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Stephen Shirodkar
Stephen Shirodkar

Idle Bouncer Hack

This is quite a unique idle. Well, "idle", since it requires some sort of activity when it comes to starting (Even later you have to check it every 23 minutes just to make sure you're still earning energy). That's one of the most annoying things, at least to me, since it is a idle but it doesn't work as a idle (Doesn't make much sense, but yeah). Looking foward to when you guys find something.

Idle Bouncer hack

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Whenever the device is powered ON, it starts collecting the Acceleration data from the IMU( X, Y, Z) and runs inference on the IMU data, and then classifies it as either shaking or idle. For shaking, it turns on the Red LED and turns ON the Buzzer for the alert.

Bennett's chief business, in fact, is not with individualsat all, even though he occasionally brings them upalmost to life-size. What concerns him principallyis the common life of large groups, the action andreaction of castes and classes, the struggle amongsocieties. In particular, he is engrossed by the colossaland disorderly functioning of the English middle class - adivision of mankind inordinately mixed in race, confusedin ideals and illogical in ideas. It is a group that has hadinterpreters aplenty, past and present; a full half of theliterature of the Victorian era was devoted to it. Butnever, I believe, has it had an interpreter more resolutelydetached and relentless - never has it had one lessshaken by emotional involvement. Here the very lack thatdetracts so much from Bennett's stature as a novelist inthe conventional sense is converted into a valuablepossession. Better than any other man of his time he hasgot upon paper the social anatomy and physiology of themasses of average, everyday, unimaginative Englishmen.One leaves the long series of Five Towns books with asense of having looked down the tube of a microscopeupon a huge swarm of infinitely little but incessantlystruggling organisms - creatures engaged furiously in thepursuit of grotesque and unintelligible ends - helplessparticipants in and victims of a struggle that takes on, totheir eyes, a thousand lofty purposes, all of them puerileto the observer above its turmoil. Here, he seems to say,is the middle, the average, the typical Englishman. Here isthe fellow as he appears to himself - virtuous, laborious,important, intelligent, made in God's image. And here he isin fact - swinish, ineffective, inconsequential, stupid, afeeble parody upon his maker. It is irony that penetrates anddevastates, and it is unrelieved by any show of the pitythat gets into the irony of Conrad, or of the tolerantclaim of kinship that mitigates that of Fielding andThackeray. It is harsh and cocksure. It has, at itsmoments, some flavor of actual bounderism: oneinstinctively shrinks from so smart-alecky a pulling off ofunderclothes and unveiling of warts.

NOTHING could be stranger than the current celebrityof Irvin S. Cobb, an author of whom almost as much isheard as if he were a new Thackeray or Molière. One issolemnly told by various extravagant partisans, some ofthem not otherwise insane, that he is at once thesuccessor to Mark Twain and the heir of Edgar AllanPoe. One hears of public dinners given in devotion tohis genius, of public presentations, of learned degreesconferred upon him by universities, of otherextraordinary adulations, few of them shared by suchrelatively puny fellows as Howells and Dreiser. Histalents and sagacity pass into popular anecdotes; he has sedulous Boswells; he begins to take on the augustimportance of an actor-manager. Behind the scenes, ofcourse, a highly dexterous publisher pulls the strings, butmuch of it is undoubtedly more or less sincere; menpledge their sacred honor to the doctrine that hisexistence honors the national literature. Moreover, heseems to take the thing somewhat seriously himself. Hegives his imprimaturto various other authors, includingJoseph Conrad; he engages himself to liftthe literary tone of moving-pictures; he lends his name tomovements; he exposes himself in the chautauquas; he takes onthe responsibilities of a patriot and a public man....Altogether, a curious, and, in some of its aspects, acaressingly ironical spectacle. One wonders what thegraduate sophomores of to-morrow, composing their dulltomes upon American letters, will make of it....

