Welcome to February, and happy 139th birthday James Joyce!
Groundhog Day is a cross-quarter day, halfway from solstice to equinox. I think of the quarter days (solstices and equinoxes) as being pivot days for heat, and cross-quarter days as being pivot days for light. So it starts getting really cold in late December, but it takes a while for you to truly notice that the days are getting longer. It takes, roughly speaking, until now. Groundhog Day can be celebrated as the return of the light. It’s still cold, but from now on winter is fighting a losing battle. It’s on its back foot. You can only go halfway into a tunnel. After that, you’re going out of it. That’s where we are. Heading out of winter.
In a somewhat larger sense, we might say that we’re on our way out of a number of unpleasant ordeals. We’re still in the tunnel. But hey! Breathe a little easier. We’re on the way out. The light is returning.
A new form of manufacturing is finally bearing fruit. The old form of manufacturing is the assembly line. The very phrase “assembly line” is synonymous with rapid and efficient manufacturing. But soon we’ll do much better. The funny thing is that the new form of manufacturing is the most ancient of all: gestation. Call it Womb 2.0.
You can call it 3D printing if you prefer, but I think that misses the biggest point here. We’re actually moving forward to (and back to) a biological model. Consider the cow. All she needs is some grass (and a small DNA download) and she can build you another cow. All the articulation, all the value-add, is done in utero, on site. She doesn’t have to coordinate a far-flung network of horn suppliers, udder contractors, and hoof makers. She doesn’t manage warehoused inventories of tongue and tail sub-assemblies. She doesn’t even need a lot of space.
cow + cheap local materials + digital spec + time = new cow
You might think, compared to assembly lines, that this biological construction model can’t scale. Except for the fact that it obviously can. Every farm product you’ve ever consumed was first created at the scale of one animal or plant at a time. Every egg came from exactly one chicken. It’s a different kind of scaling from Ford’s River Rouge Complex, but it does scale. And it scales in the simplest possible way. Need more stuff? Make more wombs. Need different stuff? Give the wombs different instructions.
Scale works in the other direction, too. Wombs have the ability to scale down in a way that assembly lines don’t. You would never build an assembly line to make a dozen items. You need to know that you’re going to build thousands of units. This requires you to make enormous bets on products. But with a womb-based construction, your cost floor is much lower. You can make small bets and only scale up when it pays off. The flexibility this gives you is breathtaking. You can tweak designs and optimize in a way that is truly biological, with small variations that will propagate if successful.
Plenty has been written about 3D printing. The reason I’m especially excited about 21st century gestation right now is because I’m seeing a critical mass of real businesses on the verge of making real money. What we’ve talked about is happening.
All these companies use a tiny amount of manufacturing floor space relative to their old-school alternatives. They work with relatively simple raw material inputs, and they can be modulated rapidly by software.
womb + raw material + digital spec + time = new product (=> profit!)
I think it’s worthwhile to think of this process not as 3D printing, but as gestation. We’re finally learning from the master.
Some product are so well designed that they bring delight every single time you use them. My toilet seat is a slow-close toilet seat. That means I don’t have to worry about it slamming down with an ear-splitting BANG! I don’t have to lower it with anxious care. Just give it a tip and it floats … gracefully … downward like an autumn leaf dropping noiselessly onto still water. I always HATED that bang, so it makes me happy every time, knowing blissful silence will prevail.
I know there’s nothing especially novel or groundbreaking about my slow-close toilet seat. You probably have one too. I only mention it as an example of delightful design. But now I’m going to give you some news you really can use.
Friends, this is the Canary Corrugated Cardboard Cutter, designed by a Japanese super genius and shipped to your door for less than ten dollars. Of course, it’s only useful if you happen to have a lot corrugated cardboard sitting around. What’s that, my friend? You DO have a lot of corrugated cardboard sitting around? Because every single thing you’ve purchased since last March, from your yoga mat to individual slices of cheese, comes packaged in corrugated cardboard? And your garage is stacked from floor to ceiling with the stuff?
In that case, my friend, this product is going to change your life. It makes me blush to pitch it like a copywriter in heat, but I’m only saying this because I want my joy to be your joy. This cutter has, as of this writing, 2402 five-star ratings on Amazon. In the comments people have written love poetry to it.
In my pre-Canary days, my wife would ask me to break down boxes for recycling and I would dread the chore. Even with serious box-cutter razor blades, it was slow work, stressful on the hands and wrists. Not to mention the ever-present threat of slicing an artery. The folks at the recycling center frown on cardboard that has been dowsed with jets of hot blood.
