I call them “seasoning”:
Indian military to weaponize world’s hottest chili
GAUHATI, India – The Indian military has a new weapon against terrorism: the world’s hottest chili.
After conducting tests, the military has decided to use the thumb-sized “bhut jolokia,” or “ghost chili,” to make tear gas-like hand grenades to immobilize suspects, defense officials said Tuesday.
The bhut jolokia was accepted by Guinness World Records in 2007 as the world’s spiciest chili. It is grown and eaten in India’s northeast for its taste, as a cure for stomach troubles and a way to fight the crippling summer heat.
* * *
“The chili grenade has been found fit for use after trials in Indian defense laboratories, a fact confirmed by scientists at the Defense Research and Development Organization,” Col. R. Kalia, a defense spokesman in the northeastern state of Assam, told The Associated Press.
Yup, time to place my annual plant order.
Jim Downey
. . . just due to lack of oxygen thanks to this touch of pneumonia I’m fighting (I mentioned that I was prone to it, remember?) but last night as I sat down to watch a movie, an odd thought crossed my mind: what if you gave Star Wars the ‘Chicken Run’ treatment?
Nick Park, feel free to send me the check for this brilliant idea directly.
Jim Downey
Filed under: Art, Health, Humor, Music, Pharyngula, PZ Myers, Rube Goldberg, YouTube
Sorry, been sick with the latest viral lung thing going around *and* trying to get a lot of spring cleaning and minor home repair stuff in prep for this Open House tomorrow night, so I haven’t had much in the way of energy to do any writing. But just found this over on PZ’s site, and for the two or three people who check out my blog and haven’t seen it, had to share:
Inspired madness. Discussion of it, how many takes it took, et cetera to be found here (and probably elsewhere).
Jim Downey
Filed under: Artificial Intelligence, BoingBoing, Humor, Science, Science Fiction
His expert was one of best, one of only a few hundred based on the new semifluid CPU technology that surpassed the best thin-film computers made by the Israelis. But it was a quirky technology, just a few years old, subject to problems that conventional computers didn’t have, and still not entirely understood. Even less settled was whether the experts based on this technology could finally be considered to be true AI. The superconducting gel that was the basis of the semifluid CPU was more alive than not, and the computer was largely self-determining once the projected energy matrix surrounding the gel was initiated by another computer. Building on the initial subsistence program, the computer would learn how to refine and control the matrix to improve its own ‘thinking’. The thin-film computers had long since passed the Turing test, and these semifluid systems seemed to be almost human. But did that constitute sentience? Jon considered it to be a moot point, of interest only to philosophers and ethicists.
One of the things about Communion of Dreams which isn’t immediately evident is that the story isn’t really the story of the protagonist, Jon Thompson. That is the natural expectation – that the story is the protagonist’s story – so much so that even the editor from Trapdoor commented on how the protagonist allows other characters to grow within the storyline. It is, instead, the ending of the story of the old prospector Darnell Sidwell and the beginning of the story of Seth, the ‘expert system’ which is transformed into a true artificial intelligence beyond our scope to understand.
The quote above is from the first chapter of the book, and really sets the stage for this latter story. Jon doesn’t really think about these matters at the start – that’s not his job. But he is the vehicle through which the reader is pushed to explore these things, to become a philosopher and ethicist.
A few days ago I came across this brilliant little piece:
Artificial Flight and Other Myths
a reasoned examination of A.F. by top birdsOver the past sixty years, our most impressive developments have undoubtedly been within the industry of automation, and many of our fellow birds believe the next inevitable step will involve significant advancements in the field of Artificial Flight. While residing currently in the realm of science fiction, true powered, artificial flying mechanisms may be a reality within fifty years. Or so the futurists would have us believe. Despite the current media buzz surrounding the prospect of A.F., a critical examination of even the most basic facts can dismiss the notion of true artificial flight as not much more than fantasy.
We can start with a loose definition of flight. While no two bird scientists or philosophers can agree on the specifics, there is still a common, intuitive understanding of what true flight is: . . .
