Some hip-swaying beats for today's jaunts.

I've been practicing a bit of belly dancing again. Admittedly in my own way. I pulled a tambourine out for this one. It was most enjoyable.

Weekend update:

Weight has held the same. Being sick made me lazy with my cooking, and I foolishly turned to cup-of-soups. I imagine by tomorrow I'll have dropped 3-5 pounds of water weight.

Realizing how ick they make me feel, I've upgraded my egg plan because I did enjoy the “broth” aspect. I will be initiating an egg drop soup plan. I'll add beef a few days out of the week and continue with the tuna/sardines mix on others. I need to remember butter on my next grocery haul. I think the simplicity will get me back in habit. It also means very easy cleanup.

I'm surprised by my desire to eat soup a lot. I'm not really a big soup eater in general. I think I might dehydrate some of the beef for the chew factor. Otherwise, I'll just end up gritting my teeth a lot. Perhaps I should go back to chewing on miswak or a licorice root. Sensory-wise, I find a lot of satisfaction in shredding a tough piece of jerky. My innate oral fixation is definitely rearing its head. Le sigh.

Storms are coming tonight. I plan on enjoying them to their fullest. Now back to dancing.

© 2026 AnOublietteofThought. All rights reserved.

Today's musical inspiration.

https://youtube.com/watch?v=k20r8dA8PcI&is=XJPxiAdcLFKSNHwl

“Claude / ChatGPT, please help us respond to this email. Use our voice and research the points under discussion.”

A complex email had arrived from a client during an important negotiation. With other work to attend to, we asked AI to help us prepare a response.

The research brought back information that might have taken a colleague several hours to find; the drafts had the suspicious courtesy of a form letter. Sentences stood neatly beside one another without making an argument. Some phrases made little sense, while others sounded plainly generated.

We kept trying to explain what was wrong. An hour and a half later, the research was useful and the email still needed to be written. We had asked for our voice, yet each reply took us further from the thought we wanted to convey.

How much of a voice can be supplied before the writer has decided what needs to be said? The research had given us facts. What we made of them, and what we were prepared to say to the client, remained ours to decide.

What the empty box leaves to us

The business user is making choices before knowing quite what those choices will mean. How should the task be framed? Which model should receive it? Where a setting for effort is available, how much should be applied? Claude Opus 5, in our experience, could produce writing so verbose that returning to an earlier model became preferable. Even then, a model that was useful for one part of the work might leave us struggling with another.

Each decision sits inside an interface that makes the whole undertaking look deceptively simple. A reply arrives beneath the question, apparently complete, while the user is left to work out which information deserves attention, which sentences have earned their place and whether the time spent has brought the work any closer to its purpose. To build a useful workflow, we first have to see the separate tasks contained within the request.

The distance between finding and knowing

When researchers in South Korea asked employees where generative AI had made their work more efficient, information search and collection came first. The survey covered 1,090 people with experience of using the tools at work; considerably fewer identified developing new ideas or plans.[1] The findings record workers’ perceptions, and they describe work undertaken with the tools available in 2025.

Consider what sits between those two activities. A search may return a useful document, an unfamiliar regulation or a fact that changes the terms of a negotiation. Someone must still decide whether the source can be trusted, how much weight it deserves and whether it belongs in the argument at all. Our email made that distance visible: the research gave us material we could use, while the repeated drafts made it harder to say what we meant. How many other tasks have we been treating as a single act when the advantage lies in only part of it?

The lesson left on the desk

Among the results were import figures for a product in Japan and South Korea: the sort of information that can take a considerable amount of time to find across languages and sources. There was work to do with it. Some sources needed checking, some might have been discarded, and the useful ones could have helped shape an argument of our own. Instead, the research was passed back into the system to produce a reply. Its talent for finding had been given authority over what came next.

That decision deserves a second look. A post-mortem for a single email might seem excessive, until we remember how many emails a business answers in a year. Where did the research save effort? Where did the drafts begin to consume it? A few honest answers could spare us from repeating the same experiment each time a complicated message arrives.

