everyone wants to be the friction

Bill’s Books:

Finally, if fans buy from our web site rather than Amazon or at a conventional retail outlet, Bill will receive a significantly increased share of the cover price because it effectively cuts out the chain of distribution, retail and the high discounts they demand (Amazon traditionally want 60 per cent of cover price as its cut, for example). “

The big story during the dotcom boom was about the frictionless marketplace, but that was actually a red herring: the goal was reduce friction caused by others, to be the sole remaining friction, ie, to cut as many others out of the chain as possible.

This makes me wonder how many books, etc. we may not know about because of Amazon’s reach and power: the small seller may be unwilling to send 60% of the take to Amazon rather than the artist and there may never be enough volume to make it worthwhile. As noted earlier, efficiency isn’t the most important thing all the time.

seitan recipes from a hillbilly?

Hillbilly Housewife:

A four-ounce serving or Wheat Meat contains 70 calories, 15 grams of protein, 1 gram of fat and zero cholesterol. It is an easy-to-make, delicious and versatile, vegetarian food.

Sho’nuff. This made the best seitan I have made yet, and I know I can make it better with a little attention (it boiled, which affects the texture, and I could add more flavorings).

And I like this one too, especially the comment below:

Healthy Hillbilly Housewife–Biblical Nutrion– Eating according to Biblical principles from the Old and New Testament:

This is a great recipe for people who don’t like tofu. They can get friendly with it in a nonthreatening atmosphere.

I have to try some of these.

introducing Be Bop Deluxe (?)


“Postcards From the Future: Introducing Be Bop Deluxe” (Be Bop Deluxe)

Just saw this at the iTunes Music Store. I think I have all of it already . . . not sure why they called it “Introducing . . . ”

The initial (only?) review at Amazon is quite accurate, BTW, if you wonder why should care about a band you never heard, who last worked together 25 years ago or so.

can you do this in Windows?

Someone remarked that something I did the other way was genius. I’ll concede that it was mildly clever, I’ll let you decide.

I took something off someone’s hands in the LowEnd Mac swap meet (a mailing list where people horse trade stuff for old Macs, some not so old), and to save hassle on both ends, I created a postage paid mailing label at the USPS website, previewed it so I could save it as a PDF, and emailed that as an attachment. All he had to do was print and stick . . . .

Unexpectedly, the java applet that makes this work was fine in Safari but not in FireFox . . . so I could create the labels, just not render them.

synchronicity

When the same thing gets mentioned twice in your RSS aggregator, it deserves seeking out.
BoingBoing had this:
Buddy

And local hero Mike Whybark opines:
touche pas le Ballard Bitter:

I moved to Seattle in 1990, the year Pete Bagge and Fanatgraphics started publishing “Hate,” one of the all-time record holders for right-place, right-time synchronicity. I bought nearly every issue at the late, lamented Fallout Records and Comics and read them, snickering, on the way up the hill to my home, wondering where the insane parties, nut-case postadolescents, and drunken debauchery was. Pete inflicted this on his hapless alter ego, Buddy Bradley with such verve and accuracy that I passed the decade of the 1990s convinced that these activities existed no only in my past, Pete’s past, and the comic book, but also in the streets and shared-unit rental homes of Seattle.

A few years older and wise, I know now that actually, everyone who moved here between 1990 and 1998 moved here partailly beacuse they love the reserved social expressions that characterize interactions here, and in fact, although Pete and I lived the experiences so memorably depicted in “Hate,” the more egregious events are more accurately understood as picture of American subculture in the 1980s than as a mirror held up to the time and place of grunge and dotcoms.

That never really stopped me from party hopping back then, rolling from artist’s loft standoff to basement ammonia fiasco searching for the chemical agape I had once known. Meanwhile, Pete was pouring his considerable anomie into these stories with verve and the lack of self-restraint for which is so widely, and deservedly, admired.

Fifteen years later, what do we have to show for it?

Well, most recently, Fanta issued “Buddy Does Seattle,” and I have been chortling my way through every page. If you ever fell in love with the media idea of Seattle as some kind of bohemeian paradise, or found yourself here, observing the hoopla and yet, of course, unable to locate the source of the fuss, you really owe it to yourself to track this weighty, fifteen-dollar snortfest down.

