Tag: hitting
Hitting the Books: Why nobody knows Hiram Maxim, inventor of the incandescent lightbulb
One detail that’s often omitted from modern founders myths is whether or not said scion of capitalist success actually invented the thing they’re famous for inventing. Just like Elon Musk didn’t invent electric vehicles so much as be the first to successfully market them to the American public, Thomas Edison’s contributions to the advent of electrified lighting too might be overstated. In the excerpt below from his latest book, The Things We Make: The Unknown History of Invention from Cathedrals to Soda Cans, Dr. Bill Hammack, YouTube’s “The Engineer Guy,” recounts the tale of Hiram Maxim, an irrepressible engineer and inventor whose novel filament production method would have made him a household name — had Edison not reportedly made “a clean steal” of his revolutionary technology.
Excerpted from The Things We Make: The Unknown History of Invention from Cathedrals to Soda Cans by Bill Hammack, PhD. © 2023 by Bill Hammack, PhD. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.
In November 1880, the reading room of the Mercantile Safe Deposit Company, located in the basement of one of the first skyscrapers, glowed with the light of a four-bulb chandelier and six bulbs in fixtures spaced along the walls. An observer characterized this electric light as “very much like that of a first-class oil lamp, steadier than gas, and of a yellow, clear pleasant quality” — nothing like the “ghastly blue” of a “flickering” arc light, nor was there the odor of burning gas; instead, the room’s atmosphere “remain[ed] perfectly cool and sweet.” His only complaint was that the bulbs flickered slightly with every stroke of the engine that powered the generator. This first commercial installation, a spectacular achievement, featured no bulbs manufactured by Thomas Edison, although he had proudly announced his invention of the light bulb only a few months earlier to great press attention. The bulbs at the Mercantile Company were those of the U.S. Electric Lighting Company, a company driven forward by their irrepressible and energetic engineer, Hiram Maxim. Edison called Maxim’s bulb “a clean steal” of his lamp. Yet Maxim had seventeen patents on incandescent lamps, and his company controlled the patents of several other inventors, also contemporary to Edison. Maxim thought of himself as the inventor of the commercial light bulb. “Every time I put up a light,” he complained, “a crowd would gather, everyone asking, ‘Is it Edison’s?’” This so irritated Maxim, who noted that Edison at the time “had never made a lamp,” that he considering killing “on the spot” the next person to ask him “Is it Edison’s?”
That the first commercialized light bulbs were not Edison’s surprises because we love stories of sole inventors whose spark of inspiration revolutionized the world. They give us narratives that are neat, tidy, and digestible but incomplete. These stories hide the engineering method; they bury the creativity of engineers, smooth over struggles, and sanitize choices that reflect cultural norms. Perhaps no story persists more than Edison and his light bulb, yet Edison was the tail end of a long list of light bulb innovators in a process of invention similar to that of the steam turbine in the next century.
In the forty years before Edison’s first successful prototype, at least twenty people presented, patented, and demonstrated incandescent lamps—using electricity to heat a filament until it glowed. The first recorded attempt was in 1838 (almost a decade before Edison’s birth) by a Belgian inventor whose bulb used a strip of carbon as a filament. A fair assessment of history would call these men inventors of the light bulb comparable to Edison, especially in a world where Edison, the so-called inventor of the incandescent light bulb, was forty years late to the idea of incandescent lighting. But unlike with Edison, we don’t remember the names of these men, because most of their bulbs burned for only a few seconds. They had the necessary but thankless job of creating links in a chain of incremental advances that didn’t yet produce an applicable or reproducible solution to the problem of darkness, which so far could only be dispelled with fire, until Edison created one of the links that did, transforming from method into narrative. Although Edison and his bulb end that length of the chain of innovators, his link was no more an exercise or example of the engineering method than those that came before; it only overcame a circumstantial threshold of usefulness.
In 1878, Edison focused the energy of his staff at the bustling Menlo Park Research Laboratory on finding a long-lasting filament for the incandescent light bulb. The staff worked to the rhythms of Edison, “the central originating and guiding mind and personality,” as one worker noted, describing work there as “a strenuous but joyful life for all physically, mentally, and emotionally.” Edison set the tone with long work hours into the night. He often napped on the workbenches in Menlo Park and ate sparingly in increments of small snacks he thought were better for digestion, although for his workers, he had brought in, often at midnight, hamper baskets loaded with hot dinners of meat, vegetables, dessert, and coffee. But when Edison stood, stretched, hitched up his waistband, and sauntered away, all knew that dinner was over and work should resume.
In the late 1870s, Edison and his staff produced bulbs that looked much like a modern bulb: a glass envelope fastened to a wooden base covered with copper strips, and, at its center, a thin, long, delicate spiral of platinum. Yet these bulbs failed. Some yielded light as bright as a small bundle of today’s Christmas lights for a few hours, but most burned out quickly. As Edison learned, the temperature for the incandescence of platinum wire was near that of its melting point—any fluctuations in the current and the platinum would melt. Edison and his team tested an astonishing array of materials, by some count sixteen hundred types. They tested metals like platinum, iridium, ruthenium, chromium, aluminum, tungsten, molybdenum, palladium, manganese, and titanium; elements that sometimes behaved like metals, including silicon and boron; then a grab bag of materials—cork, wax, celluloid, and the hair from his employees’ beards. After these, his team moved to slivers of wood, broom corn, and paper. Tissue paper covered with lampblack and tar and rolled into a rod glowed astonishingly well and for a good amount of time. Edison refined this idea by “carbonizing” cotton thread, heating it without oxygen until the length of thread was blackened throughout. From this thread, he formed a long filament. On October 21, 1879, a bulb with a filament of this thread, with all the air removed from the glass enclosure, burned for more than half a day. They were approaching the beginning of the commercial light bulb.
Seven months after that bit of carbonized thread showed promise, they tried a piece of bamboo: a six-inch strip burned for three hours and twenty-four minutes at seventy-one candlepower (about the brightness of a standard sixty-watt bulb today). “The best lamp ever yet made,” an Edison associate noted, “here from vegetable Carbon.” From there, Edison’s team tested two hundred species of bamboo until they found a variety that was the best for manufacturing carbon filaments, grown near Yawata, Japan, where Edison is still celebrated with a street named “Edison-dori,” a bust of Edison in the town center, and, near a shrine, a large monument dedicated to Edison. With his specialized bamboo supply and method of manufacturing in place, Edison was ready to light the world, but Hiram Maxim beat him out of the gate.
Maxim’s bulbs, installed at the Equitable Life Building, out-classed Edison’s. “They have a rich golden tint, resembling that of a wax taper,” said one reporter. Another noted that Maxim “has invented a lamp which surpasses, I believe, even Edison’s dreams.” When comparing the lamps, reporters noted that Edison’s had lower brightness than Maxim’s, or, when of the same intensity as Maxim’s, they burned out in only a few hours. By Maxim’s own estimate, the filaments in his bulbs could last forty days. The dimness and shorter life of Edison’s bulbs were the same thing: Edison’s bulbs could not tolerate as much current as Maxim’s, so if run at the same current, Edison’s bulbs would burn out quickly, and to make them last longer, Edison’s were run at a lower current and thus were dimmer.
