as long as the machine was running), although the water reservoir did still need treatment to keep it from getting manky. We had a bottle of stuff kind of like you would treat a fish tank with, which you were supposed to throw a capful of in the tank whenever you refilled it. It would run for about a day on any sane setting.
On the minus side, it had that extra moving part, and eventually the mechanism to turn the drum wore out in mine, causing a shrill bad-bearing noise that made it unusable in any room where someone was trying to sleep, and really annoying anywhere else. Hence, I suspect, why they don't make them that way any more.
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Data point: In the northern half of Maine where I live, we don't have a natural gas pipeline network, so most of us are burning No. 2 fuel oil delivered by truck, either in forced air systems or, as in my 100-year-old house, boiler-radiator systems. A few avant-garde types (like my father) are using propane out of cylinders instead, like you, and of course there are the holdouts who still burn wood, and those pellet stove wackos, but fuel oil is still by far the most common choice in these parts.
Hot water systems are still pretty common as well, although that's at least partly because central air is pretty uncommon in private homes. It's only hot enough to need AC for about six weeks a year, anyway.
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So, at first, I wanted to call this device The Bowdlerizer, but then I decided that, in honor of the era it comes from, it should be dubbed the PearlClutcher 2000. (The modern HD version is, of course, the Pearlclutcher 5000, because camelcase is no longer "in", and for some reason marketers skipped right past the 4th and 5th millennia after "2000" ceased to be futuristic.)
My favorite bit of TV censoring from that era has to be from the network broadcast edit of On Golden Pond, in which Jane Fonda's character's declaration that "my father is a goddamned poop" has the "god" muted out, but not the "damned". It's doubly funny because "poop" is in the original line, not a redub!
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I "remilitarized" my grandfather's M1903A3 Springfield (well, technically Remington) deer rifle a couple years ago, but not to try and make the rifle worth more. I did it because when he gave me the rifle before going into assisted living (where he wouldn't have been allowed to keep it), he mentioned that he wished he hadn't sporterized it. So in my case it was more about doing the detective work, and then the work work, to undo one of an old man's regrets, if that makes any sense. In a case like that, or just as a project for fun, I think it's worth doing. (As a financial proposition, it feels more like fraud, but maybe don't go by me.)
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I remember seeing a BBC documentary about utility usage in the UK, some years ago, which showed the havoc that happened (and probably still happens) in England's electrical grid control center every weekday. At... I forget the exact time, six or seven in the evening, a certain popular TV show ends, at which point everyone who was watching it simultaneously switches on their electric kettle. Power dispatchers sitting at their consoles watching the show themselves, so they know the exact moment the credits start rolling and all hell breaks loose. Pumped storage plants being dumped in France to help meet the demand spike in the West Country. Complete pandemonium for five or ten minutes, every weekday at 5:59 PM or whenever it is, and then by ten past six or so it's all over and everything's working normally again.
Household HVAC trends on a slightly less precise timetable, admittedly, but that's what the pattern reminded me of.
In terms of lowering overall demand, I think it's time we, as a society, explored the possibility of using usage patterns to identify digital-currency mines and then launching cruise missiles at them. That option should be fully tested before ordinary citizens start letting utility companies adjust our appliances for us.
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My favorite thing about the Warspite story, ignominious as her end was, is that she broke her tow on the way from Portsmouth to Scotland for scrapping, ran hard aground off the Cornish coast, defied all efforts to pull her off again, and had to be scrapped in place at enormous expense and in full view of a jeering public, to the monumental embarrassment of both the Admiralty and His Majesty's Government. It's as if the old lady said, "So you think you'll just discreetly send me off to the knacker's yard and save yourself a few bob, do you, Mister Attlee? Oh no, dear boy, I think not." :)
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"What Browning had come up with was a gas port in the barrel here, which blows gas downward, hits this cap, which throws this lever down in this circular arc, which hits the bowling ball and sends it rolling down the ramp, where it falls into the bucket, which pulls the rope down through the pulley, which lifts the cage with the chicken in it at the other end of the rope, the chicken pecks at this tray of seed, the flint attached to the chicken's beak hits this steel plate and makes sparks, that ignites the priming powder, which sets off the counter-charge that drives the bolt backward, and that cycles the gun. Hiram Maxim had a different take..."
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"I think it's worth pointing out that this is, in fact, objectively the INcorrect way to hold a pistol." Epic.
As Ian describes him, Joe Hale reminds me a bit of Malcolm Bricklin, whose eponymous '70s car company was basically the prototype for DeLorean (gull wings doors, massive government grant scams in a place where no reasonable person would build a car factory, and all), and who then went on to found YugoCars, Inc., the company that imported the Zastava Koral to the US, badged as the notorious Yugo. Mind you, Bricklin also founded Subaru of America, so, y'know, stopped clock twice a day and all that. But the whole "super-confident serial entrepreneur who lurches bombastically from disaster to disaster" thing sounds very similar.
