Kyle Bush discusses building the Obama campaign’s online fundraising platform on top of Blue State Digital’s existing platform. After the building the platform the Obama team performed 240 a/b tests to perfect it. The difference between the original form (which is pretty standard industry fare) and the optimized form is above. And the difference is striking.
Also, if someone in your organization asks, “Why can’t we do that?” Pat of the answer is that the Obama Campaign employed 14 front-end engineers, with six dedicated to online fundraising.
The coop would go from trike, to scooter, to bike, growing with the child and all parts could be sent back to the manufacturer for reclamation after the child has outgrown them. (Found on Yanko Design)
“They said their design direction was no longer consistent with the EPEAT requirements,” Frisbee said. The company did not elaborate, Frisbee said. “They were important supporters and we are disappointed that they don’t want their products measured by this standard anymore.” …
An Apple spokeswoman declined to comment, but referred to Apple’s website which contains reports on the environmental impact of its products. Apple offers several recycling programs through its stores and website.
One of Apple’s newest products, the MacBook Pro with a high-resolution “Retina” display, was nearly impossible to fully disassemble, said Kyle Wiens, co-founder of iFixit.com, a website that provides directions for users to repair their own machines. The battery was glued to the case, and the glass display was glued to its back. The product, released just a month ago, had not been submitted for EPEAT certification, according to the organization.
Frisbee said that the structure of that laptop would have made it ineligible for certification. “If the battery is glued to the case it means you can’t recycle the case and you can’t recycle the battery,” Frisbee said.
Apple was putting design first in an effort to make products smaller and have batteries last longer, said Shaw Wu an analyst at Sterne Agee. “They are not trying to purposely make it hard to open, they are just trying to pack as much as they can into a small space–it’s a design decision,” Wu said.
Here are four (more) reasons to light the fireworks this year:
One: The black guy versus the Mormon.
Only in America would you have two candidates who are so part of “the other” running for president. No matter what happens in November, we’ll have a president that is very different than the majority of the country and it feels like that just isn’t a big deal anymore. Look across the rest of the world and every country votes in what they know. Here in the USA we’ve turned a corner.
Four: Our unwavering creative spirit.
Yeah, the economy’s not great. We’re finally pulling ourselves out of a recess-depression only to have a potential European collapse bring us down again, but by and large Americans aren’t getting down. Instead, we’re creating things — from Pinterest, to Spanx, to Kickstarter — we’re finding ways to solve problems, do what we love, and make a little bank. And with the power of the Internets, we’re creating more and more just for kicks. You don’t need a studio to be an artist anymore, you just need a laptop and an internet connection.
I don’t worry about America, because our creative spirit will never let us down. A bad economy, a government that doesn’t work anymore and a seemingly impossible and ever-growing political divide be damned — no matter what differences we have, our desire to build something new will always win out.
Great athletes know something critical the rest of us don’t: how to acquire genius through work. “If you look very carefully at those who end up being the best you discover — by doing intensive tracking of them — that they do practice more, and better, than those in the class below them,” Shenk says. If we look at the quantitative and qualitative difference in the habits of great athletes we can then extend them to achievements in other fields. We might start with staging more science contests.
He can see the storm cloud approaching as he comes down the hill to Foggy Bottom. He feels the first drops, heavy and thick on his scalp and arms — real water splashing on his skin. Ahead, the umbrellas pop and flutter like too-fat birds. They flock to the escalator funnel, diving down underground, seeking dark shelter from the storm. He stops in front of a lamp post and turns his face to the rain. Weighted drops pepper his eyelids, lips and tongue. In a landscape of gray and glass he can feel the rain, smell the earth and know he is alive.