That Maxim could achieve this was unbelievable to Edison’s staff—an outraged member of the Menlo Park staff ranted that it must be apparent to “any sane person that” Maxim’s bulb must be “but a copy” of Edison’s. Surely, thought Edison’s employees, only a well-oiled machine like that of Menlo Park could produce a light bulb. Inside Menlo Park, glassblowers, machinists, engineers, chemists, and physicists churned out inventions like appliances on an assembly line, while Maxim’s ham-handed U.S. Electric Lighting Company struggled to find enough resources to survive; employees thought it likely to shut at any minute, and even its own president described it as “helpless.” Their technical expertise was so low that they could not figure out, as one employee later noted, what “size wire would carry a certain number of lamps without overheating,” adding that “a number of mysterious fires about this time were probably the fruits of our ignorance.” Compared with Edison’s factory-line Menlo Park model, Maxim’s method of invention seemed scattershot.
Maxim was the classic American tinkerer, once describing himself as a “chronic inventor.” Although self-taught—one biographer describes him as “semiliterate”—over his lifetime, he invented an astonishing array of tools and toys. Maxim developed methods to separate metals from their ores, instruments to measure wind velocities, vacuum cleaners, novelty items that produced “illusionary effects”—a rotating sphere with concave paraboloidal floor, mirrors, and a bicycle track, presumably to create the illusion of riding a bike long distances—gear to prevent the rolling of ships, riveting machines, feed water check valves, steam generators, wheels for railroads and tramways, an inhaler to treat bronchitis, boot and shoe heel protectors, hair curling irons, a method for demagnetizing watches, a type of pneumatic tire, a coffee substitute, a method for extinguishing fires in theaters, and most surprising of all, new advertising methods—a rotating sign that works “even in very light airs.” And near the end of his life, he invented the world’s first successful machine gun.
Maxim’s contribution to the light bulb was to improve the manufacture of filaments. Filaments, whether of bamboo or cardboard, as in Maxim’s case, were converted to carbon by heating at high temperatures in the absence of oxygen until the cellulose in the material broke down, leaving a hard carbon skeleton, but uneven carbonization caused thinner sections to become much hotter when lit with an electrical current and burn out more quickly. Maxim’s insight was to place a carbonized filament into a hydrocarbon atmosphere, then pass through it an electrical current that heated the filament to a bright red. The thinner and hotter parts of the filament would break down the vaporous hydrocarbon surrounding them and deposit pure carbon on the filament, building up layers of carbon on the thinner parts and resulting in a filament of uniform thickness and greater life span. As Maxim gloated, “it is absolutely impossible by mechanical means to make a carbon filament that is of uniform resistance” without his patented method, adding that Edison “had to use my process or give up the job.”
Maxim’s attitude was prompted by the rivalry that burned between the many engineers competing in a world eager for the magic of electrical lighting, but it also shows us the problem with crediting any individual with the complete “invention” of any technology. We tend to tell the stories of inventors who, through their unique intellect and drive, produce an equally unique marvel at the climax of a story with a beginning, middle, and end. That is often how this book has told it, out of deference to individual humans’ need to relate to the stories of other individual humans. But the engineering method is uninterested in this “great men” historical framework. It cares only about the accumulated knowledge, heuristics, rules of thumb, intuition, and anything else that drives problems in the direction of solutions as fast as possible, the sum of which, even for a single solution, is beyond unthinkable for a lone person to create themselves. This web of information is so vast, incomprehensibly vast, so we make it comprehensible and moving by telling the stories of individual inventors, even if this distorts the unknowable true web of invention.
Maxim is likely unrecognized as an inventor today because he lacked Edison’s agile self-promotion and because, in a sense, Edison “won” and thus told the story of the light bulb’s invention. But did Edison “invent” a light bulb when his company produced a brilliantly glowing but short-lived electric light? Perhaps. When we think of an invented technology, we typically imply technology that not only exists but is reproducible in a way that can fulfill the needs of those whose problem it solves. That is, it can be manufactured or mass-produced. A handful of working light bulbs in the late 1800s is a marvel, but it doesn’t light the world. In this sense, the invention of the light bulb was a decades-long process of incremental changes to create a filament that can be manufactured reliably and extended beyond Edison and Maxim alone. To tell only a “great man” story hides the contributions of others who were essential to a technology’s development. We can see that in the evolution of the manufacturing techniques of Maxim’s light bulbs: he had on staff an artistic draftsman turned engineer whose contributions to reliable manufacturing have long been overlooked.
This article originally appeared on Engadget at https://www.engadget.com/hitting-the-books-the-things-we-make-bill-hammack-sourcebooks-143058188.html?src=rss
Hitting the Books: Tech can’t fix what’s broken in American policing
It’s never been about safety as much as it has control, serving and protecting only to the benefit of the status quo. Clearview AI, PredPol, Shotspotter, they’re all Carolyn Bryant Donham’s testimony behind a veneer of technological validity — a shiny black box to dazzle the masses while giving the police yet another excuse to fatally bungle their search warrants. In More than a Glitch, data journalist and New York University Associate Professor of Journalism Dr. Meredith Broussard, explores how and why we thought automating aspects of already racially-skewed legal, banking, and social systems would be a good idea. From facial recognition tech that doesn’t work on dark-skinned folks to mortgage approval algorithms that don’t work for dark-skinned folks, Broussard points to a dishearteningly broad array of initiatives that done more harm than good, regardless of their intention. In the excerpt below, Dr. Broussard looks at America’s technochauavnistic history of predictive policing.
Excerpted from More than a Glitch: Confronting Race, Gender, and Ability Bias by Meredith Broussard. Reprinted with permission from The MIT Press. Copyright 2023.
Predictive policing comes from the “broken windows” era of policing and is usually credited to William Bratton, former New York City police commissioner and LAPD chief. As NYC police commissioner, Bratton launched CompStat, which is perhaps the best-known example of data-driven policing because it appeared as an antagonist called “Comstat” on season three of HBO’s The Wire. “CompStat, a management model linking crime and enforcement statistics, is multifaceted: it serves as a crime control strategy, a personnel performance and accountability metric, and a resource management tool,” writes sociologist Sarah Brayne in her book Predict and Surveil. “Crime data is collected in real time, then mapped and analyzed in preparation for weekly crime control strategy meetings between police executives and precinct commanders.” CompStat was widely adopted by police forces in major American cities in the 1990s and 2000s. By relying heavily on crime statistics as a performance metric, the CompStat era trained police and bureaucrats to prioritize quantification over accountability. Additionally, the weekly meetings about crime statistics served as rituals of quantification that led the participants to believe in the numbers in a way that created collective solidarity and fostered what organizational behaviorists Melissa Mazmanian and Christine Beckman call “an underlying belief in the objective authority of numbers to motivate action, assess success, and drive continuous organizational growth.” In other words: technochauvinism became the culture inside departments that adopted CompStat and other such systems. Organizational processes and controls became oriented around numbers that were believed to be “objective” and “neutral.” This paved the way for the adoption of AI and computer models to intensify policing—and intensify surveillance and harassment in communities that were already over-policed.
