While I don’t mind the TTC, I have always preferred my bike, maybe most in the
winter. Bundled in a parka on a packed, stuffy streetcar is no fun and on
stormy days delays can make my commute almost 90 minutes. By bike it’s about 30
minutes all year round.
But without the proper equipment it can be miserable. I’ve tried a lot of
different bikes, clothing and accessories over the years for usually what
amounts to ~10 months of riding a year. This year I’ve refined it to a setup
that works for me 365 days a year.
A cricket in the McDonald’s parking lot told me to listen to American
for the rest of the drive. I’ve been listening to it almost weekly this year
for some reason.
My parents live in the country and there’s an impossibly long, straight and
featureless road on the route where time stretches out and becomes liquid. It’s
as long or as short as your wits, forcing you through the same motions every
time. “Are we there yet?” With a conversation it speeds by, but in the dark,
with Jen and the dog asleep, it was just me and DB.
Last night it was as long as American Water. A half moon to the south the
colour of yogurt darts behind clouds pushed jarringly fast by what’s left of
the days August winds. Reflectors on the taillights of sleeping pickup trucks
whip by, the outline of a barn, a fluorescent chicken farm during the last
feed of the day.
Malkmus doesn’t get enough credit as a guitar player. He dove into a
trove of unseen pickin’ licks, contorted by his years of scrawny, velcro
playing in Pavement. Sometimes its a staccato yellow center line, sometimes it’s
a smooth white, keeping you from the gravel shoulder and the ditch beyond.
In the night you can’t trust your vision on this road. Your brights seem to make
it worse. You just grip and stay between the guitar lines.
DB combined a set of tools like nobody else: he was a keen observer and
empath, maybe better than anyone. Even when sneering—attacking the
mundane evil of America—he was never smug. He never wrote a “Southern Man”. He
always seemed to have lived it, or at very least absorbed his observations
enough so he could project them through a lens of empathy.
Headlights from miles behind you still shine into the rear view. Sometimes they
seem closer, tailgating you in the mist, bouncing around the road. And then
they recede to a single point but never turn or fade.
Water is the one I know the best. It was the first one I heard and I’ve listened
to it more times than all the others combined. That’s okay, because there’s a
lifetime of lessons in its songs. It’s the funniest and most fun, a document of
some levity that obviously left his life.
Eventually you cross a county line, the speed limit becomes 90 clicks and
you can open it up.
The best Google service is Google Photos. Despite one’s usage probably
providing material to train Google’s machine learning corpus that will
eventually enslave us all, having a canny search function for your
unorganized archive of digital photos is worth it. Type in “dog” and you get
all the photos of your dog.
My problem is it doesn’t support raw files from Fuji cameras, of which I have a
few. In the future I can solve this problem by shooting in RAW+JPEG, which
stores a .jpg file processed with the camera’s colour profiles that the
Google sync app can pick up and put on Google Photos.
But what do I do with my years-long archive? I tried a few different batch
image converters but none of them retained the Fuji film simulations, or
adjustments I had done in Lightroom. I also
couldn’t find a way to filter my photos in Lightroom for the images that lacked a
corresponding .jpg file and convert them that way.
Enter raw2jpg, a script (Mac only) I wrote for bulk converting raw files that is
RAW+JPEG aware and applies adjustments made to the image in Lightroom or
Photoshop. To use it, install Homebrew and run:
When I first heard about Sonos I was impressed. Completely synchronized music
playing in every room is something I’ve always wanted, but the price seemed
ridiculous, especially if you like the speakers you already own. Most of their
products have a speaker integrated into them, forcing you to ditch any Hi-Fi
equipment you might already own. Also I like keeping my own library of digital
music and Sonos steers users towards using streaming
For a while I was convinced there wasn’t a good open-source solution that could
rival Sonos, but then I started playing with forked-daapd. It’s like
iTunes but better. It scans your music library and allows you to
stream it to Airplay receivers around the house. It also accepts audio via
pipe so you can hook it up to receive audio from other sources and
send it to your speakers.
Here’s my futile act of resistance against posting screenshots of algorithmically
generated “Your Top Songs 2018” playlists.
eli keszler - stadium
This album broke my brain during a late night subway ride. It sounds like the city more than any: the predictable randomness of machinery; the steel scrapes of the train bouncing through the tunnel; the steady, ethereal drone of electricity; a beeping that you can’t place. Two men board a nearly empty subway car, sit on opposite sides and start chirping each other like only old friends can.
The Pacific Northwest has a very specific architectural feeling to it.
Dark wet concrete, sometimes pitted and rusty from the sea air, seems at home against the rippled grey sky. The damp greens and browns of parks and public spaces are a natural contrast against the monochrome palette of giant cement staircases poured over the hilly landscape. Extremely comfortable ergonomic shoes on a really hard surface.
I can’t stop watching these videos. They illustrate the present era
of participatory media better than anything else I’ve seen; how social media
encourages us to make an event out of everything. They are America’s last grasps at two absolutes it has relied on: gender rigidity and the internal combustion engine.
So I’m at the ambient show—total ripper—and there’s this drone metal act
killing it. Great sense of dynamics and atmosphere but going all way in on the
theatrics (QT forest nymph on ethereal vocals, complete with True Detective S1
leaf crown) but something was missing: fog machine. You can’t have drone metal
without some smoke emerging from whatever bog you crawled out of. Do us all a
favor and head on over to Long and McQuade and properly set the scene.
Then, right as the dronetown headliner starts their singular note of the
evening this guy in front of me presents, I shit you not, a full bag of Nacho
Cheese Doritos and starts eating them one by one. I’m trying not to just
totally lose it laughing my ass off.
I look around and suddenly the magic is gone. The whole room smells like too
many masters degrees. Everyone has found a way to stand in an even more awkward
way than the person next to them. I start to hear that note again and it’s
suddenly a dialtone.
I think about conspiracy theorists a lot, reading about them when I can.
Obviously there’s some degree of grifting going on, but it’s near impossible to
tell where the grifting ends and the belief begins. People in sales talk about
believing in what you’re selling, but does someone selling tickets to a seminar
on chemtrails? I’m sure at some point they saw it as a way to make money, or to
gain notoriety, or even just some friends. They begin as impostors but get in
too deep. They eventually fully embody their views and they’re swallowed whole;
the person indistinguishable from their gospel.
I work in tech, and ‘impostor’ is instead used from the inside looking out. An
impostor in this sense is somebody who feels like they lack the skills or
knowledge to succeed in their company. This is obviously a threat to anyone’s
ability to be successful but this is not about that. There are plenty of better
words about that elsewhere.
The bigger problem are the people who are impostors in the other way: they believe
it so hard that they cease to be real people.
You see it most clearly during a fire drill. The filing cabinet for small
startups spills all its disruption into the street. I’m told that’s a shirt
referencing a Bitcoin inside joke. That man is wearing a set of shoulder
holsters—like for pistols—but they have an iPhone and a Moleskine in each.
Later, a message in the conversation pit1 tells us that the alarm
was triggered by an adjoining building full of art students.