Good idea for Google

I've given some thought over the years, going back to (probably) 1988 about massively parralel systems. I won't go into that here. But I do have an idea that came about when pondering prime numbers recently. I was pondering the complexity of factoring and finally realised a simple thing:

Factoring is search

Google does search

Google should do factoring

Not clear enough? OK, here's how a web search goes, at least according to my short-sighted mind: A search string is entered on Google, and that search string is sent out to hundreds of thousands of servers. Each server does a search based on its narrow list of web pages it has indexed. All hundred-thousand-or-so servers run a search and return the results, instead of one server performing one hundred thousand searches at a time.

Now, just have all the google individual servers store a narrow set of prime numbers (which can find all the other factors) and the search "string" would be some large number. You would have to "re-search" any multiples of the primes for the rest of the factors. That might be hard to do with the current search algorithm.

I'm not sure what number we could get to for fast factoring, but the biggest number would be the square of the highest prime number in the system. If each of the one hundred thousand servers had, say, 1000 primes stored, that would include the first million primes. Square that, and you could easily factor any number under it.

If you like my idea, you can steal it. And by the way, I need a job, Google.

Job Interview

Friday I met with two headhunters. One of the positions sounds really good; it's close by and well within my abilities. The pay is similar to what I'm making, and so I think I can really turn on the charm and breeze through the interview with the "clients". The other headhunter just wanted to get some "face time" so there's no position attached as yet.

I can generally ace any interview that I've been in. But I would like to share the experience of my first professional job interview ever. It was also The Worst Job Interview in the World.

As a student fresh out of college, I had submitted my resume around town. I had actual work experience as a freelance consultant, and also from working in the college administrative offices. I had an actual resume, even if it only showed 2 to 3 years of experience.

I got a call one day, asking about a job I had applied for from the LA Times classifieds (no Monster, or HotJobs, or whatnot back then). The interview went something similar to this (warning, technical jargon):

Interview Guy: What does the 'ls' command do in Unix?

Me: Good question. The 'ls' command is a fundamental Unix command which allows you to view the 'listing' of files in a directory. In fact, the 'ls' comes from the word 'list', although you wouldn't be able to guess that. The history of Unix is full of these odd commands and shortcuts that are sometimes mysterious.

Long silence over the phone, with some kind of buzzing or fan whirring noise as if on speaker phone

Me: Hello?

Interview Guy: I'm here. What are all the command-line options for 'ls'?

Me: All of them? I only know about ten. There's '-l' for long format. And '-a' lower case which will show all files, including hidden files. '-A' with a capital letter is for listing All files except '.' and '..'. There's, um, '-C' with a capital for columnar format and similarly '-F' with a capital that 'formats' the output with special characters that denote regular files and directories, etc. There's, um, um, '-r' for a reverse of the sort, and um, um, '-R' with a capital for recursive directories and um... um... um... lots more. I could go through this with a simple 'man' command if you like.

Even longer silence over the phone, with buzzing and fan noises. Creaking chair sounds, some footsteps. A clock ticks.

Me: Hello?

Interview Guy: I'm here. What is the 'tar' command?

....And so on. He would ask a basic question, "what is the X command" and I would answer. There'd be thirty to sixty seconds of uncomfortable fan and speaker-phone noises and then he would follow up with "what are all the command-line options for X". I would stumble through thirty to sixty seconds trying to list each option. Then, there'd be another long, extremely uncomfortable pause with the fans whirring. He seemed to only respond when I asked "Hello?" or "Are you there?"

Finally, after asking about 10 such idiotic questions (with long pauses in between), he asked me to come in for a face-to-face interview. I didn't have a car at the time, so I had to beg a roommate for a car ride. I had an address on Sepulveda near the airport. If you're familiar with Los Angeles and Sepulveda, then you know that this is the longest street in the city, county, probably the state, and ranks high up there on lists of World's Longest Paved Roads.

The address turned out to be non-existant. Naturally, my roommate had dropped me off and then sped off so that I couldn't get a ride to the correct address, or even just to get home again. So I used some spare change I had to get a pay phone (no cell phones back then) and call. I informed the Interview Guy that I was at the address provided and I was staring at an empty lot. He said something like, "Oh, I forgot to mention that's 12000 NORTH, not 12000 South." OK, thanks asshole. You clearly said South, and that's what I wrote down. Asshole. I was polite, obviously and these were only thoughts, not quotes that I verbalised. I was seriously beginning to think this was a tragic joke.

