Metamorphosism » science

Latest news on my Ford Tourneo Courier Ecoboost 1.0

mig — Thu, 04 Sep 2025 08:35:30 +0000

So yeah it occurred to me that I haven’t issued an update recently about my Ford Tourneo Courier Ecoboost 1.0.

I still really like it although I suppose a certain degree of frustration will enter the mix once I have to get serious about maintenance things. I like the design, overall, the HP (125, more than other cars i have had), the cargo space, the camera for backing up…

What I dislike about it is mainly things that are not specific to the vehicle, but rather common among vehicles in general; its vehicle-ness, such as it burns fossil fuel, parking is expensive in the city, it is loaded with computers that spy on me.

I am extremely sick of computers spying on me. Like you complain about p0litics within earshot of your telephone and before you know it you are getting advertisements for r1fl3ry lessons in your social media feeds or whatever.

I admit I had been doomscrolling.

Did you know that doomscrolling on the toilet causes hemorrhoids?

Boy, there is a spelling bee word for you, hemorrhoid. I had to look up the spelling.

Here is what happened: I went bouldering with Gamma yesterday. This involved a bit of planning and organization as she has been extremely busy and stressed with jobs, studies and now also writing a dissertation. I will not go into greater detail bc it would sound like bragging. But anyway we met each other at the climbing gym yesterday, her stressed as I mentioned, and me deeply stressed and anxious over the state of the world.

And we climbed and joked around and talked each other back in off the ledges upon which we had been perching and had a drink after and chatted and both felt 100x better.

Even my sore knee, if which I had not been sure it would prevent me from climbing, felt better (actually not much better yesterday, but better today, supporting my theory that exercising my legs helps with sore knees, at least the one I recently completely destroyed (or so it felt) stepping over a cat on the stairs in an unconventional and as it turns out very stupid manner).

I still feel better today.

Anyhow I quit doomscrolling. I am changing the way I use Reddit. I am reading more science-related and arts-related accounts on bluesky and fewer politics-related ones.

Did you know that doomscrolling on the toilet causes hemorrhoids? What you did?

Did you know that loss of sense of smell could mean Alzheimers? This makes me feel a lot better about my experience this morning cleaning the litterbox, especially in view of the fact that it took me 15 minutes to recall a word last night (the word in question was “Zwetschge” which is Austrian for Pflaume which is German for plum or prune).

The conclusion is, I guess, that sometimes you have to put down the doomscroller bad news paralysis machine and count your blessings. Access your internal Mary Oliver (I communed with the corvids on my way to work this morning, gave some news to the bees at the beehives in the park I pass on my walk to the office) and read a few of her poems even if they sometimes tangentially remind you of dopey old guys reading them aloud at a funeral and crying (which, guilty what can I say). Say nice things to people. Do nice things for people, including yourself, especially if they do not involve commerce.

And most importantly: fuck shit up.

I am not saying do crime, i am not saying be criminal, i am saying there is a way things are that is foreign to the way things can or could or should be, feel free to fuck that up.

Turn your imagination back on.

Be a little psychedelic. Dare to be genuine. Weird macht glücklich.

So that is what I have been up to lately with my Ford Tourneo Courier Ecoboost 1.0

Nature vs. Nurture

mig — Thu, 09 Mar 2023 09:22:51 +0000

Woman: Actually, my psychologist sister told me prematurely grey hair is not genetic, it is a trauma response.
Man, triumphantly: Oh yeah? Then why does everyone in my family have prematurely grey hair?

PV Technology

mig — Sat, 27 Nov 2021 22:01:14 +0000

So, after hating on technology for a good part of my life, we got photovoltaic panels on the roof and I really like everything about them so far. Even though it is winter they still generate a little power, even on a foggy day. Not much power (on a foggy winter day) but you could power a few lightbulbs or something like that. The system comes with an app, you log in to the website and apparently the system is telling the website how much power it is making etc because there is a neat little graphic that tells you how much you are producing, using, how much is going into the battery (and its level of charge) and how much is going into or coming out of the power grid. It’s very calming to watch.
The battery is nice because, if there is ever a black out we’ll have power for a few hours while society collapses around us.
Another impressive thing about the panels are roof avalanches (Dachlawinen in German). When it snows, like yesterday (doesn’t produce much power when covered in snow) the snow just sits there (if it’s wet snow, like yesterday) until the weather warms up to a little over freezing and then whammo it all slides off onto the sidewalk all at once.
We never had roof avalanches before today, because we have a tile roof that has a rough texture and that holds the snow more, that higher coefficient of friction. Wet glass, on the other hand… I went outside and saw the pile of snow on our sidewalk and was very relieved not to see little kid or old lady feet sticking out of it. We put up warning signs, and took them back down after all the snow had slid off the roof or melted.
Winter is going to be a bigger problem with our PV system than we thought.
(But it’s really cool.)