Pete will probably appreciate the money, when Fanta pays him for the material. But all the same, he’s told me that he kinda hates the turn toward graphic novels in alternacomix of late. He thinks it’s a reflection of a kind of snooty image-consciousness that privileges the social construction of reading comics in public. Everybody’s trying to look smart, he’s told me.

Well, I think that’s a debatable thesis. But I do know that Bagge’s plenty smart, and these stories have, if anything, improved with age. If you ever wondered what it would be like when a Jersey boy collided with Seattle, Pete’s got the news for you, still up-to-date after fifteen years.

I like the graphic novel format (Maus I and II, Persepolis I and II, Blankets, Sandman). I think it’s safe to say, no one is trying to look smart by reading graphic novels (doesn’t matter how thick it is, people will sneer at “picture books.”).

Flatland, by Edwin A. Abbott

Flatland: Section 11 Concerning our Priests

It is high time that I should pass from these brief and discursive notes about things in Flatland to the central event of this book, my initiation into the mysteries of Space. THAT is my subject; all that has gone before is merely preface.

For this reason I must omit many matters of which the explanation would not, I flatter myself, be without interest for my Readers: as for example, our method of propelling and stopping ourselves, although destitute of feet; the means by which we give fixity to structures of wood, stone, or brick, although of course we have no hands, nor can we lay foundations as you can, nor avail ourselves of the lateral pressure of the earth; the manner in which the rain originates in the intervals between our various zones, so that the northern regions do not intercept the moisture falling on the southern; the nature of our hills and mines, our trees and vegetables, our seasons and harvests; our Alphabet and method of writing, adapted to our linear tablets; these and a hundred other details of our physical existence I must pass over, nor do I mention them now except to indicate to my readers that their omission proceeds not from forgetfulness on the part of the author, but from his regard for the time of the Reader.

Yet before I proceed to my legitimate subject some few final remarks will no doubt be expected by my Readers upon these pillars and mainstays of the Constitution of Flatland, the controllers of our conduct and shapers of our destiny, the objects of universal homage and almost of adoration: need I say that I mean our Circles or Priests?

When I call them Priests, let me not be understood as meaning no more than the term denotes with you. With us, our Priests are Administrators of all Business, Art, and Science; Directors of Trade, Commerce, Generalship, Architecture, Engineering, Education, Statesmanship, Legislature, Morality, Theology; doing nothing themselves, they are the Causes of everything worth doing, that is done by others.

Although popularly everyone called a Circle is deemed a Circle, yet among the better educated Classes it is known that no Circle is really a Circle, but only a Polygon with a very large number of very small sides. As the number of the sides increases, a Polygon approximates to a Circle; and, when the number is very great indeed, say for example three or four hundred, it is extremely difficult for the most delicate touch to feel any polygonal angles. Let me say rather it WOULD be difficult: for, as I have shown above, Recognition by Feeling is unknown among the highest society, and to FEEL a Circle would be considered a most audacious insult. This habit of abstention from Feeling in the best society enables a Circle the more easily to sustain the veil of mystery in which, from his earliest years, he is wont to enwrap the exact nature of his Perimeter or Circumference. Three feet being the average Perimeter it follows that, in a Polygon of three hundred sides each side will be no more than the hundredth part of a foot in length, or little more than the tenth part of an inch; and in a Polygon of six or seven hundred sides the sides are little larger than the diameter of a Spaceland pin-head. It is always assumed, by courtesy, that the Chief Circle for the time being has ten thousand sides.

The ascent of the posterity of the Circles in the social scale is not restricted, as it is among the lower Regular classes, by the Law of Nature which limits the increase of sides to one in each generation. If it were so, the number of sides in the Circle would be a mere question of pedigree and arithmetic, and the four hundred and ninety-seventh descendant of an Equilateral Triangle would necessarily be a polygon with five hundred sides. But this is not the case. Nature’s Law prescribes two antagonistic decrees affecting Circular propagation; first, that as the race climbs higher in the scale of development, so development shall proceed at an accelerated pace; second, that in the same proportion, the race shall become less fertile. Consequently in the home of a Polygon of four or five hundred sides it is rare to find a son; more than one is never seen. On the other hand the son of a five-hundred-sided Polygon has been known to possess five hundred and fifty, or even six hundred sides.