Yesterday, on my way to work Red Bird’s live version of “Ooh La La” popped up on my iPhone. The opening strums of acoustic guitar and the fist line, “Poor old granddad, I laughed at all his words,” made me stop in my tracks and brought tears to my eyes. Embarrassingly enough, this happens to me more than I’d like to admit. I had heard the song before — first in Wes Anderson’s excellent “Rushmore” — and it’s one of those songs that I’ve been meaning to pick up, but I didn’t realize I actually owned it. Red Bird is an obscure folk “super group” and the cover is included on their live album – one of two that they’ve produced.
But anyway, back to the crying… Since hearing this yesterday, I’ve had a minor obsession with the song. I’ve downloaded the Faces album it appears on and listened to the original and the Red Bird cover at least a dozen times — it still causes me to well up. The sentiment of the song just hits me in the gut. The opening lines, combined with the jaunty’70′s rhythm, acoustic guitars and the refrain, “I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger. I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was stronger,” speak to where I am and who I am right now.
The current granddad in my life is my father, granddad to my two young sons, and they laugh at all his words, not in the rueful way the song talks about but in a joyful way because he is so silly and loving when he is with them. And I know, without getting into it, that certain events make these moments precious for him and for them and — because life carries on — they are, perhaps, fleeting. I want my sons to remember that laughter.i want them to remember laughing with granddad.
Also, I’ve reached that magical point in my life when I am an adult and I have all of the trappings that entails. Yes, yes, I know I’ve been an adult for quite awhile now, but right now is the time that what I do, what I say and what I do are making a lasting impression with my oldest son. That the memories he has of me now will remain with him forever. When kids are two, three and four years old, you can always tell yourself, “Oh they’ll forget about how I royally screwed this up someday,” when they reach six, you realize that’s not necessarily the case. So the idea of learning from all of the mistakes I’ve made and going back to a time when there was less responsibility with the knowledge I have now is appealing.
There’s always a part of me that wants to travel back in time, experience my younger days with the foresight of age, make better choices and try different paths. But here I am, time marches on faster than anyone can stand, I do the best I can and sing, “Ooh la la, ooh la la, I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger… ”
I drive through a Pennsylvania valley, rimmed on each side by Appalachian foothills. To my right in the near distance is a family farm: a cornfield, a red barn, a silo and a white clapboard house with a red brick chimney.
I’m traveling home — home, I suppose — to retrieve goggles for my son’s swim meet at some unknown location.
The skies darken, then blacken. Funnel clouds drop from the sky, one and then two. The red barn explodes sending timbers flying and twirling through the air. I am calm. “You can’t outrun a tornado,” I think to myself. “And there’s nowhere to take shelter. It’s best to drive directly into the storm. I have heard this advice somewhere.” So that is what I do.
The funnel approaches and I feel it lift me up. I float momentarily in the truck before being set down with a not-too-heavy bump on the side of the road.
I look up to see the farmhouse coming down, floating at first, but then with a great slamming velocity — it’s red brick chimney looming, ready to smash my body. Still, I am calm. I cannot die with my sons so young in the world. It is impossible. I simply duck into the seat well and allow the engine block to take the brunt of the impact. The farmhouse smashes into infinite pieces — wood splintering and brick crumbling.
I step out of the truck and the world is still and silent, the air and all sound have been sucked out in a vacuum. I imagine a quarter and a feather falling at the same rate and clanking together at the bottom of their plastic tube.
I remember the swim meet and feel the boys at the pool, standing on the deck, shirtless and vulnerable as the sky turns black and they are sucked up by the funnel into oblivion. I run down the road. It is chip and tar with a double yellow line. The air is hot now and I am sweating. I stop because it is pointless.
I stand in the middle of the road, my feet on the double yellow line. It is a cool evening, the sky is black with a million stars. In front of me is an idyllic barn flanked by a silo standing sentry. There is a man there in well-tailored pants, a shirt, tie and black suspenders — his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He raises his arms, his fists balled tightly and looks up. He zips into the sky in a steak — straight up in perfect perpendicular. I look for him in the heavens, but I can’t see him, he’s so high or so far now he’s no longer visible — gone in a second. And then I realize, he is Superman.