Thursday, July 28, 2005

Places & Spaces > You are not here

Just in case you thought the world was a rich place, point to where you live...

Wired News: Blind Teen Gamer Obliterates Foes

"'I freak people out by playing facing backwards.'"

Monday, July 18, 2005

Something Awful: The Mars Volta

"Some people think it’s dull, overwrought, pretentious crap, but some people think it’s a work of prog-rock genius. I would contend that there’s no difference between the two."

And about covers:

"In the hierarchy of artistic credibility, the Ironic Punk Cover falls somewhere just below erotic Harry Potter fan-fiction and just above Anne Geddes photography."

Wired News: Google Growth Yields Privacy Fear

See also Google Watch.

Wired News: ITunes Mints Podcasting Stars

Wednesday, July 13, 2005 » Gunns, Ltd Woodchipping Old Growth Forests

Images from Google Earth show very clearly what clear-felling looks like.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005


Photos from the USA's atomic tests.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

Saturday, July 09, 2005

Living on the Hundred-Mile Diet

" switching to a local diet you would save almost an entire planet's worth of resources (though you'd still be gobbling up seven earths)."
See also: Bye, Bye Bok Choy, a programme on the development of farm lands within the urban areas of Sydney.

Friday, July 08, 2005

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Programming in Malbolge

Is Programming Art?

A good comment on Slashdot.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

The millinery obsession of HG Wells

From The War of the Worlds (my emphasis):

He met a waggoner and tried to make him understand, but the tale he told and his appearance were so wild—his hat had fallen off in the pit—that the man simply drove on.
Sparks and burning twigs began to fall into the road, and single leaves like puffs of flame. Hats and dresses caught fire.
My terror had fallen from me like a garment. My hat had gone, and my collar had burst away from its fastener.
I went down, unfastened the door, and let him in, and locked the door again. I could not see his face. He was hatless, and his coat was unbuttoned.
Then round the corner of the lane, from between the villas that guarded it at its confluence with the high road, came a little cart drawn by a sweating black pony and driven by a sallow youth in a bowler hat, grey with dust.
I had found oil and rags for my burns, and I also took a hat and a flannel shirt that I found in one of the bedrooms.
There was a little two-wheeled cart inscribed with the name of Thomas Lobb, Greengrocer, New Malden, with a smashed wheel and an abandoned tin trunk; there was a straw hat trampled into the now hardened mud, and at the top of West Hill a lot of blood-stained glass about the overturned water trough.