Art also steps in to help the process of higher Evolution. Our physicians have discovered that the small and tender sides of an infant Polygon of the higher class can be fractured, and his whole frame re-set, with such exactness that a Polygon of two or three hundred sides sometimes — by no means always, for the process is attended with serious risk — but sometimes overleaps two or three hundred generations, and as it were double at a stroke, the number of his progenitors and the nobility of his descent.

Many a promising child is sacrificed in this way. Scarcely one out of ten survives. Yet so strong is the parental ambition among those Polygons who are, as it were, on the fringe of the Circular class, that it is very rare to find the Nobleman of that position in society, who has neglected to place his first-born in the Circular Neo-Therapeutic Gymnasium before he has attained the age of a month.

One year determines success or failure. At the end of that time the child has, in all probability, added one more to the tombstones that crowd the Neo-Therapeutic Cemetery; but on rare occasional a glad procession bears back the little one to his exultant parents, no longer a Polygon, but a Circle, at least by courtesy: and a single instance of so blessed a result induces multitudes of Polygonal parents to submit to similar domestic sacrifice, which have a dissimilar issue.

Flatland, by Edwin A. Abbott

Flatland: Section 10 Of the Suppression of the Chromatic Sedition

The agitation for the Universal Colour Bill continued for three years; and up to the last moment of that period it seemed as though Anarchy were destined to triumph.

A whole army of Polygons, who turned out to fight as private soldiers, was utterly annihilated by a superior force of Isosceles Triangles — the Squares and Pentagons meanwhile remaining neutral.

Worse than all, some of the ablest Circles fell a prey to conjugal fury. Infuriated by political animosity, the wives in many a noble household wearied their lords with prayers to give up their opposition to the Colour Bill; and some, finding their entreaties fruitless, fell on and slaughtered their innocent children and husband, perishing themselves in the act of carnage. It is recorded that during that triennial agitation no less than twenty-three Circles perished in domestic discord.

Great indeed was the peril. It seemed as though the Priests had no choice between submission and extermination; when suddenly the course of events was completely changed by one of those picturesque incidents which Statesmen ought never to neglect, often to anticipate, and sometimes perhaps to originate, because of the absurdly disproportionate power with which they appeal to the sympathies of the populace.

It happened that an Isosceles of a low type, with a brain little if at all above four degrees — accidentally dabbling in the colours of some Tradesman whose shop he had plundered — painted himself, or caused himself to be painted (for the story varies) with the twelve colours of a Dodecagon. Going into the Market Place he accosted in a feigned voice a maiden, the orphan daughter of a noble Polygon, whose affection in former days he had sought in vain; and by a series of deceptions — aided, on the one side, by a string of lucky accidents too long to relate, and, on the other, by an almost inconceivable fatuity and neglect of ordinary precautions on the part of the relations of the bride — he succeeded in consummating the marriage. The unhappy girl committed suicide on discovering the fraud to which she had been subjected.

When the news of this catastrophe spread from State to State the minds of the Women were violently agitated. Sympathy with the miserable victim and anticipations of similar deceptions for themselves, their sisters, and their daughters, made them now regard the Colour Bill in an entirely new aspect. Not a few openly avowed themselves converted to antagonism; the rest needed only a slight stimulus to make a similar avowal. Seizing this favourable opportunity, the Circles hastily convened an extraordinary Assembly of the States; and besides the usual guard of Convicts, they secured the attendance of a large number of reactionary Women.

Amidst an unprecedented concourse, the Chief Circle of those days — by name Pantocyclus — arose to find himself hissed and hooted by a hundred and twenty thousand Isosceles. But he secured silence by declaring that henceforth the Circles would enter on a policy of Concession; yielding to the wishes of the majority, they would accept the Colour Bill. The uproar being at once converted to applause, he invited Chromatistes, the leader of the Sedition, into the centre of the hall, to receive in the name of his followers the submission of the Hierarchy. Then followed a speech, a masterpiece of rhetoric, which occupied nearly a day in the delivery, and to which no summary can do justice.