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I remember back in the '80s, my own small New England town's fire department justified the purchase of a massive ladder truck by pointing out that though the tallest building in town is only three stories, it's three high-ceilinged 1920s stories, most of the basement is not actually underground, and it's set well back from the road on all sides, so if you ever had to get someone off the roof, you'd need around 150 feet of ladder to do it.
Mind you, what they really wanted to do was renovate the bay doors of the fire station. The town council denied the funding to do that, so they bought a truck that, when it arrived, turned out--oh dear, would you look at that?--not to fit through the doors. Well, you can't expect us to leave this multi-million-dollar investment sitting outside, can you?
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"Mr. George Bemis was dismally formidable. George Bemis was our fellow-traveler. We had never seen him before. He wore in his belt an old original 'Allen' revolver, such as irreverent people called a 'pepper-box.' Simply drawing the trigger back, cocked and fired the pistol. As the trigger came back, the hammer would begin to rise and the barrel to turn over, and presently down would drop the hammer, and away would speed the ball. To aim along the turning barrel and hit the thing aimed at was a feat which was probably never done with an 'Allen' in the world. But George's was a reliable weapon, nevertheless, because, as one of the stage-drivers afterward said, 'If she didn't get what she went after, she would fetch something else.' And so she did. She went after a deuce of spades nailed against a tree, once, and fetched a mule standing about thirty yards to the left of it. Bemis did not want the mule; but the owner came out with a double-barreled shotgun and persuaded him to buy it, anyhow. It was a cheerful weapon—the 'Allen.' Sometimes all its six barrels would go off at once, and then there was no safe place in all the region round about, but behind it."
- Mark Twain, Roughing It (1872)
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My house doesn't have a water heater as one usually pictures them, which puzzled me the first time I ventured into the basement and didn't see one anywhere. It has oil-fired hot water baseboard heating, and the domestic hot water comes from a holding tank connected to the main heating loop by a heat exchanger, so that you're not showering or making dinner with the same water that's been going through the radiators. It's the only house I've seen set up like that (although I'm sure there must be plenty of others, it's not like the heating system here is some kind of one-off handmade custom rig).
Also, to be fair to Thomas Midgley (about whom I wrote my undergraduate senior thesis in history, as it happens), "As far as we know, it's harmless" was also true of Freon in his lifetime. His other most famous invention, lead tetraethyl... not so much, admittedly.
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I always wondered what those chrome squares on film cartridges were for, but never had a piece of equipment that actually used them. Somewhere around here, I've got my mother's old Minolta SRT201, on the back of which is a table for translating DIN film speeds into ASA. That camera has automatic nothing, so I assume all the ASA knob does is set the internal light meter's expectations, but it's been a very long time since I used it, so I can't remember for sure.
Wasn't there a fancier incarnation of computerized 35mm cartridges, right before film cameras stopped being a Thing for the mass market? I seem to recall TV commercials where Kodak was predicting they would be the Next Big Thing, at almost exactly the moment when the Next Big Thing was obviously digital.
Also, when you showed your first camera, it made me nostalgic for mine, an Instamatic X-15. Good ol' square-frame 126. I can still remember the smell of spent Magicube™ flash cubes.
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@BDNeon Caliber, yes--exact chambering, no. There are a lot of cartridges that use the same diameter bullet, or close enough. For example, say you mike a mystery gun's bore and it's within a few percentage points of nine millimeters (or 0.36 inch, if you're working in US units). That could be 9mm Parabellum, sure, but it could also be 9mm Largo, or 9mm Steyr, or 9mm Glisenti, or 9mm Ultra, or .380 ACP (aka 9mm Short), or .38 ACP (which is not the same thing as .380 ACP). or .38 S&W, or .38 Special, or .357 Magnum, or... well, you get the idea.
Granted, some of those are going to be more likely than others depending on the type of gun--a semiauto, for instance, is unlikely to be chambered for .357 Magnum, although it has been done, and practically nobody ever used 9mm Ultra besides a handful of West German police--but even so, bore diameter usually can't tell you enough to make a safe assumption all by itself.
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Late to the party, just wanted to note that it's Mechanic Falls, Maine, not Mechanicsburg. (Named for the falls on the Little Androscoggin River, on which the mill that was the original reason for the town was built.)
Maine has an oddly rich history of peculiar tinkerers coming up with novel and interesting ways of doing things that were ultimately unsuccessful in the marketplace. The Stanley brothers and their steam-powered cars come to mind. Oh, and a chap called Hiram Maxim, but he did rather better than most on the marketplace side of things, possibly because he'd had the sense to decamp to Europe first.
("Never mind your electrical gadgets, Maxim--if you want to get rich, invent something that enables these Europeans to slaughter each other more efficiently," or words to that effect. :)
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@AmityPost Most SI units are named after scientists, that's just how the system's naming convention works (the exceptions are older, inherited names like those of the metre, second, and mole). Thus, the SI base unit of temperature is the kelvin (after the 19th-century physicist William Thomson, Baron Kelvin), not the degree, even though it does have the same magnitude as the degree Celsius.