The larger evaluations are beginning to take professional work seriously. OpenAI’s GDPval draws on tasks from 44 occupations; its initial version judges a single attempt, leaving out the growing context and successive revisions of work in progress.[2] It cannot tell us what we learned from working on the client’s email or whether that knowledge helped with the next email. Yet the question facing someone at their desk is more intimate. After the scores have been published and the model has been chosen, can we learn enough from one attempt to make the next one wiser?

Rajan Anand
Co-founder, Octaflow Labs

Sources

1. Korea Research Institute for Vocational Education and Training, Job Redesign and Innovation Strategies in the Generative AI Era. Survey of 1,090 employees who had used generative AI at work, conducted in July 2025. The findings record workers’ perceptions.
2. OpenAI, Measuring the performance of our models on real-world tasks. The limitation described applies to the initial one-shot version of GDPval.

#AI #KnowledgeWork #Research

I have been to two AEW shows in the last six months, and both opened with a pre-TV Ring of Honor match.

“Hmm,” thought I. “Seems like Ring of Honor is kind of like AEW’s minor league! I’d be interested in checking that out!” Because, as a rule, the smaller the stage, the weirder the stuff that happens, and I’m all about the weird.

I keep seeing little clips and stuff of wrestlers I like but don’t see enough on AEW (like Lio Rush!) in Ring of Honor matches.

But here’s what I’m not clear on. What is Ring of Honor and, furthermore, how does one access its content? I know they have shows. I think they have shows. Anyway they had an ad for one on the AEW website once. And I assume those clips are coming from somewhere.

I went to the website which is spectacularly uninformative. There is something called “ROH on Honorclub” which you can subscribe to for 10 bucks a month. It seems to be a weekly show? Which consists of, what, ROH matches that have been taped at AEW events? Or what? If I were to subscribe to Honorclub, what would that 10 bucks a month get me? Does that include the pay-per-view events, or not?

There are no answers. Only questions.

My point here is just that the entire thing feels very insider-y, very “if you know, you know,” but I don’t know, and I wish to know, and there seems to be no way to find out.

Which is fine, I mean, you do you, ROH, but I guess I wonder why this thing even exists if they don’t seem to actually want anyone to access it.

A trip to the land of the Silver Fern & a Kiwi wedding

In a summer before the pandemic, I packed my bags for New Zealand, drawn across the world by the wedding of my old Kiwi mate Jason to his bride-to-be, Mel. Jason, ever the entrepreneur, ran a wireless internet service provider out of Hamilton, keeping the Waikato region connected in ways that suited his laid-back yet tech-savvy style. Mel, on the other hand, was a force of nature, a biker through and through, with a gleaming Harley that roared like thunder. Their union promised to be as unique as they were, and I couldn’t miss it.

The journey started with a flight to Auckland via Hong Kong, a layover that tested my patience from the get-go. Hong Kong airport is a soulless beast; overpriced, sterile, and utterly forgettable. With half a day to kill, I ventured into the city, hoping for some spark of adventure. What I found was a chaotic crush of humanity, towers scraping the sky, and streets so packed it felt like wading through a human river. No room to breathe, no wide-open spaces; it was no place for a cowboy like me. I swore then and there I’d never set foot in that concrete jungle again.

Touching down in Auckland, I made my way south to Hamilton, where Jason hosted me. It was peak summer, the kind of warm, golden days that make you forget the world beyond the horizon. We kicked things off with a trip to the Waitomo Caves, famous for their glowworms. Sliding into a boat for a silent ride through the underground waters, we were enveloped in darkness punctured by thousands of tiny blue lights clinging to the ceiling like a private galaxy. It was surreal, magnificent, a moment where nature’s quiet magic leaves you speechless. On the way back, we pulled over at a roadside farm stall for smoothies made from the freshest fruit I’d ever tasted. Sweet, tangy perfection in a cup; nothing’s come close since.

With Christmas approaching, Hamilton buzzed with holiday spirit. We drove up to the Mormon temple on the hill, where the Christmas lights display was a local spectacle. Strings of bulbs twisted into elaborate scenes, illuminating the night like a fairy tale. It was wholesome, festive, and a far cry from the rowdy celebrations back home, but it warmed the soul all the same.

