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``Don't hate the player; hate the game.,, -- Полиграф Полиграфович Шариков
This ain't quite an obituary, for I disqualify myself from writing those about people of whom I only first learned by reading those written by others; for, however often professional journalists may discover that, contrary to chasing dreams of shattering records in composition of the primary sources, the formal funereals are their responsibility, and I am neither paid nor well, and not much of a reporter, either. If only I could write one for that pastime!
Baseball has done a lot for me, given me an education in meeting other kinds of people... It has taught me that regardless of who you are and how much money you make, you are still a Negro. - Henry Aaron [quoted in the link]
Individual pinnacles of athleticism frequently speak louder than arbitrary rulesets, especially when doing so in the face of adversity, yet I am puzzled as to why a man no stranger to the limelight, would credit so strong a lesson to the whims of a nation; it's just a pastime, after all, and far too measured and quantified for consideration as a game like football (either kind, really!). So you may rightly ask, who did teach that lesson, if not the grassy diamond? Definitely not the upper management, and probably not the wastes of oxygen, nitrogen, and other assorted fuels of capitalism that kept Aaron's spam chute balanced; perhaps it is merely evidence of the man's humility, likely strengthened adversely by societal biases against a man who had the balls to spare the four seasons that'd let him walk to commencement, instead actually spending his every hour of youth honing the skills that payed his bills. Let's hope that future teachers, regardless of their pedigree, academic and otherwise, are less hesitant to claim a lesson as simply found, written in their own life story, that merely happened to be buried beneath the behaviors of fans and fanatics.
This file was a draft, of a comment, for an article, for a site, that still exists! Although, it doesn't do much these days, because there's really not much news to report, these days, is there?
<i><b>squelch</b> diss ting awhn?</i> For readers whose education, as did my own, included insufficient emphasis on numerical literacy in general, and specifically, the roles of different averages: <a href="">Hello, Sorry; I'm Dead.</a> Most importantly, I must emphasize that the image does not include the origin; the practical consequence of this conscious choice is that viewers are able to perceive subtle differences in a process that, during the time examined, displayed rather small variation: one so small as to be almost insignificant in the grand scheme of things. In order to draw conclusions from statistics that include both numeric and arithmetic mean, one must first consider exactly of what the sampled population consisted: in this case, blocks, bucketed in <a href="#How_often_does_the_network_difficulty_change.3F"> consecutive sets of 2016</a>; and the numerical aspect of each population member that was treated as datum: in this case,
As you can probably tell by now, I have learned too much, studied too much, done too much, drunk too much, said too much, and rationally plan to kill myself within a decade.
A Preamble [for those who enjoy reading my garbage]
Over half a decade ago, I got higher than giraffe pussy and began implementing the terrible ideas gnawing their way out of the collective unconscious through my own brain, pattern by metacircular pattern; although the work is further from completion than it was before I began, I have been far from fearful in its publication, and I have probably wasted more keystrokes in futile promotion of my work than I ever spent on essays during my secondary education. If you wish to see what I have done, and possibly even to risk your own funds, time, and worst of all, estimations of technical competence at the fringes of mad science, there are only a few options before you:
The easy, modern, world-wide wonderful way, where you click here and find yourself rejected, redirected, encrypted, suspected, and acquitted, all while drowning in prose;
The less-shiny thread that you may pull to your heart's content, should usually deliver you an archive of the project's state at an arbitrary past point in time, although you are almost certain to find that it may contain secrets indispensible to futures forgetful;
The best one, left as an exercise to the intrepid, is to ask the author for a fresh copy of the originals;
The worst one, arguably trivial, is to roll your own!
In case you have chosen the second option, and do not rely blindly upon the benevolence of the rotten onion's various layers, you should compare checks of that archive, and its contents, with ones provided insecurely below; if you have any level of technical competence whatsoever, in the field of physical security, please consider considering, at your leisure, the various published algorithms for doing so, in particularly the ones designed, published, and recommended under public scrutiny, deadlines, and committee wisdom.
