Links
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Yes, I know it’s paywalled, which sucks for any one who happens to read this who does not subscribe to Defector but, seriously, what are you waiting for? That’s the best site on the internet. Yes, I am a shill and proud member of the Defector Buddies Street Team. ↩︎
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This was not a dead giveaway, but I had my suspicions as, after having been exposed to the wonders of computers both at school and at a few friends' houses to that point, I had been working on my parents for some time to take the plunge. ↩︎
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I finally, after all these years, get the reference. My 12-year-old self was less familiar with Johnny Cash, though I’d probably heard the song at that point. ↩︎
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And, as a kid whose music prior to this Christmas had come on cassette tapes or my parents old vinyl, I know that the major technological advancement of CDs was that you could easily skip tracks (!), but that was never the way I listened to music. Probably because my formative experiences with owning music were with cassettes, I’ve always been a “listen through the album, at least when its new” kind of person. Maybe that’s the real thing I miss. It’s still certainly possible with Spotify and the like, but the recommendations seem to steer toward singles and playlists rather than full albums. ↩︎
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Not someone to whom I wish to draw unfair DeSantis comparisons, but this was not one of his better moments, obviously. ↩︎
🔗 Suicide Mission: What Boeing did to all the guys who remember how to build a plane
A shocking look at the inner workings at Boeing from Maureen Tkacic at The American Prospect.
Nine days after the stock reached its high of $440, a brand-new 737 MAX dove into the ground near Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, at nearly 800 miles per hour, killing 157 people on board, thanks to a shockingly dumb software program that had programmed the jets to nose-dive in response to the input from a single angle-of-attack sensor.
What will it take for corporations like this to start putting something–anything! safety! literal lives!–ahead of stock price?
🔗 Turns out, plants make a lot of noise when they're stressed
Justine Calma, for The Verge, summarizing research from Tel Aviv University:
Tomato and tobacco plants in particular make clicking sounds when they’re dehydrated or being cut [. . .] Distress sounds were more prolonged for plants deprived of water. They made increasingly more noise in the first few days without water, reaching a crescendo before quieting as they dried out.
Seeing this after reading about the “panpsychist” movement earlier this week is striking me as incredibly sad.
🔗 The Lost Art of Being Stuck With An Album
Felix Kent, writing at Defector1:
For either my 12th birthday or the Christmas before my aunt gave me a copy of R.E.M’s Green, which has an orange cover. She also gave me a copy of Belinda Carlisle’s Runaway Horses (Belinda looking sultry in black and white and a crochet sweater thing) and a third album. I can’t remember what the third album was; it might have been the Bon Jovi album with the cover that looked like denim.
While Felix ultimately comes to the conclusion not that this now old-fashioned tradition of being “stuck” with an album and listening so much that you learn to love it was a good thing, but rather that “it was bad and annoying that getting music was so hard,” it still conjured some particularly nostalgia for me that I couldn’t resist.
Right around the same time in my life – I am almost certain is was the Christmas after my 12th birthday – our big family gift was a desktop computer. An Emerald Green Acer Aspire. It was the first computer our family ever had and eventually became the gateway to our first internet access. But before it was that gateway, it was also our first CD player. I remember that the big surprise was given away2 ever-so-slightly because three of the gifts shoved in my enormous stocking that year, which was traditionally opened before all the presents (especially any big family presents), were CDs: Queen’s Greatest Hits I; Weezer’s Blue Album; and Goo Goo Dolls' A Boy Named Goo.3
I relentlessly listened to these three CDs. I can still sing along to all three of them. For two of them, this is not surprising: a greatest hits compilation by one of history’s greatest rock bands and a seminal 90s post-grunge album that would serve as the cornerstone for the development of my musical tastes to this day. But that third one sticks out a little bit. A Boy Named Goo is not, now, one of my favorite albums of all time. It is not one that I remember as having had an outsized influence on my overall musical taste or one that I would hand-pick to be among the first to play through my car’s speakers years later on my 16th birthday. For the Goo Goo Dolls, it was a bit of a transitional album as I have come to understand. The success of the mega-hit “Name,” the sixth track on that CD, undoubtedly changed the future trajectory of that band and sounds, in many ways, like a lot of their future radio hits. But a lot of A Boy Named Goo is faster paced and has a harder edge representative of the punk sound of their pre-“Name” albums. (Truthfully, I never really listened to another Goo Goo Dolls album nearly as thoroughly as I listened to A Boy Named Goo, but the sound of the majority of that album is nothing like the sound that I think is most frequently associated with the band. Their Greatest Hits album, for example, does not contain a single song from any of their four albums that preceded A Boy Named Goo and contains only “Name” from that record.)
