First off, if you're a Mac user, you'll want to return to Mat's Mac page frequently for Mac updates, news and reviews. Second, if you're a Gmail user, you'll want to check out gCount, a menu bar program that displays the number of unread messages in your GMail account. Ah, gadgetry.

I just can't get enough of Mike Melvill's incredible SpaceShipOne flight. There are lots of stories on the web, but this eyewitness account posted on Metafilter was particularly engaging. The idea of a non-NASA launch into space is huge; this definitely marks the beginning of new era. Sceptical? Don't forget about this guy.

Finally, the first season of Northern Exposure has been released on DVD. I scooped up a copy pronto. Once you get yours, why not sign the petition asking Universal Studios to release all six seasons?

As if we aren't exposed to enough deeply personal problems every time we watch tv or read the newspaper, Group Hug is a database of anonymous confessions written by people who just need to get something off their chests. It's fascinating, of course, in a sort of sick way.

The first virus to spread from one cell phone to another has been created, the Russian anti-virus software vendor Kaspersky Labs announced on Tuesday.

Attndnt : Excuse me sir, there's been a little problem in the cockpit ...
Striker : The cockpit ... what is it?
Attndnt : It's the little room in the front of the plane where the pilots sit, but that's not important now.

Entire movie script here.

This movie is hilarious. Gym class meets The Matrix. (14MB mov file, via metafilter)

The invisibility cloak has arrived:

article here.

BAGHDAD—The U.S. was forced to free accused war criminal Saddam Hussein Monday following the revelation that the former Iraqi dictator had been arrested in an illegal search. "American special forces neglected to obtain proper warrants before dragging Mr. Hussein from his hiding place outside of Adwar," Iraqi prime minister Iyad Allawi said in a morning press conference. "In accordance with international law, the Americans had no choice but to free him." Hussein, who is still named as the defendant in hundreds of outstanding civil cases, said his release was proof that the system works. (theonion)

Once again, I return laughing to The Devil's Dictionary, created in 1911 by Ambrose Bierce. To wit:

DAWN, n.
The time when men of reason go to bed. Certain old men prefer to rise at about that time, taking a cold bath and a long walk with an empty stomach, and otherwise mortifying the flesh. They then point with pride to these practices as the cause of their sturdy health and ripe years; the truth being that they are hearty and old, not because of their habits, but in spite of them. The reason we find only robust persons doing this thing is that it has killed all the others who have tried it.

ahh, yeahh

Aiieeeee

Rock island on the Potomac

Bryn and I chillin' at Rocky Creek

Masonic Temple, rear

Masonic Temple, front

I'm fine, thanks

old church

water, stone

mourning

all aboard

Ghandi

Smithsonian

Boy chasing pigeon

fountain

archives

stair, National Gallery of Art

rotunda, National Gallery of Art

interesting expression, National Gallery of Art

Frederick Edwin Church, National Gallery of Art

The Machine in the Garden, National Gallery of Art

Gougin(?), National Gallery of Art

Van Gogh, National Gallery of Art

statue

of course

There's always somebody protesting something

cool Pakistani bus

cool Pakistani bus

cool Pakistani bus

cool Pakistani bus

move into light

Yesterday I visited the National Gallery of Art, and finally got to see a host of my favorite 19th-century landscape paintings. Durand, Cole, Church, Bierstadt--they were represented in all of their operatic glory. The highlight was Cole's "The Voyage of Life" paintings, a series of symbolic and allegorical works tracing the journey of Man down the river of life. Being a paddler, I guess I'm partial to the metaphor. Much has been written on these paintings, but words tend to wash away in their presence. Here they are, with Cole's own commentary on each. Enjoy.

Childhood:

A stream is seen issuing from a deep cavern in the side of a craggy and precipitous mountain, whose summit is hidden in clouds. From out the cave glides a boat, whose golden prow and sides are sculpted into figures of the Hours. Steered by an angelic Form, and laden with buds and flowers, it bears a laughing Infant, the Voyager whose varied course the artist has attempted to delineate. On either hand the banks of the stream are clothed in luxuriant herbage and flowers. The rising sun bathes the mountains and flowery banks in rosy light.

