So I always knew that my ThinkPad's display sucked. But now I have scientific proof! (Long-winded post about my job follows.) I was running some timing tests at work on the code for a psychology experiment. This involves quickly presenting a stimulus to the subject, then measuring reaction time and synchronizing with EEG readings. Nothing very complicated, but accurate timing is essential; you don't want another variable confounding your results. So I have this photocell device that sends a signal to a Mac through the EEG hardware when there is really actually physical light coming off of the screen, not just when I told the computer to display something. Now CRTs, of course, are actually scanning (with an electron gun) the display at 75 or 85 Hz or something, not constantly pumping out light to the whole screen. This means 12 or 13 (or whatever) ms between refreshes. So if you want something to appear for 100 ms, you have to fudge a little, and make it so that you get maybe 8 or 9 scans. You can synchronize your presentation to the refresh so this is feasible. But how long the subject really perceives it ultimately depends on how "flickery" the monitor is at a given refresh rate. LCDs, on the other hand, do not have this problem. They actually do produce light constantly -- their refresh rate is pretty much always only 60 Hz or less, but you get the same(ish) output over the entire cycle, instead of in blips that give the illusion of a constant image (in fact, as Matthew points out, they can continue to hold the same image for even longer periods between refreshes. Can't wait to try out that patch). And luckily for us, 6 cycles are in theory exactly 100 ms (in practice, it's close enough). Or so I thought. I could not, no matter how many times I banged my head against it, get consistent results between our laptop (also a ThinkPad) and any external display. For reasons I do not entirely understand (probably scheduling issues), on CRTs I was getting one extra cycle, so I had to reduce the time by one to compensate. This was done for published studies years before I arrived at the lab, so (for the sake of not introducing additional variables) there is an extremely large disincentive to go back and fix it the Right Way, whatever that is. Our laptop's internal display was producing results that were skewed like those of a CRT. I thought for a minute I was going nuts from testing all day, but it kept happening. Curious, I swapped out the lab's T60 for my faster T61 and (to rule anything else out) killed all my other processes and wrote a fresh PyEPL script that did nothing but repeatedly blink some text for 100 ms. Here is, on the external VGA port, a cheap old 15" Dell LCD I pulled from the server room: (These images are from the Mac, which is still using System 9.something. I had to remember Command-Shift-3 to take a screenshot and use StuffIt to get them off of it. Srsly. I can't remember the last time I used StuffIt.) And here is a CRT, showing the refreshes: (The DIN3 line is the actual signal, and the others are integrated over some number of milliseconds to compensate for scanning and attempt to get a usable number. Of course, this is done in hardware, not synchronized to anything else.) Now, this is the one that blew my mind. The ThinkPad's internal LCD: You can see that 60 Hz is spaced much farther apart, and that there are 6 cycles as intended, but. It's acting like a CRT! On the refresh, it puts out enough light to trigger the photocell, but inbetween, nothing. I ought to be noticing flicker and/or getting headaches all the time, if this is truly the case. (I guess I did get glasses for and because of staring at computer displays all the time. Should update my hackergotchi.) I have to admit I do not understand what is going on here at all. But it seems like making any assumptions about a display is (as the voice in my head was telling me all along) a very bad idea. Perhaps someone can email me some clue. But at least I have some hard data to validate my subjective opinion of the ThinkPad's internal LCD. Anyway: I still recommend the ThinkPad, even if the display is awful. I have a nice external monitor connected through DVI to the dock at home, and I mainly use a laptop so I can get out of the house and go hack outside or in a coffeeshop (not ideal lighting). The build quality, keyboard/trackpoint, performance, and the fact that Debian (testing or unstable, anyway) Just Works are all higher up on the list for me. I do wish I could afford the new lighter one, though.

Today, like any other day, I started Firefo^WIceweasel. I mapped it at the bottom of my window stack. It promptly raised itself. I closed everything and tried opening a new homepage. Nope, that's fine. I tried again with two tabs saved. It raised itself again. I have been watching variations of this bug regress for eight years now and I am tired of it. So I installed Conkeror. After a good three-year run of being able to sit down at someone else's random PC and say, "hey, a web browser that nearly works as well as mine" (since it is, you know, the same one), I look forward to being utterly fed up with how primitive the rest of the world is again. And what are we in this for, if not that?