(Also, omitting "degree" indicates to people in a position to care that a kelvin temperature is absolute, i.e., not relative to any arbitrary scale, unlike degrees Fahrehnheit and Celsius, but that's only genuinely useful information in a very small number of cases.)
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The particulars of the lithium-7 miscalculation are worth keeping in mind, too, since the problem perfectly illustrates what happens when very well-educated people get cocky and overlook things. The physicists were asked by a layperson if all that extra lithium wouldn't be a problem, and they scoffed because the poor fool didn't know enough nuclear physics to understand that the excess was a different isotope that wouldn't decay into fusible tritium when it absorbed a neutron like lithium-6 did...
... completely failing to realize that, in the first microsecond or so of the explosion, the primary fission reaction was going to be throwing out such an astronomically dense neutron flux it would cause the lithium-7 to fission (and in the process simultaneously add more tritium to the fusion reaction and throw a ton more neutrons at the uranium tamper). That's three fission reactions for the price of two, plus a bigger fusion yield and more complete fission of the tamper thrown in for free. No wonder the overall yield was triple what was expected.
I've seen it suggested that the Soviets ramped back on the Tsar Bomba specifically because of the Castle Bravo fiasco, having realized that if they set it up for what they expected to be 100 Mt and it unexpectedly tripled on them, it might crack open the planet like an egg. (OK, that's probably a dramatic exaggeration, but hey, who the hell knows what an explosion that big might do? A few of the people working on the Manhattan Project were worried that even the Trinity device, which was a firecracker by 1950s standards, might set the entire atmosphere on fire and wipe out all life on Earth.)
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I had a 1968 Pontiac Tempest in high school; it drove very similarly to the way you describe the 1990 Century experience. It had an enormous 400-cubic-inch V8 in it--the Tempest was the car the GTO evolved out of, after all--but in the four-door Tempest sedan it was a very sleepy 400-cubic-inch V8. One of the things I liked to do was floor the accelerator at the top of an Interstate on-ramp. There would be a palpable pause while the bridge crew telegraphed down to the engine room for full power, the two-speed automatic transmission would gird its loins and drop into Low, and... well, nothing much would happen, really. There would be quite a lot of noise, which gave the pleasant illusion of great speed, but by the merge at the end of the ramp the car would still only be doing about 50 miles per hour. :)
(Also, World War II bombers had less body roll in a tight turn, if "tight" is a word that can reasonably be applied to any '68 GM car's turning radius.)
I loved that car. Still regret being compelled to sell it after graduation, and that was, oh... a long time ago. Before the dark times. Before the Empire.
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I have a textbook from a "history of technology" course I took as an undergrad which includes a reprint of my second-favorite magazine advertisement of all time. It's from sometime in the 1910s, I think, and it shows a lady vacuuming a parlor using one of the newfangled electric vacuum cleaners... which is connected to the light socket in the ceiling, because as you note, that was clearly a perfectly reasonable thing to do in those days. :)
Anyway, I wish I had switched outlets in this place. Instead, in order to get LAMP to work from somewhere within reach of where I'm likely to find myself in the dark, I have to use those things that are like extension cords, except they don't actually extend the outlet, they just have a switch at the other end of the wire. The house probably needs to be completely rewired, but who the hell has that kind of money? Not me, that's for sure.
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The high school in Bethel, Maine, is called Telstar Regional High School, because it's in the district serving Andover, where Telstar 1's US ground station was. A bit oddly, the school was founded five years after Telstar 1 went offline, but fortunately, the station was also capable of servicing other satellites (including later-generation Telstars), so the name was stll current.
(Fun fact: Andover Earth Station is still operational today, although sadly, the giant antenna it used to communicate with the early Telstars and RCA Relay satellites was torn down in the '80s.)
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Mr. Wonderful OK, here's an example: the 1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham. Electric seats with memory, electric door locks, electric windows, electric radio antenna, automatic headlights with automatic hi-beam dimming (under the delightfully 1950s trade name "Autronic Eye"), cruise control, pneumatic suspension, all-transistor radio with automatic signal seeking... $13,000+ at a time when the median income was around $3,700. Sure, all of that stuff generally kept working for no more than a year or two, but in 1957 that wasn't the point. :)
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There is a fascinating book out there called Japan's Decision for War: Records of the 1941 Policy Conferences, which is a collection of minutes and transcripts of high-level policy meetings within the Japanese government in the year leading up to the war, translated and edited by Japanese scholar Ike Nobutaka. It's long out of print, having been published in 1967, but I tracked down a copy a few years ago to use as a primary source in my first graduate-level history paper. "Magical thinking" is an apt phase, because that is literally what was in play in a lot of cases. Any time someone with some sense brought up an obvious problem, like the fact that Japan had an oil-burning navy and no sources of oil, the war hawks (usually in the person of Prime Minister Tōjō) countered that they'd come up with it "somehow" and everyone else seemed perfectly satisfied that that was... you know, a plan in some way. To read those transcripts is to see serious, professional policymakers visibly believing in the Easter Bunny.