The dark cavern is emblematic of our earthly origin,and the mysterious Past. The Boat, composed of Figures of the Hours, images the thought that we are borne on the hours down the Stream of Life. The boat identifies the subject in each picture. The rosy light of the morning, the luxuriant flowers and plants, are emblems of the joyousness of early life. The close banks and the limited scope of the scene indicate the narrow experience of Childhood, and the nature of its pleasures and desires. The Egyptian Lotus in the forground of the picture is symbolical of Human Life. Joyousness and wonder are the characteristics emotions of childhood."

Youth:

"The stream now pursues its course through a landscape of wider scope and more diversified beauty. Trees of rich growth overshadow its banks, and verdant hills form the base of lofty mountains. The Infant of the former scene is become a Youth on the verge of Manhood. He is now alone in the Boat, and takes the helm himself; and in an attitude of confidence and eager expectation, gazes on a cloudy pile of Architecture, and air-built Castle, that rises dome above dome in the far-off blue sky. The Guardian Spirit stands upon the bank of the stream, and with serious yet benign countenance seems to be bidding the impetuous voyager “God-speed.” The beautiful stream flows directly toward the aerial palace, for a distance; but at length makes a sudden turn, and is seen in glimpses beneath the trees, until it at last descends with rapid current into a rocky ravine, where the voyager will be found in the next picture. Over the remote hills, which seem to intercept the strem, and turn it from its hitherto direct course, a path is dimly seen, tending directly toward that cloudy Fabric, which is the onject and desire of the voyage.

The scenery of this picture—-its clear stream, its lofty trees, its towering mountains, its unbounded distance, and transparent atmosphere—-figure[s] forth the romantic beauty of youthful imaginings, when the mind magnifies the Mean and Common into the Magnificant before experience teaches what is the real. The gorgeous cloud-built palace, whose most glorious domes seem but yet but half revealed to the eye, growing more and more lofty as we gaze, is emblematic of the daydreams of youth, its aspirations after glory and fame; and the dimly seen path would intimate that Youth, in his impetuous career, is forgetful that he is embarked on the Stream of Life, and that its current sweeps along with resistless force, and increases in swiftness as it descends toward the great Ocean of Eternity."

Manhood:

"Storm and cloud enshroud a rugged and dreary landscape. Bare impending precipices rise in the lurid light. The swollen stream rushes furiously down a dark ravine, whirling and foaming in its wild career, and speeding toward the Ocean, which is dimly seen through the mist and falling rain. The boat is there, plunging amid the turbulent waters. The voyager is now a man of middle age; the helm of the boat is gone, and he looks imploringly toward heaven, as if heaven’s aid alone could save him from the perils that surround him. The Guardian Spirit calmly sits in the clouds, watching with an air of solicitude the affrightened voyager. Demon forms are hovering in the air.

Trouble is characteristic of the period of Manhood. In Childhood there is no cankering care; in Youth no despairing thought. It is only when experience has taught us the realities of the world, that we lift from our eyes the golden veil of early life; that we feel deep and abiding sorrow; and in the picture, the gloomy,eclipse-like tone, the conflicting elements, the trees riven by tempest, are the allegory, and the Ocean, dimly seen, figures the end of life, to which the voyager is now approaching. The demon forms are Suicide, Intemperance, and Murder, which are the temptations that beset man in their direst trouble. The upward and imploring look of the voyager shows his dedendence on a Superior Power and that faith saves him from the destruction that seems inevitable."

Old Age:

"Portentious clouds are brooding over a vast and midnight Ocean. A few barren rocks are seen through the gloom—-the last shores of the world. These form the mouth of the river, and the boat, shattered by storms, its figures of the hours broken and drooping, is seen gliding over the deep waters. Directed by the Guardian Spirit, who thus far has accompanied him unseen, the voyager, now an old man, looks upward to an opening in the clouds, from whence a glorious light bursts forth, and angels are seen descending the cloudy steps, as if to welcome him to the Haven of Immortal Life.