I was misled. That much is probably true. I certainly had no idea what I was getting myself into. Enough of that though; there's narrative fading away. The part I should take responsibility for is the decision I made to stray off the map. Perhaps it was not so much a decision as a compulsion. I looked at the map. I saw the suspicious unmarked area at the edge, and concluded immediately that there was something good there, something the people wanted to keep hidden from me. I was correct, but I presumed far too much about the terrain. I thought I would make a quick exploration of the secret place, then backtrack to the more mapped area and get back with the program. Enough of that though; I've nearly forgotten the story. First I should point out that, had the map been to scale, it should have taken me an leisurely fifteen minutes to get to my first destination. It should have, assuming the land would be as flat as the map that represented it. Instead, it turned out to be something one could cover in fifteen minutes if one had, say, a jetpack and spring boots. I'm probably wrong; I'd probably injure myself in the process and take longer. Anyway, the average incline was close to 45 , and luckily was mostly uphill. Luckily. When I got to a resting place, I was able to conclude that my supply of fluids was almost certainly insufficient for me to continue. On the other hand, there was probably no way I would return if I went back for more drink. I told myself that there would likely be a beverage-selling shack out in the middle of nowhere around the next bend or so. Having solved this probability problem, I pressed on into the blazing sun. I came to a path leading down to the sea. It was unclear what was down there, but it was clear that it seemed to be a million miles down, and that that path might be the only way back. Given my current state of exhaustion and hydration, I decided to pass on this opportunity. After continuing for a while, the features at the bottom of that path became visible. A very pretty cove was down there, and almost certainly no shack o' drinks. I then came upon a fork. A wide path led downward: to what, I could not see. To its left, a narrow and rough path led straight. Knowing that a descent probably meant climbing four to eight times the altitude back somehow, and assuming the less pleasant-looking path led somewhere better, I went left. After a while, the land began to slope down, ever so slightly. Little clusters of bottles and newspapers were left on the rocks here and there. Then came a sofa under a tent. I began to wonder what hippies were traveling this path. The slope grew greater, and I passed a bench in a tent. Then I came to a giant staircase, almost straight down. It was covered in weeds and insects. Some were vegan, some wanted my flesh. As I got toward the bottom I thought about how glad I was that I had come that way from the top and not the other way around. Oh, I was very glad. At the bottom was something resembling a plastic bottle graveyard and barrels among barrels filled with water. Rubber hoses seemed to run randomly between certain barrels. A kitchen stood at the edge of some barrels. I suddenly got the feeling that I was not supposed to be here. After discovering that a couple of escape routes were actually dead ends, I proceeded to descend a small staircase to a terraced garden. Hoses lay about the rows, presumably for watering the plants. A cot under a tent lay empty, and I hurried past hoping I would not encounter the owner. Then I was at the ocean. The coast was lined with huge boulders, and a wooden bridge led me to the first one, and another wooden bridge took me to the second. Then the bridges stopped. In the distance, I could see that pretty little cove from before. I took stock. I could either return whence I came, up that horrifying staircase, or I could try to traverse the rocky coast over to the cove, then maybe do a faceplant on the beach and let the tide drown me rather than climbing back up. It seemed like a no-brainer, so I began making my way toward the cove. It got harder. Several times I became very afraid, either of falling and smashing my head against a rock or falling into the water below, or some sequential combination thereof. In the end I turned out to be more afraid of going back, at least until I got to what I judged the point of no return. I was reasonably close to where I imagined the sandy beach started, but there was a huge and impassable boulder in the way. Also, if I went further there was no way I would be able to climb back up in case I needed to retreat. I was thinking I would need to retreat, because unless there was some magical hidden toehold, I would be forced to jump into the water and swim around. I did not want to jump into the water. I wanted my phone to stay unfried in the event that I would need to use it to get rescued. I also did not want to call anyone to get rescued, especially since I didn't really know how to explain where I was. With a heavy sigh, I gave up, turned, and went back. This time I moved more quickly, though incurring more damage to my hands and feet. No humans were visible at the crazy farm/garden and makeshift reservoir, but plenty of bugs were visible on the staircase. I made the mistake of trying to lean against the railing to catch my breath. When I finally got to the bench in the tent, I understood exactly what it was for. I sat down, took a sip of my remaining water, ate an apple, and kept going up. When I got to the couch, I sat again. This time I sat and tried to figure out a plan. I still clung to the belief that once I got back to somewhere less wild I'd be able to buy a drink. I noted that I only had a little bit of water left, that I was dehydrated, that I was sunburned, that my pulse was about 180, and that there were no dogs or