Perseids

mig — Fri, 10 Aug 2018 12:53:55 +0000

I feel like such an idiot.
For days I’ve been thinking about the Leonids and when the best time will be to watch them.
And the best place.
Lying in my hammock staring skyward.
And it’s the PERSEIDS!
Moron!
The Leonids aren’t until NOVEMBER!
Jerk!
Plus the Leonids make me think of Brezhnev.

Scientists decipher cave painting

mig — Fri, 29 Jun 2012 12:48:31 +0000

Here is the text:

Man wife car air conditioner broke. Wife go dealer fix. Mechanic quote. Wife say, Wow! Expensive!

Wife by nother car instead.

Man say how two people drive three car?

Wife say it good deal. Only little bit more than compressor.

Man say so why we need big car broke air conditioner then?

Wife say, for big IKEA stuff.

Wife say, that remind me…

Man say, look, many fat mammoth! I hunt now!

The Law of Conservation of Cats

mig — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 20:13:48 +0000

The law of conservation of cats, also known as the principle of cat/feline conservation, states that the number of cats in an isolated system (closed to all further adoption or other forms of acquisition of new cats) will remain constant over time. This principle is equivalent to the conservation of energy, in the sense when energy or cats are enclosed in a system and none is/are allowed in or out, its/their quantity cannot otherwise change (hence, its quantity is “conserved”). The number of cats in an isolated system cannot be changed as a result of processes acting inside the system. The law implies that the number of cats in an isolated system cannot be altered, although it may be rearranged in space and changed into different cats; such that every time a cat “owner” lets one gray cat out of the house, a second gray cat will come back into the house, and for every red cat that exits the house, another red cat will enter, and especially if a red cat and a gray cat both leave the house at the same time, another red cat and gray cat will stumble all over each other rushing back into the house before the door can close, no matter if it is four in the afternoon or three in the morning, even if they have been let out and in fifteen times in the past hour, because the number and color of cats going out of the house must be equal to those coming back in.

That mushroom/fungus thing I was mentioning

mig — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 19:51:57 +0000

You know, the alternate life form thing post, there is apparently a whole theory of that, you can read about it here. The shadow biosphere, kewl.

That really ticks me off, when other scientists beat me to the punch like that.

Weekend of scientific research

mig — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 08:59:51 +0000

Research conclusion: garden clippers go way more easily through the tip of your left ring finger than they do through rose canes.

On a related note, got less cello practice in this weekend than I’d planned for. So I fired up the theremin instead, as my wife was out of town. Turns out when I run it through my distortion pedal, I get Russian short wave radio. Even when the theremin is turned off. The pedal itself, with all the other cords, cables and wiring, appears to suffice.

Careers in Science: Noetical Hydrology

mig — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 12:25:16 +0000

Does the tear absorb the ocean or does the ocean absorb the tear? This question is the domain of the noetical hydrologist. Taking a walk along the creek with his younger daughter, the noetical hydrologist finds himself discussing death and grief with her. “I watched you when grandpa died,” she says. “I read in a magazine how long it takes to get over the deaths of various people – friend, parent, spouse, grandparent, and we were both right on the money. I needed about four months. Eight months for you, I think. You always used to be funny. Then you were so sad. Then, afterwards, you were funny again, just not quite as funny as before.”

The noetical hydrologist’s daughter says this to him. The sun has set and the sky is glowing above the cornfield while clouds gather for a rainy night. The noetical hydrologist wonders, is she wise beyond her years or am I just dull? Neither, he decides. She’s the way she belongs, as is he.

Does the tear absorb the ocean or does the ocean absorb the tear?