Adventure called next, leading us to Mount Ruapehu, the largest volcano on the North Island. Summer had stripped away the snow, but the ski lifts still ran for sightseeing. We started the ascent in shorts and T-shirts, basking in the valley warmth, but at the top, we bundled into cold-weather gear against the biting wind. The ride up was smooth, uneventful, rewarding us with panoramic views that stretched endlessly, green hills rolling into distant haze, a reminder of New Zealand’s raw beauty.

But the descent? That’ll be seared in my memory forever. The lift carried us over ancient lava fields, vast valleys, and sheer gorges carved into the mountain’s flank. A few hundred meters above one such abyss, the whole thing ground to a halt. No warning, no explanation. Mobile signal? Nonexistent. Peering down, my heart climbed into my throat, the jagged black lava below looked like a bed of razor blades, vicious and unforgiving. Minutes ticked by. Jason sat beside me, both of us pretending it was fine, but inside, my anxiety built like a storm. Half an hour in, I was questioning every life choice that led me there. At 45 minutes, panic clawed at the edges. After a full hour, the lift jerked back to life. Back on solid ground, my legs were jelly; relief flooded me like a tidal wave. Talk about earning your stories.

From there, we headed to Rotorua, where the geothermal activity announced itself long before we arrive, the whole place stank of sulfur, like rotten eggs on a hot day. But the drive was worth it, winding alongside spectacular rivers that sparkled under the sun. We blew off steam with some clay pigeon shooting, and I have to say, I aced it. Pump-action shotgun in hand, I felt like the cowboy I am, nailing every target with precision.

Next up was the luge track on a nearby mountain, karts racing down winding paths at breakneck speed. My first run was flawless, pure adrenaline. The second? Not so much. Someone nudged me into the side, my wheels caught the grass, and I was airborne. Landed hard, bruised and bleeding, needing a patch-up at first aid. Nothing a long, cold beer couldn’t fix afterward.

The highlight, of course, was the wedding itself, held on the black-sand beach at Raglan. It was hands down the best venue I’ve ever seen, waves crashing, endless ocean horizon, the sun dipping low. Jason and Mel exchanged vows with the sea as their witness, her Harley parked nearby like a chrome sentinel. It was raw, romantic, something else entirely.

All too soon, it was time to head home, again via that cursed Hong Kong layover. I sat in the terminal, muttering curses in Afrikaans under my breath, vowing once more to steer clear. New Zealand had given me thrills, scares, and memories for a lifetime—proof that the best trips are the ones that test you just enough to make the triumphs sweeter.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Time to brick the abrasiveness

For a decade, my life revolved around the sterile corridors of banking. Each morning, I’d slide into my car in Douglasdale, pointing it toward the gleaming tower at 100 Grayston Drive in Sandton. The commute was a ritual of endurance, back and forth through Sandton’s relentless traffic, often stretching to an hour or more each way. On heavy days, it ballooned to three hours total, a slow crawl of brake lights and exhaust fumes. To pass the time, I’d flick on the radio, tuning into the news. It became my constant companion, accumulating up to two hours a day of headlines, analyses, and urgent dispatches from around the globe. What did it all mean? In retrospect, nothing profound. It was just noise filling the void between home and office, a soundtrack to the gridlock.

These days, I’ve severed that tie. I never listen to the news anymore. Occasionally, I’ll pause in front of a random TV screen in a waiting room or stumble upon a social media post that catches my eye, but that’s it. The world feels increasingly unhinged, a cacophony of chaos that I’d rather tune out. Power rests in the hands of abrasive leaders, men and women who wield insults like weapons and thrive on division. There’s not a single figure among them reminiscent of Mahatma Gandhi’s quiet strength and moral clarity. Take the so-called leader of the free world, for instance: his love for barbs and attacks has tipped the global balance, leaving the world not improved, but more fractured. Wars rage on multiple fronts, desperation creeps into everyday lives, jobs evaporate in economic whirlwinds, and trade wars echo the petty squabbles of medieval rogues and kings from a more primitive era.