Russian people wandering past me. I ate a pear and drank my last few drops of water. I kept sitting until my pulse was down to around 150, then I figured I needed to keep moving. I was experiencing most of the effects of caffeine, and for free. Oddly, I passed a dog a few steps later. It was just standing by a rock, looking at me. I decided not to converse. When I had nearly reached the fork again, a couple came my way. I thought about begging them for water. I decided not to be rude. I have no idea what happened to them. I'm betting they wisely decided not to go down the steps. Resolving that the only sane option was to go back all the way to where I absolutely knew I could buy something potable, I headed in that direction. Still, I took two risks. Instead of going up the exact way I had come, or taking a well-travelled path down, I took a narrow and flat dirt path. It was actually a bit of a dilemma. I started down the latter two more than once each. Finally I saw that the down path was rather V shaped, and I concluded correctly that the straight path would bypass that angular-half-pipe-like construct. When I finally got to a point I recognized, it was smooth sailing the rest of the way down. I bought water and a snack, since I had had almost nothing to eat that day. At this point it would have been prudent to call it quits and go off and gorge myself on seafood or something, but no, I was now in the mapped area and surely it would all be roses and manna. Finishing one bottle, I bought two more. Five minutes later I bought another. I had now overcompensated, but I was playing it safe. I continued my explorations. Bicyclists kept nearly running into me, and, aside from the obvious, I viewed this as a good sign. Bicyclists, especially those that can't seem to steer straight for some reason, avoid difficult terrain. This is why they take their bikes on subways, trains, and buses. I don't like bike-riding, but if I had my druthers, I would always go downhill. No up, no flat, just down. Like downhill skiing, just down. It is a good thing I don't ride a bike. Once I got to the point where the bicycles thinned out to nonexistence, I was at an intersection. The way I wanted to go was up. The way I didn't want to go, but was a reasonable option, was only very slightly up. Additional factors complicated this decision point. This passage has been marked friends-only and you will not be able to view it without logging in. Moving hurriedly away from there, I headed upward. After a couple of turns, I ran into Catholics. First there were dead Catholics. Then there were Catholics pre-occupied with dead Catholics. Then there were Catholics waiting to die. Then there were seminarians. Then there were teens with prayer books. When I reached the next pinnacle, there were more teens with prayer books. There were benches, and there were no teens on them, for the teens were standing or sitting on the ground, quietly contemplating the Word. Unfortunately, they had decided that the benches were more suitable for holding all their bags, so there was nowhere for me to sit. I considered interrupting their reverie, but decided it wouldn't be very Christian of me to disturb them, so I just placed an ancient Drasnian curse on them and plodded down the hill toward a small beach. I really didn't need any more sun, but at least there probably wouldn't be anyone praying there. The water was tempting, but I'm always paranoid about my belongings when swimming alone, and if my phone were taken I wouldn't be able to call anybody to come rescue me at the next crisis point, sure to come. So I skirted the coastline and arrived at a much larger beach, one with facilities and services. Opting to save money but complicate things by using the public changing rooms and showers, I made a discovery. This passage has been marked friends-only and you will not be able to view it without logging in. Nonetheless, I changed into my swimming trunks, stuffed everything else but my towel, sunglasses, and a disgusting sugary drink I never should have bought into my bag, and went barefoot a few buildings down to rent a locker. The locker was ridiculously large for a single person, which is good to know should I ever want to kidnap a family and torture them at this place. The proprietor informed me that they were closing at some specific time, about an hour from then. I had no timekeeping device outside of the locker, so I had to wing it, and erring heavily on the side of caution, I had a short beach diversion. Given that large swathes of my epidermis were turning bright red, it's probably for the best. Handling the shower, locker, and changing in the other direction was slightly more complicated, but I did it and then I headed inland, figuring I should have a substantial meal for once that day. On my way to find dinner is when things got really crazy. This passage has been marked friends-only and you will not be able to view it without logging in. I wandered over to a bench to eat my newly-acquired snack, and did not exercise enough caution, because the flimsy paper bag ripped and I got sauce all over my pants and a little on my shirt. Unfortunately I had used my napkin in that earlier episode, and I'm not sure how much it would have helped anyway. Thus I continued on, looking like a slobby retard. Then I made an obviously-poor decision and ended up having a subpar dinner. What happened after that is a story for another time.

The West Virginian is huddled over his bong, swirling the ice cubes around his glass of cream sherry. There is a montage on the television, set to some factory-produced pop song sung by a no-talent teen who was thrust into major stardom with the help of comb filters and clever marketing. He is not watching the montage; he is thinking about Chris Wallace and nepotism. He will stand in the end.