Careers in Science, IV: Theoretical Astronomy

mig — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 12:40:44 +0000

The theoretical astronomer looks at the sky one night and thinks about watching the tears of St. Lawrence in August and remembers, as every time he thinks about the tears of St. Lawrence falling in August a girlfriend with a birthday then and with whom, one year he broke up on that birthday. As mnemonic devices go, unpleasant yet effective. They were backpacking, and she sang Happy Birthday to Me all the way back to the car.

Maybe it doesn’t sound all that bad, but it’s what the theoretical astronomer thinks of when he remembers what a dick he was. He has done worse, too. But anyway.

The universe being infinite, maybe, he posits a planet somewhere upon which he could make amends for all his dickish behavior. Then he posits another planet somewhere the mere existence of which makes amends unnecessary, as this planet is so special its mere existence forgives him.

In theory.

The theoretical astronomer wakes in his bed and can’t remember having gone inside. His father’s ghost stands beside his bed. The theoretical astronomer posits a planet populated by ghosts posited by another theoretical astronomer on another distant, ghostless planet, and wonders if he, the first theoretical astronomer, is on this planet now.

I’m sorry, dad, he says.

His father’s ghost kind of shakes his head. Don’t waste your time being sorry.

But I am sorry. For being so blind to what you needed and wanted and hoped for, and not asking.

His father’s ghost shrugs, sort of, and says, What we hope for is our problem, not others’.

Yeah, well, I was a dick. I not only failed to try anything, choosing to run away instead, I had a weak character and was afraid, and so on. But worst of all I never talked to you, I elevated you rather than understood you. I never understood you or even understood that this was an option I would have been capable of pursuing.

Don’t beat yourself up, says the theoretical astronomer’s father’s ghost. What is, is. Our bad actions and inactions are our hell. The good ones are our heaven.

I’m sorry you’re in a box by the rubber boots, says the theoretical astronomer.

I’m not in any box, his father’s ghost says. My ashes are. I’m here, now, and wherever someone thinks of me.

I am sorry. I wish I could have reduced your pain. Instead I worshipped you.

And I loved you, says the theoretical astronomer’s father’s ghost. That’s why I let you make your own mistakes and was stingy with the advice.

I mistook it for aloofness.

Another shrug. Maybe it was. I’m not… I wasn’t perfect.

Yeah, well. Who is?

The theoretical astronomer’s father’s ghost faded from view. The theoretical astronomer wished he would have stayed longer.

He always wished that.

Outside, although the sky was bright, stars continued to fall. This the theoretical astronomer knew.

Beverage preference among the common garden slug (Arion distinctus)

mig — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 13:39:22 +0000

A study by Mig Living

Abstract:

Darkness, moisture, sliminess, hunger, thirst: tasting, drinking, drowning. Death.

Brief explanation of the study:

Motivated by a desire to protect my vegetable garden from slugs without the use of toxic chemicals or spending an arm and a leg on tin slug fences of unknown effectiveness, I performed a study last Saturday night to see whether placing beer in containers in said vegetable garden would kill slugs and, if so, which shape/size of container was optimal. In order to test slug beverage preference, I employed several brands of beer and one non-beer beverage.

Containers used:

Catfood cans (both the full-size cans and half-size cans with the same radius but only half as tall.
Plastic flower-pot saucers about ten inches across and one inch deep.

Methodology:

All containers were buried so that the top edge was even with the top of the soil. A total of eight containers were used. Six catfood cans (containers #1-6) were placed in the lettuce patch. Two saucers (containers 7 & 8) were placed two or three meters away, between the red beets and the radishes.

The containers were filled to capacity with the beverages and left in the garden overnight.

Contents of the containers (1-6 are the catfood cans, 7&8 are the plastic saucers):

Ottakringer Helles
Schwechater
Becks
Stiegl
Heineken
Red Bull
Red Bull/Heineken mixture
Mixture of the other 4 beers

Expectations:

No slug preference for beer brand was expected. Some slug drownage was expected on the basis of previous reports. Random distribution of a few slugs per container was thought likely. No slugs were expected in the containers containing Red Bull, although ants were expected to construct a three foot-tall anthill overnight.

Results:

149 dead slugs were counted the next morning. Distribution between the containers was as follows:

Conclusions:

Container depth plays no role in slug-trapping. Container radius seems to be important. The two saucers, which had much greater circumfrence/surface area, caught more slugs than the cans.