It’s well worth reading the whole thing. It’s only about a page in length, and gets across exactly the same message I tried to tell with my 109,000 word novel: how expectations constrain vision. A bird will naturally assume that flight means muscle-powered, biologically-based flight. Envisioning mechanized flight, let alone spaceflight, is something else entirely.
And so it is with ourselves and the trait we think defines us.
Jim Downey
(Via BB.)
. . . by losing their guns?
Report: Officers lose 243 Homeland Security guns
Washington (CNN) — Nearly 180 Department of Homeland Security weapons were lost — some falling into the hands of criminals — after officers left them in restrooms, vehicles and other public places, according to an inspector general report.
The officers, with Customs and Border Patrol and Immigration and Customs Enforcement, “did not always sufficiently safeguard their firearms and, as a result, lost a significant number of firearms” between fiscal year 2006 and fiscal year 2008, the report said.
Niiiice.
And yet, one of the most common responses I hear to the idea of private citizens exercising our 2nd Amendment rights is that only law enforcement officers are trained adequately to safely handle and carry firearms.
Like this guy, no doubt:
Classic.
Jim Downey
(Cross posted to the BBTI blog.)
I put on a ball cap this morning, prior to heading out for my daily walk.
And my head hurt.
No, not a headache. A soft knot of pain localized right on my temple, where the cap fit just a little tightly.
* * * * * * *
I’ve mentioned the SCA here a number of times in the past. How I used to be very involved in it, how I still have a number of close friends from those days, how I learned a lot from my years of active participation.
I don’t think I’ve mentioned too much how I also blame the SCA for some of my aches and pains. But shall we say that I have been known to grumble a bit from time to time, how my days of fighting led to several joint surgeries, multiple fractures, and so forth. Oh, the SCA combat is actually quite safe, if you do it in a sane manner with decent armor. But in my younger days I didn’t always take the proper precautions, and pushed myself pretty hard to compete at the highest level – well beyond what I would consider ‘sane’ these days.
Still, those old reflexes probably saved my life.
* * * * * * *
Last October I wrote about an incident involving my stupidity and moving large chunks of wood, how it gave me a good smack upside the head and a pressure split of the scalp.
Sometimes it is only in hindsight, seen from something of a distance, that you can appreciate just what actually happened in the case of an accident. Such is the case with this incident.
It became pretty quickly clear in the weeks following that episode that I had actually suffered a concussion and likely a skull fracture. I say this because I know how bones ache when healing from a break, having broken something north of 15 of ’em over the decades. Other kinds of injuries just don’t feel the same.
Anyway, I didn’t seek treatment for it, because in spite of all the pain, there wasn’t much of an indication of anything really dangerous happening, and besides taking X-rays/cat-scans and confirming the break there wasn’t much that medical science would be able to do for me. They don’t put your head in a cast for a simple skull fracture, and I had painkillers sufficient to deal with things. Yeah, had there been some kind of bleeding inside my brain they may have done something, but I had no evidence of any such injury – I was extremely lucky.
I was *extremely* lucky.
* * * * * * *
Where the handle of the hand truck struck me on the temple was right where the cap fit a little tight. I was wearing that cap when the accident happened.
And thinking about it, and thinking about what happened and how, I now realize something that I didn’t really realize before. When, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the handle of the hand truck swinging my way, I flinched away.
A normal reflex.
Yes, but one which had been reinforced and conditioned by years – years – of SCA combat. Combat which largely consisted of people trying to hit me upside the head with stout sticks moving at high speed. Combat in which I came to be one of the best in the world for a brief period of time.
Now, I can’t prove it, and don’t care to test the hypothesis by duplicating the experiment, but I would bet that the injury I received – skull fracture, concussion – would likely have been a lot worse had I not had that honed reflex. Had I not seen the handle move, or had I moved in response just a little slower, it could well have left me with permanent brain injury or even dead. I’m not trying to be melodramatic here, just honest with myself about the close call I had.
