Red meat for the drama whores
(backstory is the interviewer and his organization accused this dude of cheating, he sued, they settled, now he plays in their events again)
If you're primarily interested in speed then obviously memorize whatever the best method is, looks like CFOP (if you're willing to memorize tons of algorithms, the noob version of CFOP I learned was much slower)
I think Human Thistlethwaite is the coolest algorithm-based method since it makes the cube overall better and better oriented instead of making layers or blocks sequentially
However, most interesting to me is to solve without algorithms/memorization using commutators
https://web.archive.org/web/20231207094142/https://www.ryanheise.com/cube/commutators.html
I can solve most of a cube without any special technique at all, and then the last few pieces can be solved in this way. Usually one of the steps is a single face rotation. So I might rotate a corner completely messing up the cube, then rotate a single layer to place a different corner there, undo the steps that completely messed up the cube, then rotate that single layer again. The result is that only the two corners I rotated are altered but everything else is unaffected.
The value of this method is that it makes it fairly trivial to solve arbitrarily large cubes (the main thing to adjust to is that the even-numbered cubes don't have fixed center squares). I've solved 4x4 and 5x5 without memorization.
After Trumpler and Brexit, democracy was re-defined to "Our Democracy" which means the consensus of institutions rather than consensus of the populace
To be more precise, I think the concern is not with residual plant toxins that have made it through the refinement process, but with the very nature of the oil producing novel toxins when it is used normally
what an ungrateful... young lady
I think the concern is not just toxins, but also being polyunsaturated they are vulnerable to oxidative damage, which produces toxic byproducts
(especially when heated as in cooking, and double especially when heated repeatedly as in deep fryers)
"I consider myself a liberal person and I always took an active part in civil rights, but not any more. I've seen too much. When the riot broke out in the cafeteria and the bomb went off last Wednesday my girlfriend and I headed for the doors. Five black girls grabbed me and held me while another one punched me in the stomach. My girlfriend Started to run and a black girl grabbed her and tried to rip her blouse off. | kept screaming, “why, why?”, but they were acting like animals, just beating up any white girl they saw. I started tocry. I wanted to run home and never come back to this place again."
I wonder how much of the school shooting fashion is in reaction to failed racial integration? If teachers and students are subject to random violence, it is no surprise that some would wish to strike back
"Frank Siracusa made a point of coming to school early. He lived with his wife and year-old daughter in a modest four-room apartment only a few short blocks from Franklin K. Lane High School, which straddles the border between Brooklyn and Queens in New York City. He had become accustomed to rolling out of bed at 7:30 A.M. and taking the two-minute walk to the school he had taught in since 1961. Siracusa was a thirty-yearold chemistry teacher with a jovial personality that made him a favorite among students and colleagues alike. There weren't many people on the 306-member faculty who were more popular than Frank Siracusa, and there was no reason for him to suspect that January 20, 1969, would be different from any other Monday morning.
In addition to his duties as a chemistry instructor, Siracusa doubled as the coordinator for school aides, the corps of thirty-four nonprofessional adults who helped supervise students in the school cafeteria, study rooms, and hallways. The police had been on duty at the school all of the previous week as a result of an agreement between District 19 Superintendent Elizabeth C. O'Daly and the school’s chapter of the United Federation of Teachers (UFT), the union representing the city’s 60,000 teachers. There had been fifteen separate incidents of assault against white teachers by black students, and an even larger number of vicious and sadistic attacks by blacks against white students. It was all part of the aftermath of the Great School Strike which had ended just two months earlier.
But January 20, 1969, was to be a very different kind of day for Frank Siracusa, one that would see his picture on the front page of newspapers across the country and would raise serious doubts about integration in the nation’s public schools. Siracusa, very much involved with the life of the school, was a member of the school’s UFT executive committee and had been a recent speaker at a meeting of the Woodhaven-Cypress Hills Community Association. The association was a newly formed neighborhood group that came together to protest the growth of racial violence at the local high school. At its January 17 meeting, Siracusa had been one of the first speakers to expose the lawlessness which had become prevalent at Lane.