I’m no ideologue. I’m not “woke”, nor am I an asshole reveling in cynicism. I’m a liberal at heart, guided by a core set of values that prioritize human progress, advancing society toward equity, innovation, and shared prosperity without the extremes of dogma.

One night, I had this vivid dream that lingers with me still. Every mobile phone on the planet suddenly bricked, dead, useless slabs of glass and metal. The youth wandered the streets like zombies, disoriented and adrift without their digital lifelines. The older folks, unfazed, retreated to their cars, turning on the radios that still hummed with life. Like those trips of mine to Sandton. I logged onto my laptop, and the internet chugged along as if nothing had happened, the fibres, the CDNs, all functioning smoothly. But strangely, there was no mention anywhere of the global phone blackout, no frantic updates or viral panic.

I woke up with the details etched in my mind, so sharp that I instinctively reached for my own phone to check if it was real. It wasn’t, of course. But in that moment of clarity, I realized what my subconscious was telling me: I’m trying to brick the bad news, to render it inert and powerless in my life. In a world drowning in digital deluge, perhaps the greatest act of self-preservation is simply unplugging from the frenzy. But the better solution is to create your own story, you own content, your own life. You own sense of reality and like the wings of a butterfly start a wind to trigger subliminal forces to reverse the madness.

In a perfect world, (or if I had as much dosh as Jeremy Clarkson) I’d be riding around on a tractor and farming potatoes. Rubberbanding from my digital quests back to where I started on Oakvilla Farm.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

The Mark of Difference

I came into this world in 1966, in the midlands of Natal, South Africa, a time when the country was still stitching itself together under apartheid’s rigid seams, and families like mine navigated life on the edge of sprawling farms where the soil was as unforgiving as the politics. My parents, of staunch Lutheranism and Calvinist descend, weren’t the sort to fuss over rituals beyond Sunday services and the occasional braai. We weren’t Jewish, no ancient covenant etched into our bloodline. Yet there I was, marked in a way that set me apart from the very beginning, my penis marked like prophets of the Old Testament, with questions long before I had words for them.

It started with the farm boys, those black kids who roamed the dusty potato fields with me, their laughter cutting through the heat of the Inyosi Valley. We were all the same in our ragged shorts and scraped knees, chasing chickens or avoiding a beating when we pushed the boundaries. But when we relieved ourselves on the nearby trees or bushes, I noticed the difference. They had foreskins; mine was gone, leaving a smooth, exposed landscape that was as distinct as an Italian sculpture. “Why?” I asked my mother later, as she made supper in the kitchen of the dusty farmhouse on Oakvilla Farm. She paused, her hands flour-dusted, and exchanged a glance with my father across the kitchen. “It’s cleaner that way, BB,” she said. “Less chance of disease. Your dad had it done, and your brother too. All the white boys around here do, keeps things healthy.” My father nodded from his chair, newspaper in hand, adding gruffly, “It’s just how it’s done. No fuss.”

And indeed, it was. In our tight-knit community of white farmers and smallholders, circumcision wasn’t a debate; it was as routine as the first inoculation or the christening gown. Most of the boys I grew up with, blond or brown haired lads from the neighboring plots, mostly Lutheran, bore the same subtle alteration. It bound us in an unspoken fraternity, a rite we didn’t choose but inherited like the accent that marked our spoken words. I wondered sometimes if it was the church’s doing, some Lutheran edict buried in the hymnal. But no, our pastor preached grace and baptism, not blades and covenants. Research into those years turns up no religious mandate from the Church in South Africa; circumcision wasn’t a sacrament in our faith, as it had been fiercely rejected by early Christians for Gentile converts. If anything, it was the echo of mid-20th-century medicine, a holdover from global trends where doctors in the West touted it as a bulwark against phimosis, infections, and even venereal diseases, claims that filled hospital wards and parenting manuals from the 1950s through the ‘70s. My mom was devoted to her Dr Spock book whose advice was circumcision.

