Princeton University Is the World’s First Perpetual Motion Machine

Malcolm Gladwall asks a good question in Oh, MG:

The holy grail of scientific inquiry in the Middle Ages was the perpetual motion machine. Was it possible to create a mechanical apparatus that could run—forever—without any external power source? One elaborate mechanism after another was created. Eccentric inventors devoted their lives to this question. To this day, the patent offices of the world receive submissions from people claiming to have solved the puzzle.

But of course a perpetual motion machine is impossible: the concept will always violate either the first or second law of thermodynamics. “Oh ye seekers after perpetual motion, how many vain chimeras have you pursued?” Leonardo da Vinci famously said. “Go and take your place with the alchemists.”

Well, I have news for Leonardo da Vinci. It turns out that there is such a thing as a perpetual motion machine. It’s called Princeton University.

This breakthrough happened quietly, as many epochal events often do, buried in a press release issued by the school on October 29, 2021. Why was the breakthrough ignored until now? I cannot say for certain, except that perhaps few observers of America’s educational system are as unhealthily obsessed with the fine print of Ivy League press releases as I am.

But when I read the news, I will tell you in all candor, I gasped in shock. For years I’ve been quietly predicting that this moment would someday come. And now it has.

Here is the short version. (Because, believe me, there is a much longer version, too.) Universities fund their operations largely through three sources of income: . . .

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Portrait of the Artist as a Postman

Faune et Flore du Texas (1987), Kermit’s second scarf, was designed to commemorate the state’s sesquicentennial.
Courtesy of Hermés

Interesting and odd story by Jason Sheeler in Texas Monthly:

In July 2011, more than five thousand miles east of Waco, an assistant designer at the Hermès silk factory, in Lyon, France, unfurled a ninety-by-ninety-centimeter square of the company’s famous silk twill. It was lushly illustrated with the plants and animals of Texas. “This is my favorite scarf,” she said, pointing out the highlights to those of us assembled at the factory for a tour. The scarf, called Faune et Flore du Texas, was designed for the state’s sesquicentennial and had all the romantic detail of a vintage encyclopedia illustration. The assistant designer ran her finger around a ring of prickly pear that encircled an enormous turkey. Her hand brushed over nests of mallards, clusters of raccoons, a rearing mustang, a wild hare, and a stoic-looking Longhorn. More than fifty native animals coexisted within a viny ivy frame that blossomed with firewheels, Texas bindweed, and a particularly lovely downward-facing sunflower.

There are few labels higher on fashion’s Mount Olympus than Hermès. The 175-year-old luxury goods company is known for its handmade handbags, such as the Kelly (which is named after Grace Kelly) and the Birkin (which is named after Jane Birkin, costs between $9,000 and $150,000, and once had a legendary multiple-year waiting list). But perhaps its most coveted and collectible items—and the reason for my visit to the factory—are its $410 silk scarves. Since 1937 the company’s scarf sales have exploded; it is estimated that Hermès now sells one every twenty seconds. Jackie Onassis used an Hermès scarf to hold back her hair, and Princess Grace slung her broken arm in one. Each scarf design is an original commissioned artwork, screened on 450,000 meters’ worth of mulberry moth silkworm thread, and the scarf’s hem is hand-stitched—a process, legend has it, that was once handled by nuns.In July 2011, more than five thousand miles east of Waco, an assistant designer at the Hermès silk factory, in Lyon, France, unfurled a ninety-by-ninety-centimeter square of the company’s famous silk twill. It was lushly illustrated with the plants and animals of Texas. “This is my favorite scarf,” she said, pointing out the highlights to those of us assembled at the factory for a tour. The scarf, called Faune et Flore du Texas, was designed for the state’s sesquicentennial and had all the romantic detail of a vintage encyclopedia illustration. The assistant designer ran her finger around a ring of prickly pear that encircled an enormous turkey. Her hand brushed over nests of mallards, clusters of raccoons, a rearing mustang, a wild hare, and a stoic-looking Longhorn. More than fifty native animals coexisted within a viny ivy frame that blossomed with firewheels, Texas bindweed, and a particularly lovely downward-facing sunflower.

There are few labels higher on fashion’s Mount Olympus than Hermès. The 175-year-old luxury goods company is known for its handmade handbags, such as the Kelly (which is named after Grace Kelly) and the Birkin (which is named after Jane Birkin, costs between $9,000 and $150,000, and once had a legendary multiple-year waiting list). But perhaps its most coveted and collectible items—and the reason for my visit to the factory—are its $410 silk scarves. Since 1937 the company’s scarf sales have exploded; it is estimated that Hermès now sells one every twenty seconds. Jackie Onassis used an Hermès scarf to hold back her hair, and Princess Grace slung her broken arm in one. Each scarf design is an original commissioned artwork, screened on 450,000 meters’ worth of mulberry moth silkworm thread, and the scarf’s hem is hand-stitched—a process, legend has it, that was once handled by nuns.

