From our local newspaper, in an article about how there will be fewer school bus stops this year:

Kiesha McGaughy, who lives off Sugar Creek Road north of uptown, said the bus picked her daughter up at the end of her driveway last year. Now, the stop is two blocks away.

“I went and drove to see where it was,” she said. “It was just out of the subdivision and right up the sidewalk. It wasn’t too bad.”

Not only was this mother apparently unfamiliar with a spot just two blocks away in her neighborhood, she had to drive there to find it.

This short video demonstrates some of the trail conditions we encountered on our trip. It’s kind of fun to make a video like this!

I can’t remember the last movie I saw in a theater, but thanks to the miracle of blogging, I don’t have to: it was The Da Vinci Code. That was the movie that put me over the edge. The “pre-theater entertainment” was so annoying that I vowed never to attend a movie in the theater again:

Now patrons willingly sit through up to 30 minutes of ads, plus the movie trailers themselves. There’s no way to carry on a conversation during the pre-theater entertainment, because the volume is cranked up almost as loud as it is for the movie itself. I thought I was paying the $30 to avoid commercials. Isn’t that what’s supposed to differentiate movie theaters and regular TV? It’s certainly not the picture or sound quality anymore: the pre-theater entertainment is presented in regular old HD video, and the movie, though a standard film print, was so degraded and scratched that I actually would have preferred to watch it at home on my own, non-HDTV.

I’ve watched quite a few movies since then, but none of them in the theater. Have I missed the theater experience? Not at all. I haven’t even especially missed the old theater experience, with the sticky floors, the soft Muzak playing in a hushed room before the film starts, and the modest five minutes of film trailers.

What I have missed — just a bit — is participating in a shared experience. Not the experience at the theater, mind you, but the experience of having watched a movie that “everyone” has seen, like Batman Beyond, or some of the Oscar nominees. Hollywood has still managed to get to me with its hype machine on new movies. Per Anne’s comment, I’m kind of interested in seeing Tropic Thunder, to see what all the fuss is about. But I still don’t think it’s worth paying to sit through all that crap before the movie starts.

No, thank you, I can wait for DVD, or pay-per-view, or our newest toy, the Netflix Player. This little gizmo has already paid for itself several times over — I love the option of watching a movie right after I choose it, instead of having to wait several days for it to arrive, if I remember to place it at the top of my queue, and if I happen to be in the mood to watch one of the DVDs I ordered last time and haven’t gotten around to watching. In reality, it’s usually at least two weeks between the time I put a movie on my Netflix queue and when I actually watch it. By that time, most of the time I’m wondering what I was thinking when I requested it. Even though most of the movies available for the player aren’t very good, I can almost always decide on a movie I want to watch right now.

I’m less interested — so far — in the Apple TV. The rentals available for this device haven’t even caught up to pay-per-view. The selection isn’t as deep as the Netflix player (by my count, about 1,500 titles are available), and most new movies never get released to rentals. Though Apple has a better selection of movies for purchase, I’m not interested in buying movies. I watch them once, and rarely ever again. Nope, not worth paying $230 for another way to pay for movies. If they increased their rental selection, and maybe decreased the price of the box a little more, I might be on board, but not until then.

But the main point about movies is that there are so many ways to watch them now that I really haven’t missed going to the theater at all. I still don’t have HDTV, but I find my big-screen TV purchased over ten years ago to be nearly as impressive as most theater screens — and I always get the best seat in the house.

On day five, things began to cool down. A few clouds had rolled in overnight and we had a bit of rain. Still, the morning was sunny as we began the “iffy” part of the trip, where I had never been before and we were uncertain about trail conditions. We were told that a three-mile stretch of the trail hadn’t been cleared of dozens of trees that had fallen after a recent fire and windstorm. The ranger thought it would be okay for hikers but not horses. Since we hadn’t picked up any horses in the previous four days, we thought we’d be all right, but there was no way to know for sure. Sure enough, after a couple miles on the trail, we started to encounter trees. We decided to count how many we had to clamber over or around. At first the trees were infrequent, maybe every quarter-mile or so. But then they started coming in fours and fives, sometimes stacked on top of one another. It was easy to see how it would have been difficult for a packhorse to negotiate, but we didn’t have too much trouble. Here was a typical section, 70 or 80 trees in:

After a few miles of this (and 122 trees!) we ran into the trail crew working on clearing up the mess from the other side. It was a group of six college-age kids, perhaps on a summer work project. They were eager to talk to us, and interested to hear that we’d soon be heading up another trail they’d already cleared. I was surprised to see that they didn’t have chainsaws — just old-fashioned two-person handsaws and a couple axes. They told us there was good swimming ahead at Hidden Lakes.

