iPod Classic Unboxing

The box is here!!!

And it looks beautiful in its plastic wrapper.

Apple people are so clever to put writing on the back.

Whooosh... sucking noise and steam release and the top is off.

The iPod slips right out on a tray.

Yummy!

And nice and thin. Thinner actually than my old 30Gb Photo.

Reverse.

160Gbs of lovely iPod space. No really... 150Gb or so. Damn harddrive manufacturers.

Done drooling there. It's time for the rest of the box

The documentation.

In three languages. Trying too hard here.

The legal matters.

The English documentation.

So many pictures... you wonder why they bother with three versions.

More Apple stickers. Still haven't branded myself with the last ones I got.

The sundries.

No plug. Ahhh... come on. That's cheaping out.

Universal dock clip thing which doesn't fit where I need it to fit. Alas.

Yeah... No plug but a second one of these.

New earphones too.

No more in the box. :(

Edinburgh Day One: Light Entertainment

Day One in Edinburgh is about easing yourself into the pool. Strictly frivolous sunshine entertainment only, eating an hour before entering the water, and getting there late as you like. In this case it's later than I'd wished but at least my wet clothes had more time to dry. Now not so sodden though still clammy.

And why I arrived in Edinburgh with a bag of wet clothes? In other circumstances I'd be glad you asked. But here it was concerning incidents and heart wrenching decisions between morning teas and late night toiletries. Smirk as you wish but there are few manner comedies in the luxury of modern life so distressing. Although, I think on balance, with great foresight, I did choose wisely.

So hurray, yeay, the clothes are potentially wearable. Until I fix all that with an explosive tap. Good to see the Universe still hates me. And all because I merely disbelieve its material existence, such a mere moderate crime.

But at least there is tea, different tea to that mentioned above note, and some light morning reading. So I get myself a second time with the tap. F***ing Universe.

Waiting in line for the bus, I hear behind me in the dulcet ringing tone of a sneering teenager:

"Who styles their hair to look like an intellectual?"

Huh. Who? Me?

I finally get a break at the Half Price Ticket Hut and rob some starving artists blind. Or so I'd think, forgetting to see the shows before feeling smug. Nevertheless, I march boyscout fashion up the Mound, tickets in hand, in search of pains aux chocolat and StarBucks breakfast. Bring on the day. Me hunger gatherer cultural type.

Help

And hurray, we're off. With Help or sorry, Eleanor Tiernan - Help. Name recognition is important, I suppose. And there seemed to be plenty of Tiernan involvement.

But it was always likely to be a risky place to start. And perhaps that was realised, although it is tricky to tell. There is an inclination to compensate with kindness for the first show. Or to see it not coloured by the depressed jaded and tired weight of such utter dross you've already seen.

All the same, it had a handful of moments. Enough as I didn't want to entirely regret it. And though the backshow was a struggle, intentionally I argue in my forgiving moment, the standup straight was enjoyable. But moments... that's what was offered. Damning as it might seem, the brief moments were fantastic.

Latin prayer humour is forever delightful. Waiting for punchlines a glorious first Beckett reference of the trip. And the crowning light: seeing one actress trying to put her head up the other's arse.

Little wink at Mary's mobile phone going off. Not her fault but schadenfreude abounds in its nasty, malicious way. Teehee.

I liked the lead, I did. I'd see her standup for sure. Sorry.

Everybody is so young here! I'm like the bad mature student all over again.

Beckett in a Bucket

Put on at the Zoo, sigh but it was a stretch out to this. A church, as it happens, like every other venue in Edinburgh, not an actual Zoo. I know I'm lazy... but still, at least it wasn't all that far from the last venue. And plenty of time in a 20 minute change. Piece of cake. And cup of tea, actually.

Beckett in a Bucket by Mardy Arts and fromthegreyhouse:company was pretty baffling. And with nine people in the audience, it must be really heartbreaking for the cast. They were excellent but the overbearing cruelty of the fringe is all too evident. Despite the fact that the piece is well baffling anyways.

A happily shaky set and a ton of props and every Becketty distress you'd ask for. A great, lowlit soliloquy toward the back end. Low floor lighting is great, the whole world should be done in floor lighting.

So it's early yet and I really feel for the actors, the injustice of life. And now that's gone too like the first show overcompensation. The next piece gets little pity. And I've real worries about it too, Becketty also and at the same venue. Real concerned enough to need some air.

Waiting for Groucho

Also at the Zoo was Waiting For Groucho by Rhymes with Purple Productions and written by Louise Oliver and Frodo McDaniel in particular. This really was one of my highlights and earlier fears didn't materialise. Pity presents no problems here.

Just beautiful. You have to love clowns, proper old school cinema clowns and the Chico and Groucho here between them just tore it up. Outstanding and funny and sad. So nice to hit paydirt three shows in.

Light creeping in from a ceiling window not completely covered and Chico runs up his Russian accent. Excellent excellent stuff. And not forgetting the fantastic mirror work intro.

Rhymes with Purple Productions are put in the notebook of drama companies to trust.

And it's interval time for a trip to the Fringe Shop to merchandise myself and glam, and a ponder up the main strip to...

Dirty Linen and Newfoundland

Here I learn a valuable lesson about Fringe Stoppard. Dirty Linen is a fun Stoppard piece I quite like on paper. But I should know better in future. Fringe Stoppard is a mistake, not necessarily poor, not necessarily badly acted, just always a mistake.

Oversubscribed to start with and the C too venue really wasn't up to it. The seating was well-banked, bonus points for that but the praise ends there. But the venue was a furnace and very uncomfortable. I imagine the temptation to see a small Stoppard on the cheap instead of for £60 in London drew in the masses.

Sadly, I wasn't impressed with the work either. See, that pity and kindness is already gone. You'd think I didn't have much to begin with. The actors overreached with this. The trouble being Dirty Linen needs doing at a quick comedy piece pace, hitting the joke points on spot is essential or it looks ha-haw and not at all clever. Missing the innuendo and verve leaves the poor Maddie, well, pretty much exposed on stage. It's then little else but a show with a mostly naked woman on stage.

A pity. Although it's easy to excuse it. It's work for hardened pros, not students. The soliloquy in Newfoundland is especially tough. But such aside and the other minor pickings, it was always going to be done in for me by the hoards of luvvies.

