Tagged: women

On the Ol’ “Horse Running Beside the Train in which a Horse Moves to the Front” Thought Experiment

I can’t quite remember his name with certainty, but he lived in the house with the green shutters at the tip-top of the hill. He was right across the street from the bus stop.

One day he says “If nothing can move faster than the speed of light, explain this…” Then he gives the supposedly Einstein-derived thought experiment in which you imagine a train moving at the speed of light, inside which is a horse who moves from the back of the train to the front, and then add to this scene a horse beside the train who is pacing the horse in the train.

I took his point to be the classic midwestern point of “Einstein is wrong” sentiment (falling within the broader category of “bein’ smart ain’t nuttin’”), because the horse beside the train is obviously going faster than the speed-of-light train.

But I am working through Einstein’s own The Evolution of Physics and the truth is far different. Whether the kid knew it or not (it is possible I totally misread the moment), the thought experiment is not the one Einstein proposes (at least in this book) but does capture the concept—being relativity. In short, the speed of light is the limit. The horse beside the train is not going faster than the speed of light. This is Einstein’s discovery or theory or whatever you want to call it.

As with all knowledge, it is the presuppositions that matter and the thought experiment is based on the presuppositions of mechanical physics, whereas—it would seem—reality is not. (Reality is not based on mechanical physics—at least not entirely.)

And, yes, like you, I do have a bit of “so what, Albert?” in me. But then I remind myself that the point of my reading is not to “learn to care”, but to learn so that I can call out BS when I see it.

A Short Dream and a Long Dream

What I am calling the short dream was initially not clearly a dream; this is because it happened upon waking. But the falseness of the reality I experienced has to put it in the dream category.

I awoke, as normal, to go to the bathroom. I was at work, and as you know, in a sleeping bag. The particular bag I use is a queen size (really, just two “adam and eve” bags zipped together) and so sometimes while on the twin mattress, I can get oddly wrapped up.

Keep in mind, it’s the middle of the night. And I’m tired.

So I start yanking harder at the silky outside of the bag and unfortunately I feel it tear. I finally make it out, and, glasses-less, zoom in close—in the dark—to confirm that it’s torn. Confirmed. Then the walk to the restroom and back is unremarkable.

As I am laying down to try to resume sleeping asap, I cannot help but look forward to getting a new sleeping bag. Luckily, the excitement abated quickly and I fell asleep again.

Lo and behold, in the morning there was no damage!

Obviously, to my thinking, this dream was unflattering evidence of some kind of addiction to perfectionist shopping—which I am told afflicts nearly all of us. The remarkable part, to me, was how I really couldn’t believe the bag wasn’t torn. Crazy. Moving on.

I’ll keep the long dream’s recap short.

I had pissed off an Indian I work with (feather) and he told his pals and they were coming to kill me. I knew they were coming to kill me because a really fat mutual friend, also a pow-wow Indian, told me. And this friend wanted to help me by arming me to the teeth.

The odd thing about this dream is, like the short dream, I awoke to go potty, knew that it was a dream, wanted to know how it ended, and then fell back asleep and picked it right up again! As it continued, the main action was concentrated on the fat Indian resignedly giving me all sorts of guns as I made small (and weak) talk.

I can tell you it felt real. Like I felt sick to my stomach while I was in the dream and in the bathroom over the fact that I had caused all this nonsense. I also pulled my own weapons cache into the dream and seemed to consider opening it—I’m talking about waking up and opening the gun safe—in case it wasn’t a dream. Powerful, dreams are, no?

Well, the other key feeling the dream was causing or bringing to light was a hefty resignation alongside confusion at the fat Indian’s actions because I knew I couldn’t win. Surely he had to agree, no?

This dream pulls in a lot of disparate parts of my life. The main theme, to me, obviously comes from back in college when I told the blacks that I had been hanging around that we whites told racist jokes and then inquired about any white jokes they might have that were worth sharing. Not a happy group after that. Nor unified. The ones who could take a joke clearly stopped the ones who could not from black on white violence.