As it turned out, the lakes were a little disappointing. The water was indeed warmer than it had been at Cathedral Lake, but there wasn’t a good place to access the water — we had to descend a steep gravel slope and negotiate some thick reeds to get to the lake. Just as we arrived, the sky clouded over, and swimming didn’t seem so appealing. But the idea of partially cleaning off some of the filth that encrusted our bodies superseded worries about being too cold, so we hopped in. It would be two days before the clothes we were swimming in dried off!

After our swim, we headed towards our next trail: the Tatoosh Buttes trail the crew had cleared the previous week. Although they had cleared it, they hadn’t taken care to mark the trail junction, where apparently the old sign had burned off in a forest fire. We walked right past it. Fortunately we soon figured out we had missed a turn, and slowly backtracked, looking for any sign of a trail. We found it, unmarked, and obscured by undergrowth in a marshy area. The only clue there was really a trail was that the crew had indeed cleared out a fallen log about 30 yards in. After we left the marsh, the trail became more distinct, and we became more certain that we were on the right trail. We had to climb about 1600 vertical feet to where we expected to find “gunbarrel camp,” which was clearly marked on the map. But as we climbed, the forest became progressively more charred. Would there be anything left of the camp? Would there be water? We stopped at a creek to collect enough water for dry camping, just in case. Eventually we did manage to find a flat spot to camp, with a small fire ring. Could this be the place? We decided to stop. It was a beautiful, if gloomy, meadow where dismal husks of trees overlooked optimistic flowers:

Flowers always seemed to be the first things to grow back after a fire. We’d been through a few burned areas, and in only the most recent burns were we not surrounded by flowers. Here’s a shot Nora took of me heading up the butte the next day, in an area that had been spared flames: (more…)

We did see a fair bit of wildlife on our hike (Nora took all the wildlife photos). We called these critters “pygmy marmots” but I think they’re actually ground squirrels:

This chicken-like thing (pheasant?) was surprisingly amenable to having its portrait taken:

On day three we camped in a water-free meadow above the Ashnola River. We could still see Cathedral Peak almost ten miles away. Here’s a picture I took at sunrise:

Next we began the long descent of the Ashnola valley.

We could see exactly where we were headed — 2,000 vertical feet down to the bottom, then up along the creek that ascended the other side — 2,000 vertical feet up.

(more…)

One of the most memorable experiences of my childhood was a 120-mile hike I took with my dad when I was fifteen. We started on the shores of Ross Lake, on the western slope of the north Cascades in Washington and hiked eleven days, across the Pacific crest, and east into the Pasayten Wilderness, the largest wilderness area in the lower 48 states. Even though we nearly ran out of food and had to walk an additional 20 miles down a deserted highway at the end of the hike before we could catch a ride to the bus station in Omak, it was an amazing experience. Here’s the one photo I have from the trip. I don’t think we even brought a camera; the picture was snapped by Dad’s cousin as he dropped us off on the East Shore trail.

Don’t laugh — those velour shorts were the height of fashion back in 1982!

I thought it would be fun to repeat the trip with Nora, now that she’s the same age as I was when I did the hike. However, we had to make a few changes in the itinerary. Several of the trails Dad and I took 26 years ago were impassable due to recent fires and windstorms, so the closest approximation of the route was a 90- mile trip. We also didn’t want to have to hitch a ride at the end, so we got my sister to help us deposit a car where we would finish, at Hart’s pass, and then drive us to the trailhead in Eastern Washington, where Dad and I had finished our first hike. Here’s the picture Lisa snapped of us as we set off:

I wonder what Nora’s son or daughter will think of this photo 26 years from now!

The hike started in what would become a theme for us: a burnt-out forest. At least it afforded good views of the surrounding forest:

As you can see, it was a gorgeous sunny day:

After a few miles we arrived in the beautiful, expansive Horseshoe Basin:
(more…)

A few months ago, for some reason, I googled World’s best taco. I guess I was thinking I’d find a restaurant review, or maybe raves about a taco stand somewhere in L.A. But instead the top results were all recipes. The number one result back then has now settled to number two. A recipe would be even better than a restaurant, because I was pretty sure the world’s best taco stand wasn’t going to be within driving distance of Davidson, N.C.