And because I still hadn't learnt my lesson about Fringe Stoppard, I saw The Real Inspector Hound by the same group later. Thank you Universe, I still hate you.

Doctor Faustus

Marlowe's masterpiece, or one of them. And I've been looking forward to this. Marlowe beats Shakespeare easy in a death match.

And free. Perhaps a concern.

Such beautiful beautiful language. But an awful venue, theatres are such a pain. Flat seating should be clusterbombed wherever it resides. My pet peeve returns. Theatres have obligations to their patrons, people. And but not here, I promise next Johnny Corporate who sticks his useless balloon head between me and my £60 show will be learnt about how slouching is polite.

This Doctor Faustus by the Flintlock Theatre company is pretty decent. The lead is strong and his supporting Mephistopheles does extremely well. Wonderful to watch the pair together, great potential.

The piece isn't done nearly menacing enough, though. And yes, there is too much humour in the script but I still prefer my eternal damnation and Satanism done bleak and terrifying. The incantation business and summoning was nicely sharp though. I'd have loved it run like so throughout the play. But you take what you are presented with.

Live musical accompaniment should be compulsory in theatre. It's always a charm and is delightful here. The clarinettist was fantastic with the sung notes. And the guitarist was perfect as the Bad Angel and Helen.

But such a perfect perfect play:

Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd In one self place; for where we are is hell, And where hell is, there must we ever be:

And:

Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul For disobedience to my sovereign lord:

Wonderful.

In all, very enjoyable. What can you say about a piece with Latin prayer singing? Another one of those themes for the day.

William who?

Discovered a big hole in my Day Two schedule in the bar beforehand. I might have mended it, but the whole business might have been the alcohol too. Time for another interval.

Dinner Interlude

Got me an autograph and stern instructions not to sell it on eBay. And this from a crew member.

Lovely Thai place round by Candlemaker Street.

Howie a Rookie

Where did all the buses come from? It's insane. Howie a Rookie turned out to be in Slovak. And is probably great, but I gave it a miss all the same. Instead I watched all the people between me and the pub I wanted to be in. Seems like it was the Tattoo what did the buses and onto masses.

In all, two likes, two want-to-likes and two messes. The half price ticketry made not have been so great in hindsight. My early innocence striped away, my true vile unforgiving nature in its element. And still more tomorrow.

• 23 by Blonde Redhead Web | MySpace | Last.fm | iTunes
• Lay Lady Lay by Bob Dylan Web | MySpace | Last.fm | iTunes
• Corazon by Bishop Allen Web | MySpace | Last.fm | iTunes
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Edinburgh Pregame, Sundries and Miscellania

This intrepid blogger lately decamped himself of all of his various earthly concerns, those yet remaining and more still than are yet plausibly immune to his nihilistic relativism, and floated off in a big aeroplane to Edinburgh. Only there to find after much citizen journo-alizing, ponce-ings about and pretendings to be people he isn't, his unrealised, no self-unknown, lifetime desired dream to be failed arts reporter.

So shirking apathetically any great democratic responsibilities of citizen journo hackery for once and debasing his self with that half insane drunken commentary of the theatre fan, here then presents(bugle) his series of Art/Culture columns, the last you'll ever have wanted to read, descending much as they do into the mayhem run throughout those unlucky depths and circumstances of this year's Edinburgh Festivals.

Regretfully, none of this concerns much anything of substance, failing as he did, yet as always, to see the properly cerebral award candidate shows and vaguely potential fringe successes. But no fear, he's faked some LOMO pics, and retains his careful hipster credibility. Real fake LOMO camera on the way though, yeay. [End third person because it's too confusion oriented.]

We begin as usual in Hades, like we must, only this is Shannon and not anywhere even Orpheus might go for love. Ignoring for now the disgraceful aeroplane in the foreground and focusing all proper attention on the airport behind, that which needs to be levelled. How is it that anything so giggle worthy as the "Shannon Free Zone" should make it onto a road sign? And one in which so much pride seems invested. It cries for a hyphen. And I cry with it.

But still the fight reigns on to retain this mess, a place without divine salvation on this earth, where the descent of desolation and abandonment strikes at 7pm and even the merest bites of food are locked in unseen prisons. And where still, I am considered by myself blessedly so mercifully lucky to have found me a dinner feast-style on pains aux chocolat and croissants. Is it there is somewhere better to be around Shannon after 7pm? But don't lie, I've seen the countryside...

A best effort to delete reality and all its airborne woes was rewarded in the bar preflight. So much so I saw Roman legionaries on the telephones home and scared young American boys in Army uniforms. First thoughts of disgust, the missed moral moments of a degenerate government, our degenerate government, replaced with properly correct emotions, the sort everyone professes to, of intense pity and the rush of tragedy. There is hardly any sort of honour in fighting for that so very little left to win there. And little else in understanding the unreal existence of a foreign policy formed of utterly no presence in reality. The absurdism and farce of silly theatre made very real and terrifying.

Watching the American tourists grapple to shake hands and subserve to their war men, it's hard to blame the soldiers and harder yet not to be unbelievably angry. So there, the first drama of the tour makes out in the Shannon departure lounge. Fade to black now because we're comatose drunk until Prestwich.

Prestwich is coloured with headaches from the alcohol cure for flying. Causing perhaps the blunder about the car park looking for a bus. And yet none there no matter how far from the terminal you'd care to walk, or from its concrete anti-theft devices. Yeah, try to steal those blocks.

Instead, it must be retirement to couches in the not quite terminal bar to await midnight bus efforts. So much of the hour spent gazing at the front airport entrance over my beer and pondering what Al-Qaida was at that night---slapstick comedy in the set down area might have lifted my gloom.

"Glasgow doesn't accept that."

But instead it's lamentations for shows already played out and lost to the nether tours of other stages. Like Arcadia by the Oxford University Dramatic Society(Boo, hiss...) and although I'm later to develop deep aversions to Stoppard at the Fringe, still ThreeWeeks loved it or had a cast friend review it.

Or a piece about the book I despise most in this world, The Elements of Style. Put on by HWS Rembiko who are also responsible for the interesting but not my thing AINE...(tigone). A risky effort being as you never know when you'll meet the uneducated class who adore, in their simplicity, that text.

Beckett is referenced too much these days but I did want to see the by now departed Happy Days done by the Loft Theatre Company, and also quite liked by ThreeWeeks. Not to mention the curious This is an Insult to Beckett and Fo by a school group from Gordonstoun. Possibly the best show title this year. But no matter, I got my Beckett nonsense in anyhow. It's so popular.

