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ArchiveNOVEMBER 2019


For about the first 15 years of my career, beginning in 1970, I dressed like a proper professional.  I wore a jacket and tie to the office.

But then my workplace began to change.  I was less often in an office or studio.  More often I was working inside a truck, a TV mobile unit where most folks dressed in “work clothes.”

The final break came when my salaried position went away with a 1987 corporate bankruptcy.  Now a freelancer, I never again had to wear a necktie.  (Exception: when traveling on a sports team's plane, ties are generally required for everyone.  We can't have star athletes looking like slobs.)

For more than three decades now, I've dressed casually.  I can't imagine what Eric D. Snider has been going through this week.

I've never met Eric in person, but I've been following him since 2001.  Back then I was preparing to spend a month in Salt Lake City televising the Winter Olympics.  I had visited there only once, in 1959, and I wondered what it was like now.

I searched online for a local newspaper columnist, and I found the Provo Daily Herald and its humorous “Snide Remarks,” written by Mr. Snider.  He was a Brigham Young University graduate whose accomplishments included a song parody celebrating the 1847 migration to Utah.

I kept on reading Eric, even after the Olympics were over.  By 2005 he had become a freelance movie critic, and he relocated to the considerably more liberal Portland, Oregon.  There he partnered with Jeff Bayer for an amusing weekly podcast (left).  I think I've listened to all 462 episodes, and their friendly voices have become quite familiar.

Eric thought he'd never want to move back to Utah, and “every time I visited I was reminded of why I was glad I no longer lived there.” 

However, about four years ago, he began to miss his relatives and Utah friends more than before.  He loved “extreme uncling,” as in this photo.

Because freelancing could be done from “anywhere that had movies and the internet, and these had both recently come to Utah,” he moved back to Provo in early September.  Through the magic of the internet, he and Jeff continued to record their podcast every other week.

“A few days after I arrived,” he writes, “an old friend reminded me about a full-time writing job that had been posted two weeks earlier. It was the last day applications were being accepted, so I quickly slapped together a résumé and cover letter and applied.” 

Guess what:  he got the job!  “It's a full-time salary with benefits, such as a grown-up would have.”

He started this past Monday, writing content for the Mormon Church — whoops, now they want to be known as the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints — at the CoJCoLDS headquarters in downtown Salt Lake.

Compared to freelance income, his pay will be significantly greater and more predictable.  However, it is an office job that requires a suit and tie.  He had to acquire a second suit.  And a third one as well.

He now needs to get up much earlier than your typical movie critic in order to catch the 6:48 a.m. FrontRunner.  His cat, Dogcat, has to stay home, sadly meowing the Sheena Easton song.  Eric asked his Twitter friends about toys for lonely felines.  Is there a laser pointer that doesn't require a human to point it?


“My baby takes the morning train,
He works from nine till five, and then
He takes another home again
To find me waitin' for him.”

Eric, sporting his three different suits, tweeted these selfies from his first three commutes.  “I have immediately identified a problem with wearing a suit on a train,” he reports.  “People think you're trustworthy and aren't afraid to sit next to you.”

Monday:  On my way to new employee orientation. Boy will they be surprised when they find out mine!

Tuesday:  Missed my train.

Wednesday:  After work.

Personally, I don't think I could go back to wearing a suit from nine till five.   But Eric seems happy to do so, and after hours he still gets to watch movies and play with his niecephews.



My mother did most of the cooking in our family.  We used to have a big old “butcher knife” that once belonged to my mother's aunt Lizzie Buckingham, who died in 1932.  She had carved LB into the wooden handle.  But I never learned to wield it properly.

When I moved away from home in 1974, my parents set me up with a set of steak knives.  They could be used for paring, but their lightweight 4½” blades limited their potential, and I never became skilled at slicing.  However, a couple of years ago in a store, I noticed a nice hefty 6” chef's knife with a manly red handle.  That's what you need, I told myself!

And across the aisle I saw a German gadget, a V-Prep by Swissmar, that promised to “achieve the perfect slice ... every time.”  It's called a mandoline. 

(That was a new word to me.  My computer insists on auto-correcting it into a musical instrument.)

These are stock photos.   I don't use my mandoline to slice tomatoes.  My father loved tomatoes, especially the vine-ripened kind that he picked fresh in our back yard, but for some reason I never cared for the taste.  If tomato slices came with my meal, I used to give them to my father.

I do like to add a slice of onion to a sandwich.  So now I occasionally buy an onion.  I cut it in two with the chef's knife and place one half, flat side down, on the mandoline's ramp.  The ramp includes a crosswise blade a little above the surface, and sliding the onion down the surface strips off a nice slice each time.

I used to wrap the remaining half in plastic film to keep the air away from the cut face.  Then I realized I could just place it face-down on a 6” glass pie plate until I next crave a slice — two or three days later.

(I don't spend a lot of time in the kitchen.)


NOV. 2, 2019    LOOK QUICK

I saw a groundbreaking student film project when it aired on CBS-TV in 1968.  Dan McLaughlin at UCLA had used a technique now called kinestasis.  Three thousand works of art flashed on the screen very briefly, accompanied by instrumental music that became a hit record on its own. 

Film is projected at 24 frames per second.  During each second McLaughlin showed us a dozen artworks, each of them for a mere two frames.

Television, however, runs at 30 frames per second.  Therefore only half of the artworks appeared for two TV frames ( for example, RR) and the other half for three TV frames (for example, SSS).


Twenty years later, I recalled the 1968 project when I learned about the latest thing, digital television.  HDTV broadcasts won't fit into the old analog bandwidth without some kind of video compression.  I wondered whether the MPEG compression algorithm would be able to handle rapid changes like “3000 Years of Art.”  If I understood it correctly, one second of MPEG typically includes only five full-definition “I-frames,” not 30.

As explained here, the intervening P-frames and B-frames are reconstructed from their neighboring I-frames.  This is accomplished by predicting the motion of objects within the frame.

This algorithm couldn't handle kinestasis, I reasoned.  Every second or third frame of the 1968 video (those marked with dots in the first diagram above) was completely different from its predecessor, so it would have to be encoded as an I-frame.  Each second would require twelve I-frames (one for each artwork), not just five.  To sufficiently compress the data, additional tricks would be required, such as reducing the resolution.


In the early days of HDTV on my cable TV system, I did notice pixilation (like this extreme example) on live-to-tape programs like Jay Leno's Tonight Show.   Immediately after a camera cut, the new angle was blocky for a fraction of a second until the next I-frame came along, at which point it seemed to snap into focus.

But I guess the engineers have now figured out better methods.  The opening title for The Big Bang Theory shuffled through 120 images at an accelerating pace.  Even in hi-def, CBS-TV did not explode.