The stream of life has now reached the Ocean, to which all life is tending. The world, to Old Age, is destitute of interest. There is no longer any green thing upon it. The broken and drooping figures of the boat show that Time is nearly ended. The chains of corporeal existence are falling away; and already the mind has glimpses of Immortal Life. The angelic Being, of whose presence until now the voyager has been unconscious, is revealed to him, and with a countenance beaming with joy, shows to his wondering gaze scenes such as mortal man has never yet seen."

Thomas Cole, 1840

As I approached the Smithsonian Metro entrance yesterday afternoon, heading home after a long day of sightseeing, I saw a girl leaning wearily against a park bench, staring off into space. She was wearing a bright pink shirt that read “I (heart) nerds.” As I had been tromping all over downtown D.C. without talking to anyone most of the day, I felt like commenting on her shirt.

"I’m a nerd, you know," I said as I walked past.

Without batting an eye, she slowly turned her head toward me, and with only the slightest suggestion of a smile, said "Well then, I love you."

Then she looked away.

Well, I’m relaxed here on the slate stone terrace of the Old Angler’s Inn, est. 1868, perched comfortably in the forest here beside the Potomac River, enjoying a very nice day. The beer and soup is nice too. A small waterfall, covered in wild strawberry vines, spills into a small clear pool beside my chair. The sun is out and shifting shadows beneath the oak tree hovering above what’s left of the Wednesday lunch crowd here, a few older couples chatting about old times and occasionally the new. My tomato gazpacho is cool and delicious, and although I just spilled my beer across the table like an idiot, it is time that I state once and for all that there is indeed nothing like a cold Bass ale after a few hours on the river. The waiters responded quickly, of course, as this place is rather chi-chi, and they were probably cursing under their breaths at this faux pas by the wet-haired kayaker crashing their 5-star ambiance with mud streaked legs and only enough cash for an appetizer.

I woke this morning and drove over to the Whole Foods Market, a stupendously healthy organic grocery near Erin’s house, where they let you park for free if you shop for two hours. And such a grocery expedition would not be unfeasible here—this place is a vegetarian’s delight, a vegan nirvana. Fruit I’ve never seen before is piled in multi-colored heaps beside rows of organic grain breads and pastries, complemented by aisle upon aisle of pure foods untouched by the indecencies of pesticides, animal testing, cursing or any other possible appearance of digestive impropriety. The clientele is naturally eclectic, pairs of short-haired older women in Birkenstocks and Lilith Fair t-shirts (this is DuPont Circle, after all) arguing gently over which color rigatoni to buy, the butcher a big African fellow with dreadlocks pulled back into a pile behind him and a laugh like it came from the bottom of a deep well. I managed to avoid any purchases, and moseyed over to 17th street, the shops covered with increasing amounts of rainbow-themed décor, and, after being eyed by more than one guy on the sidewalk, I found refuge in a wireless internet café, coffee and walnut muffins suited to my tastes. Not a bad spot.

After a quick Google search I found that the best rapids on the Potomac are near the Old Angler’s Inn, just a few miles outside of the city, right off the Beltway, actually. So I wrapped up a few emails and headed to the car, calling Erin for directions out of town. I took it as a good sign that as we were talking, a fellow pulled up near me with a kayak on his car: I stepped over and asked him where to go and he told me. Easy as pie.

As everyone knows, by the time the Potomac reaches Washington D.C. proper it is a very wide river, criss-crossed by a number of long bridges. But just a few miles upstream, off the I-495 Clara Barton Exit, to be precise, it is a kayaker’s playground. Huge boulders twice the size of houses sit tilted along the shore, shoving the water inward into flows and rapids, pine forests etched into the soil on top and spilling away over the ridge. The recent rains have created a rich earthy river hue, and the water is up, way up. I put in at the public access landing with no idea where to go, but I could see a few whitecaps further upstream and paddled toward them. Not a soul in sight. A pair of hawks threaded and rethreaded the breeze over a nearby island of stone. The river smelled like old wood and rock. Just as I came around the bend I saw some paddlers launching into the rapids from a steep slanted rock, crashing in splashes and busting out Aieeeeeees as they tumbled down. I paddled over and we chatted, exchanging river beta and a few light inquiries into just who each of us was. Or is. Two of them, Andrew and Mark, were still in high school; the third, John, had just graduated and was out paddling today before he started his first day on his new job. I wondered where Luke was, but he must have been fishing..