Digging deeper into the archives of that era, it’s clear why Natal’s white families leaned into it so readily. In the 1960s, neonatal circumcision rates among white South Africans mirrored patterns in English-speaking countries like the UK and US, where up to 80-90% of newborn boys were snipped in the post-war boom, all in the name of hygiene and disease prevention. South Africa’s medical establishment, influenced by British colonial practices, promoted it similarly: easier to do on infants, supposedly fewer complications later in life, and a perceived shield against the unclean ailments that loomed large in a tropical climate. Studies from the time, sparse as they are on specifics for white cohorts, echo my parents’ words, citing reduced urinary tract infections and penile issues as rationale, though much of it was anecdotal, propped up by the era’s enthusiasm for interventionist pediatrics. In Natal, with its mix of English settlers and missionary legacies, it became cultural shorthand for modernity and cleanliness, a quiet assertion of civilized norms in a land divided by skin and custom. No grand conspiracy, just doctors’ ink and mothers’ worries, passed down like the family Bible but in the form of Dr Spock’s words.

I’m proud of my manhood. On one memorable occasion even take a leak on the window of John Orrs during Christmas window shopping. I was a boy, but not only a boy, a cowboy.

As I got older, that mark became more than a curiosity, it shaped interactions as my first time standing in the communal showers at Grey made me realize that the Afrikaners were like those black kids. Irony. Am I less of a lover for it? The question nags like an old itch. Some say the foreskin heightens sensation, a lost layer of intimacy. Others, and I’ve read the debates, argue it shifts the focus, makes pleasure less about singular friction and more about the whole dance: touch, rhythm, connection. Maybe I’m biased, but I’ve never heard complaints. If anything, it’s taught me that love’s not confined to anatomy; it’s in the vulnerability of baring all, scar and soul. That’s my story, etched in flesh and memory, a small cut in a big world, linking me to fathers and farms, to a Natal sun that burned away the unnecessary, leaving only what endures.

So I’m German, Scottish, Afrikaner, sort of English and by all accounts, a Jewish lover.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Christoph Bartels' arranged betrothal

In Zululand’s clutch he made his stand, Near Kranskop’s crags and Tugela’s gentle flow; A lone missionary in that wild land, Where the seeds of faith in quiet furrows grow.

Isolated ‘mid the Zulu hills he dwelt, In prayer and preaching, fervent, undismayed; Of earthly love his chances all but knelt No gentle hand to soothe the price he’d paid.

His brethren far in Hanover perceived The solitude that weighed upon his soul; They sought a maiden, virtuous and believed, And offered him young Augusta’s hand to hold.

She, pure of heart, prepared the daunting quest, To journey halfway round the world’s wide span; On nothing more than honour’s sure bequest, The word that he was an honourable man.

“Love follows honour,” so the elders taught, And honour in his letters brightly shone; With quiet courage, fearing not the fraught, She sailed across the seas to claim her own.

At Port Natal’s sunlit, teeming docks she stepped, Her eyes in anxious wonder searched the crowd; Christoph stood waiting, heart in silence kept, Till gaze met gaze beneath the southern cloud.

In that first instant, swift and mutual fire, Attraction bloomed as dawn dispels the night; Her steady glance fulfilled his deep desire, And Charlotte’s lingering pain took sudden flight.

As man and woman, side by side they trod The mission paths in Zululand’s embrace; Raising their children beneath the hand of God, She aided every duty, every grace.

For forty years their union stood as one, Through seasons harsh and mercies gently sent; In godly work beneath the African sun, Their hearts in faithful service were content.

Then, hand in hand, they slipped from mortal sight— But months apart they answered the final call; The broken lance at last lay bathed in light, In honour’s love that conquers all.

Thus in God’s harbour, deep and ever sure, The penitent found joy forevermore; With Augusta his anchor, strong and pure, Redemption’s voyage reached its golden shore.

~Roald Bartholomew

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Correspondence from the Second Anglo Boer War

Among the most vivid characters in our family story is my ancestor Christoph Bartels, the missionary who came to South Africa in the service of the Hermannsburg Mission Society. His letters back to Germany form a remarkable archive, humble, dutiful, & strikingly consistent in one peculiar way.