Additionally, I have an Indian co-worker, who I have, this time unintentionally—I was trying to find common ground—offended. (Religion, politics, AND immigration are to be avoided at work. Also, the fashion combo of flannel and rat tails is generally not donned by hispanics. Lesson learned.)

Lastly, I am currently reading The Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant. In them, he recounts a duel and offers his opinion that he would never let anyone known he was going to kill them—if in fact circumstances led him to conclude that he needed to kill someone. Conversely, if he ever so-offended someone that he learned they were out for his blood, he would do or say, within reason, whatever was necessary to make amends. (I think there was an implied “it could only be a misunderstanding” aspect to this.) My point being that this connects directly to the “resignation” and “sick feeling” part of my dream. Implied was that I knew that a group is unconsolable (different than an individual) and so they were surely going to get their kill—even though I knew in advance.

And obviously we’re all thinking about “do I have enough guns?” all the time. Hehe.

How about you, faithful reader? Anything odd in the head movies to recount? If so, don’t be a stranger. Post it and/or comment below.

On Former Green Beret’s Access to Bombs

They don’t have any level of access greater than any of us!!

Stop being stupid, people.

The dude obviously lost his mind and when you’re out of your mind, you don’t think straight—you certainly don’t succeed.

For me to come to these above conclusions does not make me a dupe of some CIA or establishment narrative. It demonstrates that I am aware of how the world turns.

And folks’ incessant invention of conspiracy theories is more of a mind with him than with the truth. Have you nothing better to do?

The Change in Tenor

Has anyone else noticed the change in tenor?

I’m talking about, of course, the reporting about the NOLA and LV attacks.

It’s obvious to everyone but the Democrats that MAGA is replete with conspiracy theorists. Of all folks who know this, law enforcement tops the list—because they’re heavily represented in the conspiracy-theorists-who-support-MAGA group. But what I want to bring to the fore is how the actual positions of power, the ones being interviewed—the four star guy in LV—seem to be interested first and foremost in debunking all the rapidly spreading new or furtherances of the classic conspiracy theories. An unintended result of this approach, if you happen to see the same world that I do, however, may be the best result we could ask for—the truth has become the emphasis.

The truth is the emphasis. Is that crazy? Am I crazy for seeing this? And for thinking, “This is great!”?

On the Biden/Harris side of things, Kamala just attempted to hoodwink everyone into thinking she celebrated Kwanzaa—despite not being African-American or providing a single photo or evidence of any kind. Why? Because someone thought that lie would be a good idea and further some agenda.

On the Trump/Vance side of things, the police are already showing the evidence from the truck that it wasn’t a lithium battery issue—and, in fact, the truck is still essentially intact. Drive on, Tesla Nerds.

Naturally, the age old proverbs, “Don’t walk around NOLA after dark” and “Don’t be anywhere at 3am” still hold. (Don’t take that to mean I abide—just that I know that I deserve what is coming.) So no need to revamp Wisdom.

There is one other thing that I need to say, though. What exactly is the symbolism of the Tesla in front of Trump’s hotel? For my part, I don’t see it.

People, listen up. The Captain has turned on the seatbelt sign.

There are no terrorist masterminds. Our culture needs to drop that concept. Instead, I only see mushy brains particularly crafted by generations and generations of unreasoned and limitless breeding in illiterate, ignorant filth faucets whose resultant, and singular, thought is, “I must destroy other people’s shiny things.” And, reader, if you’re not with me yet, time to catch-up. My assessment is spot-on. But I need help with the solution—nothing comes to mind.

I don’t know about you, but at these moments, my anger towards all non-Western peoples seethes—to the point of splashing a few non-Western acting Americans and Europeans—namely the woke. Physically, this manifests as a head-shaking to the rhythm of, “You were supposed to thank and learn from the demi-gods who granted you access their Eden, ya morons.”