Anyway, it turns out that one of the best playspots on the river was just on the other side of the rock they had been cavorting on, a ten-foot-wide hole called Center Chute. It was neither a chute nor centrally located, but hugging the inside of a rock island and carving out a nice eddy there making it easy to catch and recatch the water. Mr. Sun came out, and we played (the kayakers, not Mr. Sun). It occurred to me a few days ago how different kayaking is from most exercise—when exercise happens, it normally involves a workout. Not kayaking. We go to a playspot. It is debatable which is better for you, but I would suggest that surfing energetic waves in a boat beats benchpressing deadweights any day. Of course, going to the gym offers very little danger of bashing one’s face on a submerged rock, or drowning for that matter, but the point stands.

At any rate, we had a great hour or two of tumbling, surfing and popping the wave before the kids wandered off to find “a better spot.” Short attention span, or something. I stayed for another whole hour, memorizing the current, getting into the wave and letting it shove me around, coaxing me toward its tumultuous bouncing right side and then easing me out into the green water on its left. A classic hole, like a water spectrum, alternating between ease and violence depending on which direction you choose (or not) to spin. A liquid musical scale, if you will.

But before that metaphor runs into a brick wall, I’ll bring things to a close here and just say that is was nice moving from the crazy D.C. traffic (damn cabbies!) into the river gorge filled with light, and finding this nice old pub with cold beer and pleasant refuge from the sun. Hope I make it back tomorrow.

"Hume declared for all time that while [the philosopher] Berkeley’s arguments admit not the slightest refutation, they inspire not the slightest conviction."

-Jorge Luis Borges

This site is interesting: Lists of Bests compiles various "Best of" lists pertaining to books, movies and music. These sort of lists usually make me feel either quite hip or quite not--it's probably better to not take them too seriously. After all, consider the sources. Might be a good source for new stuff to check out, though.

Force multiplier: A capability that, when added to and employed by a combat force, significantly increases the combat potential of that force and thus enhances the probablity of successful mission accomplishment. "Perpetual optimism is a force multiplier." - Colin Powell

As I sit here emailing two friends, one in Valencia, Spain and the other somewhere in Chile, I'm also downloading a live Karl Denson show from an American Library Association website, recorded three weeks ago. I also happen to be listening to Herbie Mann's "Memphis Underground" which I just downloaded from a P2P site not twenty minutes ago. And now I'm writing text that will be visible to the entire online world in mere moments. All from my little laptop, which is here in my lap as I sit on my parents' front porch and watch my dog stalk squirrels in the neighbor's yard across the street. Pardon my naive incredulity, but how is this possible? All this information is traveling through the air. This is, quite simply, amazing. Of course, I am amazed in part because I know nothing about how it works, sort of like the villagers in The Gods Must Be Crazy when they find the coke bottle. If you're feeling the same way, read this.
Despite my ignorance, it is easy to see that Wi-fi technology is possibly one of the most important developments in information distribution. Ever. Imagine free global wi-fi access, coupled with the miniaturization of and widespread access to computer technology, and what we have is the revolution of knowledge. Well, the potential for a revolution. Of course we're still using email to forward millions of dumb jokes to each other each year, and I just read that something like 25% of all internet use is for porn, but we're trying. We're probably a long way from truly realizing the potential of wireless technology.
Historically, effective implementation of any good idea has depended on portability. When one person discovers something, the idea isn't really practicable until that idea is refined, transcribed, and distributed in the form of letters, books, paintings, music, skywriting, whatever. And each medium presents its own difficulties in allowing mass access to the public (I'm talking about physical difficulties, such as reprinting books and copying paintings--the profit-related and ethical complications of distributing ideas are an entirely different issue). Well, aside from skywriting, computer technology can provide at least a passable version of almost any tangible idea, whether it be sound, images, or text (or all three). And that idea can be conveyed THROUGH THE AIR to any computer in the world, theoretically. This is simply huge.
Anyway, this has all been said before, but the revolution has started. Looking for a public wi-fi connection near you? Find one here. Or just scroll down and fill out the form in the tool bar at right. Cheers.

