I did this for a class project. It took me a while, but it'll probably fetch me a pretty good mark, so it's worth it.
You have to click to see detail.
Leave comments :)
Posts
Fall Clean-UP - Sunday, Nov. 22nd
2 hours ago
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Photo Manipulation
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Wolfram Alpha- A revolution in web search?
Nothing comes even close.
It's been hailed as a Google and Wikipedia killer, amongst other things, but this is different.
WolframAlpha, released five days ago is an online service that answers factual queries by computing the answer through data, instead of listing potentially relevant sites, like Google might.
Try some queries.
Musical Notes: "C Eb Gb C"
Dates: June 26th, 1999
Measurements: 45 mph
Math Formulae: x^2(y) sin(x)(y)
Places: Toronto, Afghanistan
Complex Queries:
What is the fifty-second smallest country by population?
How old was Bill Gates in 1985?
Big Mac, McDonald's Fries, Pepsi
I think I need to play with this all night- so this post is done.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Bloodletting and other Miraculous Cures- A Review
This book is incredible. I finished all ~450 pages in one shot. It took me about 4 hours of solid reading, but it was more than worth it.
I still remember when Bloodletting won the Giller Prize in '06. It was big news at the time-a completely unknown author who had penned an award winning book (with the help of course, of Margaret Atwood).
t was especially exciting to hear that the now-famous author was Asian- and a Lam at that :)
Vincent Lam is an emergency doctor at Toronto East General. He's written a few novels since, but Bloodletting is his most famous by far. In the past few years, he's had multiple published articles in the Post, Star, Toronto Life, and The Globe & Mail.
The novel chronicles the tales of four young doctors, and their patients. Through a set of seemingly unconnected coincidences, their stories become unexpectedly intertwined. Inspired by Lam's personal experiences in Med School, it's a salient reminder that the calm, controlled people we depend on to heal us, have problems and issues of their own.
The best sources are from the inside- and Vincent Lam provides information of the best kind. This book is more than fiction. It provides a refreshing, but sometimes disturbing portrayal of today's healthcare, and the dilemmas that the doctors deal with on a daily basis. Lam's understanding of the human condition sets this book apart. It's often darkly humorous, providing a respite from the tragedy of human death.
There is the rawness of pain and sickness here, but look deeper and you'll find something that might surprise you. On top of everything, this is a story that has it's roots fixed in reality.
There's a medical glossary in the back, and I love the stories filled with medical jargon. The frantic action in the resuscitation bay, and the desperate attempts to revive patients with VSA provide a stark contrast to the heavily controlled image of medical care typically presented to us.
This is a book that everyone should read. It's a great start to a promising literary career.
An Excerpt:
Desperate stragglers arrived late for the molecular biology final examination, their feet wet from tramping through snowbanks and their faces damp from running. Some still wore coats, and rummaged in the pockets for pens. Entering the exam hall, a borrowed gymnasium, from the whipping chaos of the snowstorm was to be faced with a void. Eyeglasses fogged, xenon lamps burned their blue-tinged light, and the air was calm with its perpetual fragrance of old paint. The lamps buzzed, and their constant static was like a sheet pulled out from under the snowstorm, though low enough that the noise vanished quickly. Invigilators led latecomers to vacant seats among the hundreds of desks, each evenly spaced at the University of Ottawa’s minimum requisite distance.
The invigilators allowed them to sit the exam but, toward the end of the allotted period, ignored their pleas for extra time on account of the storm. Ming, who had finished early, centred her closed exam booklet in front of her. Fitzgerald was still hunched over his paper. She didn’t want to wait outside for him, preferring it to be very coincidental that she would leave the room at the same time he did. Hopefully he would suggest they go for lunch together. If he did not ask, she would be forced to, perhaps using a little joke. Ming tended to stumble over humour. She could ask what he planned to do this afternoon – was that the kind of thing people said? On scrap paper, she wrote several possible ways to phrase the question, and in doing so almost failed to notice when Fitzgerald stood up, handed in his exam, and left the room. She expected to rush after him, but he stood outside the exam hall.
“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked.
Shortly after they arrived at the Thai-Laotian café half a block from campus, Ming said deliberately, “Fitz, I simply wanted to wish you the best in your future endeavours. You are obviously intelligent, and I’m sure you will be a great success.”
The restaurant was overly warm, and Fitz struggled out of his coat, wrestled his sweater over his head, leaving his hair in a wild, electrified state. He ran his hands over his head, and instead of smoothing his hair this resulted in random clumps jutting straight up.
