Ugh! I know, gross as Hell, right? And the compost–which is normally devoid of any smell, and certainly not offensively odorous–had taken on a distinct “bad septic field” aroma. It . . . it was pretty not OK (although the maggots seemed happy). But, as it turns out, maggots in your compost aren’t disastrous, they are tiny messengers.
I’m not a passionate compost evangelist–am, in fact, a pretty mediocre and neglectful gardener–but I like minimizing our garbage output, and I like the fact that a few scoops of our kitchen compost, when dumped into a pot with some soil, reliably produces volunteer kale and tomatoes. Since volunteers self-select for heartiness, and because all the seeds are coming from food I already ate and enjoyed–well, I’m basically guaranteed a free, low-effort crop of things I like. This is all I want from gardening. So, I was upset–in addition to being at least a little totally grossed out–when maggots infested my free lunch.
I’d always been told that maggots in your compost were basically cataclysmic, that this indicated that someone had tossed meat or grease or lard or bones in there. Maggoty compost, I’d been assured, was unrecoverable, likely harbored food-born pathogens, and you’d need to dispose of the whole batch and start over. A little poking around online wasn’t terribly helpful: A few sites indicated that *some* maggots were beneficial–specifically the big, biting horseflies–while others (like the common houseflies I was supporting) were still Bad News. But I really didn’t want to start over, so I kept digging and, with the help of several Ag Extension websites confirmed that maggots are totally benign.
If you have maggots–any sorts of maggots–in your compost, what it indicates is that your pile isn’t getting turned enough (unlikely in my case, as I use a Tumbleweed compost bin–both a design and a brand I heartily recommend), or is too wet (which this poop-stinky pile certainly was; it was a mucky mess). So, I tossed in just a few scoops of top soil and pine needles (i.e., the dirt right next to the compost in–remember, I’m really lazy), gave her a tumble, and two days later:
*BOOM*
No smell, no maggots, back to business as usual.
White House Ale and a Short Lil Diatribe on Keeping It Simple
I know I’m about a week late on the White House Beer Recipe story, but I wanted to chime in just in case anyone missed it:
Ale to the Chief: White House Beer Recipe | The White House
(I’m including the recipe for the Honey Ale below because it looks better to me, but this PDF of the beer recipes includes both.)
I brew a bit, and am constantly annoyed by how meaninglessly technical homebrewing is. This is a prime example of hobbyists getting so wrapped up in gear and minutia that they out-professional professionals and out-tradition the traditions themselves. This is especially true with beer, which is why I stick to wine–incidentally, brewing it in plastic buckets and glass jugs using plain-old bread yeast. With my hardware-store gear I have roughly the same success rate as any other novice homebrewer–which means some recipes and batches are shockingly good, others skunk vinegar. But, seeing as how my way costs about 15 cents per bottle, I’m fine with a few batches that go straight into the compost.
These recipes are pretty straightforward, but still strike me as a bit dandified, so I offer you this, the bare-bonesiest beer recipe I’ve yet found. I haven’t tested it yet, but it’s on my list for this fall. I’ll report back when I do–and if you happen to give this recipe or the White House Ale a try, howsabout you tell me how that goes?
Attention Freelancers: Even in Brooklyn a Robin Isn’t a Pigeon
Don’t Get Screwed Over on “What it feels like to be a freelancer”:
This is actually a splashy little viral landing page for Docracy, an open legal documents clearinghouse (especially handy for the freelancers out there):
In six years of freelancing, I’ve only had one client pull payment shenanigans like these–but, predictably, it was for over a grand, and it was a *helluva* hassle. Let the freelancer beware.
Come to the *ONLY* Midwestern Screening of the Lo-Fi Sci-Fi Mockumentary GHOSTS WITH S#!T JOBS!
We still have seats open for the September 9 Ann Arbor screening of the award-winning sci-fi mockumentary GHOSTS WITH S#!T JOBS. We’d love to have a capacity crowd, and this is cleraly pretty short notice, so please feel free to post, repost, share, reshare, double-share, tweet, heptotweet, gurgle, snuggle, and shout these details from the rooftops of your choosing:
GHOSTS WITH S#!T JOBS
By 2040 the North American economy has collapsed and most Americans and Canadians subsist on crappy jobs outsourced by the rich industrialized nations of Asia. The mockumentary GHOSTS WITH S#!T JOBS presents itself as a Chinese documentary exploring the plight of these workers, called “ghosts” (the Cantonese slang “gweilo”–an existing Chinese dysphemism for non-Asian foreigners), which include under-employed roboticists, human spam, digital janitors, and migrants who gather the silk of the giant mutant spiders infesting Toronto.
“Ingenious—a gripping movie that uses cleverness, not CGI, to paint a vivid and satirical future.”—Cory Doctorow
This darkly comedic look at the world our children will inherit won Best Feature Film at the 2012 London International Festival of Science Fiction and Fantastic Film and and was produced for under $4000 (!!!) Filmmakers Jim Munroe and Anthony Cortese will be on hand for a Q&A after the film.