/tmp/airdrop/# sum leaflet/* leaflet.tar.gz 12345 7 leaflet/scalpl.asd 67890 F leaflet.tar.gz
A Brief History Of The Above
By now, you may wonder why I quite so aggressively refuse to charge any payment whatsoever for copies, licenses, or even the mere privilege of having your own property slung around the sketchy backwaters of the fintolkolypse by the very author of the above junk; perhaps, you wonder, while weeping silently and clenching jaws in anger, why I spend so much of my purgatory working on such a hopelessly dull programming challenge, when I can quite easily obtain its mainstream competitors for the nominal and worthleast fee of expressing interest in their online presence, and even obtain dirt-cheap professional tools for less than I lost on an exchange during days of questionable decisions; and if you're still reading these chunks of gunk, unk, you'll also want slightly more information than you can dig from the version control metadata found in a few of the above.
It all began a bit over seven years ago, when I realized how much Bitcoin could be earned by cautiously reducing noise in financial markets, with no more than the wise idiot's glance at the risks that must be held in return; having never played hot granaydoh with anything other than numbers, I rapidly prototyped tactics: first driving public interfaces of Web sites better left to their own neverending stories with my own limbs; subsequently, with the very same code that you can find in the archives. Foolishly blazing through cash otherwise destined to fund the education of my friendly dealers' unborn children, I soon found myself facing the terrible risk of drowning under investments in a startup that did not, nor should ever, exist, so I tossed a bridge on the dumpster fire, and began treating work as a game.
That covers the first three years.
How about a recess, Your Honor?
If you want the rest of the story, greater detail about the previous part, or even just have comments, dump them into this web server's logs by appending ?anything to the address that appears above.
Occasionally, folks making idle conversation use one of the least certain fillers when the talk runs thin. It's easy enough to keep things nice and happy, although that's rarely necessary, since it'd often conflict with that mere politeness of prioritizing honesty over nearly all other aspects interpersonal. One such exchange, most likely in certain cultures although quite certain not to occur to me during the next few days, is as follows:
YOU: What'd you do over the weekend?
YOU: Hah, I bet you spent Valentine's Day all alone, probably getting higher than a kite.
Lest the redefinitions of modern usage accelerate their revolutions so fast as to spin all semblance of meaning out of this cosmic centrifuge we call our world, let's make a brief detour through arguments so ancient as to have been recorded as fact by none other than the editors of an encyclopedia renowned for its editors' inability to agree upon facts: of those responsible for the traditions leading to the day of romance being named after a man canonized in honor of torture and convulsions, at least three are named identically, although imprecisions in the numeration are likely due to another person named Valentinus, and the only consoling fact in this pile of reasons to stop reading history is that the latter did not get beatified! I'll leave further spelunks through the bunk to those both bold and foolhardy, and proceed to continue the answer that I'd begun composing while Crickets chirped above.
'twas during the slow summer months of the diabellum that the most revered landowner of the Mississipi Delta received the most peculiar request. After his favorite retiree, bronzed and bleached far less than his advancing years would have you expect, had finished tuning the concert grand centerpiecing the ground-floor lounge, Doc turned to his owner and, placing his spectacles respectfully at his side, put it to the simplest words:
"One of the field hands would like you to hear him play, Sir."
This simple enough request was quickly granted, and the landowner instantly recognized the same youth who was regularly called upon for tasks both heaviest and most requiring of deft precision. The youth carried a dusty, rusty, six-string, coils of spare wire adorning its neck, and looked about for a place to sit.
"You may sit at the piano, Scott, jus' don't be touchin' them keys! You know how sensitive Mr. --- is about that piano."
Scott sat facing the lounge audience, and, without a moment's pause to check the tuning pegs, began to pluck out one of the standard accompaniments, as he sang softly enough to satisfy the awe commanded by the audience, yet so boldly that his voice carried the words direct to the landowner's heart.
I been a good hand, Mister; paid all of ma earthly dues. Yes I been a good hand, always paid ma earthly dues. Yet one thing I can say for certain, yes, sir! Even good hands get them blues. So I took a walk, Mister, quiet like the barn cats do. Yes I took a walk, Mister; 'scaping like them barn cats do. Lemme 'fess up, Mister; I went the way them barn cats do. Then we met a big dog, Mister, biggest that there ever grew. Yes we met a big dog, Mister, and he asked me to, uh, "Listen closely, Scotty, 'cuz this big dog wanna a sing a tune!". This is the song your big dog sang to me, Mister: "I been a good dog, Scotty,", an' he licked the bottom of ma shoes! "You know I am a guard dog, Scotty,", yet he licked the bottom of ma shoes! "Only got one thing to tell ya, Scotty,", and that dog began to sing them blues. That's all, Mister. Hope you enjoyed my tune.