Every single letter began with a detailed rant about his health. His stomach ailments were a constant torment: sharp pains, discomfort that never seemed to ease. He was a heavy smoker, pipe never far from his hand, yet he never appeared to draw the obvious connection between the two. After laying out his complaints in full, he would always catch himself. The pains were not that important, he would insist. There were far more pressing matters in the Lord’s work. Then came the apology for burdening the Mission Society with such trivial personal woes. Year after year, letter after letter, the pattern repeated like a familiar hymn.

But one letter broke the mould entirely. It concerned a matter so serious that even Christoph could not set it aside.

By that time, he had retired from frontline missionary work among the Zulu people & had been asked to care for the church & congregation at Wartburg in Natal. It was a small, rural German settlement where most of his flock were farmers, hard-working men & women tilling the soil, including his own sons. The community blended German settlers with a large number of Boer families. In that little village, the two streams of my own ancestry flowed together: the missionary Bartels line & the Boer lines of the Maritz & Bruyns families.

Christoph had not always worn a clerical collar. As a young man he had served as a Hussar in the army of the King of Hanover. He left the service before Bismarck’s Prussia invaded & annexed the kingdom. The King of Hanover, from the same royal house that had once linked Hanover & Britain, commanded a loyalty that Christoph never forgot. The bloodshed of war, however, had left deep scars on his soul. The lives he had taken weighed heavily upon him, those that he had run through with his lance. Seeking redemption & solace, he turned away from the sword & offered himself to the church as a missionary.

When the Second Anglo-Boer War broke out, Christoph found himself once more in the shadow of conflict. This brutal struggle between the British Empire & the Boer republics of the Transvaal & Orange Free State would last two years. It was fought over gold, diamonds, political rights, & imperial ambition, & it tore through the land with great suffering on all sides.

From the pulpit in Wartburg, Christoph took a clear & courageous stand. He told his mixed congregation of Germans & Boers not to choose sides. War, he said, was a hindrance to true faith & Christian living. “Avoid it,” he urged them. “Do not sell your stock or your crops to either side.” Neutrality & peace were the only paths worthy of followers of Christ.

The military authorities in Natal did not take kindly to such talk. They saw it as disloyalty to the Crown & hauled the elderly pastor before a tribunal convened by the Governor of Natal.

Christoph stood before his accusers without flinching. Looking the Governor straight in the eye, he asked:

“How can you accuse me of disloyalty to the Crown? Every Sunday in my church I pray for the safety & well-being of the Queen. I have honoured her & remained loyal. I was once a soldier in the service of her father’s crown, but now I am a man of God. My duty is not to stir up aggression, but to point the way to peace. Had I been disloyal, I would long ago have stopped those prayers.”

The Governor listened, then heaved a deep sigh. He turned to the military men & prosecutors with visible irritation. “Do not ever waste my time, or this man’s, by bringing a servant of the cloth before me again,” he said. The case was dismissed at once, & Christoph was sent back to his flock with an apology for the spectacle.

He returned to Wartburg, but the war ground on. Many who heard his words knew in their hearts that the old pastor was right. Yet the tides of fear, anger, & self-righteousness had already carried most too far down the road of conflict to turn back. Like every war, this one too eventually ended.

In the years since, whenever I think of Christoph Bartels, I see a man who carried the scars of one war into the pulpit of another, & chose peace. A heavy smoker who never quite solved the mystery of his aching stomach, yet whose faith was rock-solid. A former Hussar who became a true servant of the his Prince of Peace.

I like to imagine that in heaven the Lord shook His head at the follies of men, smiled at the stubborn old missionary from Wartburg, & marked his name with particular affection: a man of true faith & quiet honour, who refused to let war silence the Gospel of peace.

His blood runs in my veins, German missionary & Boer farmer alike, & I am proud of it.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Je pense souvent à cette phrase de Mercédes dans le Comte de Monte Cristo.

Elle dit exactement : « Comment pouvez-vous vivre ainsi, sans rien qui ne vous rattache à la vie »

Mes dépressions reflétaient l’idée qui se cache derrière cette phrase.

Sans un centre, une ancre, une attache, la vie ne fait plus sens.

Vivre pour les autres ou vivre pour soi ? En sachant que sans l’autre, le soi n’est pas grand chose.

J’aimerais ça. Vivre pour quelqu’un.

