April, 2008 archive

Can anyone tell me what is the point of these “Over 55” communities that seem to be springing up?

I sure wouldn’t want to live in a place where all my neighbors were geezers like me. This street was built in 1954 and 1955. We have residents ranging from (almost) newlyweds to some of the original purchasers (and there’s no better security than nosy retired persons who are at home all day, but that’s another story).

I get no end of enjoyment watching my neighbors’ little girls (all the little kids on the street are girls–must be something in the water) play.

The one was out trying to fly a kite this afternoon. Of course, there’s no wind, so, when she ran out of running room, the kite came right back down–and there are so many trees that, if there had been a wind, it would have turned into a Charley Brown kite, but that’s not the issue.

And, ya know what? if she falls down and breaks her crown, no one’s going to come running to me to fix it.

What could be better than that: all the enjoyment, none of the responsibility?

So why do people want to wall themselves off in “Over 55” communities. Beats the hell out of me.

Mithras has a great post over at his place. I can’t think of any kind of cool or snappy lead in to it.

Just please go read it.

And, remember, it wasn’t that so long ago and a lot has not changed (via Atrios).

The problem with this consulting thing is that, from time to time, one is actually expected to, well, consult.

And when it’s a technical topic, you can’t fake it, at least, not for long.

(Management consulting is so much easier. You don’t need new ideas–just a three-piece suit, new bottles for old wine, and a snappy line of with-it buzzwords. Hell, you’re outta there when, five years later, the client realizes that his company is still a sucky place to work and his employees all hate him, hate the company, and hate their jobs because he’s a jerk, his executive stall are all jerks, and all the training in the world can’t paper over someone’s essential jerkiness.)

My newest development project is one of the most challenging I’ve had in a long time. I’m working with a local electric utility (no, not that one, the other one) to help develop instruction for a community college curriculum in power plant management and operations. The company wants qualified applicants and they are willing to give a grant to the college to help get them.

One fascinating thing I have learned is this: Electricity can’t be stored (well, it can in a sense–that’s what batteries are all about–but it cannot be stored in terms of the umpty-ump megawatts it takes to power the grid over multiple states). As a result, utilities run a daily race to match generating capacity to demand.

In most cases, the baseload is covered by nukes and coal plants–they are complicated and time-consuming to get working and can’t be just turned off and on. Utilities forecast power demands on an hourly basis. As the need increases and decreases during the day, they continually try to match generating capacity to demand, ramping up and turning off supplementary generating facilities, primarily gas turbines (which can be started almost immediately) to match supply with demand.

In the old days (like, 20 years ago), not having adequate power to meet demand was not necessarily a big deal, as long as the deficit was not enough to cause a brownout. A utility could fudge on the margins. Your electric clock, which depends on the 60 cycles a second to keep time, might run a little slower and your electric space heater might not heat as much and your electric oven might not heat up so quickly. Your plasma cutter and welder there in the factory might not work so quickly. But life wouldn’t stop.

These days, even marginal differentials are a really big deal, because all those computers–not just your and my personal computers that enable us to screw about on the Internet, but all those computers that run businesses and enable you to buy things on line and enable the government to spy on you and run the robots in factories and schedule just-in-time deliveries for manufacturing and generally enable business to do business–and all those other things that are computer-based, just we don’t realize it, like cell phone connectivity–just won’t work without the correct level of power.

Next time I write my check to my local utility, I’ll still complain. But I’ll complain a little less loudly, because the only blackout we’ve had here in the last five years was when some doofus ran into a light pole at the foot of the street.

These statements seem to be the daily fru-fa:

And the big deal is . . . what?

Many persons are frustrated and frightened and feel left out. Because, by God, they have been left out and left behind for heaven’s sake. Go to Butler or Coalton or New Castle, Pa.–all places I’ve been.

Look at the closed factories and the empty storefronts. And come back and tell me that everything is hunky-dory there. Tell me that people don’t feel left out, don’t feel left behind, don’t feel bitterness that their incomes and lifestyles and sense of security are going, going, gone.

And when a candidate remarks on that, it’s a bad thing?

But I guess, following the logic of the Clinton and McCain campaigns, it’s a bad thing to point things ain’t necessarily all that great for anyone who’s not a CEO of an oil company, a hedge fund, an insurance conglomerate, or a private army.

Because (gasp!) identifying problems might lead to dealing with them. And we can’t have that. It might require someone to think differently and maybe do something other than spout lies about tax cuts that pay for themselves and quick and easy wars and the other crap we’ve been fed as the rich get richer and the poor get poorer.

Folks, it’s football. It’s a misdirection play, and while you’re distracted, you’re gonna get blindsided.

Unless you keep your eyes open and watch the ball, rather than the bull.

Ray has more.

So does John Cole and the Booman.

I’m watching my third Philles game in a row.

And they are not even an AL team. They play in the astroturf National League.

Many years ago, when I first moved to this area, my daughter was visiting me and we went to a Phillies game

We took the train from Narberth to Suburban Station, then caught the Broad Street subway to the Vet and got seats in the 700 level. (In the 700 level, you pretty much had to bring your own oxygen tank if you wanted to breath).

Mike Schmidt, one of the best third basemen in the history of baseball, was still playing. He was not any Brooks Robinson with his glove, but he may well have been the best all-around third baseman in the history of the game (Brooks couldn’t hit worth a damn, but, with Brooks on third and Mark Belanger at short, pretty much nothing that was under 10 feet in the air made it into left field against Earl Weaver’s Orioles).

I forget who the Phillies were playing that day, but I will always remember the end of the game.

Mike Schmidt ended the game with a solo shot to deep center.

It was over, and we took the train home.

Mike Schmidt is long retired, my daughter is a mother, and I’m a grandfather now.

I’m getting old.

And bitter.

But not old and bitter enough to vote Republican.

Up the road a piece, there’s a really great bookshop that specializes in fantasy, science fiction, and mysteries.

Yeah, and there’s a little bit of comics and manga too.

In the back, there’s an open area where the owner allows persons to play games. It’s not completely altruistic, because the gamers end up buying their game pieces at the bookshop, but, hey! that’s their schtick.

Some years ago, Second Son organized a Dungeons and Dragons game that lasted there for about three years. He advertised for the players, he found a Dungeon Master, and he kept it going.

When it got really late and we were unable to pick up Second Son after a game, the owner would even drive him home. This is a backhanded way of saying that the owner is one of the persons I would trust completely to do the right thing under any circumstance.

For a long time, he thought of me just as Second Son’s Dad. Then, one day, I walked in, listened to the music he was playing, and said, “Isn’t that Hawkwind?”

I think I surprised him at recognizing the tune (well, with Hawkwind, “tune” may not be exactly the right word).

Hawkwind, Warriors at the Edge of Time: