I despise commercials. On TV, the radio, or some other format, I resent their existence. Some of them are amusing the first time you see them, but they quickly become overplayed and obnoxious. More than just the individual commercial, I especially despise commercial breaks, when we’re subjected to five, six, or more of these tedious ads in rapid succession. I mute the TV, leave the room to get a drink, or do some other activity to avoid watching them. In other words, their objective—selling me something—is not being achieved.

TV shows live and die by their ratings, compiled by Nielsen Media Research (“the Nielsens”). These numbers boil down to a certain number of viewers for a given show, and also what percentage of all viewers in that time slot were watching that particular show. For networks (and shows), higher Nielsens are good, because it means more people are watching the advertisements, more advertisers will have their products seen, and thus will continue financially supporting the show.

This, to me, has always been a stupid business model. It places shows at the mercy of advertiser’s whims. Technically speaking, cable TV is completely unregulated. They can show whatever they want: horrid vivisection, full-on nudity, copious vulgar language. But they don’t. Why? ’cause they don’t want to turn away advertisers reluctant to support a show containing those elements.

So, in short, we have an entertainment system funded and censored by people with no creative interest in the product, and who achieve their support by annoying viewers.

Does anyone else think this is ridiculous?

I think we should do show-based subscriptions. You only get the content you subscribe to, you only pay for that content, and there are no ads. The money goes directly to the “bank account” of that particular show to fund future endeavors. There are no “networks” in this world. There are no advertisers. There’s you, the cable company (which holds the repository of shows), and the creators. (Promotion of new shows would be a potential issue under this system; not a problem I’ve thought through.)

Let’s use the example of Firefly, the series beloved by many but ultimately canceled because the network (FOX) continually shuffled its timeslot, preempted it for baseball, ran the series out of order, and so forth. I can’t find a list of the ratings for each episode that aired, but I do know that the first episode had a 4.1/8 rating, meaning 4.1 million viewers watched it. Suppose the subscription cost for a show was $1.99 (the cost of a song on iTunes) per episode and further assume that the cable company gets the change portion. That’s $4.1 million in the bank for the show, or basically enough to pay for that one episode. (This is technically true, but not practically true. The pilot episode cost $10 million; the first aired episode, however, was not the pilot, and cost $3-$4 million.)

This is using dirt-simple, ultra-basic hypothetical numbers. I’m sure television accountants could cook up a better, more-sustainable number. Crank up the cost for shows with higher viewership, until they stop watching (American Idol, anyone?) and allow the actual viewership revenue to dictate how much money a show can spend.

The downside to losing both networks and ad revenue is that you need start-up capital from somewhere. I imagine this is where something like product-placement enters the picture. For shows where this is impractical, perhaps a small, static, and soundless ad in the bottom right of the screen every so often (much like networks now emblazon their logo on the screen at all times).

(This entire rant was prompted, rather paradoxically, by the news that Hulu is switching to subscriber-only model in 2010.)

I’m excited about Halloween.

Cody and I have decided to pair as Dr. Horrible (her) and Captain Hammer (me).  They’re simple costumes, so they don’t really fulfill that deep-seated need to construct something  epic.  However, they’re fun costumes that we can achieve with the time we have.  Most of the attendees at the party we’re attending should recognize the outfits, which is a bonus.

So, that’s good news.

From a more long-term point of view, I did some reading up and I severely underestimated the utility of papier-mâché.  I’ve been imagining a future filled with hot ABS plastic and noxious fiberglass-resin fumes because those seemed the only ways to get good, smooth, solid costume pieces. I’ve always thought of papier-mâché as crude and flimsy.  In the form I used, it was.  But that’s because I was only exploring part of it.  Check out this guy.

It makes a lot of sense, if one pauses to think about it. At its most basic, papier-mâché is the same thing as fiberglass: fibers suspended in a glue.  Paper is a lot stronger than one might give it credit for, too.  Sure, we can rip paper by pulling nearby sections in opposite directions, but have you ever tried to tug on it from two opposite ends?  It’ll give, but not without effort and usually local to the area where you’re pulling, not in the middle where the highest stress is.  Paper’s strong stuff.  Add glue to the mix and you’ve got a decent material—if you execute it correctly.

What’s more, the “strip” form is only one of the two ways to use papier-mâché.  The other, using pulped paper, ends up as a clay-like material that can be molded and shaped however you want.  Way more versatile.  Layer something up with several layers of strips, work in detail with the clay form, and then waterseal it with lacquer of some kind and you’ve got a pretty formidable piece of hardware that’ll stand up to a good amount of weathering.

Get some fine-grained sandpaper to smooth it down, and you might, might have something on par with ABS plastic or fiberglass—as far as costuming goes, anyway—and at a fraction of the cost and risk (glass fibers can do terrible things to your lungs; where’s the risk in water, paper, and flour?).

Suffice it to say I plan to test out this hypothesis at the earliest opportunity.  If it works, hoo boy.  I shall become a costume making machine.

I love and hate Halloween.