So I made some excuse about needing to go somewhere else first, and could I reschedule for later in the afternoon. I began the trek up Sepulveda, and knew I was in for about a 10 mile walk, or so. It was 10am and starting to get hot. I tried not to sweat-stain my pathetic excuse for fancy interview clothing. Fortunately, there was a mall along the way, so I stopped inside, cooled down and bought an cold drink with a few more spare change monies I had.

Finally, I made it down to the correct address and stared at a three story building with three dozen offices inside. I couldn't find the guy's name and I didn't know the company name. So I went across the street to a pay phone (no cell phones back then) and asked him which suite number he was in. He said something like, "Oh, sorry I gave you the wrong address. That's our old address. We're next door at ..." something like that. What a motherfucking asshole shitbag wipeup motherfucker.

So I went inside and found an empty reception room with a couch. I sat and waited (no bell or obvious way to attract attention) for at least 15 minutes. Finally a door opened, and someone walked past me hurriedly and out the door. I didn't have time to get their attention, not that I could have anyway. I waited for a few more minutes and another person walked past. Luckily, I was ready and flagged them down, asking for assistance. She said something like "Go through that door and sit at the table with the power supply on it."

Power supply? Are you kidding me? As I approached the room through the door, I found out the source of the whirring and noises. The interview room was a cluttered office, full of spare PC parts and a wooden desk with a speaker phone sitting next to a AT 180 Watt power supply that was loudly buzzing. I don't remember if it was actually powering anything. I just know that it was buzzing for the entire time I was there.

So I sat down and a few minutes later, the Interview Guy showed up and acted surprised I was there. I introduced myself and asked to talk about the position. To tell you the truth, he looked annoyed; I am pretty certain this was some kind of joke, but to this day, I don't know what kind.

He asked me some duplicate questions from the interview over the phone: "What is the command X" and "What are all the command line options for it?" In between, yes, he just sat there and stared into space for a very long, uncomfortable 60-90 seconds.

Finally, he turned to a computer and said something like, "Write me a program that takes three inputs from a command-line and outputs some information." Something vague, which I started to do. I typed out a rough outline in C and got about four lines down the page when he started shouting, "You've got four lines and four mistakes. Now get out of here. Get out. You don't have the job. You're gone."

Stunned, I barely managed to make my exit. As I walked out into the hot summer afternoon, I started to get really mad and upset. I sat down on the nearest bus station to begin my long ride home. I barely had enough money for the bus ride and transfers. I was getting ready to start begging passersby for spare change. As I sat there, upset and bent, a truck pulled up to the stop light and three kids in the back of the truck stood up and used their Super Soakers™ to wet me down. The light turned green, and the truck sped off up the street.

This is not a made up story. This really happened to me in real life. You know what I did? I laughed and cried (but I still think that was just the water from the Super Soakers™) and went home.

Eating cat

Let's be frank, here boys and girls. It's time to come clean and discuss some here adult topics. Get your kiddies out of the room and let's a have a one-on-one palaver about some sexual topics.

I have had a long-standing aversion to eating out a pussy. There, I said it. In my idealistic youth, lo these many years ago, I used to think this was the ultimate pleasure -- to nestle my face deep into that intimate area and start to enjoy the delicacy therein.

However, practical experience has shown that at best the pussy is a tasteless, odourless squishy mess and at worst it is a foul, putrid, rotten swamp. I have experienced some pussy that would make a garlic and onion eating, unshowered, cologne-reeking Frenchman recoil in horror, with his eyes watering and stomach dry retching. And this pussy that smelled so bad and horrid was smelled from a distance of 1 to 1,5 metres.

The female vulva, clitoris, labia and vagina are wonderful, god-created objects of art. They appeal to two of the five senses: sight and feeling. The other three are horrible features of some kind of horror movie nightmare. Taste and smell are not strong suits for this. The last sense, hearing, is one that I will never ever mention again in this context for obvious reasons.

What is the resolution of this fine mess; if I am attracted to pussy (who isn't, quite frankly) but am unable to bury my face in it? I have finally settled on a technique that should work -- and it has worked for me with medium success. I define "medium success" as being able to perform the cunnilingus for a few minutes so that I can move on to other objects like toys and fingers.