And you know, I don’t think I’ll bitch quite so much about my aching joints from here on.
Jim Downey
I decided not to do formal ‘travelogues’ for my recent trip out to Las Vegas for the SHOT Show, but instead do a series of small vignettes, over the course of the next couple of weeks.
Jim D.
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Suites at the Venetian start out at “Luxury” and get more indulgent from there. The smallest is about 2/3 the size of my whole house in grad school, and the largest is bigger than our house now.
Note, I said “indulgent” – not “useful” or even particularly nice. What do I mean? Well, there were three flat-screen televisions in the room: one in the ‘living room’ area, one facing the bed, and even a small one in the corner of the bathroom. But the alarm clock face was scratched up so bad it was barely readable in the dark, the controls were confusing and marginally functional, and the radio didn’t work at all. The big picture window that looked out on the Venetian’s outdoor pool had a blind and curtains which were remotely controlled, but there wasn’t an in-room coffeemaker. The sectional couch in my room was stained and missing most of the upholstery buttons, and the one in my friend’s room was mis-matched bits from several couches that used covering material from different dye lots. I could go on.
At first glance, or on the Venetian website, the rooms look sumptuous. And they probably were when they were first built or when they are periodically rehabbed. But when you see it in person, it’s just a bit grim and superficial.
But I suppose it does what it is intended to do. Gives you the false impression of luxury while at the same time pushes you to go out the door and down into the casino/shoppes for coffee or comfort.
* * * * * * *
The whole time I wandered through the casinos, looking at the plethora of games and flashing lights I was completely ignored by the wait-staff. Completely. No looks, no smiles, nothing. I was a non-entity. It didn’t matter what time of day or night it was, or which casino I was in. I was invisible.
But the one morning, when sipping my coffee, that I stepped up to a $5 slot machine and stuck a bill into it – without even sitting down in front of the machine – I instantly became visible. Between the time I fed the machine my $10 bill and the few seconds later when I pushed the “play” button there was a nice woman with a cocktail tray standing there asking me if I wanted anything. It was rather amazing – it was like she had teleported next to me.
I thanked her, said no. She left.
I sipped my coffee. Pushed the “play” button again. Got my little adrenaline hit as a reward. Then turned and started slowly walking out of the casino, just looking at the machines. But before I left the little cluster of $5 slots, another woman appeared, wanting to know whether I needed some more coffee. I guess I looked like I might put some more money into a slot.
* * * * * * *
We walked down Las Vegas Blvd (‘The Strip’), just seeing the sights. It was brutal.
No, not the crowds. I can deal with crowds.
Nor the loud music pouring out of the various open doors. I went to enough concerts when I was a kid to be more or less immune to the appeal of bad sound systems.
The glitz and flashing lights was a bit hard on the eyes, and I worried that before we walked the couple of miles they would trigger a migraine. But I put on a ballcap (no, not the one I got here – never wear a local brand when you’re not a local – it marks you as a sucker) and kept my gaze lowered to street level.
No, the thing that got me were the long lines of touts for the prostitutes.
Seriously, there were places where you had to walk through a gauntlet of them, dozens long. Short, cold illegal immigrants slapping their little photo cards in that universal style of attention-getting I have seen in London, Buenos Aires, New York and elsewhere. Images of large-breasted woman of every variety, some paired up with a friend, on cheap card stock that littered the ground. In places the cards were so thick as to make it slick to walk, usually just past these touts.
Brutal. For everyone concerned.
* * * * * * *
Now, it isn’t particularly insightful or clever to observe that Las Vegas is little more than a pleasant facade over a money vacuum, an artificial construct with the sole intent of relieving tourists of their money. In fact, it’s a cliche.
So, why bother?
Well, because it was all so obvious. Las Vegas laughs at any attempt to expose the reality. It brazenly and openly says “yeah, this is all just a ruse to milk the rubes. What’s your point?”
You almost have to admire that level of mercenary behaviour.
Jim Downey
Communion Of Dreams 