Except if Beckett and Fo get Fringy references, so too must Thomas and Lorca. I propose it a Fringe By-Law. Dylan Thomas gets a biopic type thing in Dylan Thomas in London by the Fluellen Theatre Company together with The Dylan Thomas Centre. And Lorca gets his notice in Lorca's Shadow by the Moving Parts Theatre Company. Both sadly done out earlier in August.

Oleanna by Muckle Roe Productions was the other Fringy piece I'd have gambled on if I had the chance. It's tricky to like except that academics in trouble make me smirk right now.

I baulked at a Romanian language version of The Government Inspector by the Comedy Theatre of Bucharest, although judging by the reviews I ought probably have seen it. It's hard to justify subtitled theatre though. Film, yes, but it damages the theatrical immediacy.

But alas, all missed.

Busing into the middle of the night and dear Dan Brown saves literature. Romans in the airport on the way were followed by Romans on the iPod later that night. And the first person we meet in Scotland is a cabbie with a blatantly and excessively incomprehensible accent. It was only sheer fluke to understand him on his third time saying anything.

"The thin night darkens."

More to follow... on to the shows I did see.

For Bastille Day

This seems like it is, unhappily, a very insulting gesture only I am not too entirely sure why. Aside from taking liberties with sensitive cultural symbols, that is. But just see how wrong it looks to suggest perhaps to either party that they might consider the elements of the other in themselves. I adore their comparison, two extraordinarily secular countries. And whereas both have banned wearing the hijab in schools, the Turkish restrictions apply more extensively. They are a delightful pair.

Design Notes
The blue is Pantone Reflex Blue, here supposed to be the blue of the French tricolor. Only happily it is also the blue of the European flag. And incidentally, the Turkish flag with the European blue and yellow is surprisingly tacky looking. Which kinda puts into perspective how naff the European flag actually is.

It fills me with sadness that I have never found a completely satisfactory fleur-de-lis. It's a relatively simple symbol but surprisingly impossible to proportion well. And with the potential choices in the band and leaf designs... That said, the one I stole for this looks pretty good.

The original Turkish flag is here. The Fleur-de-lis comes from this Québécois flag.

On Sleeping

I am a sleepy individual, I cannot defend it. Just one under Hypnos' light touch. And soon in possession of a proper shrine to my father spirit. Pops, twin to Death, daughter of Night, in his lazed pillowed bliss, gatekeep'd with poppy flowers.

Defend it? Would should I dream to? It is beyond a defence... bearing testament to everything I wish extolled, venerated and pedestaled.

For why should I defend it? Sleep is my inane character... It would be the sinful vulgarity, the rejection of whatsoever predisposition granted upon my person by whomsoever, and the greatest of impiety.

Yet Hynpos is so feared, the intangibles of his brother, his druggy son, and his opium den lair, that it extends to persecutions, to his discipled children martyred in this world. The unveiled, mishidden, never hidden, hatred bred into the industrious Athenians, and their testosterone mutant brothers, the Apollons.

I didn't spill disgust on the worker bees of the Protestant Ethic. I think it, such the immoral life they lead. Stealing themselves in a slavery, poisoning the life economic against us all. I curse their hurtful world.

Bring me a drink from the Lethe, river of forgetfulness. And send me dear into the long dreams of my beautiful siblings. Sweep me away darling Phobetor, darling Phantasos, darling Morpheus, and never return me here.

A daybed! My worldly kingdom, everything I possess, for one of these... (here, here, here, here)

From Ovid, on the House of Sleep:

Near the Cymmerians, in his dark abode,
Deep in a cavern, dwells the drowzy God;
Whose gloomy mansion nor the rising sun,
Nor setting, visits, nor the lightsome noon;
But lazy vapours round the region fly,
Perpetual twilight, and a doubtful sky:
No crowing cock does there his wings display,
Nor with his horny bill provoke the day;
Nor watchful dogs, nor the more wakeful geese,
Disturb with nightly noise the sacred peace;
Nor beast of Nature, nor the tame are nigh,
Nor trees with tempests rock'd, nor human cry;
But safe repose without an air of breath
Dwells here, and a dumb quiet next to death.

An arm of Lethe, with a gentle flow
Arising upwards from the rock below,
The palace moats, and o'er the pebbles creeps,
And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps.
Around its entry nodding poppies grow,
And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow;
Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains,
And passing, sheds it on the silent plains:
No door there was th' unguarded house to keep,
On creaking hinges turn'd, to break his sleep.

But in the gloomy court was rais'd a bed,
Stuff'd with black plumes, and on an ebon-sted:
Black was the cov'ring too, where lay the God,
And slept supine, his limbs display'd abroad:
About his head fantastick visions fly,
Which various images of things supply,
And mock their forms; the leaves on trees not more,
Nor bearded ears in fields, nor sands upon the shore.

The Important Constant in Your GUI Application

Right there at the top of the View in your MVC application, because you do use the Model-View-Controller model and I'm willing to travel to visit Pattern rage on your head if you don't, should be the immortal equivalent of:
   /**
    * Golden Ratio for layout calculations.
    */
   private static final double PHI = 1.61803398874989842;


For anything else is heretical. Your PHI is the ratio to split all your width-height ratios. Initial window sizes, initial positions, split pane ratios, button height-widths, main vertical widget heights relative to minor widgets, etc, etc.

Recognise that any other GUI layout magic numbers are deeply sh*t. And go home to cry when you see these elsewises. Oh... the tears for all those 100px:900px splits on 1000px square windows.

And the real magic is it is impossible to overuse the golden ratio. No really... the more PHI the better. I sing of arms and the pairs:
   private static final int HEIGHT = 512;
   private static final int WIDTH = (int) (HEIGHT * PHI);
Delightfully wide. :) If only TV was done like this in place of its own madness. Sigh.

Just Do It, Darling

Forgetting for a while the corporate world which polluted her with moneyness, Nike is supremely cool. It's 'NEE-keh' by the way, not 'nai-ki', although I like it rhymed with 'bike'.

Like usual, the OED gets the definition spot on. She's the Goddess of Victory, a statue depicting her, or a US missile. She certainly isn't a f---ing brand of sneaker.