On the morning of January 20 Siracusa clocked in and went through his usual routine of checking the school aide roster and getting his materials in order for his first period class. It was only minutes before his morning class was scheduled to assemble when a stone came crashing through the window, shattering the glass and scattering fragments to all corners of his first-floor classroom. Cautiously, he approached the window, wary of yet another missile. Looking out at the courtyard he observed two black youths, about eighteen years of age: they were decked out in fashionable dashikis and sported the hairdo which had become the sign of black militancy. Siracusa thought about reporting the incident through the usual administrative channels, or of overlooking the matter entirely. Either way, the result would have been the same... the absence of any official response to student violence.
Many of his colleagues had, in fact, already thrown in the towel. They had been told to avoid confrontations with students. Don’t enforce the rules where black students are concerned, they were continually advised. Let the blacks “do their own thing!’ Don't compel them to produce identification cards! Don't require them to stand for the morning pledge of allegiance exercise even though it is required by state law! Don't make an issue over their refusal to remove their hats in the school building! And above all, remember these are changing times and are you sure you don't harbor racist attitudes? In a variety of ways, sometimes subtle, sometimes more direct, most of Lane's teachers had gotten that message from its own administration and from the central school board. In this turbulent era, the New York City school board wasn't even backing up its own principals. At any given time there were more than twenty of them cooling their heels at board headquarters after having been “promoted” to a desk job at 110 Livingston Street as a result of pressure from black militants. If a principal couldn’t expect the support of the school board on matters related to fundamental school discipline (no less violence and lawlessness), it followed that a principal wouldn't put his own neck on the line by sustaining a teacher who was foolish enough to try to break up a dice game or report a drug transaction on school premises. The name of the game for Lane’s teachers had become, “mind your own business and don't get involved” because, they learned, in New York’s tempestuous school system the axe most often fell not on the incompetent but on the dedicated teacher who tried to do an honest job for his day's pay.
But at Franklin K. Lane High School, and at countless other schools throughout the city, teachers were learning to look the other way. After all, if Mayor John V. Lindsay could tell the police to ignore the looting of stores during the Harlem riots and to do nothing while local residents carted off color TV sets, then it was perfectly clear that teachers couldn't engage in parapolice activities and expect the city’s support. But Frank Siracusa was one of the few who hadn’t been jaded by the strange thinking that permeated the highest levels of officialdom. Totally devoted to his school and its students, how could he ignore this transgression and maintain his self-respect? He put on his overcoat, descended the stairway adjacent to his room, and went on out to the courtyard. Slowly, he approached the two tall youngsters who by now were joined by a third youth, somewhat shorter and younger, but with as menacing a veneer as the older pair.
“T’m Mr. Siracusa,” he said quietly. “I’m a teacher, not a cop, and I would like to know who broke my window.”
There was no reply, no discussion, not even a denial or argument. In a flash, one of the youngsters drew a water pistol from his jacket pocket, spraying the teacher’s outer garments witha liquid which was later discovered to be a highly flammable lighter fluid. Siracusa was befuddled.
“What's this all about?” he thought to himself.
For a brief moment Siracusa figured it to be a juvenile prank, unaware that one of the trio was circling behind him. Suddenly, he felt a thunderous blow crashing into his spine. As he dropped to the ground, anguishing in pain, defenseless, he felt the smashing of fists against his jaw and the pounding of booted heels into his groin. Lying helpless on the cold concrete, barely conscious, he sensed the burning flames from his overcoat which had been set afire by his assailants, who then left him there as a potential immolation fatality. Desperately, he struggled to get out of the overcoat, which was soon fully ablaze. Although suffering excruciating pain from the pounding he had received, Siracusa miraculously crawled out of the burning garment, and screaming for help, was found and carried to safety by colleagues responding to his cries.