One of my ambitions in life is to get to a point where I can make awesome costumes. Darth Vader, a stormtrooper, Iron Man, and Night Owl (with Cody as Silk Spectre) are all on my list. Halloween gives me a great excuse to make these costumes without the expense of having to go to a con to show them off.

Now that Cody and I have a house, I have a place where I could actually make some of these. Unfortunately, we’re not quite settled-in enough yet to start doing that.

This is why I hate Halloween. Every year, I get excited about making costumes. Every year, I end up with a costume I’m disappointed in—if I end up with a costume at all. The last Halloween costume I was somewhat proud of was my Kosh costume—10 years ago (which reminds me, I should put Kosh on the costume list and take a crack at doing it with fiberglass instead of paper-mâché).

Perhaps some day, I’ll start making good on these unfulfilled ambitions. I can only hope that I can provide my kids with awesome costumes so that they never have to feel this perpetual disappointment.

So, yeah. Halloween is not the most uplifting time of year for me.

After bouncing more ideas around, I’ve come up with an alternate spec for a new system. This one is built around the same GPU, but with an Intel i7 driving the system. This deserves some explanation.

More after the jump.
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While mowing the lawn this past weekend, I noticed a nest about halfway up one of the two maple trees in our front yard. Once night had fallen, I gave it a good dousing with wasp killer. I continued to do this, spurred on by the invasions, until last night. Last night, I decided that it was coming down.

If I was going to do this, though, I would need armor. Cody and I spent a good half hour assembling all of the pieces that made up my final ensemble:

  • A pair of heavy, black galoshes
  • Snowpants
  • My Northeastern hoodie sweatshirt
  • A wire-mesh garbage can (for a helmet)
  • Leather work gloves

Duct tape sealed each “joint” in the suit, with the hood of the sweatshirt serving as an expanded neck to accommodate the mouth of the trashcan-turned-helmet. So armored, and equipped with a flashlight, an extending paint roller rod, and the wasp spray, I marched out to face my foes. Try as I might, I couldn’t see the nest. I needed more light. Assembling several extension cords, Cody and I ran a line out into the front yard to flood the tree with our ultra-bright halogen work-light. Now, the nest was visible.

As luck would have it, I couldn’t reach it. Just a few inches short. We attached a paint roller to the end of the rod, thereby extending its reach another foot or so. I could now use it to grab hold of the branch, bring it lower, and completely saturate the nest with wasp killer. I also spent a few minutes whacking at the nest, trying to knock it apart as best as I could.

Through all of this, there was no sign of a wasp. Was this nest old? Abandoned?

Satisfied that the nest had been destroyed, Cody and I withdrew most of the tools into the house. I marched over to another bush where I had seen the beginnings of a nest and gave it a good spraying as well. To return inside, I went to the back door — just in case anything decided to attack. After Cody inspected me for hangers-on through the screen door, I headed inside and doffed my armor.

The lack of corpses — or even attackers — left me somewhat unsatisfied. Had the entire endeavor been in vain?

As I was leaving the bathroom this morning, I caught site of a large black thing on the blinds over the bathroom window. I stopped and looked and then froze. It was a wasp. I suffer from apiphobia and spheksophobia (though I tend to refer to them both as apiphobia), so this was not exactly a welcome sight. There I am, in my skivvies, staring down my nemesis.

I decided to retreat to the bedroom for the moment and finished dressing. I looked around for some way to kill the vile creature from afar—a quarterstaff, a shotgun, or a tank, perhaps—but nothing presented itself. Gathering my courage, I returned to the bathroom. The wasp had not gone far; it seemed content to crawl along the blinds. At least it wasn’t airborne.

I resolved to try and kill it with just a handful of toilet paper, the only obvious weapon at my disposal. But then I caught sight of what may as well have been a flaming broadsword, sent as a gift from ancient gods. The new, still-uninstalled shower rod I purchased when we first moved-in stood in the corner of the bathroom, resting against the wall.

I made my way over to the blessed weapon, handling it like a flat-ended spear. Carefully, I brought the end ever-closer to the black-bodied beast. It paused in its movements and seemed to look at me from its wicked head, antennae held completely still as though daring me to try something under its deadly gaze. I faltered and pulled the rod back. The wasp continued to stare, and then giving me up for a coward, continued crawling.

This hesitation proved to be fortunate. I realized that the wasp had previously been too low and had I stabbed out, I would have missed anything solid and been attempting to stab against the screen. This would have either resulted in a punctured screen or an angry wasp. Neither of these was desirable, especially since the former could lead to more wasps and the latter would lead to pain.

But as it continued to crawl, it moved upward to a portion of the blinds backed by the solid window frame. Now was my moment. I moved my makeshift lavatorial spear closer, the flat and murderous end cap hovering perhaps 2″ above the wasp. With a decisive thrust, I stabbed out.

The wasp was dead.

To some, this entire blog post is about killing a nearly-brainless creature 1/80,000th my size. To anyone with apiphobia, this will rather clearly be an epic tale on par with Siegfried.

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