(My personal favorite moment in any of the meetings is from the May 22, 1942 Liaison Conference (a conference of high government ministers that was not held in the Emperor's presence, as opposed to an Imperial Conference, which was basically the same thing but with the Emperor in the room), during which Foreign Minister Matsuoka Yosuke answered a simple question about diplomatic preparations for the pending operation against French Indochina with a long, elliptical rant about the need to take action against Britain and the United States. At the end of this rant, Navy Minister Oikawa inquired aloud of the room at large, with Matsuoka sitting right there, "Is Matsuoka sane?" ... and no one had an answer for him. That is some next-level shade.)
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This one cuts close to the bone for me. I grew up in northern Maine, where one of the constant presences in the life of my hometown was the Bangor and Aroostook Railroad. I was working as a reporter for our local newspaper in 2002 and covered the B&A's bankruptcy, as well as the following year's acquisition of its assets by Rail World, which organized them into the Montreal, Maine & Atlantic. A year or so after that, the MM&A invited me to their maintenance and repair depot to cover a visit by some technicians from one of Rail World's other subsidiaries, Baltic Road OÜ in Estonia, who were there to be trained on the care and feeding of some ex-B&A locomotives that RW was transferring to their road.
While I was there, being familiar since childhood with the way the B&A had done things, I was struck by what a slender shoestring the MM&A was operating on by comparison--and this was as the successor of a railroad that had gone bankrupt. The decline in both standards and the means to meet them under the new ownership was heartbreakingly obvious. The article I ended up writing did not please the new management, and I was never invited back. That suited me fine; I was too fond of the B&A's memory to want closer association with its walking corpse, and that's pretty much all the MM&A was. Nobody around here who knew the railroad's history was surprised by Lac-Mégantic. Appalled, yes... but not surprised.
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For many years here in the US state of Maine, the weight limit for 18-wheelers was 80,000 pounds on the Interstate (per federal regulations), but 100,000 pounds on state highways. The practical effect of this was that virtually all trucking companies routed their lines in Maine onto state highways, despite the fact that they're virtually all two-lane, opposing-traffic, non-limited-access roads passing through populated areas. To the best of my knowledge, this didn't lead to a disaster on the scale of the one described here, but a lot of smaller accidents happened that didn't need to before the state finally secured a waiver allowing it to extend the 100,000-pound limit to the Interstate.
(This has had its own problems, most prominently the fact that, since the Interstates were engineered for the 80,000-pound limit, they're all rutted to hell now, which makes driving on them in rain and snow a real treat. The smart thing would have been to lower the limit on state highways instead, but that would have cost some state legislators' constituents a few bucks, so that idea was never gonna fly.)
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I used to have a '77 Chevy pickup that gave me exactly this sense of calm liberation. It had 250,000 miles on it and had been painted an odd sea green by a previous owner, despite its black and maroon vinyl interior. No body panel on it lacked some sort of percussive deformation. The passenger door worked only intermittently. (I think the truck had been rolled at some point and the door frame on that side no longer lined up quite right. On hot days, when the metal would expand, the door wouldn't open.) The tires were four different brands. If anyone had ever stolen it, he would have decreased his net worth. But it ran fine, it could pass state inspection, and that was all that mattered at that stage in my life.
Once, a kid bashed his E-class into the side of it in an icy parking lot at UMaine, and once he backed his car up away from it, I literally couldn't tell where he'd hit it. He'd just sort of... rearranged the dents. (And of course his car was fine, because carelessly driven Benzes always are. :) The truck was still working perfectly well when I eventually passed it along to a younger relative who was even poorer than me.
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As I believe the young people say these days, "Weird pivot, but OK." :)
(OK, it's more of a tangent than a pivot, and an interesting one at that, but still.)
Sadly, the specificity of this subject area does not cover the greatest cigarette packet I personally have ever seen, which was for a South Korean brand called THIS PLUS. They have a truly bonkers cover design including a picture of a whale, a starry sky, and the motto THE SEA HATES A COWARD, which is just... (chef kiss)
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This one is particularly fascinating to me, because it lights up (as it were) a lot of old memory fragments that I hadn't thought about in years. Got me properly nostalgic.
Many years ago, I had a mid-'60s VW Beetle that had a big red illuminated knob on the dash for the hazard lights. Pull it, and the right turn signals would come on. Then you'd signal a left turn with the stalk, and presto! Four-way hazard flashers. I'm not sure whether that was the intended behavior--I suspect not, as that car had a number of strange electrical habits--but that's how that particular one worked.