First, the amount of hair should be reduced as much as possible. Listen gals, we don't need to show off how manly we are. Cut back and shave that growth to a narrow landing strip, or even better, just get rid of the whole lot. I can't take the pubic hairs up the nostils for long without wanting to rear back and start slashing with a Lady Bic. Once again, shave it back so there's a little bit on top, or just go bald.

Second, you need plenty of access. The legs have to be spread W I D E open. Bend your knees, and grab your ankles and pull as hard as possible. No head-in-a-vice-I-can't-breathe-and-my-ears-are-going-to-explode syndrome here. You start squeezing my head or even my shoulders and I'm likely to get a little claustrophobic. I might freak out and start thrashing.

Third, I have learned the secret is to breathe through the mouth. Imagine dunking your head into a vat of raw sewage and taking a few deep nostril breaths. The way to get around this is to just keep your mouth open and breathe through the mouth. Stick our your tounge and start doing the business.

Fourth, tilt your head or angle her body so that you don't bury your nose in tickle fibres. See Section 1 for details.

Fifth, you will notice as you start wagging your tounge around wantonly with your mouth wide open and breathing through your mouth like a scuba diver, you will notice that you will start drooling and dripping. Well, if you are pretending to do your job right, she will be drooling and dripping as well, but from a different mouth with different lips. So the drool will run freely, disguised as femlube. Use the femlube as much as possible with your free hand and fingers. That will add further pleasures and stimulations which will help make this process as short as possible.

Hopefully by this time, you have done enough to move on to other business. I hope that I can spread some knowledge that will empower and enlighten the human race.

Change, change, change

Time to get a new job. Yesterday, my boss was forced to "mutually agreed to resign." The feeling around here is not very positive. I started looking for a new job about three weeks ago in mid-January. It took a couple weeks, but finally the tension snapped and he was gone. The CEO called an all-hands meeting and made some mouth movements about how much we liked him and how it was "unfortunate" that my boss had to leave.

In an embarassing moment, the CEO made a magnanimous gesture of offering a going-away luncheon on 2/28. My boss said, "I'll think about it."

I thought we were fighting only the enemies at this company. It turns out that our internal guys in the foxhole with us were supplying the enemy with our positions and movements and, worse, shooting at us from inside the foxhole.

I don't have any regrets or nostalgia. It's just time to move on. Start dialing for dollars and scouring the internet for jobs. If needed, I could take a few months off without pay. But then it's harder to dig out of the debt hole, not to mention that nobody wants to hire someone who is unemployed for long periods of time.

We'll see what happens.

Supramarginal Gyrus

I noticed at some point that I have a fairly common problem (among women) that I have difficulty distinguishing correctly between right and left. I will say "left" but point "right". I cannot accurately tell you which direction right and left are, without careful consideration.

For example, if you hold up a hand and ask me which one you are holidng up, I will have to consciously say, "Let's see. My right hand is the one I use to pick up a pen. That is... this hand. Yes, I can move my hand to pretend it holds a pen, and it feels natural. Now, that is my right hand as I say. This hand is on the opposite side from someone who is facing me. Or is it the same side if they are facing away? I can't remember. Let me turn around to face the same direction they are facing and try to mimic what this person is doing. OK. Now, that is my hand that holds pens, and it is not the same side that the other person is holding up, so the answer is... I think left? Because left is the opposite of my writing hand. I think. I'm not sure."

I learned about this defect in a college cognitive course, and was embarassed and ashamed to admit that I am, essentially, "functionaly directionally challenged". I can correctly give instructions by drawing a map. I can correctly read maps. I can correctly point out which way to turn if asked where something is. But I cannot, for example, tell you to "Turn right" or "The map says to turn east if we are heading south". I can only articulate, "Turn this way [pointing]", or "If I turn the map upside down so that south is forward, then you turn this way [pointing]." I have no idea which way turns go.

As a child, this manifested itself by being unable to give correct instructions. For example, I would confidently give directions home using "right", "left" and anyone who followed would be hopelessly lost. I was unable to tell you directly which hand I wrote with (although I could raise it quickly). I did not realise that there was even a distinguishing feature called "right" or "left" "handedness". I could throw a ball with the same hand a hundred times, but never could tell you that I was "right handed".

To this day, I am still ashamed and hide my deficit by pointing and not venturing into the words or concepts right, left, east, or west.