“Same to you,” he said, smiling at her almost excitedly.
She watched him scan the bar menu. When she asked for water, he followed suit. She liked that.
She said, “Also, thank you for explaining the Krebs cycle to me.”
“Any time,” said Fitz.
“I feel guilty that I haven’t been completely open,” said Ming. She considered her prepared phrases and selected one, saying, “It didn’t seem like the right time in the middle of exams.”
“Nothing in real life makes sense during exams,” said Fitzgerald. He tilted in the chair but kept a straight back. Ming reassured herself that he had also been anticipating “a talk,” and so–she concluded with an administrative type of resolution–it was appropriate that she had raised the topic of “them.”
She leaned forward and almost whispered, “This is awkward, but I have strong emotional suspicions. Such suspicions are not quite the same as emotions. I’m sure you can understand that distinction. I have this inkling that you have an interest in me.” She didn’t blurt it out, instead forced herself to pace these phrases. “The thing of it is that I can’t have a romantic relationship with you. Not that I want to.” Now she was off the path of her rehearsed lines. “Not that I wouldn’t want to, because there’s no specific reason that I wouldn’t, but I– Well, what I’m trying to say is that even though I don’t especially want to, if I did, then I couldn’t.” The waiter brought shrimp chips and peanut sauce. “So that’s that.”
“All right,” said Fitzgerald.
“I should have told you earlier, when I first got that feeling.”
“You’ve given the issue some thought.”
“Not much. I just wanted to clarify.”
Fitz picked up a shrimp chip by its edge, dipped it in the peanut sauce with red pepper flakes, and crunched. His face became sweaty and bloomed red as he chewed, then coughed. He grasped the water glass and took a quick gulp.
Ming said, “Are you upset?”
He coughed to his right side, and had difficulty stopping. He reminded himself to sit up straight while coughing, realized that he wasn’t covering his mouth, covered his mouth, was embarrassed that his fair skin burned hot and red, wondered in a panicky blur if this redness would be seen to portray most keenly his injured emotional state, his physical vulnerability in choking, his Anglocentric intolerance to chili, his embarrassment at not initially covering his mouth, his obvious infatuation with Ming, or–worst of all–could be interpreted as a feeble attempt to mask or distract from his discomfort at her pre-emptive romantic rejection.
Ming was grateful for this interlude, for she had now entirely forgotten her rehearsed stock of diplomatically distant but consoling though slightly superior phrases.
“Hot sauce. I’m fine,” he gasped, coughing.
There was a long restaurant pause, in which Ming was aware of the other diners talking, although she could not perceive what their conversations were about.
She said, “I’ve embarrassed us both.”
“I’m glad you mentioned it.”
“So you are interested,” she said. “Or you were interested until a moment ago. Is that why you’re glad that I mentioned it?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? What you’ve just said has made it irrelevant. Or, it would be irrelevant if it were previously relevant, but I’m glad you brought up your feelings,” said Fitzgerald. He picked up the menu.
“Don’t feel obliged to tell me whether I needed to say what I just said.”
“It was great to study together. You’ve got a great handle on . . . on mitochondria.”
The waiter came. Ming felt unable to read the menu, and pointed at a lunch item in the middle of the page. She got up to use the bathroom, and wondered in the mirror why she had not worn lipstick – not taken a minute this morning to look good. Then, she reminded herself that she should have actually taken measures to appear unattractive. Nonetheless, Ming examined her purse for lipstick, finding only extra pens and a crumpled exam schedule. When she returned, they smiled politely at each other for a little while. They ate, and the noodles fell persistently from Fitzgerald’s chopsticks onto the plate, resisting consumption. Ming asked if he wanted a fork, and he refused. After a while, as Fitzgerald’s pad thai continued to slither from his grasp, Ming caught the waiter’s eye, who noticed Fitzgerald’s barely eaten plate and brought a fork without Ming having to ask.
Fitzgerald ate with the fork, and craved a beer.
“We’re great study partners,” said Ming, still holding her chopsticks. “I want to clarify that it’s not because of you.” She had to get into medical school this year, and therefore couldn’t allow distraction. Her family, she said, was modern in what they wanted for her education, and old-fashioned in what they imagined for her husband. They would disapprove of Fitzgerald, a non-Chinese. They would be upset with Ming, and she couldn’t take these risks while she prepared to apply for medical school. The delicate nature of this goal, upon which one must be crucially focused, superseded everything else, Ming reminded Fitzgerald. He stopped eating while she talked. She looked down, stabbed her chopsticks into the noodles, and twisted them around.