The biggest surprise was slug beverage preference. As you can see from the graph, there is a clear preference among arion distinctus for Schwechater, and their least-favorite beer is Heineken, tied for last with Red Bull (although the theory has been put forward that more slugs may have drunk Red Bull, but then jumped back out of the can afterwards; a second experiment utilizing time-lapse photography is planned once funding becomes available).

Something that has not yet been conclusively interpreted in this connection is the fact that the two larger saucers each caught an equal number of slugs despite containing, on the one hand, a mixture of the most popular beers and on the other the two least-popular beverages. It is possible, although unlikely, since it was only 2 meters away, that a different slug population inhabits the beet patch. It is possible that container size is a more important factor than contents. It is possible that the Heineken in the Red Bull in the saucer made the slugs drowsier and unable to jump back out.

It is also questionable whether the 6 beverages used in this experiment were sufficient – a larger-scale study with more types of beer would be useful.

Further research is necessary before a final conclusion on the beverage preference of arion distinctus can be drawn.

The Cripple’s Reel

mig — Thu, 28 May 2009 08:45:50 +0000

I would like to compose a tune with that title, “The Cripple’s Reel”. With some unusual time signature, such as 7/3 or something. Or, perhaps, being a reel, 19/8. I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking, Always the odd shite, Mig, because you don’t know enough about music to make something normal that’s interesting. To which I reply, What’s normal about being interesting? I mean, interesting about being normal? Unless the normality is merely a mask behind which nefarious or subversive intentions are implemented? That would be somewhat interesting.

I’ve been thinking about writing a clinical study on the interaction of muscle relaxants and Jameson Irish whiskey.

Abstract:

Large, mostly dark Gestalt appears to pursue two lighter, one reddish, one grey, and much faster shapes through a lime-green space, suggestive of infinite time/space.

See, this morning after Gamma left for school the kittens got into Gamma’s room and I, still a bit groggy from my “back pill” last night, was chasing them, in my usual black suit and tie, cursing like Harvey Keitel (I like to think) in a Quentin Tarantino film (Bad Vet, maybe). And the elusive little critters were diving between the bed and the trundle bed beneath it, and I would wait 30 seconds silently and, missing the attention they would climb back out, and I would chase them again, and they’d dive back under the bed. This went on for six minutes, or twelve tries, until I caught the female and tossed her out and closed the door. The male is easier to catch, generally, but by this time I was impatient, and my back was killing me from all the diving around, goddammit, so I endeavoured to make his trundlebed hiding place less comfy by sliding it back and forth with increasing velocity until he opted to join his sister in the hallway at which point all was calm again.

I have not combined back pills with whiskey since the first time due to the previously-mentioned (elsewhere) side effects which include falling down (due to excessive relaxation) and being treated well by my wife due to her mistaking me for a friend.

I have, besides this study, also been thinking about dementia, and two relatives directly affected, and how they are coping or not and also, as one does, at least if one has hypochondriac tendencies, wondering whether this dark hole haunting me has any connection to this.

You know the dark hole, right? Not really a hole, just this vast darkness in your mind? Or your meta-mind? This darkness back there, so dark it’s hard to say anything more about it but I’ll try? And you wonder if the names you forget, or switch, or the words you have trouble accessing, are somehow connected, and whether your pursuits, such as ballroom dancing, or music lessons, or artistic pursuits, or composition, are a good insurance policy against this, or useless.

Time will tell, I guess.

Also, fucking back, man.

At least I’ve been dreaming more lately. Great dreams, I am very grateful for dreams. Thanks! Two nights ago I was on a ship of some kind on a stormy nighttime sea, with a Danish singer of whom I am fond, and the ship was sinking, and maybe there was an airplane, and water was coming in, but the ship was very buoyant and my singer friend was reassuring me that this was entirely normal and the ship would not, in fact, sink, and that we would make it to Iceland just fine, or something. In the second dream that night I was pointing a plastic rocket launcher at a family about to escape in a helicopter, waiting for them to take off so that they would die in the crash when I shot them (they were bad guys) (there was also a cargo plane in this dream) when my alarm went off.

Last night: my wife walked into a wall in a seaside Japanese town (or so I was informed by a young man in the dream) and I was a spectator at a massage contest, and one of the masseuses and her friends had decided to massage me, when my alarm went off.

And so it goes.

Get with it, Monsanto

mig — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 07:54:36 +0000

If kittens smelled like bacon, they’d be perfect.