What the heck, I thought, why don’t I try this recipe? It seemed easy enough. Here’s the link to the recipe, which was apparently the debut post on a short-lived blog called “God Damn Yank.” Even better, the recipe calls for “a really cheap cut of beef,” which meant I had very little to lose.

I made the recipe with just a single modification. Instead of using store-bought taco shells, I pan-fried my own in a little vegetable oil. MUCH better than store-bought — just cook them flat until they get slightly crispy, but not so crispy that they break when you fold them in half. For toppings, I used cilantro, guacamole, sour cream, and chopped tomatoes.

These tacos came very close to their billing, and we’ve had them several times since then. So, last week, we decided to try again on another food — macaroni and cheese. We came up with this. This blog is actually still being updated, so maybe the recipe would be even better!

Unfortunately, the recipe wasn’t nearly as good as the tacos. We’ve made better mac and cheese on our own, using a lot less heavy cream. Not that Mac and Cheese is supposed to be a healthy recipe or anything, but if you actually prefer a slightly healthier version, I don’t think “world’s best” applies.

So currently the Google “world’s best” rating system is batting about .500. I wonder if the first recipe was just an anomaly, or if there’s a chance of finding other great recipes in the same way. Or maybe I should create my own “world’s best recipe” — I can cook a mean Fettucine Alfredo!

In 1977, at age 10 (!) my stepbrother and I waited for hours in line at the one theater in Seattle that was showing Star Wars. I’m still a little shocked to realize my mom let me go downtown by myself on the bus to hang out in a marginal neighborhood and watch a silly space opera. But she did, and we did. I came home and told her all about it. “It sounds kind of violent,” she said to me. “Besides, who would want to wait in line to watch a movie? In a few weeks, the lines will die down and you’ll be able to walk right in!”

Right, I thought. The lines will die down, there will be no one there, no one will cheer when the Death Star blows up, and the experience will be ruined. Old people just don’t understand.

Fast-forward 31 years. People are standing in line as I write this, hoping against hope that the iPhone of their choice will still be around. Already, hundreds, perhaps thousands of hopeful iFans have been sent home disappointed, the store in their area sold out of the most popular models, or even sold out of every model.

My reaction: It’s the same as my mom’s, 31 years ago. I simply can’t understand why there’s all this excitement over a phone. What’s more, most of these die-hard fans already have an iPhone, which is capable of an upgrade and nearly all of the same features as the new phone. Just like my mom, I wonder why these people can’t wait a few days, or a week or two at most, for Apple to get the kinks out of the distribution system and get iPhones to everyone who wants one.

You’ll have your phone for at least a year or two. What’s a few days, more or less?

I must be old.

After reading Declan Butler’s shocking report about the impending doom of PLoS, I became very concerned about the future of non-profit organizations in America. As Butler rightly points out:

Since its launch in 2002, PLoS has been kept afloat financially by some US$17.3 million in philanthropic grants. An analysis by Nature of the company’s accounts shows that PLoS still relies heavily on charity funding, and falls far short of its stated goal of quickly breaking even through its business model of charging authors a fee to publish in its journals. In the past financial year, ending 30 September 2007, its $6.68-million spending outstripped its revenue of $2.86 million, according to the publicly available accounts.

My goodness! PLoS has received $17 million in grants! This is obviously a signal that things are going badly for the revolutionary open-access publisher. They’re resorting to handouts! When a charitable organization continues to earn the respect of more and more foundations, increasing its bottom line year after year, it’s clearly a sign of impending doom!

But what of the other esteemed organizations in America? If doomsday is nearing for PLoS, then perhaps other non-profits may soon suffer the same fate. I took a look at Harvard University’s most recent annual report, and just like PLoS, I saw the same worrisome signs: Of Harvard’s $3.1 billion in expenditures, a mere $657 million came from student revenue such as tuition, room and board. Just like PLoS, Harvard is looking for handouts. For example, a whopping $641 million came from government and institutional grants.

Even more troubling, this represents an increase over the $634 million in grants Harvard received the year before. Just like PLoS, they’re getting more and more handouts each year.