Trouble is, however, that victory doesn't quite do it. I know in my heart it's lost in translation, for goodness the Greek are subtle. Or that's a word, at least, for a group who could argue over a single word in the creed for a thousand years. Not to wonder they produced the mathematician's mind too. We still love them though, even for it. But I like Wikipedia, more to the mark on this. She's triumph.

And triumph marked in Athena's hand, and child of the River Styx. This kid has it all! Apart from a parasite global sweatshopper, that is. Am I being an unconscious brand muppet with this? I guess I don't even appreciate advertising's power on my brittle mind.

But still better again might be 'conquer'. Out of the Greek 'Nika' again and joyously of the riots. Gotta love a good riot. I'm a Blue myself, staunch Justinianite and Orthodox, but what can you do.

And she's got wings too. For all the cool God people had wings. More Godlikes with wings soon, but the sleepy kind.

More on the darling here.

The Shortness of Life

Seneca, the Younger of course; the Elders are never interesting. And really, a blind manifestation of the dangers in being friends with madman. Something I remember daily and on watching politicians nothings and nothingnesses on vile television.

Seneca is a great friend to the idle, a patron of Russellian calibre. Still beyond, a lesson in the perils of suicide. He speaks the life to live and demonstrates the failure to die.

Wishing instead though to take lessons from his De Brevitate Vitae(On the Shortness of Life), and quoting from the Loeb edition text there appears some copyright. John W. Basore's obituary is unavailable and given his Loeb edition translation was in 1932, unless the poor man keeled right soon before or after publishing, our extended quotation-aries are not nicely legit. Still, it's not unheard of uncommon for our heroes to demise themselves astride upon their pearly gates of publishing glory.

In any case, the world speaks Latin so we might shall pretend the original sufficed. It would be nice still to purchase the Loeb itself. They are so very pretty... if very unfortunately dry. Or perhaps a Penguin issue. Look inside at Amazon.com.

On on to liberation:

The majority of mortals, Paulinus, complain bitterly of the spitefulness of Nature, because we are born for a brief span of life, because even this space that has been granted to us rushes by so speedily and so swiftly that all save a very few find life at an end just when they are getting ready to live. Nor is it merely the common herd and the unthinking crowd that bemoan what is, as men deem it, an universal ill; the same feeling has called forth complaint also from men who were famous.

A little some comfort then that it isn't just me but all my famous friends too. Later:

Life is long enough, and it has been given in sufficiently generous measure to allow the accomplishment of the very greatest things if the whole of it is well invested. But when it is squandered in luxury and carelessness, when it is devoted to no good end, forced at last by the ultimate necessity we perceive that it has passed away before we were aware that it was passing. So it is—the life we receive is not short, but we make it so, nor do we have any lack of it, but are wasteful of it.

A bit sour attacking luxury and carelessness but then he is being worth hearing at least. We have the life is long enough theme okay. Let us hear more:

Why do we complain of Nature? She has shown herself kindly; life, if you know how to use it, is long. But one man is possessed by an avarice that is insatiable, another by a toilsome devotion to tasks that are useless; one man is besotted with wine, another is paralyzed by sloth; one man is exhausted by an ambition that always hangs upon the decision of others, another, driven on by the greed of the trader, is led over all lands and all seas by the hope of gain; some are tormented by a passion for war and are always either bent upon inflicting danger upon others or concerned about their own; some there are who are worn out by voluntary servitude in a thankless attendance upon the great; many are kept busy either in the pursuit of other men's fortune or in complaining of their own; many, following no fixed aim, shifting and inconstant and dissatisfied, are plunged by their fickleness into plans that are ever new; some have no fixed principle by which to direct their course, but Fate takes them unawares while they loll and yawn—so surely does it happen that I cannot doubt the truth of that utterance which the greatest of poets delivered with all the seeming of an oracle: "The part of life we really live is small." For all the rest of existence is not life, but merely time.

Definitely not in the philosophy business to be making friends. I accept the hurtful truth... now gimme the answers I'm paying you for.

Think you that I am speaking of the wretches whose evils are admitted? Look at those whose prosperity men flock to behold; they are smothered by their blessings. To how many are riches a burden! From how many do eloquence and the daily straining to display their powers draw forth blood! How many are pale from constant pleasures! To how many does the throng of clients that crowd about them leave no freedom!

It's good to know the rich suffer. Perhaps not as much as the rest of us but no mind. I already knew the bad were never happy. Strike on with brave latinism:

Ask about the men whose names are known by heart, and you will see that these are the marks that distinguish them: A cultivates B and B cultivates C; no one is his own master. ... But can anyone have the hardihood to complain of the pride of another when he himself has no time to attend to himself? After all, no matter who you are, the great man does sometimes look toward you even if his face is insolent, he does sometimes condescend to listen to your words, he permits you to appear at his side; but you never deign to look upon yourself, to give ear to yourself. There is no reason, therefore, to count anyone in debt for such services, seeing that, when you performed them, you had no wish for another's company, but could not endure your own.

Men do not suffer anyone to seize their estates, and they rush to stones and arms if there is even the slightest dispute about the limit of their lands, yet they allow others to trespass upon their life—nay, they themselves even lead in those who will eventually possess it. No one is to be found who is willing to distribute his money, yet among how many does each one of us distribute his life! In guarding their fortune men are often closefisted, yet, when it comes to the matter of wasting time, in the case of the one thing in which it is right to be miserly, they show themselves most prodigal.

The early crux but it must suspect that Mr Seneca was not the most fun guy to be around. I can almost see him looking at his watch. See the first quotation in this Wheeler/Feynman story.

Consider how much of your time was taken up with a moneylender, how much with a mistress, how much with a patron, how much with a client, how much in wrangling with your wife, how much in punishing your slaves, how much in rushing about the city on social duties. Add the diseases which we have caused by our own acts, add, too, the time that has lain idle and unused; you will see that you have fewer years to your credit than you count. Look back in memory and consider when you ever had a fixed plan, how few days have passed as you had intended, when you were ever at your own disposal, when your face ever wore its natural expression, when your mind was ever unperturbed, what work you have achieved in so long a life, how many have robbed you of life when you were not aware of what you were losing, how much was taken up in useless sorrow, in foolish joy, in greedy desire, in the allurements of society, how little of yourself was left to you;

Too few days indeed with my face wearing its natural expression. It's a permanent scowl. Although, anyone in public wears an awful scowl... try it... find someone or yourself alone in public and smiling. We are so unhappy when we forget to hide it from other people. Or it's like we don't find ourselves interested. And key is the "how many have robbed you of life" question. But it's fine on its own and everybody will agree the airline scourge on timewasters. Only do it and you are a miserable sod.