Also, I remember when I was a kid (back in the days of thermal flashers), it was very common for hooking up trailer lights to cause hyperflashing. I assume that had something to do with the fact that the trailer light connectors were almost always aftermarket and had usually been installed by the owners, who were generally the kinds of guys who thought they knew how to do stuff like that but really didn't. :)
Also also, the bit at the end with the Bolt drifting out of phase reminded me of grade-school-age me noticing the fact that the aircraft warning lamps at the tops of the local radio station's AM and FM transmitter towers did that. They would look like they were in sync for a few flashes, then drift into a weird syncopation, then they would seem to be exactly opposed for a while, and so on. Endless fascination, for a child of a certain bent of mind.
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It often is--or, well, if not strictly a typo, definitely an error. Detective fiction, especially in translation, falls victim to Fantasy Gun Syndrome a lot. (In particular, for some reason, the people who translate French police procedurals, e.g., Simenon, seem to think that "revolver" is a synonym for "handgun", as when a character is specifically described as carrying a "Browning 1903 revolver".)
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Ah, the Luger. I had one of those Mitchell Arms P-08 repros in stainless steel for a while back in the late '90s. It was beautiful! Gorgeous to look at, extremely well-made, with exquisite machining and an air of solid, precise quality about it. And in all the time I had it, it never, ever worked. :)
Seriously, I don't think I ever got it to fire more than two rounds in a row without malfunctioning in one way or another, even after going back to the (very courteous and apologetic) manufacturer for an overhaul. This is, I'm guessing, why you don't see those around much any more. Certainly it's why I no longer have one. In hindsight, I should probably have demilled it and hung it on the wall as an art object, because it really was beautifully made.
Anyway, Luger memories. One of these days I'll get myself a proper one...
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+EisenKreig I know, right? And one with a detachable magazine, to boot. I can almost see the idea behind a magazine cutoff for something that's a hassle to unload and reload, but with a box magazine, if you don't want to use it, surely you could just take it out . But no, this is the British Army, the same organization that issued a rifle with a detachable magazine at a time when that was a revolutionary innovation, then forbade the men to use it properly. They just didn't get magazines, is what I'm saying.
(I know, if you took it out you might theoretically lose it, and if British generals of the early 20th century were confident of anything, it was the utter stupidity of the men who served under them. So there's that.)
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Speaking of interesting, charismatic, but not particularly rare or expensive guns, I recently acquired an Ortgies, which (for those of you who may not know) is a smallish pocket auto made in Germany starting just after WWI. It's in 7.65mm (also known as .32 ACP) and has the oddest safety I can recall encountering on an auto pistol. Otherwise unremarkable (except that it's oddly heavy for its size), but well-made and comfortable if you don't mind using a genteel pinky-out teacup grip. Well worth the $300 worth of other stuff I traded for it, just for its "huh, I never saw one of those before" value. Also, I am required by Federal law to add, "An Ortgies was mentioned in a short story by J.D. Salinger, you know." :)
(Which reminds me - Ian, I sent you a YouTube PM a bit ago offering the loan of the Ortgies sometime if you have any interest in doing an FW item about it, but I have one of those weird pre-Google YouTube accounts and I'm not sure PMing from/to those even works, so I may as well mention it here too.)
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Passing thought on the "odd territories" question: At that time, Newfoundland wasn't part of Canada, having declined to take part in Confederation in 1869 (it didn't join until 1949), but that didn't stop the 1st Newfoundland Regiment from sending around a thousand men to fight in the war. British Major-General Sir Henry de Beauvoir de Lisle proceeded (spoiler alert - this happens next year) to get most of them killed at the Somme. The Regiment (somehow) recovered, however, and so distinguished itself the following year that it became - and remains! - the Royal Newfoundland Regiment.
That's a somewhat more substantial offering than the theoretical "a couple of guys" in the question, admittedly; quite an impressive showing for a dominion with a total population comfortably under a quarter-million, in fact. As a potentially interesting aside, before the Somme they were the only North Americans to fight at Gallipoli, and somehow managed not to take terribly heavy casualties there.
Edited to add: Also, in re aerial navigation, remember that IFR stands for I Follow Roads and VFR stands for Visually Follow Roads. :)
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I think I mentioned this in the comments for the episode on Erich Maria Remarque, but it bears repeating here: Another excellent book on the poilu's life is Henri Barbusse's "Under Fire" (originally published in French as "La Feu"). Like "All Quiet", it's a novel heavily infused with memoir by a front-line soldier; unlike both "All Quiet" and Barthas's diaries, it was published while the war was still going on, in 1916, as an attempt to show the people behind the lines what was really going on up there - and it's worth noting that Barbusse, like Barthas, was not impressed by what was really going on up there.
One of the reviews on the book's Amazon product page describes Barbusse's take on the war as "more a cry of rage than a consistent argument," which I would accept as a fair analysis. The book is brilliant, but crushing, and it must have rustled more than a few jimmies in the rear area.