The Canary is so cleverly designed that it presents no danger of blood-letting, yet it is effortlessly lethal to the box. I wield it like a tiny lightsaber, burning through cardboard sinews and joints. Then I stare at it in admiration, wondering how it manages its work so well. It is almost a pleasure to dispatch a big box into the tasty flakes that my recycling bin can ingest. As with the toilet seat, an erstwhile source of stress recedes and you are deposited into a quieter, a brighter world. A saner world. Pray enjoy it before you become accustomed!
TL;DR: Nobody got into software because they love maintenance.
Related: Nobody ever became a teacher because they love grading.
I love one of the stories she ends with. She quotes someone who says that being a maintainer is like the movie “Good Will Hunting”, but in reverse: you start out as a respected genius, and you end up as a janitor who fights with strangers.
One of the ideas she mentions is that “maintainer” is not such a great word. We might be better off using a word like “steward”, something that acknowledges the community-centric work of dealing with lots of people to manage a valuable public resource.
The distinction between making and maintaining gets at the point that open source is really two things. One is a static artifact. Here it is. You can have it. It’s my gift to you. The other is a service. I’m using your code, and I expect you to keep it up-to-date, fix any bugs, add my favorite features, and so on. We perceive the code as an object, but we consume it as a service. Intrinsic motivation is sufficient for the giving of the gift. That’s an event. But providing a service is a job, an ongoing obligation. And that demands extrinsic motivation. I didn’t sign up for that. For that, you need to pay me.
I don’t mind throwing you a party, but I won’t pump your gas.
A common criticism invoked against new technology is this:
“We shouldn’t play God.”
It’s hard to know what to make of this. It seems to be God’s exclusive role to do the things currently beyond our ability. Then when we figure out how to do them, we’re, what? Putting God out of a job? What exactly is God’s job? More than anything, this statement is a generic push back against anything new, with a faux-pious relish.
Humans can fly now? We shouldn’t be playing God. Walking on the moon? Don’t play God. Vaccines? Test tube babies? Tasty GMO tomatoes? Only God gets to do that. Ski lifts? Instagrams filters? Nonstick cookware? God is gonna be pissed.
Any time we figure out how to do something new, we’re playing God. At least, up until the moment that the disorienting new thing becomes the boring old thing.
I wondered: when did this trend start? Who was the first person to level this critique? This is the image that came into my mind.
It’s true enough that we need to exercise discretion with our technological offspring. But simple rejection of the possible doesn’t get us anywhere. I think Stewart Brand, writing in the 1968 edition of the Whole Earth Catalog, has the last word on the subject: “We are as gods and might as well get good at it.”
When I was in high school, I got a summer job working at NASA’s Langley Research Center in Hampton, Virginia. Being young and useless, I didn’t do much for NASA. But they sure got me fired up for a career in aerospace. As a young airplane geek I got to see all kinds of cool stuff. One that I particularly remember for its gee-whiz factor was the old Redifon flight simulator. It was huge. Was it huge because it used a giant vacuum-tube computer? No. It was huge because it featured a giant map stuck to a wall! Think of it as an enormous model train landscape turned on its side. With no trains. And an aircraft carrier.
I must have seen it just before it was torn down, because it was still capable of running. But even then it was clearly on the way out. This was the awkward period when the new digital simulations weren’t yet very good even though the old mechanical simulators were on their last legs.
Look at that picture! The terrain is a hand-painted map. The visuals for the cockpit come from a video camera with a periscope attachment that “flies” over the landscape. You actually had to worry about flying the periscope into the ground or a building and damaging the simulator. With a scale of 2000:1, they could pack a lot of detail into the landscape. But the pilots were obviously pretty constrained, so I think it was only useful for take-offs, landings, and other airport operations.
I was thinking about this overlap that I had with the Elder Days because I recently (along with half the rest of the world) bought a copy of Microsoft’s Flight Simulator 2020. You just can’t believe how big and beautiful and complete this simulator is. It has every airport in the world, dozens of airplanes perfectly rendered inside and out, sumptuous clouds, and accurate time-of-day lighting. Moving traffic on the ground! Wandering herds of wildebeest! Migrating flocks of flamingos! It’s hard to know where they can go from here. It just seems like they’ve solved flight simulation once and for all.
But they’re not quite done. Now what I’d like them to do is model, inside FS2020, the old Redifon terrain map, sideways aircraft carrier and all. Kind of like making an iPhone app of an abacus. Somebody out there has to want to do this…
I can’t help but notice, dear reader, that you’re having a hard time filling your SocialTwitterInstaBook feed with fabulousness. But you’re in good company. It’s hard to do these days. And as a long time sufferer of FOMO (the Fear of Missing Out), I want to personally thank you. It means I’m not falling behind.