You live as if you were destined to live forever, no thought of your frailty ever enters your head, of how much time has already gone by you take no heed. You squander time as if you drew from a full and abundant supply, though all the while that day which you bestow on some person or thing is perhaps your last. You have all the fears of mortals and all the desires of immortals. You will hear many men saying: "After my fiftieth year I shall retire into leisure, my sixtieth year shall release me from public duties." And what guarantee, pray, have you that your life will last longer? Who will suffer your course to be just as you plan it? Are you not ashamed to reserve for yourself only the remnant of life, and to set apart for wisdom only that time which cannot be devoted to any business? How late it is to begin to live just when we must cease to live! What foolish forgetfulness of mortality to postpone wholesome plans to the fiftieth and sixtieth year, and to intend to begin life at a point to which few have attained!

Yeah, well, a consideration of one's personal mortality is hardly my popular passtime. Necessary says Seneca unless you put off living until your chances of being alive are much smaller. His logic is sharp at this. And evil spot on for rubbishing the retirement mindset. Have fun when you are retired? Like hell... have fun now. Or I'll sleep when I am dead. Only I sleep now so I must already be dead. I gave up on that living stuff years ago.

You will see that the most powerful and highly placed men let drop remarks in which they long for leisure, acclaim it, and prefer it to all their blessings. ... Marcus Cicero, long flung among men like Catiline and Clodius and Pompey and Crassus, some open enemies, others doubtful friends, as he is tossed to and fro along with the state and seeks to keep it from destruction, to be at last swept away, unable as he was to be restful in prosperity or patient in adversity—how many times does he curse that very consulship of his, which he had lauded without end, though not without reason!

Rotten consulships! Rotten success and rotten ambition!

When Livius Drusus, a bold and energetic man, ... It is a question whether he died by his own hand; for he fell from a sudden wound received in his groin, some doubting whether his death was voluntary, no one, whether it was timely.

How would anyone imagine a mortal wound inflicted on the groin could at all be voluntary? Nevertheless, must Seneca really add in boot-ageness with his "timely" gag. I mean, he's just recorded Drusus's unfortunate end for all posterity only to go... ummm... adding insult to injury. (Teehee... tired wordplay is allowed on this blog. But only when I do it. Your tired wordplay is just tired.) Drusus was in fact assassinated and I'm thinking Seneca is (not subtly) hinting at the very unpleasant way it was done.

But among the worst I count also those who have time for nothing but wine and lust; for none have more shameful engrossments.

The old spoilsport! I think he must be meaning something else with his whole living discussion.

The others, even if they are possessed by the empty dream of glory, nevertheless go astray in a seemly manner;

The "empty dream of glory" is good. I'm keeping that one for future arguments. For my future war on ambition.

Finally, everybody agrees that no one pursuit can be successfully followed by a man who is busied with many things—eloquence cannot, nor the liberal studies—since the mind, when its interests are divided, takes in nothing very deeply, but rejects everything that is, as it were, crammed into it. There is nothing the busy man is less busied with than living: there is nothing that is harder to learn.

His points here about the mind not stretching deeply when busy speak about our deficit of knowledge in the face of the venerably cliched distraction of information overload. It's not the quantity of information presented to us. Nor even the quality which is dubious and cursedly our new function is now to discern this quality. Blastedly... remember when you could almost trust information presented to you. That blissful state. No rather, it is distraction that haunts us. Why would you think it is bad to be driven to such a place? I bet it's even a placename in Canada or Australia or somewhere. Distraction, Ontario.

It takes the whole of life to learn how to live, and—what will perhaps make you wonder more—it takes the whole of life to learn how to die.

This is the line. The soundbite you came for. Pause now so you may marvel.

Believe me, it takes a great man and one who has risen far above human weaknesses not to allow any of his time to be filched from him, and it follows that the life of such a man is very long because he has devoted wholly to himself whatever time he has had. None of it lay neglected and idle; none of it was under the control of another, for, guarding it most grudgingly, he found nothing that was worthy to be taken in exchange for his time.

The unfriendly side. Try telling someone you're not going to talk to them because your life is too short. It's not nice being popular anyways.

Indeed, you will hear many of those who are burdened by great prosperity cry out at times in the midst of their throngs of clients, or their pleadings in court, or their other glorious miseries: "I have no chance to live." Of course you have no chance! All those who summon you to themselves, turn you away from your own self.

He must have been very popular. Best friends with Nero and all.

Check off, I say, and review the days of your life; you will see that very few, and those the refuse. have been left for you. That man who had prayed for the fasces, when he attains them, desires to lay them aside and says over and over: "When will this year be over!" That man gives games, and, after setting great value on gaining the chance to give them, now says: "When shall I be rid of them?"

Recognise the feeling?

But he who bestows all of his time on his own needs, who plans out every day as if it were his last, neither longs for nor fears the morrow. For what new pleasure is there that any hour can now bring? They are all known, all have been enjoyed to the full. Mistress Fortune may deal out the rest as she likes; his life has already found safety. Something may be added to it, but nothing taken from it, and he will take any addition as the man who is satisfied and filled takes the food which he does not desire and yet can hold. And so there is no reason for you to think that any man has lived long because he has grey hairs or wrinkles; he has not lived long—he has existed long.

That horrible curse indeed. Nothing worst than to accuse someone of existing rather than living. Am saving it up for the next Tory at dinner.

I am often filled with wonder when I see some men demanding the time of others and those from whom they ask it most indulgent. Both of them fix their eyes on the object of the request for time, neither of them on the time itself; just as if what is asked were nothing, what is given, nothing. Men trifle with the most precious thing in the world; but they are blind to it because it is an incorporeal thing, because it does not come beneath the sight of the eyes, and for this reason it is counted a very cheap thing—nay, of almost no value at all. Men set very great store by pensions and doles, and for these they hire out their labour or service or effort. But no one sets a value on time; all use it lavishly as if it cost nothing. But see how these same people clasp the knees of physicians if they fall ill and the danger of death draws nearer, see how ready they are, if threatened with capital punishment, to spend all their possessions in order to live!