Well today is the celebrated birthday of Jefferson Davis, the first president of the Confederacy, so we here in Alabama have an official holiday. Not that it matters to me, as I am currently disemployed, but for the rest of you poor saps living above the Mason-Dixon line who had to go into work today, well, too bad. I express my sincere condolences. As a token of my sympathy, here are two links to waste your time with:
A full list of Sniglets
A full list of Steven Wright quotes
Oh, and the South shall rise again, by the way.

It's old, but I love this photo. It was shot in February, 2003, and shows a supercell thunderstorm rotating around the decaying part of Cyclone Graham, off the northwest coast of Australia. Incredible.

Oh my sore, sunburnt arms. I spent all yesterday on the river at the Coosa River Whitewater Festival, and today I suffer. Well, not really. I woke up early and met with the festival organizers and volunteered to do some rescue boating for the canoe race, which was fun. I set up on below the Corn Creek rapid and watched as two of the five canoes tumped over, me scrambling after their boats and paddles, the boy scouts manning the boats laughing as their gear rapidly floated away. I thought there were more than just five boats in the race, so I ended up sitting on a small rock in the rapid for about an hour, meditating and watching fish dart in the eddies. The roar and crash of the water was oddly soothing. Eventually I left my perch and headed upstream to Mocassin Gap to watch the whitewater rodeo, where most of these photos were taken. All of the big-name pros were out in Colorado this year, but there were some kickass boaters around, "doing mad loops" as our colorful announcer informed us. The way they run these rodeos is pretty simple--the judges sit in a scaffolding booth above the rapid and watch as each competitor enters the wave and plays for around 30 seconds, trying to do as many point-gaining tricks as possible. Everybody was doing cartwheels, spins, blunts and backstabs, but a few pulled off some pretty "gnarly" loops (again, the announcer thought everything was "rad", "gnarly" or "bodacious". ) I haven’t mastered the loop yet, (which, as I’m positive all of you know, involves nosing your kayak into the water and leaning forward so the wave launches you into the air in a front flip.) but I’m getting there. In between the competition rounds they let us play on the wave, and I quickly managed to demonstrate what happens when you live in Ohio and don’t touch your boat for nine months.. But it was fun and the weather was nice, and the $2 hamburgers absolutely hit the spot. I even met a couple of guys who hiked the AT this year, and we chatted for a while about good times on the trail. I don’t know how many people the organizers were expecting, but it seemed like a good crowd. I was just glad to get a chance to get out on the water, even if my arms do look like candy canes now.

First of all, thanks for any feedback you've left on the site. When I switched to this new template I decided to try Blogger's commenting system, but it sucks. I've now switched back to the old way, so don't worry about having to register to leave comments. You don't even have to register to curse me like a sailor. However, ALL comments regarding my receding hairline will be registered, filtered and censored. Thanks.

This is an incredible photo of Paris at night. This is Tokyo.