But, because, at the time (for the next couple years, anyway, before Napster and the rest ushered in a new era), “getting music was so hard,” I wore that CD out. Even though it wasn’t what I expected. I’d heard “Name” and “Naked” on the radio and loved them. Sure, this CD had those two tracks but most of it sounded quite different4. Had I heard those two singles in the new era of music availability, the algorithm would have recommended more songs that sounded like those songs, rather than songs by the Goo Goo Dolls, specifically, and I may have never heard the rest of the album. But because it was one of three CDs that I owned for some time, it was in the regular rotation and I grew to love it. Maybe that doesn’t happen if music is more available at the time. Probably it wouldn’t have. And I think I probably land on the same side as Felix that “the fact that good things can come out of contingencies does not make the contingencies good,” but there’s definitely something I miss about the way this all used to work.
The Garden-Spade Technique 🔗
I’m a little ashamed to admit how hard I laughed reading this admittedly silly piece by the always great Albert Burneko at the always great (and, to quote the piece, “incredibly deranged”) Defector about the recent Daily Beast story about the eating habits of Ron DeSantis.
The quote in the Daily Beast story from a former DeSantis staffer is great – and probably because of that, I’ve seen the same line quoted in probably half a dozen other summaries since it was originally published. In it, the staffer claims that DeSantis “would sit in meetings and eat in front of people [. . .] like a starving animal who has never eaten before.”
Burneko picks out the most hilarious and disturbing nugget from the story and gives it the full Defector treatment:
The story’s most vivid detail concerns DeSantis once memorably slurping chocolate pudding out of his own bare goddamn hand like a fucking freak:
Enshrined in DeSantis lore is an episode from four years ago: During a private plane trip from Tallahassee to Washington, D.C., in March of 2019, DeSantis enjoyed a chocolate pudding dessert–by eating it with three of his fingers, according to two sources familiar with the incident.
It’s the “three of his fingers” detail that really makes this anecdote sing. Because now you kind of can’t help but picture it, right? Not just “with his fingers” or “out of his hand,” but specifically three fingers. Really disturbing stuff!
While I laughed embarrassingly hard while reading this story, Burneko is 100% wrong about one thing:
The likeliest possibility seems to me to be a pincer type of deal: The index and middle finger, plus the thumb, sort of gently pinching a glob of pudding like a wad of chaw and lifting it to the face of Ron DeSantis, to be slurped at by his large wet tongue, with the now spit-sucked pincer then returning to the chocolate pudding dessert, like the world’s most accursed prize-machine claw, for another disgusting saliva-impregnated clot of chocolate goop.
Having been, in my younger and more vulnerable years, party to a similarly disturbing display in which a friend of mine1 drunkenly devoured corn syrup from a makeshift honey pot as part of a dismantled Winnie the Pooh Halloween costume, I can say with some amount of confidence that the method employed to eat pudding with one’s fingers is much more likely to be the “garden-spade technique":
Three fingers lined up and pressed tightly together, stabbing down into the pudding dessert and scooping out a little heap. This could be the index, middle, and ring fingers (a Large spade) or the middle, ring, and pinky fingers (Small).