The artist behind Faune et Flore du Texas, said the assistant designer, first caught the attention of Hermès in the eighties. According to company lore, Jean-Louis Dumas, the CEO at the time, loved driving across the United States. On one trip, while visiting Texas, he encountered a painter whose work was so bold but simple, so impressive in its portrayal of animals, that Dumas immediately commissioned a scarf design. That scarf had since been reissued several times and always sold out. The painter’s style was so popular that in the past thirty years, the company had commissioned fifteen more original designs from him. He was the only American artist ever to have designed scarves for Hermès.

Who was this man? I asked the assistant designer. He was very special, she told me. His name was Kermit Oliver, and he was a postal worker in his late sixties who lived in Waco. . .

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My take on the Amazfit GTS 4 Mini

I finally decided to replace my Amazfit Band 5 because it was unreliable in measuring heart rate, which it used to compute the PAI score for a workout. So I ordered what I believe is the most recent model, the Amazfit 4. It comes as either GTS 4 or GTR 4 and I pored over the specs to find the difference — until I finally realized “S” = square and “R” = round. Since I like a digital readout, the GTS 4 seemed the better choice (see photo, which illustrates the particular watch face I use). The GTS 4 comes in regular or “Mini,” and I went with Mini: cheaper and a little lighter and does all I could want. 

I love it. The readout is much more legible to my (somewhat poor) eyes, and because it is bigger, the battery also can be bigger, so much better battery life. And the heart-rate readout so far seems totally reasonable and reliable — as in fact the Band 5 readout become once I moved the band a little up my arm: two finger-widths above the wrist instead of one. But by the time I discovered that, I had already ordered the replacement, and I like the GTS 4 Mini a lot better.

I did try a Huawei Watch Fit 2, but I did not like that and returned it. I really like the Zepp app on my iPhone that connects with the Amazfit products.

I’ve done my walk for today, and getting good PAI results is motivating. I’ll stick with 2.0 miles for another week, and then I’m going to bump it up to 2.5 miles to get my step goal (6000 steps).

Store-bought vs. homemade, soup division

I just had some soup from a little neighborhood market. I went in to look and wanted to buy something. (Looking was rewarded: they have Red Boat fish sauce, which can be hard to find locally.)

The soup was pretty good, but I immediately thought of making my own version. I had checked the label and found that the ingredients were on the whole okay — well, take a look.

That’s Allen Family Foods Tuscan White Bean and Kale soup. I could certainly do without the Agave syrup (pure refined fructose), and while I’m glad to see turmeric included, it is the very last ingredient. The major ingredients are all fine, and the minor ingredients are very small in proportion. (For example, note that this soup has less white wine than sea salt.)

Note also that the word “Tuscan” is important to increase the appeal of the soup. “Tuscan White Bean and Kale Soup” is more appealing than “White Bean and Kale Soup.” See this post for more on the importance of recipe names.

Here’s the first cut of an ingredient list for a version I think I’ll make:

Exotic Black Bean and Kale Soup — or, Ribollita My Way

• Black beans (have more nutrients than white beans)
• Kale — Lacinato kale, I think; seems appropriate
• Leek or spring onion or scallions; maybe red onion as a fallback
• Some diced carrot — 1 medium regular carrot or 1/2 Nantes carrot
• 2 Cayenne Peppers (or 1 Red Habanero Pepper, seeded)
• Garlic
• Ginger
• Turmeric + Black Pepper
• Dried Marjoram
• Dried Thyme
• A little ground cinnamon
• Salt substitute
• MSG 
• Water

and after some reading:

• Oat groats (about 1/2 cup)
• Red cabbage, chopped and allowed to rest 45 minutres
• Purple potatoes, diced 

Depending on my mood, I might include some pumpkin seeds or walnuts, either in cooking or added when served. I’ll probably cook the black beans separately, then add them (already cooked) to the soup. I might spray in a little olive oil — in fact, perhaps sauté the non-bean ingredients, then add beans and water to make a thick stew. 

I might also include mushrooms along with the carrot. I could also include tempeh, but this already has beans. So perhaps some sort of grain cooked in the stew — a millet, or hulled barley, or oat groats, which would make a nice thick stew. Now that I write it, I like the sound of using oat groats, perhaps half a cup for the batch of stew. That would thicken it, which is what they were going for with chickpea flour and tapioca flour, but using a whole grain (with the beans, a better protein). 