BaNa^2

For some reason I was remembering my youth where I had visited a local fair and won a plush yellow banana. I loved that goddamned banana and I couldn't be separated from it, even after it turned strange mottled colours of spilled food, drool, and hand and foot prints. I don't know what ever happened to it, but I'm sure it eventually ripped open at the seams and spilled the precious blood of styrofoam peanuts or whatever it was packed with. I'm sure my parents unceremoniously tossed it in the trash one day while I was at school and had to deal with hours of uncontrolled hysterics while I tried to deal with and grieve the loss of my closest family member.

I remember about six years ago, I watched Mark Harmon in The Deliberate Stranger and saw a five-second scene in which a little boy is being towed along by an adult, barely clutching in his free hand that very same plush yellow banana I knew and loved from my youth. Tears welled up and my face turned bright red. The pain was a real and immediate as if I were three years old again.

I loved that goddamned plush yellow banana from 1973.

Chateau de Cul

Penn and Teller had a wonderful Bullshit episode where they fooled some punk-ass "fine dining expert" into drinking some $1000 per bottle "Chateau de Cul" wine. Only, it wasn't $1000 wine, it was $1.99 wine. And "Cul" means "Ass" in French, in case you didn't know (I did).

But as I sat on the toilet straining a little bit this morning, I realised that if you skip even one day of Cul-itude in the toilet, you can get a bit stuck. I try to make it to the toilet to shit every day. But sometimes I forget and things get stiff and hard in there. I think the turds get dry or something and they lose their lube. A good turd should be soft and moist, but yet gently firm and hold together. A stiff, dry turd hurts on the way out and it is most definitely not worth the effort.

That's my opinion, but I'm not a doctor.

Olympic update

I've been paying attention to the winter Olympics more than any reasonable person should. Here are some of my favourite highlights:

Opening ceremony. The opening ceremony was a disorganised, horrific, and unwatchable mess. Worse yet, it was more boring than the Academy Awards®. I watched it via satellite on east-coast time. I went to bed at a reasonable time, 21:30. I then discussed the opening ceremony with some friends. They complained about not being able to stay up until midnight! Most of the people I know fell asleep and never saw the lighting of the Olympic flame.

Lighting of the Olympic flame. Speaking of which, the lighting was unspectacular and completely fake. Yes, I know, the archer who shot a flaming arrow at Salt Lake didn't actually ignite the actual flame. But it was damned cool. Torino's lighing was "I'll pretned to light this piece of metal, and then some 5¢ sparklers will ignite. That looks really cool."

Fuck the Italians. Enough said. I hate these bitches, but not as much as the French.

Bode Miller and hype. Bode Miller is the essence of ugly Americanism. So cool that we can spout of our mouths and brag, but unable to lay down actual tracks when the time comes. Big talk, big swagger, no results -- worse, utter failure. Sounds like W. Bush, in a way.

Skating and Michelle Kwan the Cunt. Biatch, I wrote about you earlier. Your sorry ass shouldn't have been on the plane to Italy in the first place. Shut your pie hole and stop those crocodile tears and go back to your fucking mama. You can't win shit and never did. So shut the fucking hell up already.

Pair's ice skating. Few things are more boring and shitty than the pair's skating. There are too many things to watch with two people on the ice. I can't see both jumps, and I don't appreciate "death spiral" (oooooo, scary) or "grab my leg, I'll grab yours". I love watching the skaters fall, but not if they get hurt terribly. I'm not a sadist, after all. So when the chinese woman fell on her knee, I knew that hurt but she seemed fine. I wasn't too impressed. I've hit my knee where your whole leg goes numb and you can't move. It wears off in about 60 seconds, so just walk it off. Keep going. But you're not some super human or some kind of hero.

Girl's Snowboarding. First, the snowboarding outfits look absolutely ridiculous and laughable. But, I thought the girls did a good job. They still have that "frat girl" attitude, and I'm sure they might be somewhat enjoyable (though disposable) in bed. But I still think it promotes the ugliness and ego-centricity of the Americans.

Fuck the Americans. Enough said. But I hate France even more.

Grammy's 2006

I watched the Grammy's this year and was disappointed. The commercials had hyped some kind of "twist" or "memorable moment". I don't think that Eminem singing with Gay Boy is some kind of spectacular moment. I still think the song was better with Dido's voice. I have the Eminem's recent "Best Of" album and vastly prefer the studio version of Stan's Song to the live Grammy version.

But back to the introduction. The show looked great and sounded great in HD. I don't seem to recall so many shows in HD all of a sudden.