Computer models are only the latest trend in a long history of people imagining that software applied to crime will make us safer. In Black Software, Charlton McIlwain traced the history of police imagining that software equals salvation as far back as the 1960s, the dawn of the computational era. Back then, Thomas J. Watson, Jr., the head of IBM, was trying to popularize computers so more people would buy them. Watson had also committed (financially and existentially) to the War on Poverty declared by President Lyndon Johnson upon his election in 1964. “Watson searched for opportunities to be relevant,” McIlwain writes. “He said he wanted to help address the social ills that plagued society, particularly the plight of America’s urban poor… He didn’t know what he was doing.”6 Watson wanted to sell computers and software, so he offered his company’s computational expertise for an area that he knew nothing about, in order to solve a social problem that he didn’t understand using tools that the social problem experts didn’t understand. He succeeded, and it set up a dynamic between Big Tech and policing that still persists. Software firms like Palantir, Clearview AI, and PredPol create biased targeting software that they label “predictive policing,” as if it were a positive innovation. They convince police departments to spend taxpayer dollars on biased software that ends up making citizens’ lives worse. In the previous chapter, we saw how facial recognition technology leads police to persecute innocent people after a crime has been committed. Predictive policing technology leads police to pursue innocent people before a crime even takes place.
It’s trIcky to write about specific policing software because what Chicago’s police department does is not exactly the same as what LAPD or NYPD does. It is hard to say exactly what is happening in each police agency because the technology is changing constantly and is being deployed in different ways. The exact specifications tend to be buried in vendor contracts. Even if a police department buys software, it is not necessarily being used, nor is it being used in precisely the way it was intended. Context matters, and so does the exact implementation of technology, as well as the people who use it. Consider license plate readers, which are used to collect tolls or to conduct surveillance. Automated license plate readers used by a state transportation authority to automatically collect tolls is probably an acceptable use of AI and automated license plate reader technology—if the data is not stored for a long time. The same license plate reader tech used by police as part of dragnet surveillance, with data stored indefinitely, is problematic.
Every time the public has become aware of some predictive policing measure, controversy has erupted. Consider the person-based predictive policing enacted by the Pasco County Sheriff’s Office in Florida, which created a watchlist of people it considered future criminals. Tampa Bay Times reporters Kathleen McGrory and Neil Bedi won a Pulitzer for their story about how the Pasco County Sheriff’s Office generated lists of people it considered likely to break the law. The list was compiled by using data on arrest histories and unspecified intelligence, coupled with arbitrary decisions by police analysts. The sheriff’s department sent deputies to monitor and harass the people on the watchlist. Often, the deputies lacked probable cause, search warrants, or evidence of a crime. In five years, almost 1,000 people were caught up in the systematic harassment labeled “Intelligence-Led Policing.” Notably, a large percentage of the people on the watchlist were BIPOC.
The Pasco program started in 2011, shortly after Chris Nocco took office as sheriff. Nocco came up with the idea to “reform” the department with data-driven initiatives. “For 10 years, nobody really understood how this worked, and the public wasn’t aware of what was going on,” said Bedi, explaining the reporting project.8 The sheriff built a “controversial data-driven approach to policing. He also built a wide circle of powerful friends,” including local and national politicians, who didn’t question his actions.
The harassment didn’t stop there, however. Separately, the Sheriff’s Office created a list of schoolchildren it considered likely to become future criminals. The office gathered data from local schools, including protected information like children’s grades, school attendance records, and child welfare histories. Parents and teachers were not told that children were designated as future criminals, nor did they understand that the students’ private data was being weaponized. The school system’s superintendent initially didn’t realize the police had access to student data, said Kathleen McGrory.
Once the investigation was published, civil liberties groups denounced the intelligence programs. Thirty groups formed a coalition to protest, and four of the targeted people brought lawsuits against the agency. Two bills were proposed to prevent this kind of invasion and misuse in the future. The federal Department of Education opened an investigation into the data sharing between the Sheriff’s Office and the local school district. Fortunately, as a result, police analysts will no longer have access to student grades.
Many people imagine that using more technology will make things “fairer.” This is behind the idea of using machines instead of judges, an idea that surfaces periodically among lawyers and computer scientists. We see it in the adoption of body-worn cameras, an initiative that has been growing since LAPD officers brutally assaulted Rodney King in 1991 and the attack was captured on a home camcorder. There’s an imaginary world where everything is captured on video, there are perfectly fair and objective algorithms that adjudicate what happens in the video feed, facial recognition identifies bad actors, and the heroic police officers go in and save the day and capture the bad guys. This fantasy is taken to its logical conclusion in the film Minority Report, where Tom Cruise plays a police officer who arrests people before they commit crimes, on the recommendation of some teenagers with precognition who are held captive in a swimming pool full of goo. “It’s just like Minority Report,” a police officer marveled to sociologist Sarah Brayne, when the two were discussing Palantir’s policing software.
What makes this situation additionally difficult is the fact that many of the people involved in the chain are not malevolent. For example, my cousin, who is white, was a state police officer for years. He’s wonderful and kind and honest and upstanding and exactly the person I would call on if I were in trouble. He and his family are very dear to me and I to them. I believe in the law, and I believe in law enforcement in the abstract, in the way that many people do when they have the privilege of not interacting with or being targeted by law enforcement or the courts.
But the origins of policing are problematic for Black people like me, and the frequency of egregious abuses by police is out of control in today’s United States. Police technology and machine fairness are the reasons why we need to pause and fix the human system before implementing any kind of digital system in policing.
The current system of policing in the United States, with the Fraternal Order of Police and the uniforms and so on, began in South Carolina. Specifically, it emerged in the 1700s in Charleston, South Carolina, as a slave patrol. “It was quite literally a professional force of white free people who came together to maintain social control of black, enslaved people living inside the city of Charleston,” said ACLU Policing Policy Director Paige Fernandez in a 2021 podcast. “They came together for the sole purpose of ensuring that enslaved black people did not organize and revolt and push back on slavery. That is the first example of a modern police department in the United States.” In her book Dark Matters: Surveillance of Blackness, scholar Simone Brown connects modern surveillance of Black bodies to chattel slavery via lantern laws, which were eighteenth-century laws in New York City requiring Black or mixed-race people to carry a lantern if out at night unaccompanied by a white person. Scholar Josh Scannell sees lantern laws as the precedent for today’s policy of police using floodlights to illuminate high-crime areas all night long. People who live in heavily policed neighborhoods never get the peaceful cloak of darkness, as floodlights make it artificially light all night long and the loud drone of the generators for the lights makes the neighborhood noisier.
The ACLU’s Fernandez draws a line from slave patrols maintaining control over Black people to the development of police departments to the implementation of Jim Crow–era rules and laws to police enforcing segregation during the civil rights era and inciting violence against peaceful protestors to escalating police violence against Black and Brown people and leading to the Black Lives Matter movement. Fernandez points out that the police tear-gassed and pepper-sprayed peaceful protestors in the summer of 2020, fired rubber bullets at protestors, charged at protestors, and used techniques like kettling to corner protestors into closed spaces where violence could be inflicted more easily.
The statistics paint a grim picture. “Black people are 3.5 times more likely than white people to be killed by police when Blacks are not attacking or do not have a weapon. George Floyd is an example,” writes sociologist Rashawn Ray in a 2020 Brookings Institute policy brief about police accountability.14 “Black teenagers are 21 times more likely than white teenagers to be killed by police. That’s Tamir Rice and Antwon Rose. A Black person is killed about every 40 hours in the United States. That’s Jonathan Ferrell and Korryn Gaines. One out of every one thousand Black men can expect to be killed by police violence over the life course. This is Tamir Rice and Philando Castile.” When Derek Chauvin, the police officer who killed George Floyd, was found guilty, it was remarkable because police are so rarely held accountable for violence against Black and Brown bodies.