Well, once again Adam and I headed to the hills for the Second Annual Adrenaline Weekend, continuing the tradition started by Mr. Daniel Crabtree wherein the participants all travel to some remote location and conduct daring feats of physical exertion. And sit around campfires and tell « stretchers » as Huck Finn call ‘em. Anyway, we got off to our customary early start on Friday, which was sometime after dark, and took the North Carolina route toward Cataloochee ranger station for three days of hiking. The drive up was uneventful, except that we saw a grocery store in North Carolina and decided to turn around and pull in, unaware that we had pulled a U-turn just before reaching a police road block at the intersection ahead. Sure enough, a police cruiser followed us into the parking lot. Since we were actually shopping, they just asked where we were headed and left, although probably keeping an eye on us from an undisclosed location. Who buys milk and eggs (or trail food and pepperoni in our case) at midnight on Friday night? The road block must have had every cop in the county there, probably 20 cars all flashing blue lights--it reminded me of a scene from The Blues Brothers. One of the cops we talked with thought he was pretty funny; too. "Watch out for rattlesnakes up in those hills. They’ll sit there quiet and come after you. Ain’t nothing you can do--they’ll just wait for you and bite ya." Yeah, real funny. And not true. This guy was so used to wallowing in authority that he forgot how to turn it off. Whatever. So after a too-long drive through a dozen winding foothills roads, we arrived at the park and slept in the car for a few hours before waking up and hitting the trail. It was a beautiful day. The mountains were lush, the streams all full and sunlight splashed across the hills. As usual, the rain started that afternoon and soaked us, but by the time we reached Laurel Gap shelter it had stopped. There were two groups staying there, and we decided to set up our tarps outside in case someone with reservations (required at all shelters) showed up. It was a nice evening, chatting with a family from Ohio of all places, while we ate our dinner. Adam and I were nipping on a little whiskey and enjoying ourselves thoroughly, I must say. I think we managed not to alarm or maim anyone, so everything went off well. The next morning it began storming just as we woke up, so we stayed in our tarps and dozed the morning away. Let me just say that it is indescribably pleasant to be tucked into a warm sleeping bag with a good book while mountain rain taps on your tent. I felt lucky to be alive. It wasn’t the last time I would feel that way. Eventually we emerged, had breakfast and headed down the trail toward our next camp, somewhere at the bottom of the mountain. Another stupendous day. We hiked through misty, grass-covered forests, tall fir groves dripping with new rain, along bubbling brooks and mud-filled bogs. At intervals little junkos (birds) would explode from their grass nests at our feet and chide us from nearby branches for invading their turf. We spooked grouse that flew away with strange helicopter-like noises, or someone starting a Harley. We dodged millipedes, snails, newts and slugs that had been using these trails since before we were born. The breeze would pick up at intervals and stir the forests into whispers. Well, when we arrived back at the car that afternoon we decided we weren’t ready to leave. It was just too nice, and we felt too good. We picked out another trail and headed down it, but not until we had spent quite a while ooing and ahhing over spotting several elk that had recently been reintroduced to the park (apparently they used to be abundant but were overhunted in the late eighteenth century). The last four miles of the day were muddy and uphill, and we were glad to arrive at camp, which we did right at dusk. I seem to recall looking up into the night sky as we cooked our noddles alfredo with summer sausage and commenting how it looked like it was going to be a nice night. After all, the stars were out. Upon hindsight, I should have been struck with the irony of that observation, if not the omen-like nature of its utterance, because in the Smokies it always rains, and the frequency and extent of the rain is always in direct proportion to how much gear you have to get wet. Sure enough, about three in the morning the bottom dropped out. I mean dropped out Chicken Little style. I woke up to a crack of thunder, and the sky was like a whirl of strobe lights, lightning flashing every few seconds and the following thunder booming above us and rolling all over the mountains. And then the rain started. I tried to crawl down in my sleeping back and go back to sleep, but it was hopeless--as soon as I shut my eyes another BOOM would resound and shake the campsite, and the rain would pick up and literally beat my tarp senseless. At one point it was like someone was throwing gravel on top of me, the rain was so hard. Luckily none of the lightning hit anywhere near us, but with the howling wind and the torrential rain, I was sure on more than one occasion that either I was going to get swept away by the flooding creek or crushed by a falling oak tree. It was a harrowing evening. And as calculated, the rain poured across the ground under my tarp and I got wet. In fact, it didn’t stop storming until I was good and soaked. Such was my penance. Adam got wet, too--our tarps looked simply pitiful that morning. So we laughed and loaded up and hiked the last mud-soaked five miles out, wishing we had another day. Though I was glad to get back to the car and let my feet dry out from three days of wet funk, I could have easily walked on down another trail, slowing down to try and understand how beautifully time washes across these mountains, covering them in incredible life. We’ll be back soon.

AbeTatoo
Originally uploaded by mathowie.