Ho appena finito un colloquio con un ragazzo. Prima di salutarci decidiamo di fermarci insieme per un cattè e un dolce, in uno di quei locali storici del centro raffinati che sembrano custodire un pezzo della città. Ci sediamo e ordiniamo. Poco dopo un giovane addetto al servizio arriva al tavolo con il dolce. Sta per appoggiarlo, poi si ferma e, con grande naturalezza, mi fa notare che forse quel dolce potrebbe non essere adatto e propone subito di cambiarlo. Tutto qui. Una cosa piccola e talmente “normale” che non dovrebbe nemmeno meritare di essere raccontata. E invece mi colpisce. Forse perché siamo diventati tanto bravi a parlane e molto meno a praticarla. Accorgersi dell'altra persona prima che sia costretta a chiedere, fare attenzione senza invadere, rispettare una differenza senza trasformarla in distanza. Nessuna domanda. Nessuna differenza da sottolineare. Nessuna identità da interrogare. Nessuna gratitudine da esigere. Un dolce cambiato, un movimento che non cambia niente e che rivoluziona tutto.

ok let’s unload

First time I watched Gilmore Girls, I identified with Rory. Being young, doing things for the first time, Over the subsequent rewatches, over the years, I’ve identified instead with Lorelei, gradually of course!

And now, twenty six years later, I’m starting to feel more and more like Emily.

And one day, I will die.

Monday Night Football.

My game of choice tonight comes from the NFL and has the (4-3) Seattle Seahawks hosting the (5-2) Chicago Bears in a game scheduled to start at 7:15 PM CT. Given my schedule it's unlikely that I'll be able to stay awake for the entire game, but if I can stay with it through halftime I'll be satisfied.

And the adventure continues.

The holidays are here and it’s awesome. However, out of the three fall/winter holidays I like the least it’s Halloween. I liked celebrating it when I was a kid, but by the third grade I was bored of dressing up. To this day, I don’t remember why.

Maybe I found out buying candy at the grocery store was easier, or finding a different costume every year was a hassle, or going through and knocking on strangers’ doors was exhausting. Anyway, it’s too much work.

My wife loves Halloween and it’s her favorite holiday. We do like driving around to find all the houses who took the time to setup decorations. My kids liked trick or treating around our complex.

It may not be my favorite holiday but at least my family loves it.

#candy #costumes #family #holiday #Halloween

In an audit of a database written by the chatbot, one of the issues had as a consequence that SELECT * FROM t WHERE 4 = 5 returned a row...

So I now propose that we call people who think “vibecoding” will replace people thinking “inhabitants of the land where 4 equals 5”.

Lech Walesa, appearing at George Washington University, 27 Oct. 2026.

Jessica Tarlov at Center for American Progress, 27 Oct. 2026.

New recent photos of government and media leaders, including historical figure Lech Walesa, are now available in the TechNewsLit portfolio at the Alamy photo agency. In addition, new photos of Medicare and Medicaid administrator Mehmet Oz and former New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu, also taken in late October, are available for download from the TechNewsLit collections.

Lech Walesa, a shipyard labor organizer in Gdansk, Poland, become the leader of a nationwide anti-Communist movement in Poland in the 1980s, leading to the collapse of the country’s Communist government. Walesa received the Nobel Peace Prize and later became Poland’s president from 1990 to 1995. He spoke at the Elliot School of International Affairs at George Washington University on 27 Oct. 2026.

Jessica Tarlov is a Democratic party strategist and co-host of the public affairs discussion program The Five on the Fox News Channel. She is also a podcaster, co-hosting the Raging Moderates podcast with Scott Galloway and Aaron Parnas. Tarlov appeared at the Center for American Progress discussing her new book, also on 27 Oct. 2026.

Dr. Mehmet Oz at Punchbowl News, 21 Oct. 2026.

Mitch Landrieu at the Arlington, Virginia Democratic gala, 24 Oct. 2026.

Dr. Mehmet Oz trained as a cardiac surgeon, and went from his medical practice to become a popular television personality, with his own Discovery Channel program. After an unsuccessful Republican run for senator in Pennsylvania in 2022, Oz joined the second Trump administration as administrator of the Center for Medicare and Medicaid services in the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. Oz was interviewed by Punchbowl News, and photographed by TechNewsLit, on 21 Oct. 2026.