With a grave appearance of impartiality he declared that as they were now finally committing themselves to Reform or Innovation, it was desirable that they should take one last view of the perimeter of the whole subject, its defects as well as its advantages. Gradually introduction the mention of the dangers to the Tradesmen, the Professional Classes and the Gentlemen, he silenced the rising murmurs of the Isosceles by reminding them that, in spite of all these defects, he was willing to accept the Bill if it was approved by the majority. But it was manifest that all, except the Isosceles, were moved by his words and were either neutral or averse to the Bill.

Turning now to the Workmen he asserted that their interests must not be neglected, and that, if they intended to accept the Colour Bill, they ought at least to do so with full view of the consequences. Many of them, he said, were on the point of being admitted to the class of the Regular Triangles; others anticipated for their children a distinction they could not hope for themselves. That honourable ambition would not have to be sacrificed. With the universal adoption of Colour, all distinctions would cease; Regularity would be confused with Irregularity; development would give place to retrogression; the Workman would in a few generations be degraded to the level of the Military, or even the Convict Class; political power would be in the hands of the greatest number, that is to say the Criminal Classes, who were already more numerous than the Workmen, and would soon out-number all the other Classes put together when the usual Compensative Laws of Nature were violated.

A subdued murmur of assent ran through the ranks of the Artisans, and Chromatistes, in alarm, attempted to step forward and address them. But he found himself encompassed with guards and forced to remain silent while the Chief Circle in a few impassioned words made a final appeal to the Women, exclaiming that, if the Colour Bill passed, no marriage would henceforth be safe, no woman’s honour secure; fraud, deception, hypocrisy would pervade every household; domestic bliss would share the fate of the Constitution and pass to speedy perdition. “Sooner than this,” he cried, “come death.”

At these words, which were the preconcerted signal for action, the Isosceles Convicts fell on and transfixed the wretched Chromatistes; the Regular Classes, opening their ranks, made way for a band of Women who, under direction of the Circles, moved back foremost, invisibly and unerringly upon the unconscious soldiers; the Artisans, imitating the example of their betters, also opened their ranks. Meantime bands of Convicts occupied every entrance with an impenetrable phalanx.

The battle, or rather carnage, was of short duration. Under the skillful generalship of the Circles almost every Woman’s charge was fatal and very many extracted their sting uninjured, ready for a second slaughter. But no second blow was needed; the rabble of the Isosceles did the rest of the business for themselves. Surprised, leader-less, attacked in front by invisible foes, and finding egress cut off by the Convicts behind them, they at once — after their manner — lost all presence of mind, and raised the cry of “treachery.” This sealed their fate. Every Isosceles now saw and felt a foe in every other. In half an hour not one of that vast multitude was living; and the fragments of seven score thousand of the Criminal Class slain by one another’s angles attested the triumph of Order.

The Circles delayed not to push their victory to the uttermost. The Working Men they spared but decimated. The Militia of the Equilaterals was at once called out, and every Triangle suspected of Irregularity on reasonable grounds, was destroyed by Court Martial, without the formality of exact measurement by the Social Board. The homes of the Military and Artisan classes were inspected in a course of visitation extending through upwards of a year; and during that period every town, village, and hamlet was systematically purged of that excess of the lower orders which had been brought about by the neglect to pay the tribute of Criminals to the Schools and University, and by the violation of other natural Laws of the Constitution of Flatland. Thus the balance of classes was again restored.

Needless to say that henceforth the use of Colour was abolished, and its possession prohibited. Even the utterance of any word denoting Colour, except by the Circles or by qualified scientific teachers, was punished by a severe penalty. Only at our University in some of the very highest and most esoteric classes — which I myself have never been privileged to attend — it is understood that the sparing use of Colour is still sanctioned for the purpose of illustrating some of the deeper problems of mathematics. But of this I can only speak from hearsay.

Elsewhere in Flatland, Colour is now non-existent. The art of making it is known to only one living person, the Chief Circle for the time being; and by him it is handed down on his death-bed to none but his Successor. One manufactory alone produces it; and, lest the secret should be betrayed, the Workmen are annually consumed, and fresh ones introduced. So great is the terror with which even now our Aristocracy looks back to the far-distant days of the agitation for the Universal Colour Bill.