It turns out, I mostly don’t mind staying home and being boring, so long as you’re forced to do more or less the same thing. You can’t fly to Mallorca without me. You can’t meet Lin Manuel Miranda at that amazing charity event you run. You can’t even sit near the Lieutenant Governor at Chez Okay, the pretty good French restaurant at the corner of Fourth and Lame. That would’ve made a sweet Instagram selfie, n’est-ce pas?
In the old days, if you did any of those things, or rather, if I had the misfortune to learn about you doing any of those things, then I would feel bad. I would feel bad, because you would be AHEAD and I would be BEHIND. I don’t like to be so blunt about it, but there it is. My lizard brain, despite all my protests to the contrary, cares about these things. Hey, look, I didn’t invent the brain stem. I just have to wear one every day.
You used to be Instagramming glorious sunset photos from Greece. But where are you now, huh? Stuck at home. Watching Netflix and eating way too many powdered donuts, just like me. What’s that? You’re watching operas, learning Italian, and cooking gourmet meals? Dammit! Don’t they have some kind of quarantine for that too?
Years ago—I guess this was in 2003—I went to a high school reunion. While I was there, I talked for a while with an old classmate who had migrated out to Los Angeles to work in television production. He was an editor who specialized reality TV. He wasn’t especially proud of his genre, but it paid the bills.
He told me something that I remember very clearly. These shows were unbelievably cheap compared to what were then “regular” scripted shows. You needed fewer people and less time to make an episode, and on top of that, the ratings were great. Or at least, given how cheap they were, the ratings were plenty good. Here is what he said: over the coming years you’re going to see more and more and more of this stuff. They’re going to drive out other shows. The superheated economics of unscripted television generated an unstoppable geyser-like spew of shows.
I happened to see an article today about the smoking crater that is the cable business, and this chart caught my eye. My high school buddy’s prophecy was playing out brilliantly! Why pay writers when your audience will happily watch unpaid attention-seekers do the reality TV monkey dance?
Given where the industry is headed, you can’t really say that unscripted shows saved cable television, but it sure made the crash landing a lot softer.
Incidentally, my friend passed along a few other nuggets of wisdom. One is that people are so eager to be on these shows that they don’t read the contracts carefully (surprise!). And when they see the final cut of the show, they sometimes feel humiliated and want to sue somebody. But it’s too late. They learn that the contract they signed not only specified that they might look stupid, but that the editors would go out of their way to make them look stupid. It doesn’t always happen, but it’s there in the contract.
Which brings me to the last thing I learned that night. My editor friend told me, with all the footage he was given, he could tell any story he wanted. Want a love story? A bitter rivalry? A feel-good romp? It’s all there, given enough tape and a skilled editor. A reality show isn’t “scripted”, but it’s sure as hell edited to tell an entertaining story. That story may bear little relationship to what “actually happened,” whatever that means. But reality was never the point of reality TV, in the same sense that wrestling was never the point of TV wrestling. I’m paying you for something cheap and sweet. Reality need not apply.
In keeping with my preferred late-adopter approach to life, I finally joined Team Roomba. Sure enough, giving iRobot ten years to work out the kinks before I buy means that I’m really liking how well it works. I shoulda bought one of these things ten years ago! Only I would’ve wanted the one that just came out this year…
Anyway, like a lot of The Quarantined, it’s been a big gadget-buying season here at Rambles Manor. So in addition to finally buying a robot that sucks, I also bought a video game that makes you throw up. And as the new owner of an Oculus Quest, I can tell you in all frankness that VR and a Roomba, much like alcohol and barbiturates, are a dangerous combination. Do not mix them, particularly after you’ve had a beer. But I digress.
I was never really itching to buy a VR rig, but my wife was interested in virtual 3d travel for her birthday, so that pushed me over the edge. One reason I hadn’t bought one already is that I’m prone to the kind of motion-sickness that gives VR a bad name. I didn’t want to spend several hundred dollars just to paint the carpet a new color. Even a new Roomba couldn’t clean that mess.
But I’ve been very impressed with the Quest, even though I’ve been doing the VR equivalent of going on the kiddie rides at low speed. My favorite thing so far surprised me: little looping 3D animations built with a Facebook VR tool called Quill. They’re charming. My new hero is Goro Fujita, master of the Quillustration. But I’ve also been skating a little closer to the edge, trying motion-based games and reading about VR sickness. And it got me thinking about space sickness, or as the astronauts prefer to call it, Space Adaptation Syndrome (insert three-letter acronym here).