Final Thought On Gravity/Newton/Apples/Truth Before Moving On

The #1, numero uno, reason it is silly to continue repeating the account of the falling apple is that it is incomplete! It is, forget anything about who witnessed said apple, incomplete to say, “An apple falls due to the force of gravity.” Better, maybe not perfect, would be to say, “That an apple falls taken together with that the earth pulls the apple is an example of the relationship which conventionally has been termed, in abbreviation, gravity.” To reduce that sentence/concept by words or meaning is to lose any meaning/truth.

(These are for you, H-. If you’re still alive.)

On Cold Showers

It’s been a year and a half and only lately have I not held myself to perfection. I have to admit that I lost a little motivation when Wim made the news for allegedly disturbing behavior vis-a-vis his first marriage. But I still enjoy the challenge.

In the end, if I’m feeling like a warm shower, I take one. But if I am feeling like “not a cold shower!”, then I force myself to take a cold one. And cold showers all other days too.

Oh, the dread.

At the “work house” I have pleasantly avoided the dread twice now, in two distinct ways. The first time was like this. I didn’t check the faucet selector valve and so was shocked that the water came from overhead immediately. Normally there is a slight delay from “cold water – on” to “feet cold – confirm” to “here goes” to “water traveling up” to “AAAAHHHHH! FREEZING!” And this is followed by a song, often a broadway hit. So the day of this first dreadless experience, I skipped all the middle steps and went directly from “cold water – on” to “AAAAHHHH! FREEZING!” and song.

The second time happened just tonight. While I had learned a valuable lesson from that first mistake, I apparently have not worked out all possible kinks—again the work house with its rotating occupants is tricky. Tonight I didn’t think to check where the shower head was pointed and so in the aforementioned sequence went from “feet cold – confirm” to “GAPING CHEST WOUND! FREEZING” as I immediately and simultaneously shrank down to take the brunt of the impact on my skull (the preferred option) as I reached to adjust the angle of the cold demon’s barrel.

Crisis averted.

And a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS! to you, faithful reader.

God Bless the Master of this House

And Its Good Mistress too

And All the Little Children who round the table goo

And all your Kin and Kindred who dwell both far and near

We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

The Drones Are Operated By Trolls

Sometimes my wife doesn’t even have to say a word to “warm me” in the 19th century adventures-for-boys books’ sense. Anyone know what I mean?

The other night I came home from my week at work as a professional pilot and found her watching news clips on the drones. Now, any mortal’s wife who watches news clips on drones is just behaving like a woman. But a pilot’s wife who gets caught up in the story without asking her divine husband about it? That’s worse than calling a fella a liar to his face.

As I said, it warms me. No words necessary. No tumbling around necessary.

It isn’t just the disrespect which accompanies the fact that I would have some insight because it’s my job, that gets me going. It isn’t just that the people talking to the news reporters she is watching are less qualified to know anything about aviation in 2024 than I am. It isn’t just that she is the same woman who would blame my job’s schedule for most of the current and constant marital discord and yet cannot seem to piece together that “I have someone I can ask”, no. It’s that even after all the fake news and bad reporting of the last, I don’t know, 10 years, she is still willing to consider that “they don’t know what they are.”

Well, honey, they’re drones operated by trolls. And at this point I would drive out there and have a little fun with the morons, if only I had a drone.

As far as national security is related, I will tell you confidently, and not confidentially, that the only threat to national security these drones possess is revealing to the occupants of the universe that the USA is populated by morons. Unfortunately, or fortunately, we’re tops at the moment. So the threat isn’t grave. Carry on.

“Comedy in the Old Sense”, A Review of Joker: Folie à Deux, Directed by Todd Phillips

Everyone knows what a tragedy is. The word has kept its meaning through the years. The meaning of comedy, however, has not held constant. In a sense, this change is no different from how the concept of heat as substance was discarded in favor of heat as motion upon experimental data which confirmed there was a difference between temperature (strength) and heat (quantity).

Anyone know in what sense comedy was used in the past, say for such a work as Dante’s Divine Comedy? That’s right, “a happy ending.” That story has a happy ending. (Spoiler: It ends in Heaven.)