He asked, “What about you?”
“What do you mean, me?” she said.
“Telling me this. Did you feel . . . interested?”
“I thought you might be.”
“You might say that I’ve noticed you, but I accept the situation. Priorities.” The imperative of medical school applications carried the unassailable weight of a religious edict.
“Very well,” she said, as if they had clarified a business arrangement.
The bill came. Fitzgerald tried to pay and Ming protested. He said that she could get the bill next time and she insisted that they should share.
The invigilators allowed them to sit the exam but, toward the end of the allotted period, ignored their pleas for extra time on account of the storm. Ming, who had finished early, centred her closed exam booklet in front of her. Fitzgerald was still hunched over his paper. She didn’t want to wait outside for him, preferring it to be very coincidental that she would leave the room at the same time he did. Hopefully he would suggest they go for lunch together. If he did not ask, she would be forced to, perhaps using a little joke. Ming tended to stumble over humour. She could ask what he planned to do this afternoon – was that the kind of thing people said? On scrap paper, she wrote several possible ways to phrase the question, and in doing so almost failed to notice when Fitzgerald stood up, handed in his exam, and left the room. She expected to rush after him, but he stood outside the exam hall.
“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked.
Shortly after they arrived at the Thai-Laotian café half a block from campus, Ming said deliberately, “Fitz, I simply wanted to wish you the best in your future endeavours. You are obviously intelligent, and I’m sure you will be a great success.”
The restaurant was overly warm, and Fitz struggled out of his coat, wrestled his sweater over his head, leaving his hair in a wild, electrified state. He ran his hands over his head, and instead of smoothing his hair this resulted in random clumps jutting straight up.
“Same to you,” he said, smiling at her almost excitedly.
She watched him scan the bar menu. When she asked for water, he followed suit. She liked that.
She said, “Also, thank you for explaining the Krebs cycle to me.”
“Any time,” said Fitz.
“I feel guilty that I haven’t been completely open,” said Ming. She considered her prepared phrases and selected one, saying, “It didn’t seem like the right time in the middle of exams.”
“Nothing in real life makes sense during exams,” said Fitzgerald. He tilted in the chair but kept a straight back. Ming reassured herself that he had also been anticipating “a talk,” and so–she concluded with an administrative type of resolution–it was appropriate that she had raised the topic of “them.”
She leaned forward and almost whispered, “This is awkward, but I have strong emotional suspicions. Such suspicions are not quite the same as emotions. I’m sure you can understand that distinction. I have this inkling that you have an interest in me.” She didn’t blurt it out, instead forced herself to pace these phrases. “The thing of it is that I can’t have a romantic relationship with you. Not that I want to.” Now she was off the path of her rehearsed lines. “Not that I wouldn’t want to, because there’s no specific reason that I wouldn’t, but I– Well, what I’m trying to say is that even though I don’t especially want to, if I did, then I couldn’t.” The waiter brought shrimp chips and peanut sauce. “So that’s that.”
“All right,” said Fitzgerald.
“I should have told you earlier, when I first got that feeling.”
“You’ve given the issue some thought.”
“Not much. I just wanted to clarify.”
Fitz picked up a shrimp chip by its edge, dipped it in the peanut sauce with red pepper flakes, and crunched. His face became sweaty and bloomed red as he chewed, then coughed. He grasped the water glass and took a quick gulp.
Ming said, “Are you upset?”
He coughed to his right side, and had difficulty stopping. He reminded himself to sit up straight while coughing, realized that he wasn’t covering his mouth, covered his mouth, was embarrassed that his fair skin burned hot and red, wondered in a panicky blur if this redness would be seen to portray most keenly his injured emotional state, his physical vulnerability in choking, his Anglocentric intolerance to chili, his embarrassment at not initially covering his mouth, his obvious infatuation with Ming, or–worst of all–could be interpreted as a feeble attempt to mask or distract from his discomfort at her pre-emptive romantic rejection.
Ming was grateful for this interlude, for she had now entirely forgotten her rehearsed stock of diplomatically distant but consoling though slightly superior phrases.
“Hot sauce. I’m fine,” he gasped, coughing.
There was a long restaurant pause, in which Ming was aware of the other diners talking, although she could not perceive what their conversations were about.
She said, “I’ve embarrassed us both.”
“I’m glad you mentioned it.”
“So you are interested,” she said. “Or you were interested until a moment ago. Is that why you’re glad that I mentioned it?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? What you’ve just said has made it irrelevant. Or, it would be irrelevant if it were previously relevant, but I’m glad you brought up your feelings,” said Fitzgerald. He picked up the menu.