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As a sort of control group, I, like my father before me and his father before him, have traditionally opted to do neither of those things and just... let it ride. Maybe because the summers are so short in these parts (like the old joke goes, Maine gets nine months of winter and three months of poor sledding), we've never had a problem with the leftover fuel going off during the off-season. This is not a confident assertion that fuel stabilizer doesn't do anything; it is merely a data point. :)
(Then again, my snow thrower is much more elaborate than that one, with two... possibly three?... augers and a tracked drive system, so it has an electric starter. A person would have to be nuts, or at least way beefier than I am, to try to cold start that old beast with the pull cord. So maybe that's better at getting the engine going with stale gas? I dunno.)
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Oh cool, I just re-watched the Mandalorian Bergmann episode a day or two ago and though, "Huh, I wonder what happened with that 'guns of Star Wars' thing he mentioned wanting to do." And here it is! Super cool.
I've always (well, since I was old enough to consider these things, anwyay--the movie did come out when I was four, after all) suspected that there were so many WWII guns in the first film because it was shot in England, where movies about WWII were a major export for decades. It's nice to have that old pet theory confirmed. People forget nowadays that, unlike the more modern ones, the original Star Wars wasn't made on the kind of budget that could build a decent-size ocean liner.
I love that the stormtrooper blasters have shoulder stocks when they're wearing armor that would make using a shoulder stock impossible. I suppose that's why they never, ever unfold them. Probably some enormous kickback to the stock subcontractor, we all know how stupendously corrupt the Imperial military-industrial complex was. :)
APPENDICES:
A: Being That Guy dep't: The Ruger Mk II wasn't out until 1982, so Greedo's blaster must be based on a Standard (retroactively Mk I).
B: Protip for would-be DL-44 replica makers: Start with a Denix C96 model. There are conversion kits out there that are specifically designed with modding a Denix in mind. Adam Savage has a video on the Tested channel about building one (in which he determined that the prop they used was originally made for an earlier movie, one starring Frank Sinatra as an assassin, if memory serves).
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In re the cost of early prerecorded videocassettes: I'm old enough--just--to remember when they became available to rent. At the one store in my town that offered them (which was a pharmacy, of all things, in its "day job"), they took the act of renting the tapes out more seriously than they did renting out the machines to play them. You could rent a VCP (not R, because not capable of recording) by the week and with no deposit, but the contract for renting the tapes read like a criminal indictment. May the gods themselves help you if you don't bring it back after one night, and if anything happens to it, even they won't be able to intervene. They wouldn't even consider selling you a copy, even used, because then they'd have to get another one to replace it in their own inventory, and it wasn't in the operating budget.
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The thing about the Google real-time translator app made me giggle uncontrollably, because it brought back memories of the InRange video where Ian tried to use it to figure out what the hell the food in a Russian MRE was. "This is... With Beef. Salt Ouch With Beef. It might be Spicy Pond."
The web version of Google Translate may be better than the inline mobile one, but it's still got a long way to go. Some languages are better than others. For instance, any romance language and the Germanic ones usually come out pretty well, but translate any passage of Japanese longer than two or three words and holy cow. It's 1980s VCR instructions all over again.
In other matters, I confess I have a Judge (actually I have two, because, amazingly, Taurus partnered with Rossi to make a carbine version of it), but I wish to place it on record that the Internet had nothing to do with that decision. I simply saw the handgun version in a shop one day and thought, "That is ridiculous. I must have it." :) The carbine naturally followed once I found out that they had made one, because who doesn't love a revolving carbine?
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I admire your forebearance. I'm not sure I have it in me to be calm and polite to someone who's been shooting at me. Hopefully I'll never have to find out...
Back in the mid-'90s, I was at an indoor range north of San Jose, California--not quite in Silicon Valley, but quite near it--when a group of people from Toshiba came in. And when I say Toshiba, I mean all of them except the unfortunate young woman acting as their tour guide were from the corporate mothership in Tokyo. They were all middle-aged executives who were over for some kind of conference at a local branch office, and they had demanded to go shooting as their post-conference Recreational Activity.
For background, I should note (on the off chance that there's someone reading this who doesn't already know) that firearms are very heavily regulated in Japan and have been since the end of World War II, but they are also hugely popular in Japanese pop culture. These guys had probably never handled or even seen a handgun in person before, but they were all very excited to try them out and clearly reckoned they'd already learned everything they needed to know from gangster movies. They were terrifyingly incompetent and having the absolute time of their lives. Those of us who were there when they arrived just sort of cowered in our lanes and hoped the dividers were sturdier than they probably were, because these guys were very excited and had no conception of "keep your muzzle downrange".
Amazingly, they didn't manage to shoot anyone, but after gently admonishing them about their behavior (through their absolutely mortified local office employee, who was acting as interpreter) several times, the range master had eventually had enough of their nonsense and threw them out. In fairness, I have to say they took it well. They gave the impression that they didn't quite understand what they had done wrong, but knew they had offended the management somehow, and left politely, without a fuss.