I might add balsamic vinegar, now that I see that they’ve done that. Acid brightens the taste, and balsamic vinegar would bring a little of that along with some sweetness (that was the point of the Agave syrup, I imagine). Or instead, I might blend a couple of peeled lemons and add that pulp to the stew just before serving.

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Update:  In terms of nutrients, lentils would surpass black beans — Du Puy lentils would be nice. Or I could keep to the original color scheme with chickpeas.

I’m thinking Lacinato kale for the kale. And possibly tomatoes. Definitely the oat groats. 

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More ideas: A Wikipedia article on ribollita gave me more ideas. Oat groats will work well in lieu of day-old bread (for thickening and for grain — and oat groats are a whole food, whereas bread is not), and I think I’ll include some red cabbage and some chopped purple potatoes. I’ve added those to the recipe.

Solstice shaving soap because I don’t have an Equinox

Happy Equinox and welcome to nights longer than days up here on the northern half of the planet — but only for a few months. Things will turn around before the end of the year, and in the meantime — it’s an ill wind indeed that blows nobody good — those on the other side of the Equator can now enjoy days longer than night (at least, until the next Equinox rolls around).

I have said it often before, and still it’s true: I do love the fragrance of Phoenix Artisan’s Solstice. I occasionally see critical comments on the fragrance, but those so far have been made by persons who have not actually smelled the soap or aftershave, so I tend to question the soundness of the judgments (which seems to be made on the logic of abstract principles rather than the findings of actual experience).

I would rate Solstice’s fragrance as a “masculine” fragrance that’s substantially better than the usual stab at a gendered fragrance such as Chiseled Face’s Midnight Stag: “Russian Leather, Motor Oil, Hoppes #9, Birch Tar, Oakmoss, Gasoline, Smoke, Cedar, Cade, Bergamot, Vanilla” — I actually like the fragrance of Midnight Stag, but it goes in quite a different direction than Solstice’s “Sage, Sweetgrass, Cedar, Rose Absolute, and Benzoin Resin.” Midnight Stag’s fragrance is more what I would call a novelty fragrance, while Solstice’s fragrance leans much more toward a classic formulation (especially with the Rose Absolute, given that Rose, like Lavender, is a truly classic fragrance for a shaving soap).

I have the Kokum Butter formula of the soap, which is excellent, but if I get through this tub and buy another, I will probably get the CK-6 version. Back in the day, Sears, Roebuck & Co. in their giant catalog (aka the wishbook) often offered three versions of a product — good, better, best — with the products identified by their quality category. It was a neat marketing trick: an upsell via the catalog page.

I’ve noticed that sometimes we are so attached to a product — particularly if it’s at the “better” level — that we can’t at first appreciate the quality of the “best.” That happened to me with my pre-shave. MR GLO was definitely “good,” and I used that for years, so I was blown away when I tried the original formulation of Grooming Dept Moisturiziing Pre-Shave — a “better” in every way. Then I got the new formulation (now the current formulation) and it was different. It took me several shaves before I realized that the difference was that I have moved from “better” to “best.” Because “better” in general is very good in indeed — certainly better than “good” — it takes a bit to realize that there is an even higher level: “best.”

I was thinking about this because PA’s Kokum Butter shaving soap is not just “good,” it is “better”: a shaving soap definitely a cut above run-of-the-mill shaving soaps. And yet… my using the CK-6 (a “best”) had sort of blinded me to how good the Kokum Butter formula is. It is indeed a “better” level soap, and it has that quality even when a “best” soap exists. 

Those were my thoughts as I lathered, and as you can see, I do not rush that initial lathering — as usual, a lathering on top of a very thin layer of Moisturizing Pre-Shave.

RazoRock’s Old Type is a wonderful razor, unprepossessing but extremely comfortable — no intrusive blade feel here — and highly efficient — a perfectly smooth result achieved with no effort. Moreover, it is costs very little and, since it has the sensible three-piece design, you can use a handle of your choice. You can even buy the head by itself and use a handle you already have.

Three passes left my face perfectly smooth, undamaged, and not even threatened. A splash of Solstice aftershave — mm, I love that fragrance — with a couple of squirts of Grooming Dept Hydrating Gel finished the job.

The tea this morning is Murchie’s Victorian Garden: “Notes of jasmine, lavender, sweet pea and bergamot are combined with strawberry and vanilla in this smooth and well-rounded blend of green and black teas.” I will add that in my neighborhood of Victoria, James Bay, houses and even apartment buildings generally have striking flower gardens with a wide variety of blooms. It makes walking a pleasure. (I’ve noticed over the years that suburbs, whose inhabitants drive rather than walk, usually don’t go in for flower gardens so much. Usually, the houses stand somewhat isolated in the middle of a bland green lawn, bereft of flowers and interesting shrubs.