Life is divided into three periods—that which has been, that which is, that which will be. Of these the present time is short, the future is doubtful, the past is certain. For the last is the one over which Fortune has lost control, is the one which cannot be brought back under any man's power. But men who are engrossed lose this; for they have no time to look back upon the past, and even if they should have, it is not pleasant to recall something they must view with regret. They are, therefore, unwilling to direct their thoughts backward to ill-spent hours, and those whose vices become obvious if they review the past, even the vices which were disguised under some allurement of momentary pleasure, do not have the courage to revert to those hours. No one willingly turns his thought back to the past, unless all his acts have been submitted to the censorship of his conscience, which is never deceived; he who has ambitiously coveted, proudly scorned, recklessly conquered, treacherously betrayed, greedily seized, or lavishly squandered, must needs fear his own memory.

Ouch. This Seneca bloke is harsh. I shall live in fear of my memory.

The mind that is untroubled and tranquil has the power to roam into all the parts of its life; but the minds of the engrossed, just as if weighted by a yoke, cannot turn and look behind. And so their life vanishes into an abyss;

Present time is very brief, so brief, indeed, that to some there seems to be none; for it is always in motion, it ever flows and hurries on; it ceases to be before it has come, and can no more brook delay than the firmament or the stars, whose ever unresting movement never lets them abide in the same track.

Oh... I do love metaphysics.

Even the leisure of some men is engrossed; in their villa or on their couch, in the midst of solitude, although they have withdrawn from all others, they are themselves the source of their own worry; we should say that these are living, not in leisure, but in busy idleness.

There just is no winning here. You are busy being idle if you are not careful and much the same worse it is as you are busy being busy.

Would you say that that man is at leisure who arranges with finical care his Corinthian bronzes, that the mania of a few makes costly, and spends the greater part of each day upon rusty bits of copper?

Well... he certainly isn't working! The choice to me is clear, just if only it were to be presented me. I'll take the bronzes, naughty or not.

These have not leisure, but idle occupation.

Yeah, okay. Bronzery may not be a most important activity. Way to crush the favourite hobbies of others.

I hear that one of these pampered people—provided that you can call it pampering to unlearn the habits of human life—when he had been lifted by hands from the bath and placed in his sedan-chair, said questioningly: "Am I now seated?"

Magic... just magic. I'm keeping this one for when I am next assisted in my inebriated condition. Am I now upright? And then take in one of my prompt dives.

Do you think that this man, who does not know whether he is sitting, knows whether he is alive, whether he sees, whether he is at leisure? I find it hard to say whether I pity him more if he really did not know, or if he pretended not to know this.

Seneca spoils all my fun. I'm beginning to see where Nero was coming from. Still, Seneca contines for a bit about the guy in the chair and so delighting in giving him abuse. I wonder who it was he was talking about? I bet the Romans all knew. Sigh... vicious gossip and abuse is the same across two millenia.

It would be tedious to mention all the different men who have spent the whole of their life over chess or ball or the practice of baking their bodies in the sun. They are not unoccupied whose pleasures are made a busy occupation. For instance, no one will have any doubt that those are laborious triflers who spend their time on useless literary problems, of whom even among the Romans there is now a great number. It was once a foible confined to the Greeks to inquire into what number of rowers Ulysses had, whether the Iliad or the Odyssey was written first, whether moreover they belong to the same author, and various other matters of this stamp, which, if you keep them to yourself, in no way pleasure your secret soul, and, if you publish them, make you seem more of a bore than a scholar.

Haha... nasty and beautiful at the same time. So the authorship question has been about for more than 2000 years. It must really be time to put it to bed. We're not going to know, folks. Honest. And we could keep at it if you like... but well... angels on pinheads and dimensions of the Ark and Soloman's Temple and all such rubbish too. Alas, the academy must be full of bores.

e may excuse also those who inquire into this—who first induced the Romans to go on board ship. It was Claudius, and this was the very reason he was surnamed Caudex, because among the ancients a structure formed by joining together several boards was called a caudex, whence also the Tables of the Law are called codices, and, in the ancient fashion, boats that carry provisions up the Tiber are even to-day called codicariae.

I see... entymology can never be neglected.

And, doubtless, this too may find some excuse—but does it serve any useful purpose to know that Pompey was the first to exhibit the slaughter of eighteen elephants in the Circus, pitting criminals against them in a mimic battle? He, a leader of the state and one who, according to report, was conspicuous among the leaders of old for the kindness of his heart, thought it a notable kind of spectacle to kill human beings after a new fashion. Do they fight to the death? That is not enough! Are they torn to pieces? That is not enough! Let them be crushed by animals of monstrous bulk! Better would it be that these things pass into oblivion lest hereafter some all-powerful man should learn them and be jealous of an act that was nowise human. O, what blindness does great prosperity cast upon our minds! When he was casting so many troops of wretched human beings to wild beasts born under a different sky, when he was proclaiming war between creatures so ill matched, when he was shedding so much blood before the eyes of the Roman people, who itself was soon to be forced to shed more. he then believed that he was beyond the power of Nature. But later this same man, betrayed by Alexandrine treachery, offered himself to the dagger of the vilest slave, and then at last discovered what an empty boast his surname[Magnus] was.

Pompey bashing was probably expedient in them days. In light that the mad muppet in the Emperor's office was still officially related to Caesar. Although, a case can be pleaded how Pompey was merely being Pompey and explempar Pompey, aside from the losing part. Not to be risked perhaps.

Of all men they alone are at leisure who take time for philosophy, they alone really live;

Tada! A real shocker this to imagine that our dear author was in fact making such fantastic use of his life. And prigish in telling us too. But there you have it. Forget Jesus, philosophy will save you. It will set you free.

The condition of all who are engrossed is wretched, but most wretched is the condition of those who labour at engrossments that are not even their own, who regulate their sleep by that of another, their walk by the pace of another, who are under orders in case of the freest things in the world—loving and hating.

Never work is the message. See sidebar for details.

And so when you see a man often wearing the robe of office, when you see one whose name is famous in the Forum, do not envy him; those things are bought at the price of life.

Another comfort. I'll mention it to Mr. Gates when we next meet. He won't be much bothered, I think.