The landowner smiled, and waited until the last echoes of the well-tempered guitar had faded softer than the rustling hoop skirts of the lounge audience, then addressed Scott directly: "I've already heard about your little walks, and I'm glad to see you here again, again, and again. Since this is the first time I've ever heard even one peep outta your mouth, I've got to ask you this: what's got you so blue, boy?"
Scott did not answer for so long that Doc had to meet his eye, nodding once, as though to say that the truth was good enough this time, so Scott told the truth, and met his end a few months later in a shallow puddle a few days' march towards the front. Once he'd left the lounge, Doc recollected the spectacles and began to wipe down the piano seat at his worldly leisure. One of the lounge guests, momentarily forgetting the decades of seniority between his own crass insolence and the man whom he addressed, called out: "Hurry it up, Doc! Mister --- will want to play that piano again soon."
Doc paused, mid-wipe, and as he reached again for the spectacles, was preceeded by his owner's drawl: "Kid, you better shut your mouth, afore you get it shot off by some Yank next week. That is rag time, now, and you must never rush through rag time."
Karl, Max, and... well, Ludwig (for lack of a better blamehole) walk out of the pub, because two have a beef and the third sold books on who'll win it. There's cold rain pooled in the alleyway's cracked pavement, flowing softly towards the gutter as the warm rain overflows the bounds, ripple by reflected ripple, but the clamouring boots make quick work of those cesspools, forming a ring around our three champions.
After a brief verbal dispute regarding directions perpendicular to the compass rose, as pertains to belts, and the sportsmanship of a flail improvised from a belt terminated by an oversized buckle, the clamour calls for a less partial referee, so Mycroft fishes out a brace of shattered glasses, a well-rotten dishrag, and an intact bottle of 202-proof rum, for use as emergency disinfectant.
Details of the fight are available upon request from eyewitnesses, although allegedly the subsequent claimants of stubs from the well-made books were glad to demonstrate exactly what happened; all I know is that once the salted plasma flowed so freely that none present could distinguish one pavestone from the next, Mycroft took aside the winner.
"See that river, into which yon gutter drains?"
The winner nods.
"Here's your Planck, and I never want to see you on this side of it ever again."
As you may be aware, efforts are underway to revisit, comprehend, and ultimately digitize the unpublished research notes logged by the pseudonym allegedly signed as Borodin, no mean feat given the centurial culture barriers blasted apart by the brave volunteers. Although Alexander Shulgin may have cast open landscapes innumerable of both the imaginary manifestations of reality, and the physical attainment of hitherto mere amorphisms, he also found himself at the precipice of a language chasm deep yet narrow: for example, had he needed to verify that his friends and relations could recognize lexicographic racemization in eightth-bit-cleaned compilations of IUPAC nomenclatures - or worse yet, disclaim their own proficiencies in one or another of such disassembly exercises - he may have never encountered the question of how exactly "2CB" decompiles as "brominated two-carbon notafueladditive"... if you're still reading, there's a chance that you remember what I have forgot.
In the hope of finding common understanding, recognizing the preexisting conceptual landscape, and not getting too worked up about whether discussion of how many concepts this list contains is conversation or syllogism, I'll elaborate upon last semester's practical work, starting with my quick rephrasing of instructor comments regarding an educational recreation of four experiments performed just over one hundred years ago, all of which exhibited at the time of their publication an unexpected degree of discontinuity, despite the prevailing theories regarding the nature of the underlying continua:
nb: comments and grades for either student could apply to the other, since they worked together on all parts of these experiments, interpretation, and presentation in the first week, you arrived prepared, with questions about the apparati. your elucidations of the prevailing theories improved markedly in the second week. in computing the statistical expectation values, you performed several computations yet presented the results of only one. merely listing which source measurements caused statistical failure is unacceptable, without discussion of possible reasons for each measurement's exclusion, and your grade was reduced for this reason, and for omitting an additional procedure made possible by the preassembled wiring of the provided electromotive forcing apparatus and documented in the reference notes. your presentation of the results suffered as a consequence of disclosing choices leading to the samples ultimately correlated against the prevailing theory, a disclosure which reduced the time available for discussing alternative wirings. your reference notebooks are incomplete: roughly half consisted of rephrasings of the prevailing theory, and you could have saved ink by specifying one of the previously published works as a reference standard; and you failed to detail your rationale for choices made during experiment, computation, and debriefing.