Mitch Landrieu served as lieutenant governor of Louisiana and mayor of New Orleans, where he led much of the recovery from Hurricane Katrina that devastated the city. In 2021, president Joe Biden named Landrieu a White House advisor and coordinator of the Infrastructure Investment and Jobs Act. He appeared as keynote speaker at the Arlington, Virginia Democratic party gala on 24 Oct. 2026.

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After a gap of about five years I recently attended a Police Powers Scrutiny Panel and was struck by how much the process has improved since I was last there.

The panel is now far more representative of our community, bringing diverse voices to the table to examine police body-worn camera footage. It is encouraging to see a genuine effort to engage citizens in the oversight of policing powers.

However, I feel that this progress in representation stands in stark contrast to a worrying regression in the data that feeds the panel.

The 'community complaints trigger', the automatic mechanism that once ensured community oversight and continuous improvement, has long gone. Now, complaints are largely kept within the constabulary's internal systems, with a very slim chance of ever reaching their scrutiny panel.

The result is that the panel, however well-composed, is left to review only a tiny fraction of stops and 'use of force' via dip samples. On complaints, the panel is blind.

I've also been very concerned, for some time, about the Constabulary's use of strip search. I raised it at the last Gloucestershire Police & Crime Panel and although I asked for a 'considered response' my request didn't make it into the draft minutes; the PCC chose to answer a different question.

This structural gap is not just anecdotal. It has now been illuminated by the latest Home Office data for Gloucestershire, year ending March 2026, which reveals deep-seated issues that our current scrutiny model is ill-equipped to catch:

• Accountability Gaps: In the realm of strip searches, the data is more than alarming. Of the 38 full strip searches conducted, one involved a child, yet it is recorded as “not known” whether an appropriate adult was present. Furthermore, for 97% of these searches, the location was “not known”, and supervisor consultation was “not known” for all of them.
• Disproportionate Impact: Black people were stopped and searched six times more often than white people relative to their share of the local population.
• Low Yield: For most searches (57%), the reason was drugs, yet 60% of all searches resulted in no further action, with only 18% leading to an arrest.
• Use of Force Disparity: Black people were involved in use of force reports 7.8 times more often than white people relative to population proportions.

These statistics suggest that the problems here in Gloucestershire are not merely about the outcomes of individual searches, but also about the systemic recording and oversight of the encounters themselves. If a force cannot reliably record the location of a strip search or confirm the presence of an appropriate adult for a child, how can a Scrutiny Panel effectively review the conduct? A strip search of a child where it is 'not known' whether an appropriate adult was present is not a data quality issue. I consider this a serious safeguarding failure.

I've reviewed the minutes produced by the Police Powers Scrutiny Panel and these have improved immeasurably, however it was clear from conversations that there is no staff capacity to adapt them for release into the public domain. I have not been able to find published minutes since March 2024; I'm told this is due to budget cuts. If I'm wrong, I'd welcome correction. HMICFRS noticed similar in the latest PEEL inspection saying that “publishing this more often should help to build public trust and confidence”.

The improved composition and working of the Police Powers Scrutiny Panel is good news for local democracy. However, the Terms of Reference for the panel remains elusive, I've asked for sight of it but it's not been forthcoming. Personally, I think that document should be signed off by the Gloucestershire Police & Crime Scrutiny Panel. But without transparent data and a mechanism to surface complaints that bypass internal filters, the Constabulary's own panel risks becoming a forum that reviews a minute selection of events rather than the reality of policing on our streets.

Trust and legitimacy are built on the assurance that misconduct and procedural failings will be detected and addressed. By allowing critical data fields to remain blank and removing the automatic triggers for community review, we are eroding that trust.

We must ensure that the Police Powers Scrutiny Panel has the tools and the data it needs to hold the constabulary to account, rather than watching from the sidelines as the feedback loop remains broken. I am asking the OPCC to assist in getting the Police Powers Scrutiny Panel's Terms of Reference and summaries of their minutes into the public domain.