I've always thought the Gorillaz group is offensively named (being that they are full of those jungle monkey darkies who sing bad music). I do like the cartoonz [sic] they play though. Somehow Madonna got into the act and I have something to say about that, too. Women who are 50 shouldn't be showing their flat legs straining against the leg tights and bumpy chests in a one-piece bathing suit on television. It was revolting and pathetic. And that didn't include the music, which was also revolting and pathetic.

The other musical performances were spectacularly weak. Coldplay usually has something I like to listen to, but as a live act, the music is fairly dull. I like the studio version of their first album. After that, I'm pretty much done with these retards.

U2 performed their ancient stuff, including a strange version of One. I remember liking One on the Actung Baby album from, like, 1992 or something. That was their last mediocre album in my memory, and it's been quite a while since then. How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb is a perfectly disposable and unmemorable album but it seems to have won album of the year. Didn't that piece of shit come out last year? I think I bought it on impulse, hated it, and then "regifted" it to someone for Christmas. I can remember listening to Actung Baby with more clarity, and like I said, that must be 15 years ago.

Paul McCartney played some bad music, until he came back on with a different jungle Gorilla group and sang a passable version of Helter Skelter, a real Beatles song. None of this Wings shit, asshole. The Beatles are all dead except for McCartney (Ringo doesn't count), so he has a job to keep us going for a few more years. After that, it's over. Make the most of it while we can.

Other than that, I pretty much erased all the rest from my memory before it was even over.

Passing quietly

I have always had an inclination toward the morbid; even as a youth I had thoughts that would be considered suicidal. So as not to alarm and shock you, allow me to explain the finer points of this and you can then pass judgement.

Essentially, my thoughts of suicide would go like this: "As long as I died quickly and didn't end up a quadriplegic on a hospital bed, I wouldn't mind getting 'accidentally' hit by a bus." My basic philosophy has always been that when my time is up, I hope to go quickly and quietly. I certainly don't want to wail and cry or fight it if I have to go. There's nothing more pathetic to me than some dying creature fighting to live and struggling against the inevitable.

Let me put it to you this way: if I'm a gazelle, and a lion is chasing me, I'll run away. It is great fun and excitement to run away from danger and it can actually enhance your sense of "life" and "living". If the lion is able to claw my leg but I can still run, I'll run away. I'll have a nice scar and badge of honour among the gazelles. If, however, the lion bites my hump so I can no longer run, and he's now got his mouth on my throat; then basically, I would then admit that death was imminent and that I should go gracefully.

I propose a flat, singular transactional life; one in which you are always in balance, except for maybe the odd unclosed transaction which, if you died and never got to it, would not matter much. Someone gives you a gift, you say thankyou immediately. One transaction. Suppose you give a gift to someone, and they don't say thank you. You don't care because you've already said thank you to yourself on their behalf and you have no hanging transactions. If someone says "Fuck you asshole motherfucker", you smile knowingly and wave politely. No hanging transactions or recursive opening of transactions ("recursion" in this case is known more popularly as "escalation").

Basically, take care of your shit now. Right now. You might die.

I despise any idiot who lies on the road as their arteries have been severed by a bullet or knife or bus front-end, spending fruitless energy whining and crying "Why me? I have so much to live for. Let me live. Save me." Shut your mouth and just die, already. You should have been ready to die at any moment. It's your own fault you left hanging threads and don't keep your life in order.

In my view, I might be one (or hopefully at most, two) transactions away from being a fully closed ledger. Lately, I've been noticing all these brown spots all over my body. Some are full-fledged moles, most are just freckles. But I secretly hope that they are some sort of cancer that can eat me up. I only hope that I don't deteriorate over too long a time. I can struggle through the pain and keep myself going for a while, I figure. But I worry that if I were to start fainting, falling over, coughing blood, or vomiting uncontrollably; then some fuck-ass interloper like my loved ones or some idiot doctor or 911 technician is going to try to save my dying shit.

As long as I can walk upright and smile, I figure I can let this thing get to me until there's no hope of getting well. Not that I want to anyway. I've got no transactions. Everytime someone tries to open one, I close it as soon as possible. If I ever heard the famous line from a doctor, "You've got six months left to live", I'd be excited with joy.

Sadly, this mental sickness is something I won't share with anyone out loud. I also don't have any skin cancer or other problem that can kill me. The best I can hope for is a car accident. But I am ready to check out when the time comes. I'm sweeping the floor in front of the door that is labeled "exit", waiting for it to open.