Reform is needed. That reform, however, will not be found in machines.
This article originally appeared on Engadget at https://www.engadget.com/hitting-the-books-more-than-a-glitch-meredith-broussard-mit-press-143009017.html?src=rss
Shazam 2 Hitting Digital Platforms, Even Though It’s Still In Theaters
Three weeks after its mid-March theatrical release, Shazam! Fury of the Gods is set to hit digital platforms on April 7. This comes after the sequel to 2019’s Shazam had a disappointing box office performance, so far reportedly bringing in roughly $120 million worldwide–or barely breaking even, per Box Office Mojo data.
The new film sees Asher Angel’s Billy Batson transform into Zachary Levi’s superhero alter ego, Shazam, to take on the daughters of Atlas, played by Lucy Liu, Helen Mirren, and Rachel Zegler. The digital release will include both rental and purchase options, with a rental costing $20 for a 48-hour viewing window and a purchase costing $25 for premium digital ownership. The physical copy release date is expected to be on May 23.
Say the magic word — bring SHAZAM! FURY OF THE GODS home tomorrow! #ShazamMovie pic.twitter.com/JC7QxrlgrA
— Shazam! Fury of the Gods (@ShazamMovie) April 6, 2023
According to Comicbook.com, special features on the digital and Blu-ray versions of the film include an audio commentary from director David F. Sandberg, deleted scenes, scene breakdowns, and featurettes on the film’s biggest sequences. Some of the featurettes include “The Rock of Eternity: Decked Out,” “The Mythology of Shazam!” and “The Zac Effect.” The latter will likely be of interest to fans of the franchise, as it promises to delve deeper into Levi’s role as the titular character.
Hitting the Books: Sputnik’s radio tech launched a revolution in bird migration research
“Birds fly South for the winter and North for the summer,” has historically proven to be only slightly less reliable a maxim than the sun always rising in the East and setting in the West. Humanity has been fascinated by the comings and goings of our avian neighbors for millennia, but the why’s and how’s of their transitory travel habits have remained largely a mystery until recent years. In Flight Paths, science author Rebecca Heisman details the fascinating history of modern bird migration research and the pioneering ornithologists that helped the field take off. In the excerpt below, Heisman recalls the efforts of Dr. Bill Cochran, a trailblazer in radio-tagging techniques, to track his airborne, and actively-transmitting, quarry across the Canadian border.
From Flight Paths, Copyright © 2023 By Rebecca Heisman. Reprinted here with permission of Harper, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers
Follow That Beep
Swainson’s thrush looks a bit like a small brown version of its familiar cousin the American robin. Its gray-brown back contrasts with a pale, spotted chest and pale “spectacle” markings around its eyes. These thrushes are shy birds that forage for insects in the leaf litter on the forest floor, where they blend in with the dappled light and deep shadows. Birders know them by their fluting, upward-spiraling song, which fills the woods of Canada and the northern United States with ethereal music in summer. But they don’t live there year-round; they spend the winters in Mexico and northern South America, then return north to breed.
On the morning of May 13, 1973, a Swainson’s thrush pausing on its journey from its winter home to its summer home blundered into a mist net in east-central Illinois. The researchers who gently pulled it from the net went through all the usual rituals—weighing and measuring it, clasping a numbered metal band around its leg—but they added one unusual element: a tiny radio transmitter weighing just five- thousandths of an ounce. They carefully trimmed the feathers from a small patch on the bird’s back, then used eyelash glue to cement the transmitter, mounted on a bit of cloth, in place against the bird’s skin (Generations of ornithologists have learned exactly where to find the eyelash glue at their local cosmetics store. Designed to not irritate the delicate skin of the eyelids when attaching false eyelashes, it doesn’t irritate birds’ skin, either, and wears off after weeks or months.)
When the thrush was released, it probably shuffled its feathers a few times as it got used to its new accessory, then returned to resting and foraging in preparation for continuing its trek. At only around 3 percent of the bird’s total body weight, the transmitter wouldn’t have impeded the bird noticeably as it went about its daily routine. Then, around 8:40 that evening, after the sun had dipped far enough below the horizon that the evening light was beginning to dim, the thrush launched itself into the air, heading northwest.
It would have had no way of knowing that it was being followed. Bill Cochran — the same engineer who, a decade and a half earlier, had rigged up a tape recorder with a bicycle axle and six thousand feet of tape so that Richard Graber could record a full night of nocturnal flight calls — had been waiting nearby in a converted Chevy station wagon with a large antenna poking out of a hole in the roof. When the thrush set out into the evening sky, Cochran and a student named Charles Welling were following on the roads below.
All they could see in the deepening night was the patch of highway illuminated by their headlights, but the sound of the wavering “beep . . . beep . . . beep” of the transmitter joined them to the thrush overhead as if by an invisible thread. They would keep at it for seven madcap nights, following the thrush for more than 930 miles before losing the signal for good in rural southern Manitoba on the morning of May 20.
Along the way, they would collect data on its altitude (which varied from 210 to 6,500 feet), air and ground speed (eighteen to twenty-seven and nine to fifty-two miles per hour, respectively, with the ground speed depending on the presence of headwinds or tailwinds), distance covered each night (65 to 233 miles), and, crucially, its heading. Because they were able to stick with the bird over such a long distance, Cochran and Welling were able to track how the precise direction the bird set out in each night changed as its position changed relative to magnetic north. The gradual changes they saw in its heading were consistent with the direction of magnetic north, providing some of the first real-world evidence that migrating songbirds use some sort of internal magnetic compass as one of their tools for navigation. Today Bill Cochran is a legend among ornithologists for his pioneering work tracking radio-tagged birds on their migratory odysseys. But it wasn’t birds that first drew him into the field of radio telemetry; it was the space race.
From Sputnik to Ducks
In October 1957, the Soviet Union launched the world’s first artificial satellite into orbit. Essentially just a metal sphere that beeped, Sputnik 1 transmitted a radio signal for three weeks before its battery died. (It burned up in the atmosphere in January 1958.) That signal could be picked up by anyone with a good radio receiver and antenna, and scientists and amateur radio enthusiasts alike tracked its progress around and around Earth.
It caused a sensation around the world — including in Illinois, where the University of Illinois radio astronomer George Swenson started following the signals of Sputnik 1 and its successors to learn more about the properties of Earth’s atmosphere. Around 1960, Swenson got permission to design a radio beacon of his own to be incorporated into a Discoverer satellite, the U.S. answer to the Sputnik program. In need of locals with experience in electrical engineering to work on the project, he recruited Bill Cochran (who still had not officially finished his engineering degree — he wouldn’t complete the last class until 1964) to assist.
Cochran, as you may recall, had spent the late 1950s working at a television station in Illinois while studying engineering on the side and spending his nights helping Richard Graber perfect his system for recording nocturnal flight calls. By 1960, no longer satisfied with flight calls alone as a means of learning about migration, Graber had procured a small radar unit and gotten Cochran a part-time job with the Illinois Natural History Survey helping operate it. But along the way, Cochran had apparently demonstrated “exceptional facility with transistor circuits,” which is what got him the job with Swenson. It was the transistor, invented in 1947, that ultimately made both the space race and wildlife telemetry possible.
