Monday, June 27, 2011

The Orchid Thief (excerpt)

The Orchid Thief by Susan Orlean
PAGE 10-11


The state of Florida does incite people.  It gives them big ideas.  They don’t exactly drift here:  They come on purpose-maybe to start a new life, because Florida seems like a fresh start, or to reward themselves for having had a hardworking life, because Florida seems plush and bountiful,  or because they have some new notions and plans, and Florida seems like the kind of place where you can try anything, the kind of place that for centuries has made entrepreneurs’ mouths water.  It is moldable, reinventable.  It has been added to, subtracted from, drained, ditched, paved, dredged, irrigated, cultivated, wrested from the wild, restored to the wild, flooded, platted, set on fire…  It is a collision of things you would never expect to find together in one place-condominiums and panthers and raw woods and hypermarkets and Monkey Jungles and strip malls and superhighways and groves of carnivorous plants and theme parks and royal palms and hibiscus trees and those hot swamps with acres and acres that no one has ever even seen-all toasting together under the same sunny vault of Florida sky.  Even the orchids of Florida are here in extremes.  The woods are filled with more native species of orchids than anywhere else in the country, but also there are scores of man-made jungles, the hothouses of Florida, full of astonishing flowers that have been created in labs, grown in test tubes, and artificially multiplied to infinity.  Sometimes I think I’ve figured out the order of the universe, but then I find myself in Florida, swamped by incongruity and paradox, and I have to start all over again.




Sunday, June 19, 2011

Punching Out (excerpt)

Punching Out: One Year in a Closing Auto Plant by Paul Clemens
PAGE 25 - 27


At the time of its closing, Budd Detroit was solely a stamping plant.  There are all kinds of auto plants, and there are auto plants of all kinds in Detroit, but the three predominant types, by size and conspicuousness, are stamping plants, engine plants, and assembly plants.  Assembly plants are the final stage, where the auto body parts from stamping plants and the engines from engine plants and the countless other components, big and small, come together to make a car.  Poletown, for instance, is an assembly plant.  Fisher Body was a GM stamping plant.  New Center Stamping--stamping.  Ford Wixom was an assembly plant.  The Ford Rouge, as originally conceived, was all-inclusive.  Some of these plants, such as Budd and New Center Stamping, are, or were, suppliers.  Others belong to the Big Three.  But all belong to the same industrial ecosystem.

Assembly plants are distinguished by their assembly lines--Henry Ford's great innovation--which produced middle-class prosperity as surely as moveable type made possible widespread literacy.   Similarly, stamping plants like Budd are identifiable by their press lines--the linked presses, arranged in rows, that stamp out auto body parts, with each press performing a separate but sequential operation: blank, form, trim, pierce.

Should you ever find yourself near an active press line, you'll no doubt know it.  Like the liftoff  of an airliner, the stamping of auto body parts requires inhuman force, producing decibels registered by your internal organs. The presses sound, unmistakably, as if they could kill you, which they could, without much interrupting their normal functioning.  You'd notice collision more than they would.  The force required to cut, bend, and form steel--a force mechanical stamping presses producing auto body parts exert many times per minute--is orders of magnitude more than what is required to separate you from life and limb.  The first of the six stamping presses in 16-line, one of the Budd plant's primary press lines, had a two-thousand-ton reating--that is, it was capable of delivering a force of that tonnage.  By comparison, your femur will snap under less than a single ton of pressure.  It'd be difficult to find a stamping plant of long standing without a history of tragedy.  In recent decades, OSHA and automation have helped to reduce the human loss--the latter, in large part, by reducing the need for humans altogether.

To be anywhere near an active press line is a total sensory experience.  To have stood in a press shop such as Budd's would have been to see, spread across 140,000 square feet, several Stonehenges of steel.  What you'd have felt, for a moment or two after a press struck, was a not-so-distant rumble, as if you were standing astride a fault line.  What you'd have heard would depend on whether or not you wore earplugs--though you really should've.  What you'd have smelled, and to some extent tasted, was the oily mist that, like industrial dew, hovers in the air and then settles atop surfaces in a press shop.
To stand in front of a stamping press and see it up close is to encounter a sight. (I speak here of an inactive press.  The space between presses in an active line will be caged off, allowing the robots to do the repetitive work, once supplied by humans, of moving the stampings from press to press along the line.)  A couple of stories or more, and a million pounds plus or minus, presses such as those in the Budd press shop seem stuck in another era, a bloated Gilded Age when brute force was the road to riches and when humanity , not yet overcome by its mania for miniaturization, hadn't figured out how to get what it needed by finesse.

Most of the behemoths in the Budd press shop were, by brand, either Danly or Clearing.  Whatever their make, the main components of a stamping press are, beginning from the bottom, its base, its bolster, its die, its ram, its crown, and--running from base to crown--its side columns, on which the crown sits and between the ram slides.  (Some call the ram the slide for this reason.)  The one impermanent piece of the structure is the die, which will be changed out depending on the part.  Each stamped part has a specific die that produces it; though necessary, die changes create downtime along a press line. In a state-of-the art stamping plant, die changes are quick--a matter of minutes--and completely automated.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Turning Turbines



How much control does the wind have over a turbine?

Last summer, I was on a drive through the country where there was a ton of them and not all of them were spinning.  Some were and some weren't, and from what I can recall the ones that weren't had a red light on at the top.  However, the stopping seemed intermittent so I know it had nothing to do with some sort of malfunction, and the fact that others in the same area were turning means there was enough wind available.  Also, a smaller turbine had been setup recently at a GO station not too far from me and I've seen it turn wildly on a windy day to then suddenly stop. So I don't understand.  I thought the whole point of these were unabashed energy production, i.e breeze/wind = power, not specified hours of operation. If that's the case, and the turbines are limited in what they can produce in whatever means I don't really see the point. That would be like having a solar panel face away from the sun on a really sunny day for a certain amount of time. Shouldn't the goal be to get everything we can from these natural sources?










Saturday, March 5, 2011

The Timeless Way of Building (excerpt)

The Timeless Way of Building by Christopher Alexander
PAGE 202, 203

Every person has a pattern language in his mind.

Your pattern language is the sum total of your knowledge of how to build.  The pattern language in your mind is slightly different from the language in the next person's mind; no two are exactly alike; yet many patterns, and fragments of pattern languages, are also shared.  When a person is faced with an act of design, what he does is governed entirely by the pattern language which he has in his mind at that moment.  Of course, the pattern languages in each mind are evolving all the time, as each person's experience grows.  But at the particular moment he has to make a design, he relies entirely on the pattern language he happens to to have accumulated up until that moment.  His act of design, whether humble, or gigantically complex, is governed entirely by the patterns he has in his mind at that moment, and his ability to combine these patterns to form a new design.