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Trou: a soft, CCTV-bugged interactive sculpture that you ram your hand and arm into

Среда, 15 Августа 2018 г. 21:40 (ссылка)



Trou is an interactive sculpture from Valencia, Spain's Mireia Donat Mel'us: the nylon and silicon fiber blob invites viewers to don a surgical glove and insert their hands and arms into an elastic orifice in the sculpture's surface -- and watching their probing appendage from within via a live video-feed.
(more…)

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Galche

Закат (мои фото)

Понедельник, 24 Июля 2018 г. 01:26 (ссылка)


Закат (мои фото)



Люблю наблюдать за закатами - явление, которое  меня всегда завораживает. В это время небо окрашивается в разноцветные тона. Иногда они меняются очень быстро, а в другой раз медленно и возникает такое чувство, что "стоят и думают в какой цвет измениться". Даже пальмы в этот момент неподвижны.

SL275723 (700x525, 457Kb)



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CapitanCabinet

Чемпионат Мира по Футболу [Россия 2018 FIFA] (Казань) Иран - Испания

Воскресенье, 01 Июля 2018 г. 11:22 (ссылка)


Первые впечатления после матча. Наконец, на Чемпионате Мира по Футболу. И на игре Красной Фурии! Дождались гола Диего Косты, чтобы выпустить из легких весь тот воздух и голос, который копили в ожидании. Блестяще! Все, как на ладони :D. Победа! Иран - Испания 0:1. Даааааа! В тот день все матчи закончились с минимальным счетом, но какое напряжение было. По очкам и мячам идем с Португалией нога в ногу. Днем матч португальцев с мароканцами, пошли смотреть в паб. Размяться перед стадионом.



Так получилось, что прежде я смотрел все международные матчи только в Москве. Это первый выезд именно на футбол, если не считать того дружественного матча в Монте-Карло. Зато сразу на Чемпионат Мира. Дальше хочется в Европу, наконец. А там и до Мексики добраться.



















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CapitanCabinet

2018 FIFA World Cup Russia (Kazan) IR Iran v Spain

Воскресенье, 01 Июля 2018 г. 11:21 (ссылка)


Соберу большой, особенный для меня, пост по итогу спонтанной поездки на Чемпионат Мира по Футболу в Казань. На матч групповой стадии Иран - Испания. На всех предварительных этапах продаж, мне не удалось взять ни одного билета. И вдруг, мне прислали новость, что будет дополнительная продажа. Ооо, это было очень нервно. Все надо было сделать очень быстро, за один день, и неделю еще хлопотать. Но оно того стоило.



Лучшие места, оформили все в кратчайшие сроки, очень ждал потом. До этого, не ожидая возможности попасть на стадион купил футболку сборной со своей фамилией, а тут такой шанс надеть её на игре! ¡Viva España! ¡Viva La Furia Roja!















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Spanish football app turns users into unwitting surveillance operatives

Понедельник, 12 Июня 2018 г. 00:19 (ссылка)

Spain's got a stiffy for football, or soccer, if you must.

When a football match is on, just about everyone in the country loses their minds. TVs are gathered round, siestas are forgone, and team songs, in any bar you chance, will be full of scarf-swinging loons banging on tables and screaming for every goal. It’s loud, chaotic and lovely. For many Spaniards, catching a game while on the go involves downloading a smartphone app fronted by Spain’s national football league, Liga de F'utbol Profesional. Available for iOS and Android handsets, the La Liga app is not only licensed to stream football games, but also lets users keep track of the stats for their favorite teams and players.

Oh, it also tracks your every move and taps your smartphone's microphone, supposedly in the name of helping to root out unauthorized match broadcasts in bars, restaurants and cafes.

From El Dario, via Google Translate:
The Liga de F'utbol Profesional, the body that runs the most important sports competition in Spain, is using mobile phones of football fans to spy on bars and other public establishments that put matches for their clients. Millions of people in Spain have this application on their phone, which accumulates more than 10 million downloads, according to data from Google and Apple.