But even that doesn’t cover Harvard’s expenses — Harvard has had to dip into investment income and even its endowment assets for another $1.4 billion, and it’s needed to resort to charging rents, student fees, and charging for access to its intellectual property to cover the rest.

Clearly this demonstrates that Harvard is in dire circumstances, just like PLoS. Don’t let Harvard and PLoS’s impeccable reputations fool you. When granting institutions and other donors want to give non-profits large sums of money, it’s a sign of their inevitable decline. Fortunately we have private institutions like Nature, the University of Phoenix, and DeVry University to take their place.

Day 3 of our hike began much as Day 2 had ended — a misty, buggy walk along a creek, and yet another ford — the longest, deepest ford of our entire hike. We were pros at this by now, so we handled it with no problems:

Almost immediately after this ford, we started heading uphill:

Yes, Nora is on the trail. If it looks like she’s walking straight up a small creek, it’s because she is. For the next four miles, we hiked straight up a very rocky, very steep creekbed — about 3,000 vertical feet. Sometimes we could see that the trail makers had made an attempt to keep the creek separate from the trail, but it was no use. We had to hop over large rocks with water trickling between them for the entire ascent. When we finally arrived at the top of our climb, we had only about a half-liter of water. We had been so close to water for three hours of hiking, that we forgot to refill our bottles. Now, at the top of a ridge, there was no water to be found.

No matter, I thought, the trail took us down another creek on the other side. I thought wrong. Actually it was another three miles before we finally reached Bear Creek — thankfully all downhill. I vowed never to let that happen again.

It was at this point that Nora and I realized that we hadn’t seen another person for nearly two full days. And we were in the nation’s most “crowded” national park. Would we see anyone when we arrived at our campground, near the lake at the bottom of the mountain range? We still had several miles to go before we found out, but thankfully the trail followed an old road. It even looked like the road was still passable for motor vehicles. A mile or two down the road, Nora spotted the most curious site we’d seen yet on this hike:

What intelligent beings had traveled this route before us, creating this magnificent structure, the likes of which we’d never seen on this hike? It was constructed entirely of wood, and was sturdy enough to walk across! Why, it appeared that some advanced civilization had engineered a structure capable of conveying a human across a creek without getting her feet wet! Brilliant! We called this miraculous construction a “bridge.”

Other wonders were in store for us: Soon we arrived at the campsite, where we saw other humans, sitting on a device made of wood and metal, with a flat surface suitable for supporting dishes or even cooking implements, oriented at just the right level for optimal usage. We called this contraption a “picnic table.”

We speculated that a civilization advanced enough to create a bridge and a picnic table might also have invented a small private room with a storage chamber for depositing human waste, but alas, this was beyond this civilization’s technological capabilities. We had to get rid of our waste the old fashioned way (by the way, that post is the first result on a Google search for dump woods).

At this point, at the bottom of the Smoky Mountains, we were 4,400 feet below where we started. We were within a half mile of the lake you could see in the photo we took on Day 1, but we were too exhausted to go check it out. We slept well that night.

The next morning we awoke before dark, anxious to get started on our last, most difficult day of hiking. It would 11 miles of straight uphill. Actually, it was first about 3 flat miles, then 8 miles of straight uphill. But it was hard.

About 9 a.m., well into our climb, we started to pass through some sunny patches and decided to stop to put on sunscreen. The trail angled across a steep hillside, so that when we looked straight to the side at the trees downslope from us, we were seeing branches 30 feet above the ground. I took off my glasses to put sunscreen on my face.

“Isn’t that a bear?” Nora asked.

I looked at a tree not more than 30 feet away and saw a brown furry lump clutching to its trunk, even with my eye level. “Yes! That’s a bear.” Even though I can barely see 5 feet in front of me without my glasses, I could clearly recognize what I was looking at.

“It’s a baby!” Nora said.

“Where’s its mother?” we both thought, but didn’t say.

“We better get out of here,” I said. You don’t want to get between a baby bear and its mother. We hastily threw our packs on, without even putting the sunscreen away. I slipped my glasses on in time to see the bear finish its equally hasty climb to the base of the tree, looking back at us as fearfully as we were looking at him. He was a baby–or an adolescent–but he was still bigger than most dogs. He moved quickly away from us, down the hill. We moved just as quickly in the opposite direction. It was an astonishing, beautiful sight, but it was closer than I’d ever wanted to get to a baby bear in the wild.