A brand new chapter had been written into the annals of racial strife in the public schools, less than fifteen years after the United States Supreme Court spoke out against the doctrine of racial separatism in public educational systems."
https://archive.org/details/harold-saltzman-race-war-in-high-school/page/16/mode/2up
"A matter of two minutes passed between the leaving of my students and the point where I walked into the store-room. He followed me and grabbed me from behind around the throat. I felt that I could not breathe. He pulled me to the floor, he on top of me, pulling tighter and tighter against my throat...
At this point, I had no breath and the pain in my throat was unbearable. I started to black-out. ...I then became hysterical, throwing anything I could put my hands on, kicking, fighting, and yelling, “Please don’t kill me.” During the fight the boy had ripped off my chain belt, torn my stockings to shreds. Blood was pouring out of my mouth and all over my clothes. The extent of the rape, I could not tell, as I was only semi-conscious the entire time. The only thought I had was that of losing my life"
"Frank Siracusa made a point of coming to school early. He lived with his wife and year-old daughter in a modest four-room apartment only a few short blocks from Franklin K. Lane High School, which straddles the border between Brooklyn and Queens in New York City. He had become accustomed to rolling out of bed at 7:30 A.M. and taking the two-minute walk to the school he had taught in since 1961. Siracusa was a thirty-yearold chemistry teacher with a jovial personality that made him a favorite among students and colleagues alike. There weren't many people on the 306-member faculty who were more popular than Frank Siracusa, and there was no reason for him to suspect that January 20, 1969, would be different from any other Monday morning.
In addition to his duties as a chemistry instructor, Siracusa doubled as the coordinator for school aides, the corps of thirty-four nonprofessional adults who helped supervise students in the school cafeteria, study rooms, and hallways. The police had been on duty at the school all of the previous week as a result of an agreement between District 19 Superintendent Elizabeth C. O'Daly and the school’s chapter of the United Federation of Teachers (UFT), the union representing the city’s 60,000 teachers. There had been fifteen separate incidents of assault against white teachers by black students, and an even larger number of vicious and sadistic attacks by blacks against white students. It was all part of the aftermath of the Great School Strike which had ended just two months earlier.
But January 20, 1969, was to be a very different kind of day for Frank Siracusa, one that would see his picture on the front page of newspapers across the country and would raise serious doubts about integration in the nation’s public schools. Siracusa, very much involved with the life of the school, was a member of the school’s UFT executive committee and had been a recent speaker at a meeting of the Woodhaven-Cypress Hills Community Association. The association was a newly formed neighborhood group that came together to protest the growth of racial violence at the local high school. At its January 17 meeting, Siracusa had been one of the first speakers to expose the lawlessness which had become prevalent at Lane.
On the morning of January 20 Siracusa clocked in and went through his usual routine of checking the school aide roster and getting his materials in order for his first period class. It was only minutes before his morning class was scheduled to assemble when a stone came crashing through the window, shattering the glass and scattering fragments to all corners of his first-floor classroom. Cautiously, he approached the window, wary of yet another missile. Looking out at the courtyard he observed two black youths, about eighteen years of age: they were decked out in fashionable dashikis and sported the hairdo which had become the sign of black militancy. Siracusa thought about reporting the incident through the usual administrative channels, or of overlooking the matter entirely. Either way, the result would have been the same... the absence of any official response to student violence.
Many of his colleagues had, in fact, already thrown in the towel. They had been told to avoid confrontations with students. Don’t enforce the rules where black students are concerned, they were continually advised. Let the blacks “do their own thing!’ Don't compel them to produce identification cards! Don't require them to stand for the morning pledge of allegiance exercise even though it is required by state law! Don't make an issue over their refusal to remove their hats in the school building! And above all, remember these are changing times and are you sure you don't harbor racist attitudes? In a variety of ways, sometimes subtle, sometimes more direct, most of Lane's teachers had gotten that message from its own administration and from the central school board. In this turbulent era, the New York City school board wasn't even backing up its own principals. At any given time there were more than twenty of them cooling their heels at board headquarters after having been “promoted” to a desk job at 110 Livingston Street as a result of pressure from black militants. If a principal couldn’t expect the support of the school board on matters related to fundamental school discipline (no less violence and lawlessness), it followed that a principal wouldn't put his own neck on the line by sustaining a teacher who was foolish enough to try to break up a dice game or report a drug transaction on school premises. The name of the game for Lane’s teachers had become, “mind your own business and don't get involved” because, they learned, in New York’s tempestuous school system the axe most often fell not on the incompetent but on the dedicated teacher who tried to do an honest job for his day's pay.