Postscript: I'm pretty sure the range master got a date with their tour guide before she herded them all back to the van. :)
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@Panda-cute In fairness to the Highway Division, the whale in question was already dead when they blew it up. It had beached itself and died some days before, and the authorities were worried that it would present a hazard to the public as it decomposed, but they also had no idea what to do about it. Pushing it back into the sea wouldn't help; the surf would just push it right back onto the beach. There were fears that if they dug a hole in the beach and tried to bulldoze the carcass in, it would come apart and make an even bigger mess.
The decision to use dynamite was based on the (faulty, as it turned out) assumption that the whale would be essentially vaporized in the blast, and the remaining pieces would be small enough for seabirds to eat. In the event, all they managed to do was shower the beach and the crowd of curious onlookers with chunks of rotting blubber, one of which was big enough to crush the aforementioned car (which was parked quite some distance away). By blind luck, nobody was seriously hurt, but when the smoke cleared, most of the whale was still right where it had been, only now blown open--an even bigger mess than they were hoping to avert.
Strangely, it only occurred to anyone that they could burn the carcass until after they'd tried to blow it up. The next time they had a beaching along that stretch of coast, a few years later, that's what they did (and the local authorities got a different agency to do it).
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If I had one of these, I would propose it to ATF for premature inclusion on the C&R list, reasoning: it's rare, it's interesting, and nobody who wants one wants it for actually-being-a-gun purposes. "Any other firearms which derive a substantial part of their monetary value from the fact that they are novel, rare, bizarre, or because of their association with some historical figure, period, or event." I submit to you that this qualifies, gentlemen.
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Pish-tosh, dear boy and/or girl. In the days when cartridges like .455 Webley and .577 Spencer were developed, the English still scorned the metric system as so much subversive French claptrap. Rather, a lot of early cartridges and their descendants use peculiarly sized bullets because they were developed to be used in converted muzzle-loading firearms, which historically had bore sizes based on all sorts of arcane systems of measurement. Sometimes, as with the modern .38 Special cartridge, they don't even have bullets of the actual diameter mentioned in their names, because of the weird evolutions their ancestors went through in the mid-1800s.
Somewhat related to the above, the gauge of a shotgun barrel is--hang onto your hat for this one--the number of spheres of that barrel's inside diameter you can make from one pound of lead. So, for instance, a 12-gauge (or "12-bore" if it's a rifle, though rifles that big aren't really a thing any more) has a barrel of a diameter such that 12 lead balls that size would weigh a pound. Hey, it made sense to English gunsmiths. :)
(.410 is the outlier there, in that even though it's a shotgun cartridge, the number refers to a nominal bore diameter in decimal inches, so technically ".410 gauge" is incorrect.)
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I wonder whether the film/tape split in BBC productions (MPFC, original-formula Doctor Who, et al) was less noticeable at the time of original broadcast, since UK TV broadcasts were at 25 FPS, only one off from the usual frame rate of film. The difference is pretty noticeable in 30-FPS NTCS transfers of vintage Doctor Who episodes, and I would assume is startlingly obvious in any HD remasters of same. I mean, you'd still have that hard-to-quantify difference in "feel" between the two, but the frame rate disparity in the original sources would be better hidden.
Also, in re the post-production having to be re-done for an effects-heavy show whose live-action photography was on film: this was recently done to the 1990s HBO series From the Earth to the Moon, which was reissued on Blu-ray to commemorate the 50th anniversary of Apollo 11 last year. (The necessity for it is also the reason why there probably won't be a Blu-ray release of the Director's Edition of Star Trek: The Motion Picture, since they spent a huge amount of money to re-make a bunch of the effects shots in that film... for DVD, only a couple years before HD formats came along. D'oh!)
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I was in an unfamiliar town for a conference a few years ago, walking back to my motel from the venue, when a pair of enormous pit bulls came out of a doorway up ahead of me at the end of one of those Y-shaped double leashes. They spotted me and immediately raced over, tongues flapping, eyes rolling, dragging a very flustered young woman behind them, to... sniff my jacket pockets for treats. Unfortunately, I didn't have any, so they ate my arms. Just kidding, they were the friendliest dogs I've ever seen in my life. Their owner was mortified at the way they slobbered on my pants and jostled me around, competing for scritchy time. She kept trying to apologize. Like, for what? It was the most fun I'd had all week. :)
Edit: forgot to note, they were really pretty, too. One had brown-blue heterochromia and they were both that shimmery silver color, like Weimaraners.
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Hey, I had an '84 Oldsmobile Toronado that had those fender-mounted turn signal indicators on it. That car was not quite as ridiculous as a '77 Eldorado--American luxobarges had gotten a bit smaller by 1984--but it was still pretty hilarious. For instance, it had velvet seats. Not just cloth; velvet. I kid you not. It also had a speedometer that only went to 85 mph, which was, I can assure you, considerably less than the car's actual top speed, even though Oldsmobile somehow found a way to extract only 170 horsepower from a 350-cubic-inch V8. Ah, the 1980s.