We trudged on up the hill, and this time I would make sure we got plenty of water before we reached the end of the creek we were following. The afternoon portion of the hike would have no water — we’d be hiking along the top of Forney Ridge. The trail veered off from the creek and I wondered for a while if I’d again waited to long before replenishing our water supply. A quarter mile later, we reached water! But this was the “stream”:

Notwithstanding Nora’s goofy expression, this was really where we were going to have to get the water supply for the rest of our day. By trudging 20 yards or so downstream, we were able to find a place where the water trickled over a large stick. I could just squeeze our frying pan underneath it, and the pan filled with clear water. We pumped 5 liters through our filtration system and hiked on.

By lunchtime, we arrived at the final junction, where the Forney Ridge Trail branched off from the Springhouse Branch trail. We had hiked 6.6 miles, and our maps told us there were just 4.5 miles left. The sign said something different: “Clingman’s Dome, 5.9 miles.” “FIVE POINT NINE?!?” we both shouted in disgust. Why did both of our maps say 4.5? Which figure was correct? At this point, it was academic. We’d have to hike whatever trail there was between here and our car. 11.1 miles, 12.5 miles, what’s the difference? The Forney Ridge Trail, whatever its length, stood between us and modern plumbing, air conditioning, and ice cream.

On this trail, we expected to see day-hikers who walked down from Clingman’s Dome, but we saw no one. We arrived at Andrews Bald around 4 p.m., just a mile and a half from the parking lot, with a spectacular view of the mountains. No one. We were getting just a little tired at this point:

View? What view? I want ice cream.

An hour and a half later, we arrived at the parking lot. We hadn’t seen a soul since we’d started uphill. Now we were treated to a guided tour of obese america, as unfit families waddled up the quarter-mile paved path to the top of Clingman’s Dome, stopping at the conveniently placed park benches every 200 feet. We had carefully left a gallon jug of clean water in the car, to wash our feet with before heading to the restroom to change into clean clothes. It was a hot day, but we hadn’t realized how hot. The water was so hot that it was painful to use even for foot-washing. Fortunately there was a cool water-fountain at the edge of the parking lot, a welcome relief since we’d actually drank all 5 liters of water on our hike.

We changed, then got a tourist to snap our photo. We don’t look half bad, given what we’d just been through:

I believe that’s Forney Ridge to the left in the photo, and if you look carefully, you can see the lake where we’d started our hike in the distance.

All that was left now was to hop into the car, drive down to Cherokee for ice cream, then on to the Fuddrucker’s in Asheville for hamburgers, and finally home.

I just got back from an intense hike in the Smoky Mountains. Without further ado, here’s the report.

Here’s me and Nora at the start of the trip, in the Clingman’s Dome parking lot, where probably a hundred tourists have parked to make the half-mile ascent up the paved path to the highest point in the park:

But there’s a bit of a story for how we got there, which I recorded in my journal later that day:

Not a bad day of hiking — went about 5 mi. without any incidents other than a couple bone-headed wrong turns.

The first one happened at 6:30 this morning. We had gotten off to a smooth start, and pulled into the IHOP for our traditional pre-hike breakfast, when I realized I didn’t have my wallet!

U-turn, drive 15 mins back home, get wallet, change mind about IHOP and head to Denny’s.

We also took a wrong turn getting into the Smokies. The town of Cherokee, NC, gateway to the Smokies, didn’t see fit to place a sign on the turnoff into the park. A confusing map compounded the problem.

There was one more wrong turn in the parking lot since the trail we wanted to take wasn’t marked.

This cost us a half-mile, straight up the concrete path to Clingman’s Dome, the prime tourist attraction in GSMNP.

Once we were on the trail, things went swimmingly — it just took a while to get there.

Here’s a picture of Nora once we finally made it onto the right trail:

And here’s the two of us. It was a beautiful, sunny day:

… and here are the Smokies, all by themselves:

You see that lake, way off in the distance. That’s where we would be in two days. But first we needed to spend the night in the Siler’s Bald Shelter. A pleasant evening, and a decent night’s sleep, thanks to a new 2-inch thick pad that was my one luxury on the trip. Here’s a photo of the two of us getting ready to hit the trail the next morning, snapped by one of our shelter-mates:

Here’s what I said about Day 2 in my journal:

So today wasn’t all miserable, contrary to Nora’s proclamation. I mean, sure, the bugs were swarming in vast quantities, seemingly undeterred by the fact that we’d practically bathed in DEET.