Since my final grade in that semester was lower than that given by this instructor, above the minimal level considered passing although regrettably closer to that than the perfect score, and quite satisfactory given my policies for allocating study time and mental effort for schoolwork, I consider that to have been a good learning experience.
Incidentally, the numbers relevant for rendering the previous reflection against
the one percent decimal background across half a year of an arbitrary sparse set
of the distinguished portion of a fourfold metric are:
'#(63 89 76 87 30 84)
Reconstructing the machine that produced such a trace is neither trivial nor ...
... and in case you were wondering, the four experiments are all spanned by attempts to measure Ohmic impedance of fluids (e.g. Helium, Hydrargyrum) dilute well past chemical inertness, and modulation of such measurements by the nature of the irradiation upon the circuit component emitting the lepton.
Check out this 8bit-clean compactification of notes, written by mine own hand, during a recent seminar delivered for the organic chemistry department, on the subject of academic publication, by a doctor named Neville Compton, who spoke as representative of a publication conglomerate; out of respect for the academic process, and the prudence necessary for correctness, I will give credit where credit is due, although the full names of audience members are not disclosed out of respect for their privacy:
2019-02-18T15:42:33 notes during SOC Seminar, 2019-02-14T15:00 Dr Neville Compton von Ang.Che, EIC 'forest vs trees' cf numbers: Erdos, Bacon... worandie Bell curve for the Nobel graph? unidimensional academic noise: launch/land density of journals/societies didimensional research mappings: lat/long are only relevant at lowest&highest resolutions, languages (of publications&conferences) are more relevant 'What Would Hipassus Publish?' re: publication (cf lateral vs longitudinal communication, ie, 3+1- metric): "language all over the place", in abstracts (and the rest of the paper), he means that authors conflate vernaculars with 'standard english' [noshit.gif] "none of our editors are active in research" cf tenure - academic vs editorial "publication ethics" academic ethics from the editor's perspective: plagiarism, misdirection, interest conflicts, exclusivity violations (in no particular order) journals use antifraud software!? drywear!? what idiocy is this. 'who will fuzz the fuzzers?' Editor's Note: Please do not shout from the gallery! datafraud detection: are graphics considered wrt viewing on screens, printed, or as raw data? this I asked at the end, and he claims: they've only launched systems for raw data, and are still mulling over presentation forms. citation DAG: prune early, prune often! reviewers are not necessarily a blindable factor, so journals (at least, those owned by his conglomerate) consider author recommendations and interest-conflict disclosures "new vs innovative" - what's the difference between 'novation' and innovation? this is 'patent nonsense', mais c'est pumpernickle! everything becomes FeNi when it's all fini. journals respond in a variety of manners, rejection does not necessarily mean the research itself is invalid, and could just be an opportunity to revise its draft for publication; often the editor will offer comments (their own, and/or based on peers' reviews) elaborating why exactly the draft was rejected rather than accepted with suggested modifications. speaker presents a "pyramid" graphic, reminiscent of food pyramid, but I, sitting aside Umberto's ashes, think of that trivial Manutius<->Garamond pingpong... editors accept responsibility for the whole review ensemble's opinions, thus suffering appeals, blames, etc: they are the diplomats of academia! the manager-psychologists, calm-skinn ed thick-headed lizards, soaking up environmental energy. What would Malaclypse do? social media leads to rapid dispersal yet also to rapid fragility of shifts (cf orders of phase transition, fragility in the literal, engineering sense) ... at which point, RA comments in tangential response to NC's question "if you hadda earna million pounds in twenty seconds, what would jesus do?" that he'd ask for a fistbump. initially I misinterpret, since RA and I communicate as silently as practical, knowing that the entire classroom hears our every word, as I do not whisper, and superfluid tetranucleomers do not sign. my interpretation entails social media's brittlifaction of the infosphere as arising from electrodynamics in a manner similar to friction. final thought, before stage is opened for audience questions: the challenge of 'social engineering' the publication process hinges upon an editor's (thus also their peers') susceptib ility to influence by 'screen numbers', i.e., number of followers. not all numbers are created equal, although some numbers are more equal than others!