One of the surprising things about space sickness is that it doesn’t correlate with typical motion sickness. That is to say, people who never get air sick, even though they fly high-performance jets for a living (that is, your typical astronaut), still have a 50-50 chance of getting space sick. It’s unpredictable, and nobody knows why. As you can imagine, it’s a real drag for your typical hot-shot space jock to be so humbled on their first flight. This is not the kind of thing that typically gets reported to the press corps, but it happens a lot.
So VR sickness made me wonder about space sickness. Could the kind of vestibular disruption you experience with VR actually be somehow similar to what you experience in zero-g? If you have strong “VR legs,” are you likely to adapt well to space station shuffleboard? After all, in both cases what you see corresponds only weakly to what your middle ear is telling you, at least according to years of earthbound experience. And it’s clear that both of these are very different from flying a jet at high speed. So that’s my hypothesis, and I want to know if there’s any evidence for it: VR legs and space legs are a matched set. If it’s true, it would give us an useful way to predict who’ll get sick in space, and also perhaps help them prepare for the ups and downs, or rather not-ups and not-downs, of floating lunch. Which makes me wonder… if there’s no up in space, you can’t really upchuck. So do you just chuck?
Incidentally, in my research I learned that way back in 1985 Senator Jake Garn was taken along as a VIP guest astronaut on Space Shuttle mission STS-51. Sounds like a fun gig, except that his space sickness during that mission was so profound, so comprehensive and incapacitating, that it set the bar for all future astronauts. “One garn” is now (unofficially) considered at NASA to be the absolute worst possible case of Space Adaptation Syndrome. Most people only experience no more than 0.1 garns for a few days.
So perhaps if a milli-Helen is the amount of beauty required to launch a single ship, then maybe a centigarn is the amount of space sickness required to blow a single chunk.
The hobby telescope is one of the saddest purchases a person can make. It’s even more pathetic than the NordicTrack ski machine that no one ever uses. Telescopes look cool, and after you’ve seen a few Hubble Space Telescope pictures, you think to yourself: Oh man, I’d like to cook up a few shots like that.
But you’re dreaming. You don’t want to own a telescope. You want to be the kind of person who owns a telescope. You want to talk knowledgeably at parties about owning a telescope. Actually owning a telescope kind of sucks. Here’s the thing about a hobby telescope.
If it’s cheap, it’s terrible. If it’s expensive, it’s… expensive.
If it’s small, the image is terrible. If it’s big, it’s so heavy and awkward that you’ll never take it out. It will suck up half your garage and stare at you every day, mocking you.
Getting good images means staying up late or waking up early, driving someplace inconvenient, and then standing around in frigid darkness for long stretches of time. If you don’t like doing any of these things, owning a telescope won’t change that.
You will be amazed to learn that even finding the thing you want to take a picture of is hard.
Even when everything’s in place and the view is lined up, it’s going to cramp your neck to get into the right position to view the object.
And the ultimate insult: the image you see is likely to be a small smudge of light.
So there you have it. You stay up late. You drive to a dark location. You get the object in your scope. You look at it. And you think: all for this little smudge? More to the point, for every conceivable thing you can look at, somebody else has already taken a picture that is impossibly better than you will ever capture. Stars don’t change that much, it turns out. Somebody else already took a better picture of the Eiffel Tower than you, and they sure as hell took a better picture of the Triangulum Galaxy than you.
Here is the key point about stargazing of any kind: It’s not a visual activity. It’s a cerebral activity. If it genuinely makes your heart sing to look at a smudge of light and say “Wow! That’s it! That’s the lenticular galaxy M84!” then you may be the right person to buy a telescope after all. If it doesn’t, then hey, I know a quick way to save yourself $1600.
But for all my gloom, there are some exciting new developments in this market for us mere mortals. I was impressed with this review of the Unistellar eVscope (which was originally a Kickstarter project). I don’t own one, so don’t take this for a review. But the eVscope makes some smart choices for your typical lazy wannabe astrophotographer. First of all, this is not a telescope so much as a camera attachment for your phone. So it avoids the neck-cramping nonsense of wedging yourself behind an eyepiece. It’s not too big, so you might actually take it outside every now and again. It helps you find things automatically. And most of all, it’s got modern software that will assemble an image that’s much better than your eye can see. How? By taking many pictures in rapid succession and then combining them into one superior image. Finally, it can automatically participate in data-gathering campaigns for honest-to-goodness scientists. You get to feel useful instead of just cold and bored!
Like a lot of things these days, software is what’s making all the difference. The old hobby telescope market is trying to graft modern software onto an ancient chassis. It’s an uphill struggle. This new model starts with the software and builds up from there. As such, they’ve been able to banish the major headaches and user-experience flaws of hobby telescopes.
Hmm… maybe it’s time to sell my old NordicTrack and make room for something new.