There really were some charming and inspirational moments today.

Okay, so we had to ford something like six creeks in less than a mile, carefully removing our boots and donning Crocs for the crossing, then repeating in reverse.

So we finally got so frustrated by this that we resorted to hiking in our wet Crocs, squishing our way down the trail between ford after ford, in a ridiculous promenade that Nora took to calling the “Croc walk.”

And here’s some documentation of the Croc walk:

Don’t let this seemingly lovely creek fool you. It was a bear.

(click on the picture for a bigger version). Honest, this creek was incredibly annoying.

Here’s Nora on a crossing:

And here’s a movie of a crossing. Honest, it really was annoying:

Ford

Here we are after a crossing:

Yech. And my journal entry goes on:

So we were so harrassed by the devilish, nameless insects that hovered three inches from our faces. So it was like we were trapped in the back seat of a station wagon with half a million older siblings.

Despite all this, we still got to see and do some things that many people in this country never get to do. We walked over eight miles without seeing another living human.

We saw flowers so perfectly formed that we first thought someone had spilled a box of plastic cake decorations.

We saw a millipede four inches long and half an inch thick, and several other gorgeous, almost primeval centipedes and millipedes.

And we arrived at 3:30 p.m. to a beautiful (if still somewhat buggy) campsite, next to a roaring creek, and it looks like tonight, we’re going to have this whole place to ourselves.

More about the hike soon…

Last time I checked, the phrase “courtesy of” indicated that an item had been provided by its owner.

For example, unless I was being ironic, if I stole a candy bar from the grocery store, I wouldn’t say “this Snickers Bar courtesy of Food Lion.”

So it amuses me when people borrow images and / or text from Cognitive Daily without our permission and then “credit” us with “courtesy of Cognitive Daily.”

This means you, ArsTechnica!

Here’s a neat idea that is obviously fake:

With the help of a GPS device and DHL, I have drawn a self-portrait on our planet. My pen was a briefcase containing the GPS device, being sent around the world. The paths the briefcase took around the world became the strokes of the drawing.

Update: Heh. I was right. Now he’s got a disclaimer up on the site. But I don’t have the venom that some commenters on the Wired article about the project do:

This guy is no “artist”, he’s a graduate from the Beckman school of advertising in Stockholm. He did it as his final-year project, together with DHL.

Lighten up, dude. It’s a neat idea. You’re just jealous that you didn’t think of it first.

Is it just me, or are airline seats not quite what they used to be? Here I am, on board a flight to Chicago, and like a good citizen, I make sure my seat back is in its full, upright position when the plane is taking off and landing.

What’s more, as a relatively big guy, I know that reclining at any time can be quite uncomfortable for the person sitting behind you. Not only does it often make the tray table completely useless, it reduces knee-room to near-zero. It can make a tolerable trip into a three-hour exercise in mental discipline. Depending on the flight, sitting behind a reclined seat can be as uncomfortable as a Guantanamo-style stress position.

And maybe I’m the only one who feels this way, but reclining in a coach airline seat isn’t actually any more comfortable than sitting upright. The chair only leans back a couple inches — just enough that it’s a strain on your abdomen to read a book or work on a laptop, but not enough for a real rest. Given the tremendous discomfort reclining inflicts on fellow passengers, it just doesn’t seem worth it. So I make every effort not to recline.

But that’s becoming more and more difficult, because the “recline” mechanism in nearly every airline seat I’ve occupied in the last few years has been broken. Sure, you can bring the seat upright, but any time you try to sit back in your seat, the chair begins a slow, inexorable crawl to the reclined position, much to the discomfort and annoyance of the person sitting behind you. My seat’s doing it right now. On previous flights, I’ve even had flight attendants chew me out for not putting the seat in the proper position for take-off and landing.

No, I want to say, I’m not one of those passive-aggressive nimrods who doesn’t think the directions apply to me. I’m not a clueless first-time flier who can’t figure out how the seat works. It’s your damned plane that’s borked, not me!

But of course I say none of that, because I don’t want to sound like a holier-than-thou “road warrior” either. I also don’t ask for the whole can of soda when you’re handing out drinks, and I don’t wheel and deal with other passengers to get an aisle seat closer to the front of the plane.