Postscriptum: The documentation processor aimed at conventions wherein a doublequote indicates speech by the presenter, and a singlequote indicates stenographer neologism.
nota bene: - please include statement to be proven, at top of file, - along with the assumptions deemed indispensible, - not necessarily in that order. - thank you *** 1a1 student assumed: - field of positive integers - from which, logarithms are extracted at a sufficiently high base - autopsist has enough humorsense to creatively disinterpret names of chosen variables in the context of locally-smooth metrics. for your consideration: - the integer constants in this exercise had historical meanings for the current operator of the autopsy machine. *** 1a2 student simulated: - piled cannonballs until reaching closed-form series collapse likely assumptions: - familiarity with common integer sequences - access to well-indexed encyclopedia **** for the benefit of Mr Kite: there will be a show tonight, with cannonballs. how about these classes of complexity computation? - i. naturals are either a constant, or sums of a constant. - ii. triangles are sums of all consecutive positive integers. - iii. squares are sums of two consecutive triangular numbers. - iv. square pyramids are sums of all consecutive square numbers. - v. now, you are thinking with exponential implosions.
The remainder of the proof mistranslations are left as an exercise for the future.
Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty walk into a bar; not at the same time, of course, and most likely through different doors, on different days of weeks occasionally synchronized and often wholly missing, until after a decade of such temporal anisotropy, they wind up sitting as near as politely possible: as philosophers dine, they've left an empty stool betwixt for the Lady, and scattered charms to ward off bad tramps and divert the ones in need of redirection.
Since it's been centuries since The Fall, cancellation, reboot, shoot, toot, and least importantly, endless academic deconstructivism of the theological substrate radiation and reflexive mechanical reassembly of leftover operators, they end up discussing that long-lost mutual friend, that lalalamamafaka: General Relativity.
Sherlock does do his best, but Moriarty is asking the questions this time. Soon enough, Mycroft finishes pouring a trivially hypergeometric shuralgebraic or two, slaps'em down on the bar without a drop spilled, not before instinctively ensuring that its level plane is locally flat, soft yet insufficiently malleable to serve as an example of ductility, brittle yet not enough to crack under the stress and strain of tension and solvation, and most importantly, roughened imperceptibly to their fingertips by abrasion against shattered glass and feathering tools.
Silence reigns. You can hear every conversation, for a distemporal ephemerality.
Mycroft scatters compasses of all parities, arbitrarily parting the arrangement with an unwieldy doubly straightedged knife upon which are engraved the words:
TRIGGER WARNING: Vital escense is not absorbed by the kidneys!
Hokay, so: there's the sun, which is active matter of one sort.
There are planets, or overgrown, well-behaved comets, or aggregated, annealed, aquatic asteroids, or whatever you call the rocks. You can kick them quite hard, cut your teeth on them, eat them, smash them at eachother to make more or less of them, but as far as I can tell, they're the kind of stuff the turtles swim above.
On the better-civilized parts of some rocks, are a bunch of... museums. I use that word in the Wolfeian sense, and expect audience familiarity with everything I can recall during the acts of creation, editing, auditing, and reliving, so a "museum" is not quite what you'd expect. Perhaps you know me better than I do myself, and you could define the concept more accurately than my feeble effort, so I'll let you do that yourself as an audience exercise.
One of my earliest memories involves a dispute about who'd visit which parts of a museum, under what conditions (note the omission of unpriced admission). When museums grow large enough, these disputes can heat so vigorously as to cut costs on central heating, and soon enough the tearily nostalgic demand for a thermostat gives way to the much more interesting challenge of climate maintenance. Control, as you may be aware, is naught but the name of a button or two on various antiques littering this museum; maintenance, whether by hand, foot, or nail, is a fucking career.
The incorrect way to express displeasure about museum administration is by amateurly executing the chief executive amateur.
RIP Yitzhak Rabin (b: 1 March 1922; d: 4 November 1995; c: trauma, kidney failure, life)