But at Franklin K. Lane High School, and at countless other schools throughout the city, teachers were learning to look the other way. After all, if Mayor John V. Lindsay could tell the police to ignore the looting of stores during the Harlem riots and to do nothing while local residents carted off color TV sets, then it was perfectly clear that teachers couldn't engage in parapolice activities and expect the city’s support. But Frank Siracusa was one of the few who hadn’t been jaded by the strange thinking that permeated the highest levels of officialdom. Totally devoted to his school and its students, how could he ignore this transgression and maintain his self-respect? He put on his overcoat, descended the stairway adjacent to his room, and went on out to the courtyard. Slowly, he approached the two tall youngsters who by now were joined by a third youth, somewhat shorter and younger, but with as menacing a veneer as the older pair.
“T’m Mr. Siracusa,” he said quietly. “I’m a teacher, not a cop, and I would like to know who broke my window.”
There was no reply, no discussion, not even a denial or argument. In a flash, one of the youngsters drew a water pistol from his jacket pocket, spraying the teacher’s outer garments witha liquid which was later discovered to be a highly flammable lighter fluid. Siracusa was befuddled.
“What's this all about?” he thought to himself.
For a brief moment Siracusa figured it to be a juvenile prank, unaware that one of the trio was circling behind him. Suddenly, he felt a thunderous blow crashing into his spine. As he dropped to the ground, anguishing in pain, defenseless, he felt the smashing of fists against his jaw and the pounding of booted heels into his groin. Lying helpless on the cold concrete, barely conscious, he sensed the burning flames from his overcoat which had been set afire by his assailants, who then left him there as a potential immolation fatality. Desperately, he struggled to get out of the overcoat, which was soon fully ablaze. Although suffering excruciating pain from the pounding he had received, Siracusa miraculously crawled out of the burning garment, and screaming for help, was found and carried to safety by colleagues responding to his cries.
A brand new chapter had been written into the annals of racial strife in the public schools, less than fifteen years after the United States Supreme Court spoke out against the doctrine of racial separatism in public educational systems."
https://archive.org/details/harold-saltzman-race-war-in-high-school/page/16/mode/2up
harsh but fair
Inflation moves us up the tax brackets & causes tax on "the rich" to sooner or later hit everyone
I listened to the Fridman/Trump interview. Trump definitely said there was cheating in the 20 election
The medical system in many western countries has become a supplemental prison system
Best to stay away from the whole thing
I felt he stated the core issues with central banking succinctly and clearly
I also felt that although this was nominally a gold podcast, our bitcoin friends could appreciate much (all?) of it
There was a Tribes Ascend Mumble server that organized PUGs. Towards the end of TA's life there were a few dozen people on there and even bad players (like me) could get in matches. I got to play with a bunch of the game's greats (former pros and top amateurs).
Jimmy Carter carried the South in 1976.
Reagan swept the country.
Only with Bush the Elder in 1988 and 1992 do we start to see the modern electoral map, with the Pacific Northwest & Atlantic Northeast going Democrat while South, Midwest and West go mostly Republican.
In other words, the "big switch" wasn't a bunch of racists in the 60s but instead the middle class in the 80s.
Chocolate is sugar. Even the most raw, organic, 100% cocoa just turns into sugar in your bloodstream
Yes and no
Dark chocolate has a substantial fat content
Really dark chocolate (the listed category maxes out at 85% but darker is widely available) has much more fat than sugar
During my transition from keto to animal based to carnivore, I stopped eating dark chocolate because of the oxolate toxicity (I started getting rashes whenever I ate chocolate) rather than because of the sugar