The beating heart of a radio transmitter is the oscillator, usually a tiny quartz crystal. When voltage is applied to a crystal, it changes shape ever so slightly at the molecular level and then snaps back, over and over again. This produces a tiny electric signal at a specific frequency, but it needs to be amplified before being sent out into the world. Sort of like how a lever lets you turn a small motion into a bigger one, an amplifier in an electrical circuit turns a weak signal into a stronger one.
Before and during World War II, amplifying a signal required controlling the flow of electrons through a circuit using a series of vacuum-containing glass tubes. Vacuum tubes got the job done, but they were fragile, bulky, required a lot of power, and tended to blow out regularly; owners of early television sets had to be adept at replacing vacuum tubes to keep them working. In a transistor, the old-fashioned vacuum tube is replaced by a “semiconductor” material (originally germanium, and later silicon), allowing the flow of electrons to be adjusted up or down by tweaking the material’s conductivity. Lightweight, efficient, and durable, transistors quickly made vacuum tubes obsolete. Today they’re used in almost every kind of electric circuit. Several billion of them are transisting away inside the laptop I’m using to write this.
As transistors caught on in the 1950s, the U.S. Navy began to take a special interest in radio telemetry, experimenting with systems to collect and transmit real-time data on a jet pilot’s vital signs and to study the effectiveness of cold-water suits for sailors. These efforts directly inspired some of the first uses of telemetry for wildlife research. In 1957, scientists in Antarctica used the system from the cold-water suit tests to monitor the temperature of a penguin egg during incubation, while a group of researchers in Maryland borrowed some ideas from the jet pilot project and surgically implanted transmitters in woodchucks. [ed: Although harnesses, collars, and the like are also commonly used for tracking wildlife today, surgically implanting transmitters has its advantages, such as eliminating the chance that an external transmitter will impede an animal’s movements.] Their device had a range of only about twenty-five yards, but it was the first attempt to use radio telemetry to track animals’ movements. The Office of Naval Research even directly funded some of the first wildlife telemetry experiments; navy officials hoped that radio tracking “may help discover the bird’s secret of migration, which disclosure might, in turn, lead to new concepts for the development of advanced miniaturized navigation and detection systems.”
Cochran didn’t know any of this at the time. Nor did he know that the Discoverer satellites he and Swenson were building radio beacons for were, in fact, the very first U.S. spy satellites; he and Swenson knew only that the satellites’ main purpose was classified. Working with a minimal budget, a ten-pound weight limit, and almost no information about the rocket that would carry their creation, they built a device they dubbed Nora-Alice (a reference to a popular comic strip of the time) that launched in 1961. Cochran was continuing his side job with the Illinois Natural History Survey all the while, and eventually someone there suggested trying to use a radio transmitter to track a duck in flight.
“A mallard duck was sent over from the research station on the Illinois River,” Swenson later wrote in a coda to his reminiscences about the satellite project. “At our Urbana satellite-monitoring station, a tiny transistor oscillator was strapped around the bird’s breast by a metal band. The duck was disoriented from a week’s captivity, and sat calmly on the workbench while its signal was tuned in on the receiver. As it breathed quietly, the metal band periodically distorted and pulled the frequency, causing a varying beat note from the receiver.”
Swenson and Cochran recorded those distortions and variations on a chart, and when the bird was released, they found they could track its respiration and wing beats by the changes in the signal; when the bird breathed faster or beat its wings more frequently, the distortions sped up. Without even meaning to, they’d gathered some of the very first data on the physiology of birds in flight.
An Achievement of Another Kind
Bill Cochran enjoys messing with telemarketers. So, when he received a call from a phone number he didn’t recognize, he answered with a particularly facetious greeting.
“Animal shelter! We’re closed!”
“Uh . . . this is Rebecca Heisman, calling for Bill Cochran?”
“Who?”
“Is this Bill Cochran?”
“Yes, who are you?”
Once we established that he was in fact the radio telemetry legend Bill Cochran, not the animal shelter janitor he was pretending to be, and I was the writer whom he’d invited via email to give him a call, not a telemarketer, he told me he was busy but that I could call him back at the same time the next day.
Cochran was nearly ninety when we first spoke in the spring of 2021. Almost five decades had passed since his 1973 thrush-chasing odyssey, but story after story from the trek came back to him as we talked. He and Welling slept in the truck during the day when the thrush landed to rest and refuel, unwilling to risk a motel in case the bird took off again unexpectedly. While Welling drove, Cochran controlled the antenna. The base of the column that supported it extended down into the backseat of their vehicle, and he could adjust the antenna by raising, lowering, and rotating it, resembling a submarine crewman operating a periscope.
At one point, Cochran recalled, he and Welling got sick with “some kind of flu” while in Minnesota and, unable to find a doctor willing to see two eccentric out-of-towners on zero notice, just “sweated it out” and continued on. At another point during their passage through Minnesota, Welling spent a night in jail. They were pulled over by a small-town cop (Cochran described it as a speed trap but was adamant that they weren’t speeding, claiming the cop was just suspicious of the weird appearance of their tracking vehicle) but couldn’t stop for long or they would lose the bird. Welling stayed with the cop to sort things out while Cochran went on, and after the bird set down for the day, Cochran doubled back to pick him up.
“The bird got a big tailwind when it left Minnesota,” Cochran said. “We could barely keep up, we were driving over the speed limit on those empty roads — there aren’t many people in North Dakota — but we got farther and farther behind it, and finally by the time we caught up with it, it had already flown into Canada.”
Far from an official crossing point where they could legally enter Manitoba, they were forced to listen at the border as the signal faded into the distance. The next day they found a border crossing (heaven knows what the border agents made of the giant antenna on top of the truck) and miraculously picked up the signal again, only to have their vehicle start to break down. “It overheated and it wouldn’t run, so the next thing you know Charles is out there on the hood of the truck, pouring gasoline into the carburetor to keep it running,” Cochran recalled. “And every time we could find any place where there was a ditch with rainwater, we improvised something to carry water out of the ditch and pour it into the radiator. We finally managed to limp into a town to get repairs made.”
Cochran recruited a local pilot to take him up in a plane in one last attempt to relocate the radio-tagged bird and keep going, but to no avail. The chase was over. The data they had collected would be immortalized in a terse three-page scientific paper that doesn’t hint at all the adventures behind the numbers.
That 1973 journey wasn’t the first time Cochran and his colleagues had followed a radio-tagged bird cross-country, nor was it the last. After his first foray into wildlife telemetry at George Swenson’s lab, Cochran quickly became sought after by wildlife biologists throughout the region. He first worked with the Illinois Natural History Survey biologist Rexford Lord, who was looking for a more accurate way to survey the local cottontail rabbit population. Although big engineering firms such as Honeywell had already tried to build radio tracking systems that could be used with wildlife, Cochran succeeded where others had failed by literally thinking outside the box: instead of putting the transmitter components into a metal box that had to be awkwardly strapped to an animal’s back, he favored designs that were as small, simple, and compact as possible, dipping the assembly of components in plastic resin to seal them together and waterproof them. Today, as in Cochran’s time, designing a radio transmitter to be worn by an animal requires making trade-offs among a long list of factors: a longer antenna will give you a stronger signal, and a bigger battery will give you a longer-lasting tag, but both add weight. Cochran was arguably the first engineer to master this balancing act.