Oh yeah, also, if anyone's curious: the lamps on the C-pillars of these and other '70s/early-'80s luxury cars are called opera lamps (not to be confused with opera lights, which are the little windows next to them). They're a callback to the similarly placed windows and lanterns on the sides of the fancier sorts of horse-drawn coaches. (In a similar vein, that style of half-vinyl roof is called a landau roof because it references the folding tops on landau coaches.) My Toronado had those, too.
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I think it was that starry-night headliner, when it originally appeared in a Rolls-Royce concept car some years ago, that made Jeremy Clarkson declare that if they put it in a production car, they'll have to call it the Rolls-Royce Vulgarsonic. And, well, if anybody should know what makes a car vulgar...
(Mind you, that particular concept car also had a light-up translucent Spirit of Ecstasy, which was akin to the time IBM ran full-page magazine ads touting that their latest model personal computer was, and this is a direct quote, "stoked with truly phat software." Stop trying to be cool, Grandad, it's agony. :)
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As these results make pretty clear, .455 Webley is a significantly lower-pressure cartridge than .45 ACP--which means if you find one of the Webleys that had their cylinders shaved, you should think twice about throwing .45 ACP through it. Keep in mind that, though they remained in service into the 1960s, these guns went out of production in 1924, so the absolute newest one out there is 101 years old...
(Also, while I have my No-Fun OSHA Guy hat on: though it's undeniably cool as hell, popping a top-break open one-handed like that is much like flipping the cylinder on a modern side-swinging revolver--if you make a habit of it, over time you'll bend things.)
Other notes: They did make speed loaders for the Mk VI back in the day, but they're quite rare nowadays, since they weren't a very popular item. They were expensive, and most officers figured if you needed more than six rounds out of your sidearm, your day had gone irretrievably wrong by that point anyway. They also made bayonets for them, believe it or not. Also insanely rare and expensive now, although I think there are some crappy reproductions floating around.
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You may be interested to know that most of this car's odder features--the funky repeater lights on the fenders, the hinged wood door pulls, and that yellow trunk button in the glove compartment, just to name three--were on my very first car, a 1984 Oldsmobile Toronado, so they were neither unique to this model of Cadillac nor particularly new in '89.
In re the power output, it's worth keeping in mind that the air conditioners in those cars probably used up at least 40 HP before they ever reached the dyno. :)
Also, as an aside, my favorite thing about The Penalty of Leadership is that, for no readily conceivable reason, every sentence begins with a pink pilcrow. Why? Not only is that normally a non-printing character, it indicates a new paragraph, which is clearly not happening there. Did the person who designed the manual just think it looked Old-Fashioned without knowing what it was for? That wouldn't surprise me much, come to think of it.
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So... Mercedes-Benz has its own in-house crazy performance shop, AMG; AMG has its own in-house even crazier performance label, Black; and now M-B has its own in-house mondo-luxo shop, Maybach.
This means it's only a matter of time before we see a Maybach AMG Black version of something in their product line, and it will be this deeply schizoid thing that's trying to be Stripped-Down and Brutal and Ultra-Luxurious at the same time. Carbon fiber seats that are 15 mm wide but upholstered in baby seal leather. Automatic electronic everything but carpets made from recycled Tyvek homewrap to save weight. 250,000 horsepower, 275,000 torques, steering wheel controls for absolutely everything (except track advance, which still won't be on there), but no door pockets. Reclining heated massaging rear seat, but only one of them, and no front passenger seat because no one ever sits there anyway. Starts at €5 million.
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Wow, now that lights up an old memory track. When I was little, my grandparents ran a restaurant, and they had a pair of giant coffee percolators, one for regular, the other for unleaded decaf. The one they used for regular was the bigger of the two, and could probably make something like five gallons of coffee at a time. When it was running, instead of the little "perk perk perk" noise a normal one makes every second or two, it would sit silently for ten or fifteen seconds and then make this terrifying harrrrumph, like an elephant public speaker clearing his throat. As a very small child, I was quite frightened of this device. I used to try to time my passage through the dining room so that I wouldn't be right in front of it when it went off.
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When I was a kid in the '80s, I went a couple of times with my father to a junkyard that was about half normal junk cars and half vehicles from World War II. Deuce-and-a-half trucks, jeeps, command cars, halftracks, demilled Sherman tanks, DUKWs, you name it. The guy who ran the place bought a trainload of stuff at the end of the war, put it in the woods out back of his service station, and just sort of... left it, except for one Sherman he kept running to drive in the Fourth of July parade every year.
Sadly, he died around the turn of the century, and I think I remember reading that his heirs scrapped everything in the place and sold the land to housing developers. There was a lot of pressure from the state government to close down and clean up old-school junkyards around then, anyway.
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