The only midwestern screening of this award-winning sci-fi mockumentary will be in Ann Arbor on Sunday, September 9.
Rolling Green Iron: The Sol Food Mobile Farm
A few weeks back this big red school bus cruised past my house just after dinnertime, so the baby and I went pounding out the side door to chase it down. Turns out this is the Sol Food Mobile Farm: a standard International Blue Bird school bus that’s been completely refurbed as mobile living quarters and greenhouse (!!!) by some very pleasant folks from North Carolina. Dylan Hammond–a soft-spoken young carpenter and sustainable agriculture enthusiast–was kind enough to give me the grand tour, despite the fact that I came sprinting up out of the dusk demanding answers, barefoot, smelling of beer and stir fry, and bearing a groggy infant.
My dim snapshot gives you no sense how wonderful this bus is–and I’m somewhat of a connoisseur of half-cocked hipped school-bus schemes. The interior has been entirely gutted (saved for a few of the bench seats, reoriented to form part of the dinning and social area at the front of the bus), and outfitted not just with the necessities (four bunks, a kitchenette, the aforementioned greenhouse, which occupies the back third of the bus, where the roof has been replaced with curved acrylic), but also with *panache*: maple cabinets and hardwood floors (scrounged from some of Dylan’s construction gigs), a really roomy kitchen/dining/lounge with a small library, and a living roof of succulents (I even got to climb on top of the bus with my baby girl and check it out!) All of this, conveniently, rendered the former commercial vehicle a “camper” in the eyes of the law, meaning that none of the Sol Food folk needed to have CDLs to drive the thing.
The mods didn’t stop at the aesthetic and horticultural: the bus is also outfitted with a rain-water collection and recycling system (in theory–and in less drought-stricken seasons–all of their irrigation and potable water needs can be met by their onboard cisterns), and a full engine conversion so that they can–and do–run entirely on used fryer grease.
We’ve had a terribly dry summer here in Ann Arbor (like much of the country, we’re suffering historic drought conditions), so our garden’s showing has been pitiful. Meanwhile, the bus’s greenhouse had some of the largest, most productive tomato and cuke plants I’ve ever seen in my life. “People crassly imply we’re growing marijuana,” Dylan replied evenly when I asked what question he was most sick of fielding–and I hear where he’s coming from: What kind of idiots would build a grow operation that crosses state lines in plain sight? *sheesh*
The Sol Food folks are currently touring the US in a great 10,000(!!!) mile loop, spreading the gospel of hyper-local, totally sustainable, totally delicious agriculture. They’ve been on the road since June (they just hit Yellowstone!), and plan to continue rolling through most of December. If you’re so inclined, you can support their project here.
Neil Armstrong, My Grandmother, Moonwalking, and the Only Game in Town
The death of Neil Armstrong occasioned a lot of interesting reflections out in the geekosphere; the most unexpectedly enlightening was this from Charles Apple, the visual journalism columnist for the American Copy Editors Society [sic]:
Keep in mind as you put together your Neil Armstrong packages tonight… — Charles Apple — copydesk.org
The problem as Apple sees it? We don’t have any good pics of Armstrong on the Moon, for the same reason that we don’t have many pics of me on vacation: Armstrong was holding the camera. For example, the pic at the left–which you saw all over the place attached to Armstrong obits–is Buzz Aldrin, not Neil Armstrong, and is a primitive photoshop job, to boot.
Once Apple pointed this out, I realized that I’d actually seen the undoctored photo (shown to the right) on plenty of occasions, but the framing of the two is so different that I actually had always thought they were two distinct photos.
As Apple works through the scant selection of legit photos of Armstrong on the Moon, what we find are a tiny handful of candid shots that, in many ways, are more wonderful than the iconic posed photo of Aldrin. This unconventional view of Armstrong, focused on his work and so far from anything remotely like home, is really poignant:
And this one–where we can see an actual human face in a little super-bathyspheric bubble in that dead gunpowder landscape–absolutely gives me shivers:
Anyway, it all reminded me of my favorite portrait of Armstrong on the Moon–which, in fact, is embedded in that iconic picture of Aldrin that Apple was so annoyed to see palmed off as a pic of Armstrong. Check out the reflection in Aldrin’s golden face-shield:
At first I thought what so touched me about this picture was the work ethic it highlighted: Armstrong was the first human to touch the moon, and was perfectly happy to let the other guy be in all the pics, because that was Armstrong’s job. A guy like Armstrong is called “hero” all the time, usually because of his willingness to face down death, but I’ve gotta level with you: that’s never impressed me much. I’ve known plenty of totally pieces of human garbage that would face down death. Frankly, it’s sorta what the male animal excels at. What *I’ve* always admired about astronauts–about scientists like Aldrin and Armstrong in general–is how many names appear at the top of those academic papers; I’m impressed by their willingness to work in teams and share credit and share findings and help the whole of humanity pull itself up by its bootstraps, even if it means forgoing some small sliver–or some giant chunk–of personal fame or riches or glory. To me, Armstrong is a hero not because he got all Quixote on the Moon, but because he understood how important that Sancho Panzas and Dulcineas are to executing the Impossible Dream.