So what is it about plane seats? Can’t the airlines afford to keep the ordinary, everyday “recline” mechanism functional? Apparently not. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I heard an “airline expert” interviewed on Terry Gross, and he said that airlines were cutting pretty much every nonessential out of their flight service these days. Heck, American says it’s about to start charging $15 apiece for checked luggage. Maybe I should just be excited that United hasn’t yet stooped to that level.

In some ways, the old-fashioned “perks” of air travel like bringing along your things and sitting in functioning seats are beside the point. I say that in all seriousness — really it’s all about the destination. When I was planning this trip, I didn’t say to myself, “I’m looking forward to my flight to Chicago.” I was looking forward to being in Chicago, not getting there. That hasn’t changed much from even the “golden age” of government-regulated air travel.

The New York Times has an article about how the Internet advertising industry is looking to place fewer fancy interactive ads. Hmmm… I wonder why that is. The article has a lot of theories:

“The new advertisers are more cautious about requiring some sort of proof or evidence that something is working,” said Paul Iaffaldano, executive vice president and general manager of the Weather Channel Media Solutions. Existing clients, he said, are continuing to spend, just not at the same pace.

So advertisers want to be convinced these ads are actually working before they spend money on them. Makes some sense. If I was an advertiser, I’d be going even further. Maybe advertisers ought to consider trying to read a web page that’s been crippled by an advertisement. Maybe they should try to read a 12-page article that takes 30 minutes to load because of those fancy interactive ads. And maybe they should consider how easy it is for readers to install software that blocks those annoying ads.

You know, I never minded discreet advertisements peppered even fairly liberally around the web pages I read. I figured if I was getting the web page for free, the least I could do was to peruse the ads. But when the latest crop of ads started making web pages load slower, I installed adblock and never looked back.

I’d be interested to see statistics on how many people use ad blocking software. I wouldn’t be surprised if the upturn in adblocking software mirrored advertisers increasing disinterest in fancy ads that disrupt readers’ browsing experience.

I’ve been tagged by Scott Spiegelberg to do the following:
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

Making up the Mind by Chris Frith

Group D: 8,950 women without breast cancer, and with negative mammography.

Group C is the 9.6 percent false positive: P(X|~A).

So the screening gives a positive result in 950 women who don’t have cancer and only 100 women who do have cancer.

I actually haven’t even read this book — Greta read it. It looks like a neat one though. I’m going to break rule number five, though. If you read this post, consider yourself tagged.

Here.

I scored 25 out of 34. If you know your fonts (which I don’t), it’s not that difficult. Usually two of the answer choices can be eliminated right away (hint: It’s not Comic Sans).

I like PZ Myers, and I enjoy reading his blog Pharyngula. I think the whole Expelled fiasco was hilarious, and, like Jake Young, I think PZ is basically right to object to Matt Nisbet and Chris Mooney’s characterization of the episode as a win for the creationists.

But this is just stupid. Only a tiny portion of religious folk actually believe anything resembling it, so why alienate them with crap like this?

Evolutionists argue all the time that creationists don’t understand the science. When evolutionists do the same thing, shouldn’t creationists rightly get upset about it?

Of course, PZ can put whatever he wants on his blog, but I don’t think posting cartoons like this is going to do anything for the cause of science — or atheism, for that matter.

Wow. I’ve kept this blog up for four years now. Who’d a thunk it?

It’s been quite a stretch, and some would say the peak years of this blog are behind it. I certainly don’t get the kind of traffic I got a couple years back, but of course, I’m a little sidetracked these days, what with CogDaily and now ResearchBlogging.org.

All this has gotten me thinking. Am I really blogging any less than I did four years ago? This stacked line graph gives you a pretty good idea of my productivity over the past four years:

As you can see, things haven’t actually changed that much. Other than my warm-up year in 2005, year to year, I’m good for right around 500 posts. It’s just that now those posts happen to be distributed over three different blogs.

What will the future hold? For now, I’d say Word Munger will probably continue at about its current rate of roughly 100 posts per year. I’ll probably ramp up the blogging here during the summer vacation season, with ups and downs as I get more or less busy in the other parts of my writing life.

I’d venture a guess that Word Munger is probably in the top 1 percent of blogs in terms of longevity and number of posts. Higher if you count the number of posts written in complete sentences (excepting this one, of course).

But maybe next year I’ll look back at this post and wonder what the hell I was thinking.

For the record, here are links to past Blogiversary posts (there wasn’t one last year):

2005
2006