The transmitters Cochran created for Lord cost eight dollars to build, weighed a third of an ounce, and had a range of up to two miles. Attaching them to animals via collars or harnesses, Cochran and Lord used them to track the movements of skunks and raccoons as well as rabbits. Cochran didn’t initially realize the significance of what he’d achieved, but when Lord gave a presentation about their project at a 1961 mammalogy conference, he suddenly found himself inundated with job offers from biologists. Sharing his designs with anyone who asked instead of patenting them, he even let biologists stay in his spare room when they visited to learn telemetry techniques from him. When I asked him why he decided to go into a career in wildlife telemetry rather than sticking with satellites, he told me he was simply more interested in birds than in a job “with some engineering company making a big salary and designing weapons that’ll kill people.”
This article originally appeared on Engadget at https://www.engadget.com/hitting-the-books-flight-paths-rebecca-heisman-harper-publishing-143053788.html?src=rss
Brit student died after accidentally hitting his head falling into hotel swimming pool on holiday, inquest hears
A BRIT student died while on holiday when he hit his head falling into a hotel swimming pool, an inquest has heard.
Student Charlie Hopkins, 23, from Buckley, north Wales, tragically died while visiting a friend in Tulum, Mexico on April 8, 2021.
History student Charlie Hopkins, 23, suffered a fractured skull when he fell into the pool[/caption]
The inquest heard it was a mystery how he fell into the water because no-one else was in the pool when the 1am tragedy took place.
CCTV footage showed Charlie walking on a balcony through the hotel’s reception area in his underpants on April 9, 2021.
The hearing was told no-one else was in the pool in Tulum, Mexico, but “very soon afterwards” a camera captured the water in the pool being disturbed.
Another guest discovered his body on the bottom of the pool about five hours later.
Charlie, of Buckley, North Wales, had studied history at University College, London.
In a statement read at the inquest his father Mark described him as “bubbly” and “the light and soul of every room he was in”.
He was a keen musician and strong campaigner for LGBT rights.
He said that Charlie had good friends in London where he lived – but was glad to jet off on holiday when the lockdown restrictions during the Covid pandemic were eased.
He checked into the two-storey Hotel Turquoise Petit in Tulum on April 8, 2021.
He was invited there by his pal Alex who lived in Mexico.
The inquest in Ruthin heard he had a video call to his parents almost every day while he was there.
“We became concerned when we didn’t hear from him for 24 hours,” said Mr Hopkins.
On April 9 they received the “devastating” call that he had been found dead.
His father said: “He was a lively, loving, trusting young man. He saw only the good in everyone.
“Charlie would always finish talking to someone and say ‘I love that person’ – that’s just the sort of person he was.”
Mr Hopkins’ family said his death has left them “broken” and that their lives have been “turned upside down.”
A post-mortem examination was carried out in Mexico. His body was later repatriated.
Home Office pathologist Dr Brian Rodgers confirmed the cause of death as “a blunt force head injury and drowning, consistent with a fall from height”.
John Gittins, senior coroner for North Wales East and Central, said initally there were some initial concerns that he had been assaulted.
But the coroner said he had probably hit his head somehow while entering the pool, adding: “There is absolutely no reason to give consideration to it being a deliberate act.”
He recorded a conclusion of accidental death.
Hitting the Books: How the ‘Godfather of Cybercrime’ got his start on eBay
The internet has connected nearly everybody on the planet to a global network of information and influence, enabling humanity’s best and brightest minds unparalleled collaborative capabilities. At least that was the idea, more often than not these days, it serves as a popular medium for scamming your more terminally-online relatives out of large sums of money. Just ask Brett Johnson, a reformed scam artist who at his rube-bilking pinnacle, was good at separating fools from their cash that he founded an entire online learning forum to train a new generation of digital scam artist.
Johnson’s cautionary tale in one of many in the new book, Fool Me Once: Scams, Stories, and Secrets from the Trillion-Dollar Fraud Industry, from Harvard Business Review Press. In it, Professor of Forensic Accounting at DePaul University, Dr. Kelly Richmond Pope, chronicles some of the 20th and 21st century’s most heinous financial misdeeds — from Bernie Madoff’s pyramid schemes to Enron and VW, and all the Nigerian Princes in between — exploring how the grifts worked and why they often left their marks none the wiser.
Reprinted by permission of Harvard Business Review Press. Excerpted from Fool Me Once: Scams, Stories, and Secrets from the Trillion-Dollar Fraud Industry by Kelly Richmond Pope. Copyright 2023 Kelly Richmond Pope. All rights reserved.
Cyber Monday
I was doing my morning reading before class, and a story about a reformed cybercriminal caught my attention. I always wanted to learn more about cybercrime, but I’d never interacted with a convicted cyber offender. Here was my chance.
I did a quick Google search and found his personal website. I reached out, explained my interest in his story, and waited. By evening, I had an email from gollum@anglerphish.com. I was immediately suspicious, but it was a legit address of Brett Johnson, the man from the article.
After a few email exchanges, we got on a call. He was super friendly and had the voice of a radio DJ. I invited him to come speak to my class at DePaul.
“I teach on Monday nights for the next eight weeks, so whatever works for you will work for me,” I said.
“How about I hop in my car and come visit your class this coming Monday?” he said.
I was a little shocked—Birmingham, Alabama was a long drive— but I immediately took him up on his offer.
Brett was born and raised in Hazard, Kentucky, “one of these areas like the Florida Panhandle and parts of Louisiana, where if you’re not fortunate enough to have a job, you may be involved in some sort of scam, hustle, fraud, whatever you want to call it,” he said.
Maybe there was something in the water because his entire family engaged in fraud. Insurance fraud, document forgery, drug trafficking, mining illegal coal. You name it, Brett’s family did it.
Young Brett was a natural liar. As he grew up, he participated in the family scams.
Eventually, he branched out on his own. His first scam: in 1994, he faked his own car accident. Second scam: eBay fraud.
He reached his peak in the mid-’90s, during the Beanie Baby heyday. The Royal Blue Peanut, essentially a cobalt stuffed elephant toy, sold for as much as $1,700. Only five hundred of the dolls were manufactured, making it one of the most valuable Beanie Babies.
Brett was trying to earn some extra money. A Beanie Baby scam seemed easy and quick.
He advertised on eBay that he was selling Royal Blue Peanut for $1,500. Except he was actually selling a gray Beanie Baby that he dipped in blue dye to look like Royal Blue Peanut for $1,500.
He accepted a bid and instructed the winner to send a US postal money order. “It protects us both,” he said via email. “As soon as I get that and it clears, I’ll send you your elephant.”
The bidder sent Brett the money order; Brett cashed it and sent her his version of the blue Beanie Baby. The phone rang almost immediately.
“This is not what I ordered!” yelled a voice on the other line.
Brett’s response was swift. “Lady, you ordered a blue elephant. I sent you a blue-ish elephant.”
Brett gave her the runaround for a few weeks until she finally disappeared.
This experience taught Brett two very important lessons about cybercrime:
-
Delay the victim as long as possible.
-
Victims rarely report the crime and eventually go away.
Brett continued to perfect his skills and graduated to selling pirated software. From pirated software, he moved to install mod chips (a small electronic device used to disable artificial restrictions of computers or entertainment devices) into gaming systems so owners could play the pirated games. Then he began installing mod chips in the cable boxes that would turn on all the pay-per-view on clients’ TV channels for free. Then it was programming satellite DSS cards (the satellite DSS card allows access to tv channels).