All of these people can become undercover informants for La Liga and the owners of football television broadcasting rights. If they give their consent for the app to use the device's microphone (which is common in many applications), they are actually giving permission for La Liga to remotely activate the phone's microphone and try to detect if what it sounds like is a bar or public establishment where a football match is being projected without paying the fee established by the chains that own the broadcasting rights. In addition, use the geolocation of the phone to locate exactly where that establishment is located.


But hey, good news! Where most developers would try to downplay user surveillance, La Liga is totally up front with the fact that they see their app's users are nothing but meatbags with GPS antennas. In a statement made to El Dario, the Liga de F'utbol Profesional assured them their app only collects data "without storing any recording or content," and only works inside of Spain.  Also, the data collected by the app will be used "only against the piracy of public places.”

Cool, cool, cool.

Image via Pixabay

http://feeds.boingboing.net/~r/boingboing/iBag/~3/0KP-Atfl6PY/spanish-football-app-turns-use.html

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I owe Anthony Bourdain so much

Пятница, 09 Июня 2018 г. 02:54 (ссылка)

I’ve always felt the urge to leave. Any place. No matter how beautiful. I want to go. When I was 18 and finished with high school, I attended my graduation ceremony, for the sake of my family, but I skipped my prom – Canada’s east coast was calling. I’d never been there before. I didn’t know what I’d find. But I was going. I made a life for myself out there, with university, work and music. I traveled up and down the coast. Cape Breton feels like a second home to me. I love the people of Maine. New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island have a place in my heart.

But eventually, I left the east. Rage, the self-entitlement that sometimes comes from surviving a shitty childhood and a need for control left me very much out of control. I destroyed a fine long-term relationship looking for who I was. I burned bridges. I did terrible things to myself and others. It was time to move on. My travels took me back home to Ontario. My father was dying. I loved and hated him for who he was and what he had done to our family. Coming home was a terror.

Uneasily settled back into my hometown, I fought to push the dogs of my recent past down into the cellar of my soul where their bark did not seem so loud. I’d gone to university for journalism, but felt too shattered by life to write. I took on a job I despised and worked it for years. I was haunted by nightmares, flashbacks and a mind full of mayhem. I met someone, even though I was in no shape to be dating. She was from what you might call a good family. They loved each other: open, seemingly honest people. I thought that, if I could be a part of something that seemed so right, then maybe there would be a chance for me. But there wasn’t. I told them the truth of where I’d been and what I’d done; why I worked a gig that required no training or thought in favor of even trying to write for a living. I wanted to be as open with them as they seemed to be with me. It was a mistake. Despite my time with them at church, which I tried to believe in and with the very best behavior that I could muster, my partner and her parents saw the darkness in me and called it madness. For a time, I gave into despair. I felt unwanted anywhere, by anyone. I wanted to do violence to someone—anyone, really.

It was the first time that I can remember feeling the urge to kill myself.

Soon after. I left my hometown once more, this time headed west, to British Columbia. I had no expectations of happiness, but I could not bear to stay in the same place as something I had loved and wanted, so dearly. Reminders of her and my rage against life were everywhere I turned. While the wounds were still fresh, I landed in a new relationship: a poisonous thing with a woman who, in her own way, was just as broken as I was. We argued loudly enough that the police would come. I would drink. She’d do dope. We screamed at each other for a decade. In the end, we were nothing but roommates sharing a bed. In the time that we were together, I had found the strength to write again. A friend, who I can never repay, gave me a chance at working as a journalist for a well-known publication. It was very part-time and paid shit. But it was a start. It did not feel like enough.

So, once again, I found myself on the move.