Life has left some in the midst of their first struggles, before they could climb up to the height of their ambition; some, when they have crawled up through a thousand indignities to the crowning dignity, have been possessed by the unhappy thought that they have but toiled for an inscription on a tomb;

No one keeps death in view, no one refrains from far-reaching hopes; some men, indeed, even arrange for things that lie beyond life—huge masses of tombs and dedications of public works and gifts for their funeral-pyres and ostentatious funerals. But, in very truth, the funerals of such men ought to be conducted by the light of torches and wax tapers, as though they had lived but the tiniest span.

SPQR

Bertrand's Postulate

It began with a question: Are any Factorials an Exact Power?

(The factorial of n is the product of all natural numbers less than or equal to n. An exact power is an n = m^s for natural numbers m,s>1.)

Well? Guess first before we do any thinking. But guess No. Because anything else should make the maths part of your brain sad and hurt.

So no. But also no, there won't be any thinking here. In that way lies unhealth and it's far too hard anyways. Rather, the modern tenor must be embraced. 'The Computer' shall do our thinking for us. This below runs out prime factor decompositions of some early factorials.

/**
 * Class to examine the powers of factorials.
 */
import java.util.Arrays;

/**
 * Print prime decomposition profiles for early factorials
 */
public class FactorialPowers
{
   /**
    * Short primes list for testing. Primes < 100
    */
   private static final int[] PRIMES = { 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29,
      31, 37, 41, 43, 47, 53, 59, 61, 67, 71, 73, 79, 83, 89, 97 };

   /**
    * @param args unused
    */
   public static void main(String[] args)
   {  // We build the factors of n! from (n-1)! and n. So we want to be
      // keeping a tally of the primes seen each time through our loop.
      // factors[i] is the power of PRIMES[i] in the prime decomposition
      // of n! (Loop Invarient across all the indices)
      int[] factors = new int[PRIMES.length];

      // We start looping with the prime decomposition of 1, no prime factors.
      // for (int i = 0; i < factor.length; i++) { factors[i] = 0; }

      // For each factorial we are sure we can properly factor...
      // i.e. as far as our last prime. Can go last prime +1 but not +2 since
      // that itself can be prime and not already in our list.
      // <= because we can go as far as the last prime okay.
      System.out.println("Primes" + Arrays.toString(PRIMES));
      for (int n = 2; n <= PRIMES[PRIMES.length - 1]; n++)
      {  // We have already factorised (n-1)! so just add the factors of n.

         // Run though our primes less than n pulling out factors,
         // breaking down n as we go until it is 1.
         int i = 0;
         int n_ = n;
         while (n_ > 1)
         {  // Is the i-th prime a factor of n_? If so add it to factors,
            // break down n_ and reenter the loop to test the i-th prime
            // for a repeated factor
            if (n_ % PRIMES[i] == 0)
            {  factors[i]++;
               n_ /= PRIMES[i];
            }
            else // Otherwise step on to testing the next prime.
            {  i++;
            }

            // Some sanity...
            // CAN'T HAPPEN: Our i-th PRIME exceeds n_ and we're not already done
            assert (!(PRIMES[i] > n_ && n_ != 1));
            // TEST: The i index should be in bounds or we're already done.
            assert (i < PRIMES.length || n_ == 1);
         }

         // Dump the computed factors to the console.
         System.out.println(n + "! : " + Arrays.toString(factors));
      }
   }
}


[Sigh. I bet that's incorrectly sized. What a drag. But look, I tried, okay.]

An exact power isn't too hard to spot from a prime decomposition. All the powers should be divisible by some common number greater than 1. A really easy case if is all the powers are the same, for instance. But you may have a case where all the powers are 2 say, except for the power on one prime which might be 4 perhaps. That's still an exact power because the prime, p, which is raised to the fourth power is still a square, only of itself squared, p^2. Because of (p^2)^2 = p^4. So we're looking to find a prime decomposition powers sequence with a nontrivial(I'd say decent) highest common factor.

Now so, what does 'The Computer' say when this is run...

First it tells us what primes it is worrying with.
Primes[2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 31, 37, 41, 43, 47, 53, 59, 61, 67, 71, 73, 79, 83, 89, 97]
And then it tells us a bunch of happy decompositions.
2! : [1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
Because 2! = 2. Nicely.
3! : [1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
Because 3! = 2 * 3. Isn't this computer clever?
4! : [3, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
Because 4! = 2 * 3 * 4 = 2 * 3 * (2 * 2) = 2^3 * 3. And blah and blah for...
5! : [3, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
6! : [4, 2, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
7! : [4, 2, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
8! : [7, 2, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
9! : [7, 4, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
10! : [8, 4, 2, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
11! : [8, 4, 2, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
12! : [10, 5, 2, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
13! : [10, 5, 2, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
14! : [11, 5, 2, 2, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
15! : [11, 6, 3, 2, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
16! : [15, 6, 3, 2, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
17! : [15, 6, 3, 2, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
18! : [16, 8, 3, 2, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
19! : [16, 8, 3, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
20! : [18, 8, 4, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
21! : [18, 9, 4, 3, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
22! : [19, 9, 4, 3, 2, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
23! : [19, 9, 4, 3, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
24! : [22, 10, 4, 3, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
25! : [22, 10, 6, 3, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
26! : [23, 10, 6, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
27! : [23, 13, 6, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
28! : [25, 13, 6, 4, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
29! : [25, 13, 6, 4, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
30! : [26, 14, 7, 4, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
31! : [26, 14, 7, 4, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
32! : [31, 14, 7, 4, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
33! : [31, 15, 7, 4, 3, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
34! : [32, 15, 7, 4, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
35! : [32, 15, 8, 5, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
36! : [34, 17, 8, 5, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
37! : [34, 17, 8, 5, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
38! : [35, 17, 8, 5, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
39! : [35, 18, 8, 5, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
40! : [38, 18, 9, 5, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
41! : [38, 18, 9, 5, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
42! : [39, 19, 9, 6, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
43! : [39, 19, 9, 6, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
44! : [41, 19, 9, 6, 4, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
45! : [41, 21, 10, 6, 4, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
46! : [42, 21, 10, 6, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
47! : [42, 21, 10, 6, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
48! : [46, 22, 10, 6, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
49! : [46, 22, 10, 8, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
50! : [47, 22, 12, 8, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
51! : [47, 23, 12, 8, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
52! : [49, 23, 12, 8, 4, 4, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
53! : [49, 23, 12, 8, 4, 4, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
54! : [50, 26, 12, 8, 4, 4, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
55! : [50, 26, 13, 8, 5, 4, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
56! : [53, 26, 13, 9, 5, 4, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
57! : [53, 27, 13, 9, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
58! : [54, 27, 13, 9, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
59! : [54, 27, 13, 9, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
60! : [56, 28, 14, 9, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
61! : [56, 28, 14, 9, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
62! : [57, 28, 14, 9, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
63! : [57, 30, 14, 10, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
64! : [63, 30, 14, 10, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
65! : [63, 30, 15, 10, 5, 5, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
66! : [64, 31, 15, 10, 6, 5, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
67! : [64, 31, 15, 10, 6, 5, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
68! : [66, 31, 15, 10, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
69! : [66, 32, 15, 10, 6, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
70! : [67, 32, 16, 11, 6, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
71! : [67, 32, 16, 11, 6, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
72! : [70, 34, 16, 11, 6, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]
73! : [70, 34, 16, 11, 6, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0]
74! : [71, 34, 16, 11, 6, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0]
75! : [71, 35, 18, 11, 6, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0]
76! : [73, 35, 18, 11, 6, 5, 4, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0]
77! : [73, 35, 18, 12, 7, 5, 4, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0]
78! : [74, 36, 18, 12, 7, 6, 4, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0]
79! : [74, 36, 18, 12, 7, 6, 4, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0]
80! : [78, 36, 19, 12, 7, 6, 4, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0]
81! : [78, 40, 19, 12, 7, 6, 4, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0]
82! : [79, 40, 19, 12, 7, 6, 4, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0]
83! : [79, 40, 19, 12, 7, 6, 4, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0]
84! : [81, 41, 19, 13, 7, 6, 4, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0]
85! : [81, 41, 20, 13, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0]
86! : [82, 41, 20, 13, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0]
87! : [82, 42, 20, 13, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0]
88! : [85, 42, 20, 13, 8, 6, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0, 0]
89! : [85, 42, 20, 13, 8, 6, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0]
90! : [86, 44, 21, 13, 8, 6, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0]
91! : [86, 44, 21, 14, 8, 7, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0]
92! : [88, 44, 21, 14, 8, 7, 5, 4, 4, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0]
93! : [88, 45, 21, 14, 8, 7, 5, 4, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0]
94! : [89, 45, 21, 14, 8, 7, 5, 4, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0]
95! : [89, 45, 22, 14, 8, 7, 5, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0]
96! : [94, 46, 22, 14, 8, 7, 5, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 0]
97! : [94, 46, 22, 14, 8, 7, 5, 5, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1]

