DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

OAO Oktava, the Russian microphone manufacturer, has issued a press release to counter claims made in this space by UK vendor Oktava Ltd (see response from Oktava Ltd on MK 012 mics from China, which itself was a response to my initial story, counterfeit Oktava microphones at Guitar Center?). The full press release is http://oktava.tula.net/news/reliz_eng.htm (local mirror).

I’ll excerpt the parts specific to Andy McKay’s claims:

The Oktava Limited(A&F McKay)’s allegations that the microphones produced by OAO Oktava have not been developed by OAO Oktava, are false. The OAO Oktava microphones, in particular the MK-012 and MK-219, have been produced by OAO Oktava since the 1980s, and their predecessors were the models MK-18, MK-011, produced in the 60s-70s. Oktava Limited(A&F McKay)’s statement that the design of microphones was developed and/or is an intellectual property of Oktava Limited(A&F McKay), has no foundation since that firm was established much later.
…
In 2004 Oktava Limited(A&F McKay) lost its distributor’s rights because it unlawfully used our trademark “Oktava” and violated numerous contract terms.
…
OAO Oktava did not grant Oktava Limited(A&F McKay) any rights to manufacture copies of its products or use its trademark.
…
OAO Oktava is not responsible for the quality of copies made in China or in any other part of the world. Microphones or any other products not produced by OAO Oktava, Tula, Russia, do not have the OAO Oktava’s guarantee and will not be serviced by OAO Oktava.

So, I think we’ve fully arrived at a point where the most basic facts are being contended. I remain steadfast in my lack of interest in the terms of the contract between OAO Oktava and Oktava Ltd., but if anyone has any substantive evidence of who designed the MK-012, I’d happily publish it.

Update: believe it or not, there’s a part IV.

Stephen Pinker once made the point that “dog bites man” is not news. Rather, “man bites dog” is news.

Still, the following excerpt from Bruce Schneier’s essay Should Terrorism Be Reported in the News caught me by surprise, not because I disagree, but because it’s so true it shouldn’t have felt counterintuitive:

One of the things I routinely tell people is that if it’s in the news, don’t worry about it. By definition, “news” means that it hardly ever happens. If a risk is in the news, then it’s probably not worth worrying about. When something is no longer reported — automobile deaths, domestic violence — when it’s so common that it’s not news, then you should start worrying.

Having missed the apocryphal, although still instructive lesson of the Chevy Nova, the marketing geniuses at the EU’s latest bottled-water vendor introduce “Ass India” to a world of beverage consumers wondering whether maybe another name might have more successfully conjured the requisite images of purity and clean taste.

Earlier this month, Bush repealed the Roadless Area Conservation Rule, opening up nearly 60 million acres of formerly protected national forests to the possibility of development.

Arnold Schwarzenegger declared on May 5 that California’s roadless lands would remain protected:

California’s forests are one of our state’s most treasured and valued resources. I am committed to protecting the vibrant health and sustainable future of our forests. In keeping with that commitment and the assurances we have from the U.S. Forest Service, roadless areas in California will remain roadless.

This is a big win for generations of Californians and the state’s remaining 4.4M acres of forest land. And it’s a curious turnaround for Schwarzenegger, who previously said he wouldn’t do what he just did.

Alaska, Colorado, Idaho, Montana, Nevada, and Utah governors: we’re looking at you.

For more information, see the Chron’s piece on this issue, Bush carves up the backcountry (in which George Bush is dubbed “Chainsaw in Chief”).

When I used to travel frequently, I was good at it. I had memorized the telephone numbers of the major airlines and SuperShuttle, and I had the “secret” VIP phone numbers to the local taxi dispatch services in two cities.

I packed light. I timed arrivals with finesse. I pressed Oxfords without an iron. I could effortlessly calculate the appropriate amount of tip for every skycap, bellhop, and driver, taking into account timeliness, native aroma, quality of directions to the nearest decent tacqueria and/or diving spot, and the number of times each had touched anything about his person that could fairly be called a “gland” before picking up my suitcase.

But then I changed careers, and then I changed careers again, and then I dumped the entire idea of a career for the idea of playing in a band. And then society dumped my idea of a band and I found a new career that was a lot more likely to give me some income against which to write off all those gargantuan CD-recording expenses, but in any case I wasn’t traveling so much any more and I basically forgot how.

When I first started out, I would pack at the last minute, because that’s when I did everything. (What did I do in the rest of the minutes? In fact all of my minutes were last minutes, which was a continual crisis of poor scheduling that I have only partially managed to overcome. Alas.) Then I got good, and it was OK to pack at the last minute, because that’s all the time it would take me anyway. But then I married, and my wife’s threshhold for travel readiness was a good 72 hours (4320 minutes) earlier than mine, and so for about 10 years I never had to pack at all — I’d just agree to a couple of shirts and pants, then sneak in a few spares when she wasn’t looking, owing to my philosophy that people who fly are a lot more likely to have an orange juice spilled on their laps on an airplane than people who don’t.

So anyway, a couple weeks ago I had to fly by myself to San Diego for Etech. I had planned my itinerary in advance (i.e. a couple hours before the flight) and somehow slipped a digit. My mental schedule had an item at 5:30 PM called “drive to airport” and another one at 6:15 PM called “flight leaves Oakland.” My scheduler has no dependency management or conflict resolution mechanism, or it might have red-flagged the fact that I’d planned to drive for an hour, ride a parking shuttle, check a bag, navigate whatever long-lined gropefest the TSA had in store, etc., in 45 minutes.

My wife caught the error. “Err, what time did you say your flight was?”

(ominous pause, during which, if I had to guess, my flight began boarding)

“Shit!”

Followed by 20 minutes’ frantic last-minute packing, some hoping that the car had enough gas to get to Oakland, and no small amount of cursing.

I made the flight, against all odds, although usually that’s just the way it is, if you hang in long enough. Soon we were in the air (tonight). OK, somebody stop me, please.

While at the airport I had just enough time to inhale a heart-healthy dinner: steamed TVP on a damp bun. It was, in a word, badbadbad, and if you’ll afford me six more words it was moist in a really unpleasant way. It reminded me of a hamburger I ate on Amtrak once — which was so gross it might be singly responsible for the decline of the passenger-train industry in America.

Fortunately I had some nicer meals in San Diego.