He was getting requests for his cable boxes from customers all over the United States and Canada. He was on a roll. Finally, it occurred to him: Why even fulfill the cable box order? Just take the money and run. He knew that no customer would complain about losing money in an illegal transaction. He stole even more money with this updated version of his cable box scam but soon worried that he’d get flagged for money laundering. He decided he needed a fake driver’s license so he could open up a bank account and launder the money through cash taken out of the ATM.
He found a person online who sold fake licenses. He sent a picture, $200, and waited. He waited and waited. Then reality punched him in the face: He’d been scammed. The nerve.
No one hates being deceived more than someone who deceives for a living. Brett was so frustrated he started ShadowCrew.com, an online forum where people could learn the ins and outs of cybercrime. Forbes called it “a one-stop marketplace for identity theft.” The ShadowCrew operated from August 2002 through November 2004, attracting as many as four thousand criminals or aspiring criminals. It’s considered the forerunner of today’s cybercrime forums and marketplaces; Brett is known as the Godfather of Cybercrime.
“Before ShadowCrew, the only avenue you had to commit online crime was a rolling chat board,” he told my students. “It’s called a IRC chat session and stands for Internet Relay Chat.” The problem with these rolling chat screens was that you had no idea if you were talking to a cop or a crook. Either was possible.
ShadowCrew gave criminals a trust mechanism. It was a large communication channel where people in different time zones could reference conversations. “By looking at someone’s screen name, you could tell if you could trust that person, if you could network with that person, or if you could learn from that person,” he said. The screen name on the dark web became the criminal’s brand name. They keep this brand name throughout their entire criminal tenure and it helps establish trust with others, so the screen name matters.
When Brett was in class, he showed my students how information ended up on the dark web. “You can find social security numbers, home addresses, driver’s license numbers, credit card numbers on the dark web for $3,” he explained. All the information is there, practically begging to be taken.
In 2004, authorities arrested twenty-eight men in six countries, claiming they had swapped 1.7 million stolen card numbers and caused $4.3 million in losses. But Brett escaped. He was placed on the Secret Service’s Most Wanted list. After four months on the run, he was arrested.
Brett has been in and out of prison five times and spent 7.5 years in federal prison. Today he considers himself a reformed white-collar offender.
This article originally appeared on Engadget at https://www.engadget.com/hitting-the-books-fool-me-once-kelly-richmond-pope-harvard-business-review-press-143031129.html?src=rss
Hitting the Books: During World War II, even our pigeons joined the fight
In the years leading up to, and through, World War II, animal behaviorist researchers thoroughly embraced motion picture technology as a means to better capture the daily experiences of their test subjects — whether exploring the nuances of contemporary chimpanzee society or running macabre rat-eat-rat survival experiments to determine the Earth’s “carrying capacity.” However, once the studies had run their course, much of that scientific content was simply shelved.
In his new book, The Celluloid Specimen: Moving Image Research into Animal Life, Seattle University Assistant Professor of Film Studies Dr. Ben Schultz-Figueroa, pulls these historic archives out of the vacuum of academic research to examine how they have influenced America’s scientific and moral compasses since. In the excerpt below, Schultz-Figueroa recounts the Allied war effort to guide precision aerial munitions towards their targets using live pigeons as onboard targeting reticles.
Excerpted from The Celluloid Specimen: Moving Image Research into Animal Life by Ben Schultz-Figueroa, published by the University of California Press. © 2023 by Ben Schultz-Figueroa.
Project Pigeon: Rendering the War Animal through Optical Technology
In his 1979 autobiography, The Shaping of a Behaviorist, B. F. Skinner recounted a fateful train ride to Chicago in 1940, just after the Nazis had invaded Denmark. Gazing out the train window, the renowned behaviorist was ruminating on the destructive power of aerial warfare when his eye unexpectedly caught a “flock of birds lifting and wheeling in formation as they flew alongside the train.” Skinner recounts: “Suddenly I saw them as ‘devices’ with excellent vision and extraordinary maneuverability. Could they not guide a missile?” Observing the coordination of the flock, its “lifting and wheeling,” inspired in Skinner a new vision of aerial warfare, one that yoked the senses and movements of living animals to the destructive power of modern ballistics. This momentary inspiration began a three-year project to weaponize pigeons, code-named “Project Pigeon,” by having them guide the flight of a bomb from inside its nose, a project that tied together laboratory research, military technology, and private industry.
This strange story is popularly discussed as a historical fluke of sorts, a wacky one-off in military research and development. As Skinner himself described it, one of the main obstacles to Project Pigeon even at the time was the perception of a pigeon guided missile as a “crackpot idea.” But in this section I will argue that it is, in fact, a telling example of the weaponization of animals in a modern technological setting where optical media was increasingly deployed on the battlefield, a transformation with increasing strategic and ethical implications for the way war is fought today. I demonstrate that Project Pigeon was historically placed at the intersection of a crucial shift in warfare away from the model of an elaborate chess game played out by generals and their armies and toward an ecological framework in which a wide array of nonhuman agents play crucial roles. As Jussi Parikka recently described a similar shift in artificial intelligence, this was a movement toward “agents that expressed complex behavior, not through preprogramming and centralization, but through autonomy, emergence, and distributed functioning.” The missile developed and marketed by Project Pigeon was premised on a conversion of the pigeon from an individual consciousness to a living machine, emptied of intentionality in order to leave behind only a controllable, yet dynamic and complex, behavior that could be designed and trusted to operate without the oversight of a human commander. Here is a reimagining of what a combatant can be, no longer dependent on a decision-making human actor but rather on a complex array of interactions among an organism, device, and environment. As we will see, the vision of a pigeon-guided bomb presaged the nonhuman sight of the smart bomb, drone, and military robot, where artificial intelligence and computer algorithms replace the operations of its animal counterpart.
Media and cinema scholars have written extensively about the transforming visual landscape of the battlefield and film’s place within this shifting history. Militaries from across the globe have pushed film to be used in dramatically unorthodox ways. Lee Grieveson and Haidee Wasson argue that the US military historically used film as “an iterative apparatus with multiple capacities and functions,” experimenting with the design of the camera, projector, and screen to fit new strategic interests as they arose. As Wasson argues in her chapter dedicated to experimental projection practices, the US Army “boldly dissembled cinema’s settled routines and structures, rearticulating film projection as but one integral element of a growing institution with highly complex needs.” As propaganda, film was used to portray the military to civilians at home and abroad; as training films, it was used to consistently instruct large numbers of recruits; as industrial and advertising films, different branches of the military used it to speak to each other. Like these examples, Project Pigeon relied on a radically unorthodox use of film that directed it into new terrains, intervening in the long-standing relationship between the moving image and its spectators to marshal its influence on nonhuman viewers, as well as humans. Here, we will see a hitherto unstudied use of the optical media, in which film was a catalyst for transforming animals into weapons and combatants.