The engineer in all of us now declaims that the power of the highest prime in the decomposition of any factorial is 1. So there can't be an exact power n! = m^s with m,s>1. Because we must group up all the prime factors of n! to give the m if it exists. However the top prime won't ever be a square or higher power. So we won't be getting our s>1. Tough sh*t, really.

All very helpful, thank you Mr. Computer. It's useful having you around when we don't have a brain of our own. Still, it nags. How should we have seen this originally if we were proper clever?

The answer, of course, is Bertrand's Postulate. A fantastic piece of magic which I shall salute with my first pint of the evening later. In fact, you should always be thinking Bertrand's Postulate because it is the quick jackknife punch in the stomach for getting out of dark elementary number theory alleys.

Now it says there's always a prime between n and 2n for n>1. So suppose the top prime, p, of our factorial is a square. (Or any higher power because cubes have squares in them, etc.) Then what happened to the prime, q, the one between p and 2p. It is larger than p but smaller than 2p. And if p^2 is in the prime decomposition of n! then n>=2p for how else is it to sweep up the doubled prime except with the p and 2p parts of the factorial multiplications at best.

This leaves us with p the top prime in n! and n >= 2p > q > p. Meaning q is one of the terms in n! only it is not top prime despite being prime and larger that the top prime p. Which is all bogus.

It's great not having to think, isn't it?

Only is it? The great fear is of compthink groupthink. Has the computer tended us to a particular solution? One which doesn't speak to the real essence of the problem?

Computer lead investigations have a natural computational flavour. Because that's what they are, computational. But a computational proof is an unseemly thing at times. They can be arithmeticisms and not mathematicisms. Mathematics wants 'real solutions' to questions, the solutions which enlighten and inform. And only occassionally are these computational style.

But now the pedagogy of this example goes missing. Hey, don't hassle me, I didn't cook it up to straw man a moral position. The highest prime is critical to deciding that factorials are never exact powers. You are basically stuck with finding it a pairing factor to sweeten out into a power. And you'll only get that factor from higher up the factorial product. But we know that by the time you get to that factor, the stuff in between will have messed in a way that puts you back where you started. Namelu, looking for a complement to a new highest prime.

For sure? Isn't there maybe some other explanation at play? Well, look at the decomposition of 10!. It's:
10!=2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.10=2.3.(2^2).5.(2.3).7.(2^3).(3^2).(2.5)
And we rearrange to get 10! = (2^8).(3^4).(5^2).7 and here our only problem is the highest prime, 7. The rest is:
(2^8).(3^4).(5^2)=(2^4.3^2.5)^2=720^2
So yeah, this is a case where the bottom stuff all sorts itself out and only the top prime causes grief.

Extra Credit: The decomposition profiles seem to grow strings of ones on the top side. Is this for sure? Will the number of single power primes at the top of a factorial prime decomposition grow arbitrarily large or is it gonna happen that they will shrink? And if they collapse to a single one, can all the factors but the top prime sort themselves into a convenient square or higher power arbitrarily often?

Mercurialism & Mercurists

Been too much fascinatingly and enlighteningly in the Mercur- section of the OED lately. Oh, the quality of word from that market, godlike and chemical root! Sic vita humana. And if that doesn't convince you, the 8 January calendar entry said 'Pia fraus'.

But bystanding mercies(teehee) I've a new favourite word home. Like 'mercurial', where some rare noun usages inform my sense of the common adjective. Mercurials, indeed! And yet more evidence for my OED Law. All words possess unexpected obscure usages in the OED.

And happy thoughts like 'Mercurist', more delighted providers of news messages. A sadly obscure persumable synonym for blogger.

Yet now... to commerce: Or to the point. I forget. The darling boy is above and below, though, care of my holiday in the British Museum. Wanna see some Justinian coins? (Damn, hope that is the correct adjective? Constantinopolitan!)