I like Armstrong because he was willing to accept the possibility that he’d end up as history’s footnote, he’d hold the camera instead of standing in front of it.
But that’s not all of it. I also love this self-portrait because of the pose. The viewfinder on the Hasselblad Armstrong used (and evidently left) on the Moon was on the camera’s top, often called a “waist-level viewfinder.” Here’s a pic of the rig mounted to his EVA suit:
When I was little my grandma always favored a goofy old Brownie box camera–something quite similar to this Brownie Reflex Synchro–which also had a waist-level viewfinder. Since her vision was a touch presbyopic, “waist-level” actually was more like “sternum level.” My point being, Grandma’s photo-shooting posture–head sagging, shoulders slumped and folded in around her camera, hands cradling a magic box topped with a glowing, misty vision of the world we were in–and Armstrong’s were the same.
All of which is to say, in my heart of hearts, I love this portrait of Armstrong because I love my grandmother, who is also dead, and who we will likewise never see again.
Welcome to the only game in town. Amen
What would you MaKey MaKey?
A brand new MaKey MaKey was among the pile of mail awaiting me when I got home from my trip this weekend. Project 0 is throwing together a controller for playing Super Meat Boy. What would your Project 0 be?
Get “Tucker Teaches the Clockies to Copulate” for Just 99 Cents!
Just a reminder that my steampunk novella (with new, original illustrations from the fantabulous Chad Sell) will be available on AMazon for just 99 cents (!!!) for about another week. Act fast, Kindle-wielding, steampunk-tolerant, literary-cowboy sex-book readers!
Utah Territory, 1874: The long American Civil War is finally over, and the Union restored thanks to the tireless service of the Chinese-built clockwork soldiers of Maj. Gen. William T. Sherman’s Terrible Mechanical Corps. Discharged ‘clockies,’ feared and reviled for their efficiency on the battlefield, have moved West to live peacefully alongside an often suspicious citizenry. Peacefully, that is, until Dickie Tucker–a crippled, alcoholic Confederate veteran living in Utah Territory–teaches these machines the art and craft of being, or at least seeming, human.
(SNEAK PEEK: Amazon will give you a free sample for Kindle, or get the same sample chunk as a pretty slick DRM-free PDF right here.)
Recommended Reading: Handmade Electronic Music: The Art of Hardware Hacking by Nicolas Collins
If you’ve enjoyed the “Electro-Skiffle Band” projects in SNIP, BURN, SOLDER, SHRED–or dug my Droid Voicebox talk at Maker Faire Detroit 2012–then you really, really need to check out Nic Collins’s Handmade Electronic Music: The Art of Hardware Hacking. I give it multiple shout-outs in the book, but I’m being emphatic here: It’s impossible to overstate how inspiring and fun his book and projects are. I’m hugely indebted to Nic for having written it, and then revised it (the newest edition includes a DVD of audio and video examples, making it even awesomer than what my library had to offer when I first stumbled across this gem).
Also worth checking out is Nicolas Collins’s web site, which includes video tutorials and some great new circuits.
Teaching Is a Sales Position
I continue to write a column for the Ann Arbor Chronicle. This month–for the third month running–I’m writing about the Venn diagram of Business Practices and Teaching Practices. SPOILER ALERT: I’m not of the opinion that this diagram is two primary color circles with no overlap. FURTHER SPOILER ALERT: The governor and I do not agree about what lies in that cross-hatched overlap zone.
The Ann Arbor Chronicle | In It For The Money: Classroom Sales
Kids in compulsory public schools often aren’t willing buyers; they need to be sold. And even Lee Iacocca couldn’t sell 40 reluctant buyers in a single group. That takes goddamn sales magic, and the only cats with that kind of voodoo are politicians and snake-oil gurus. And there isn’t a single such talent in this great nation who’s ever going to settle for $42,000 per year plus medical and a pension–not when his or her earning potential starts in the low six figures and only goes up, up, up.
The problem with education in America–to the degree that there is a problem–is that we’re putting fair-to-middlin’ sales staff into a nearly impossible sales situation. No shoe store owner in the world expects his or her staff to sell shoes forty pairs at a time; if there’s that many folks coming through the door, then they hire more sales staff. They don’t expect shoe buyers to sit in rows six deep and stare at the ceiling while someone yammers to them indiscriminately about chunky heels or high-performance cross-trainers, without regard for what kind of feet they have and what kinda walking they need to do.
. . .
The problem with education in America–to the degree that there is a problem–is that we’re putting fair-to-middlin’ sales staff into a nearly impossible sales situation. No shoe store owner in the world expects his or her staff to sell shoes forty pairs at a time; if there’s that many folks coming through the door, then they hire more sales staff. They don’t expect shoe buyers to sit in rows six deep and stare at the ceiling while someone yammers to them indiscriminately about chunky heels or high-performance cross-trainers, without regard for what kind of feet they have and what kinda walking they need to do.
. . .