Project Pigeon was one of the earliest projects to come out of an illustrious and influential career. Skinner would go on to become one of the most well-known voices in American psychology, introducing the “Skinner box” to the study of animal behavior and the vastly influential theory of “operant conditioning.” His influence was not limited to the sciences but was broadly felt across conversations in political theory, linguistics, and philosophy as well. As James Capshew has shown, much of Skinner’s later, more well-known research originated in this military research into pigeon-guided ballistics. Growing from initial independent trials in 1940, Project Pigeon secured funding from the US Army’s Office of Scientific Research and Development in 1943. The culmination of this work placed three pigeons in the head of a missile; the birds had been trained to peck at a screen showing incoming targets. These pecks were then translated into instructions for the missile’s guidance system. The goal was a 1940s version of a smart bomb, which was capable of course correcting mid-flight in response to the movement of a target. Although Project Pigeon developed relatively rapidly, the US Army was ultimately denied further funds in December of 1943, effectively ending Skinner’s brief oversight of the project. In 1948, however, the US Naval Research Laboratory picked up Skinner’s research and renamed it “Project ORCON” — a contraction of “organic” and “control.” Here, with Skinner’s consultation, the pigeons’ tracking capacity for guiding missiles to their intended targets was methodically tested, demonstrating a wide variance in reliability. In the end, the pigeons’ performance and accuracy relied on so many uncontrollable factors that Project ORCON, like Project Pigeon before it, was discontinued.
Moving images played two central roles in Project Pigeon: first, as a means of orienting the pigeons in space and testing the accuracy of their responses, examples of what Harun Farocki calls “operational images,” and, second, as a tool for convincing potential sponsors of the pigeon’s capacity to act as a weapon. The first use of moving image technology shows up in the final design of Project Pigeon, where each of the three pigeons was constantly responding to camera obscuras that were installed in the front of the bomb. The pigeons were trained to pinpoint the shape of incoming targets on individual screens (or “plates”) by pecking them as the bomb dropped, which would then cause it to change course. This screen was connected to the bomb’s guidance through four small rubber pneumatic tubes that were attached to each of side of the frame, which directed a constant airflow to a pneumatic pickup system that controlled the thrusters of the bomb. As Skinner explained: “When the missile was on target, the pigeon pecked the center of the plate, all valves admitted equal amounts of air, and the tambours remained in neutral positions. But if the image moved as little as a quarter of an inch off-center, corresponding to a very small angular displacement of the target, more air was admitted by the valves on one side, and the resulting displacement of the tambours sent appropriate correcting orders directly to the servo system.”
In the later iteration of Project ORCON, the pigeons were tested and trained with color films taken from footage recorded on a jet making diving runs on a destroyer and a freighter, and the pneumatic relays between the servo system and the screen were replaced with electric currents. Here, the camera obscura and the training films were used to integrate the living behavior of the pigeon into the mechanism of the bomb itself and to produce immersive simulations for these nonhuman pilots in order to fully operationalize their behavior.
The second use of moving images for this research was realized in a set of promotional films for Project Pigeon, which Skinner largely credited for procuring its initial funding from General Mills Inc. and the navy’s later renewal of the research as Project ORCON. Skinner’s letters indicate that there were multiple films made for this purpose, which were often recut in order to incorporate new footage. Currently, I have been able to locate only a single version of the multiple films produced by Skinner, the latest iteration that was made to promote Project ORCON. Whether previous versions exist and have yet to be found or whether they were taken apart to create each new version is unclear. Based on the surviving example, it appears that these promotional films were used to dramatically depict the pigeons as reliable and controllable tools. Their imagery presents the birds surrounded by cutting-edge technology, rapidly and competently responding to a dynamic array of changing stimuli. These promotional films played a pivotal rhetorical role in convincing government and private sponsors to back the project. Skinner wrote that one demonstration film was shown “so often that it was completely worn out—but to good effect for support was eventually found for a thorough investigation.” This contrasted starkly with the live presentation of the pigeons’ work, of which Skinner wrote: “the spectacle of a living pigeon carrying out its assignment, no matter how beautifully, simply reminded the committee of how utterly fantastic our proposal was.” Here, the moving image performed an essentially symbolic function, concerned primarily with shaping the image of the weaponized animal bodies.
This article originally appeared on Engadget at https://www.engadget.com/hitting-the-books-the-celluloid-specimen-benjamin-schultz-figueroa-university-of-california-press-143028555.html?src=rss
What is sargassum? The giant blob of seaweed hitting Florida
Great news for fans of seaweed that collects on beaches in colossal heaps, and stings people’s eyes, nostrils, and throats with a stench like rotten eggs: mass quantities of the algae known as sargassum are once again accumulating on Florida’s shorelines. And there’s reason to suspect that human-caused environmental havoc may be to blame.
In fact, in live views of Florida’s 2023 spring break festivities, you can watch the sargassum pile up in real time. Below, you can see part of a miles-long streak of sargassum running down Fort Lauderdale Beach. If you tune into this livecam early in the morning, you can watch attendants drive farm equipment over it, apparently to break it up and make it more manageable, since there’s clearly too much to remove.
Yes, these sargassum accumulations are new
This didn’t used to happen.
Historically, sargassum was known to float in giant brown rafts in a section of the North Atlantic named the Sargasso Sea in honor of sargassum. Sargassum beds are established and diverse ecosystems, and they’re home to (if you’ll excuse my editorializing) the most underrated predator in the ocean in terms of sheer viciousness: the sargassum fish.
But according to a 2015 report by Jeffrey Schell, Deborah Goodwin, and Amy Siuda published in the magazine Oceanography, waters in which sargassum had not previously been dominant were, all at once, producing gobs of the stuff. It was suddenly piling up as high as a meter deep on sections of coastline — including tourist beaches — in the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, as well as on the coasts of West Africa and Brazil.
“We noticed the seaweed looked different from the Sargassum fluitans or S. natans with which we were familiar from 20 years of sailing in the Sargasso Sea, the Caribbean, and Florida Straits,” the report said. In other words, this appeared to be an unprecedented accumulation of an unprecedented type of sargassum.
Humanity’s ecological havoc may play a role in sargassum accumulation
Further study is needed before anyone can say with confidence exactly what’s causing this apparently new phenomenon, but scientists are on the case.
Oceanographers now know from studying satellite views that this sargassum comes not from the Sargasso Sea, but from further south: a patchy stripe the width of an entire section of the ocean dubbed the Great Atlantic Sargassum Belt. In 2018 oceanographers explained to The Atlantic‘s Ed Yong that the belt seem to draw on river outflows in Brazil and West Africa that dump agricultural fertilizer into the ocean. This in turn may have supercharged seaweed growth, transforming occasional patchy collections of sargassum into the huge, self-perpetuating seaweed monster we have today.
Eckerd College oceanographer Amy Siuda told Yong this state of affairs “is likely the new normal.”
Sargassum is a growing problem
NASA satellite photos show bigger and bigger blooms, with an increasing number of record-breaking years since 2011. Last June, over 24 million tons of sargassum materialized in the Atlantic, which broke the previous record set in 2018. University of South Florida oceanographer Brian Barnes told the South Florida NBC news affiliate that 2023 looks like another monster year. “We’ve observed over the last several months that the bloom is getting bigger. It’s likely be as big as or if not bigger than the bloom that we saw last year,” he said.
Oh, and that rotten egg smell comes from hydrogen sulfide, which, health officials told the local news in Florida, can do more than just sting people’s eyes and noses. Too much exposure can cause “headaches, poor memory, tiredness and balance problems.”
And while some sargassum is known to be eaten by humans, according to the Florida Department of Health no one has any business eating this sargassum, “because it may contain large amounts of heavy metals like arsenic and cadmium.”
After hitting 52-week lows, is now the time to buy Scottish Mortgage shares?
Jon Smith explains why he’s in the bullish camp with regards to Scottish Mortgage shares, despite the recent tumble lower.
The post After hitting 52-week lows, is now the time to buy Scottish Mortgage shares? appeared first on The Motley Fool UK.