That is the sense that I mean when I chose to title this review, “Comedy in the Old Sense.” I do not mean that the film is funny.

As a family man, I do not get to the movie theater much these days, so I had to wait, like the rest of you, to watch the movie on a streaming service (co-worker’s account). So I was more than well-versed in the terrible reception of the highly anticipated film. While I would like to believe my critical eye is objective, I offer some backstory to the tardy review because I cannot deny that I came into the movie with a different mindset and much lower expectations than the World before me. Truth be told, by the time I watched it, I needed to prove everyone wrong. I needed to see the genius.

And so here it is.

The movie, unlike its predecessor, is pure comedy. As no one wanted to see that, because no one expected that, everyone missed it. Regardless of its initial reception, like the Divine Comedy, literally for the exact same reasons, I offer that this comedic work is an instant classic and will stand the test of time even more-so than Joker. Because we do like our happy endings.

Time for a proper [SPOILER ALERT]. (But I’d keep reading because the movie is better when not a mystery.)

Joker is the bad guy. And the bad guy dies.

That’s right. Good guys win; bad guys lose. That’s a happy ending, right? Well, the final scene in Joker is that a fanboy fellow asylum-mate unexpectedly (perhaps only to Arthur Fleck) kills Arthur.

Get it? From this old perspective, the first movie is a tragedy, because Joker, while arrested, clearly wins. But in the sequel, the continuation of the story, he dies. The bad guy loses—which is what happy endings require. So it’s a comedy.

If the film misses any mark, it is that the “good guy” remains nebulous. Is it Batman (meaning merely our awareness of the character since he is not in the film)? Is it rule of law in general? A jury trial in particular? Is it truth-telling in the face of fear? Is it truth in general? We aren’t really told, so it’s anyone’s guess.

That’s the broad strokes. But I want to hit some minutia for posterity’s sake.

Hollywood is messing up on casting right now (GLADIIATOR being the other major instance). Certain actors are too talented for small roles. In Joker: Folie à Deux, the problem is Gleeson. His character was fairly important to the story, but his past credits are too distinguished. The polish he brought resulted in him standing out like a sore thumb. It was all tease, no climax. Let’s not do that again.

In America’s on-going battle of the blondes, Hollywood thinks Margot Robbie could only be topped by Lady Gaga. (This isn’t criticism, just acknowledging who’s hot and who’s not—according to our betters.) This is interesting. Gaga did a perfectly fine job in the film. We probably can just admit she did a perfect job. But I’d say she risked more than she needed to on this role—even as she should be flattered beyond belief.

I recently watched Alien: Romulus as well. I am not sure why I didn’t review it—it is good. But I am very sure that the first time I saw the xenomorph appear I thought, “Man. That is so beautiful. Probably the best looking bad guy ever.” Update: after watching Joaquin Phoenix with the makeup on and hair green and charisma maxed out, I’d say it’s a tie. Joker is just beautiful. I’m telling you, keep an eye on how this movie is received down the years. We like beauty, as a species.

Let’s end on a philosophical note.

In the film Red Belt, the martial art’s instructor goes through a list of, “If you stand here, can I strike you? If you stand here, can I strike you?” Etc. This continues, of course, until he positions his student outside of striking distance and concludes, “So don’t stand here (anywhere close).”

Joker is killed by the nicest-to-him inmate (not Batman or the police or the law), precisely when/because his guard is down. I just can’t help but wonder, “WTF, over?”

Why do we hurt each other?

Been Reading Some Einstein (and Infeld)

Until you do too, or until you read Newton himself, you just need to trust me. Any chance you get, any time you hear someone associate Newton with an apple falling from a tree, stamp it out—fiercely, ferociously if necessary, but effectively in any case. Newton should be forever tied to a David-esque slingshot. In all honesty, Newton’s influence on life on Earth is probably more profound than the “man after God’s own heart.” But however your rank order of the two concludes, they are both whirling a rock around on a rope—no apples in sight. Just stop it!