I briefly returned to Ontario. I had not spent more than a few weeks with my mother in the ten years since I’d moved to the west coast. My father was years dead, burned and buried. I wanted time to get to know her new husband, a good man, before moving on to whatever would be next for me. My mother had moved on from my hometown of Guelph, setting up shop in the Grey Highlands. The winter I spent there was unforgivably cold, with blowing snow and whiteouts so frequently that the OPP often shuttered the highways and byways of the region for days at a time. When I wasn’t writing, I watched a lot of Anthony Bourdain on Netflix. No Reservations. Parts Unknown. Whatever I could get my eyes in front of.

Something about how he viewed the world meshed with my need for motion and distance. He was a realist and at the same time, an idealist. He found beauty in places rank with pragmatism. He drank, perhaps not as much as I did at the time, and at times, still do. I felt that something dark followed him. I got around to reading his writing. We shared similar demons. It made me respect his looking for light in all places all the more. Driven by a yearning to explore as he did, I felt that, after a few months in Ontario, the time was coming to ramble on. I decided that I would go to Spain. I wanted to walk the Camino de Santiago. I’d start in the French town of Saint Jean Pied de Port. I’d cross into Spain and keep walking until I could smell the salt damp of Galicia and Santiago de Compostela.

Somewhere amidst my planning and training for the 791 km (500 miles) hike, I decided that I’d like to die in the Pyrenees Mountains. The idea of the quiet that the end of all things would bring felt like a warm bath to me. I was tired – but not so tired that I could bring myself to die in a way that would leave my family with a body and a mess to dispose of. Heavy from years of alcohol abuse, a lack of exercise and too much crap food, I thought that I could work towards a heart attack at the higher altitudes of the hike. Dying of exposure, by misadventure or falling off a cliff would have been fine too. My ticket was purchased, my pack was packed and I was off. I remember falling asleep on my flight, listening to The Clash, sure of my plans.

You may have noticed, close to five years later, I’m still here.

The day before my Camino was to begin, I toured Saint Jean Pied de Port, collecting supplies, having the occasional drink and sampling the local Basque cuisine. It was lovely. The people who served it were lovely. The other pilgrims I spoke to or, when no language was shared, drank with, were lovely. They made me feel ashamed in the darkness of my intent.



The next morning, so early that I saw my way by starlight, I began my walk into the mountains. The tang of sweat in my mouth and the smell of dew-fresh fields and turned manure in my nostrils made it hard to contemplate an end. As I gained altitude, the ache in my back from the 23 pounds of gear I’d brought with me made we want to lay my burdens down, once more. But there was so much beauty. I could find no ugly place in the Pyrenees where bringing an end to my life felt fit. Hours into the day, with the sun high, burning the side of my face, I fell in with a group of hikers from New Zealand. It was unintentional. We were all keeping the same pace. We spoke the same language. I couldn’t find a way to be unpleasant in their company. It’s hard to die, for me at least, when there’s folks around you that think you’re alright. That night, still alive, I ate a dinner of pub grub and wine in Orreaga, thinking that death could wait until morning. I would meet it rested and fed. At the cusp of daylight, I was woke by a monk who wished me a good journey. I dressed and walked. I did not die.



For a month, I planned on killing myself: each day, that evening, the next morning, in the seclusion of the Spanish countryside. For a month, I found reasons to live in the food, drink and people on the trails and in the villages I haunted. Along the way, I shed pounds of clothing, fat and hardware that I did not need for my journey. I found, with each step, that my depression, PTSD and the desire to die was left just a little bit further behind me. I never lost it, but it had to jog to keep pace. In a little under a month, I finished my Camino.



The manic pace I’d set for myself came at a cost of three trips to the hospital along the way, a slipped disk in my back and two lost toenails. It was a small price to pay for a journey that gave me, with each footstep, another reason to draw breath.



Finished with Spain, I took a week in Porto, Portugal, to rest and reflect upon what I'd just accomplished.