Professional Bus Thrower-Underer

I have become a professional Bus Thrower-Underer. What is a PBTUer? The job duties entail the following:

• First, if you are not throwing others under the bus, then you are the target for being thrown under the bus. You either throw, or be thrown. This is the law of the bus jungle.
  
  
  
  • If you see a bus coming down the street, or know of a bus route, then you must always be on your guard.
    
  • If you ever feel hands grabbing your neck or lapels or belt buckle, or feel hands pushing you in the upper or lower back, you must fight, scream, kick, and grab the person who is throwing you under a bus. It is acceptable to be thrown under a bus if you can draw the throwee in with you.
  
  
• Find out bus schedules and stops. Memorise these.
  
• Look for people you work with who walk on the sidewalk. These are the easy prey.
  
  
  
  • Sneak up on these coworkers and simply push them into the oncoming bus.
  
  
• Look also for other coworkers who walk on the sidewalk but are paranoid, constantly looking over their shoulders, or using newspaper or memos to cover their rear ends as they try to walk forward. These are the difficult prey.
  
  
  
  • Try throwing an easy prey under the bus as described above, then when the difficult prey comes over to examine what happened, push as hard as possible on them from behind so they too go under the bus.
    
  • Find a way to distract them, perhaps by using a partner or a team. Have your partner yell or create a commotion on the other side of the street. As the difficult prey cowers behind the bus stop or looks across the street, grab them by the collar and belt, and heave, throw, shove, push, and strain to throw them into an oncoming bus.
  
  
• Now that you have mastered the difficult prey, it is time to turn on your partners and teams.
  
  
  
  • Tell your coworker you are hunting a particularly difficult prey who walks most paranoidly and is looking in all directions. Their ass is covered to the maximum and they will not fall for the distraction techniques mentioned above. Concoct a difficult and cunning strategy for your teammate to follow. At some point in the plan, push those gullible motherfuckers under the fucking biggest, fastest moving bus you can find.
  
  
• Now there are some prey who do not go on the sidewalk. They never go near a door or exit. They run to their cars through the parking structure and never venture near bus routes. These are extremely cowardly and rotten people. You must commandeer or steal a bus and drive it to these cowards. Run them over, get out of the bus, pick them up, then throw them under it again.

If you follow these simple steps, you can gain mastery in Bus Throwing-Under-hood-ed-ness.

Speech to the Nation

"And so, in my State of the -- my State of the Union -- or state -- my speech to the nation, whatever you want to call it, speech to the nation --"

George W. Bush, Bridgeport, Connecticut; April 9 2002

As memorable as that quote is, this past "state -- speech to the nation -- whatever you want to call it" was too smooth and benign to be very memorable. There was the usual glee with which I watched one half of the floor standing, clapping, sitting, and standing, clapping, and sitting again like some kind of cult church. I love watching only half the auditorium standing. It's great. When everyone stands and claps, that's boring.

Another scene that was a lot of fun was watching Hillary "Grotesque" Clinton's facial twiches and reactions. Seeing that hideous face in crisp, clear, High Definition made me wish for the days of watching for a tiny glimpse of that sad, sagging, brown-and-black Jackson titty from the Superbowl. I also enjoyed the moment when W. tried to chastise the group for NOT passing his Social Security reform, and the left half of the auditorium stood up and clapped in reverse support. So they were clapping at themselves (not him) for their job in stopping some legislation. It was a classic and enjoyable Zen moment (aren't they all?)

Speaking of High Definition, my satellite feed for CBS west had some kind of horrible echo on it. CBS seemed to be the only station that was broadcasting the "pre-show" in HD, but once the "Speech to the Nation" started, the echo drove me away. NBC was in HD for the speech, but it had some horrible top and bottom banners that were distracting. Don't put a banner at the top AND the bottom saying "Live..." and "Speech to the Nation" (or whatever you want to call it). I finally settled on ABC's feed which had only a small transparent ABC logo in the lower right. I don't like those horrible banners; they take up too much of the screen. Fox, to my extreme disappointment, was in SD with pillar bars. Usually, they are in the forefront of HD (even broadcasting such schlock and nonsense as Cops in HD); but on the other hand, they are not really credible in the news or important events like "Speech to the Nation" department.

It was a very boring, fairly uneventful State of the Union, and that was a fair bit of disappointment.