“Don’t feel obliged to tell me whether I needed to say what I just said.”
“It was great to study together. You’ve got a great handle on . . . on mitochondria.”
The waiter came. Ming felt unable to read the menu, and pointed at a lunch item in the middle of the page. She got up to use the bathroom, and wondered in the mirror why she had not worn lipstick – not taken a minute this morning to look good. Then, she reminded herself that she should have actually taken measures to appear unattractive. Nonetheless, Ming examined her purse for lipstick, finding only extra pens and a crumpled exam schedule. When she returned, they smiled politely at each other for a little while. They ate, and the noodles fell persistently from Fitzgerald’s chopsticks onto the plate, resisting consumption. Ming asked if he wanted a fork, and he refused. After a while, as Fitzgerald’s pad thai continued to slither from his grasp, Ming caught the waiter’s eye, who noticed Fitzgerald’s barely eaten plate and brought a fork without Ming having to ask.
Fitzgerald ate with the fork, and craved a beer.
“We’re great study partners,” said Ming, still holding her chopsticks. “I want to clarify that it’s not because of you.” She had to get into medical school this year, and therefore couldn’t allow distraction. Her family, she said, was modern in what they wanted for her education, and old-fashioned in what they imagined for her husband. They would disapprove of Fitzgerald, a non-Chinese. They would be upset with Ming, and she couldn’t take these risks while she prepared to apply for medical school. The delicate nature of this goal, upon which one must be crucially focused, superseded everything else, Ming reminded Fitzgerald. He stopped eating while she talked. She looked down, stabbed her chopsticks into the noodles, and twisted them around.
He asked, “What about you?”
“What do you mean, me?” she said.
“Telling me this. Did you feel . . . interested?”
“I thought you might be.”
“You might say that I’ve noticed you, but I accept the situation. Priorities.” The imperative of medical school applications carried the unassailable weight of a religious edict.
“Very well,” she said, as if they had clarified a business arrangement.
The bill came. Fitzgerald tried to pay and Ming protested. He said that she could get the bill next time and she insisted that they should share.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Electoral Reform- C'mon BC!
British Columbia- this week, you have the potential to make a difference. BC has an electoral reform referendum very soon- the same one Ontario failed last year. In ' 01- it nearly passed, with 58% support, only 2% shy of the necessary 60% needed for reform.
All this time- FPTP (or first-past-the-post) has been the exclusive voting system in all of Canada's jurisdictions. It's horribly, horribly broken, and hopelessly outdated.
In FPTP, (in other countries- the plurality voting system), the single winner is the person with the most votes. Period. Voters are instructed to mark an "x" next to their preferred candidate.
In STV, or Single Transferable Vote, the voters mark a number next to their preferred candidate. In this way, popular vote has somewhat of an influence on the results.
Because with the current system, if a candidate wins a riding with only 40% of the vote, s/he still gets to represent all 100% of the voters, with the support of only 40% of them.
For example- in the last election- The conservatives won 142 seats, with 5,208,796 votes, or an overall average of 42006 votes per elected seat.
The NDP though, won only 29 seats with 2,515,561 votes, or an overall average of 86743 votes per elected seats.
The Greens however, were the most under represented in the House of Commons. With 937,613 votes, or nearly 7 percent of the popular vote, they failed to win a single riding. Zero. Zip. Zilch.
7% of 308 total seats is 22 . With STV, the Greens doubtless could've won at least a few seats.
So BC- vote for change. You can make a difference.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Getting Gmail Mobile Alerts on your Phone
Yes! I found a way to do this.
It's a slightly tricky work around, but infinitely worth it.
You're going to need a Yahoo! Mail account, as well as your Gmail account.
First, create a filter in Gmail (Settings--->Filters--->New Filter). Set it to filter all messages to (insert your email here).
Now, use your Yahoo! email, and set the filter to automatically forward these emails to your Yahoo! account.
Login to Yahoo! Mobile, and set up your phone information. Configure the alerts for email- and you're done!
Oh- wait. It's not working too good :) Maybe it's US only?
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Swine Flu
I think there's a lot of undue hysteria about this thing. There's been relatively few deaths worldwide, and none in Canada.
The isolated cases in the GTA are all minor, with all of the victims recovering at home.
Apparently, Ontario is getting ready to implement a pandemic response plan that has provisions for up to one-third of all Ontarians being infected. I think we need to be pragmatic here. Just keep following your typical hygienic routines, and you should be fine.
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