In the time since then, I’ve married. My wife sees me for what I am. She knows what I once was, and who I aspire to be. My urge to ramble has given way to a nomadic lifestyle where I have no roots save the love that I carry with me. My little family splits its time between Canada, the Rio Grande Valley and Mexico. My writing affords me the occasion to travel from time to time. I’ll be headed to Boston and New York City this month. Last year, I roamed China and Japan. It feels like enough and more than I could have had if I’d taken my life. I still feel the urge to do it, at times. But I’ve found the strength to open myself to counseling and medication: treatment for my PTSD. My wife has so much patience for my bullshit. Mine is not a perfect life. But it has, of late, felt like a good one.

For many years, I wanted to meet Anthony Bourdain. Not for his celebrity, but to offer him my heartfelt thanks. His writing and television work showed me that there is delight and deep understanding of life to be found in the most simple of things: eating, talking and exploration. His work stoked my already burning wanderlust. I came to understand that, at least for me, inner peace is not something that one finds and keeps. It’s something that one has to search for, each day and in each moment. There could come a time where I will be unable to find a reason to keep such peace. I could take my life. But the spirit of what he showed me and what I have found since my first day in the Pyrenees Mountains has been enough to sustain me years beyond where I thought I would end.

Thank you, Anthony, for the years that you helped to give me.



Image: by Peabody Awards - Anthony Bourdain and Charlie Rose, CC BY 2.0, Link

All other images via Seamus Bellamy

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Печальный рассказ про то, как EmDrive "закрыли" в очередной раз

Среда, 24 Мая 2018 г. 03:30 (ссылка)



https://www.space.com/40682-em-drive-impossible-space-thruster-test.html




Судя по всему, известные законы физики победили мечтателей в очередной раз.

В течение последних нескольких лет исследователи из продвинутой двигательной лаборатории Eagleworks НАСА испытывали спорный и потенциально революционный космический двигатель под названием EmDrive.

EmDrive, который был первоначально разработан британским ученым Роджером Шойером в начале 2000–х годов, якобы генерировал тягу, переотражая микроволны внутри закрытой конической камеры. Поскольку двигатель не требовал никакого топлива, теоретически он мог сделать космический полет намного дешевле и эффективнее, открывая космические дали для разведки.

И контрольная работа команды из НАСА дала энтузиастам EmDrive некоторую толику оптимизма, обнаружив небольшое количество тяги в лабораторных тестах устройства.

Но теперь мы перейдем к «спорной» части: EmDrive действительно не должен работать. Двигатель не ваталкивает ничего из сопла, поэтому Третий закон движения Ньютона (для каждого действия есть равное и противоположное противодействие) не вступает в игру. Никто не понимал, как именно заявленная тяга может быть сгенерирована в реальных условиях.

А теперь оказывается, что ранее обнаруженная тяга была иллюзорной — по крайней мере, согласно команде исследователей из Германии. Они построили собственный EmDrive и протестировали его в вакуумной камере, как это сделали ранее исследователи НАСА.

Немецкая команда тоже что–то обнаружила. Но последующий анализ «ясно указывает, что «тяга» происходит не от EmDrive, а от какого–то постороннего электромагнитного взаимодействия» — пишут исследователи в своем новом исследовании, которое вы можете прочитать здесь. Вероятнее всего, обнаруженная тяга связана с силовыми кабелями EmDrive и магнитным полем Земли — так заключила команда учёных.

Немецкая команда, возглавляемая Мартином Таймаром из Института аэрокосмической инженерии в Техническом университете Дрездена, также представила свои результаты на прошлой неделе на конференции Space Propulsion 2018 в Севилье, Испания.

Новые результаты, вероятнее всего, не будут последним словом в истории EmDrive: другие исследователи могут захотеть провести дополнительные проверки. Но если вы лично твёрдо рассчитывали на этот невозможный двигатель, дабы помочь человечеству выбраться к звездам — то вам придётся перекалибровать свои ожидания.





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