This method, of course, makes for broken heads; itoutrages the feelings of tender theatrical mountebanks; itprovokes reprisals more or less furtive and behind thedoor. The theater in America, as in most other countries,is operated chiefly by bouncers. Men so constantlyassociated with actors tend to take on the qualities ofthe actor - his idiotic vanity, his herculean stupidity, hischronic underrating of his betters. The miasma spreadsto dramatists and dramatic critics; the former drift intocharlatanery and the latter into a cowardly anddisgusting dishonesty.Amid such scenes a man of positive ideas, of civilizedtastes and of unshakable integrity is a stranger, and hemust face all the hostility that the lower orders of mendisplay to strangers. There is, so far as I know, notripe-seller in Broadway who has not tried, at one time oranother, to dispose of Nathan byattentat.He has beenexposed to all the measures ordinarily effective againstrebellious reviewers, and, resisting them, he has beentreated to special treatment with infernal machines ofnovel and startling design. No writer for the theater hasbeen harder beset, and none has been less incommodedby the onslaught. What is more, he has never made theslightest effort to capitalize this drum-fire - theinvariable device of lesser men. So far as I am aware,and I have been in close association with him for tenyears, it has had not the slightest effect upon himwhatsoever. A thoroughgoing skeptic, with no trace inhim of the messianic delusion, he has avoidedtimorousness on the one hand and indignation on theother. No man could be less a public martyr of theMetcalfe type; it would probably amuse him vastly tohear it argued that his unbreakable independence (andoften somewhat high and mighty sniffishness) has beenof any public usefulness. I sometimes wonder whatkeeps such a man in the theater, breathing bad airnightly, gaping at prancing imbeciles, sitting cheek byjowl with cads. Perhaps there is, at bottom, a secretromanticism - a lingering residuum of a boyish delight inpasteboard and spangles, gaudy colors and soothingsounds, preposterous heroes and appetizing wenches.But more likely it is a sense of humor - the zest of aman to whom life is a spectacle that never growsdull - a show infinitely surprising, amusing, buffoonish,vulgar, obscene. The theater, when all is said and done,is not life in miniature, but life enormously magnified, lifehideously exaggerated. Its emotions are ten times aspowerful as those of reality, its ideas are twenty times asidiotic as those of real men, its lights and colors andsounds are forty times as blinding and deafening asthose of nature, its people are grotesque burlesques ofevery one we know. Here is diversion for a cynic. Andhere, it may be, is the explanation of Nathan's fidelity.

For I have never been able to convince myself that Iwas wrong about it. On the contrary, I am morecertain than ever, re-reading it after half a dozenyears, that I was right - that it was and is one of themost honest and absorbing human documents everprinted in America. I have called it, following the author,a novel. It is, in fact, nothing of the sort; it isautobiography. More, it is autobiography unadorned andshameless, autobiography almost unbelievably cruel andbetraying, autobiography that is as devoid of artisticsophistication as an operation for gall-stones. Thisso-called Steele is simply too stupid, too ingenuous, toomoral to lie. He is the very reverse of an artist; he is aborn and incurable Puritan - and in his alleged novel hedraws the most faithful and merciless picture of anAmerican Puritan that has ever got upon paper. There isnever the slightest effort at amelioration; he never evadesthe ghastly horror of it; he never tries to palm off himselfas a good fellow, a hero. Instead, he simply takes hisstand in the center of the platform, where all thespotlights meet, and there calmly strips off his raiment ofreticence - first his Sunday plug-hat, then his long-tailedcoat, then his boiled shirt, then his shoes and socks, andfinally his very B.V.D.'s. The closing scene shows theauthentic Mensch-an-sich, the eternal blue-nose in thenude, with every wart and pimple glittering and everywarped bone and flabby muscle telling its abhorrent tale.There stands the Puritan stripped of every artifice andconcealment, like Thackeray's Louis XIV.

So in episode after episode. One observes a constantoscillation between a pharisaical piety and a hoggishcarnality. The praying brother of yesterday is the night-hackroisterer of to-day; the roisterer of to-day is thesnuffling penitent and pledge-taker of to-morrow.Finally, he is pulled both ways at onceand suffers the greatest of all his tortures. Again, of course, awoman is at the center of it - this time a stenographer.He has no delusions about her virtue - she admitsherself, in fact, that it is extinct - but all the same he fallshead over heels in love with her, and is filled with aninordinate yearning to marry her and settle down withher. Why not, indeed? She is pretty and a nice girl; sheseems to reciprocate his affection; she is naturally eagerfor the obliterating gold band; she will undoubtedlymake him an excellent wife. But he has forgotten hisconscience - and it rises up in revenge and floors him.What! Marry a girl with such a Past! Take a fancywoman to his bosom! Jealousy quickly comes to the aidof conscience. Will he be able to forget? Contemplatingthe damsel in the years to come, at breakfast, at dinner,across the domestic hearth, in the cold, blue dawn, willhe ever rid his mind of those abhorrent images, thosephantasms of men?


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