The crystal radio is a time-honored build that sadly doesn’t get much traction anymore. Once a rite of passage for electronics hobbyists, the classic coil-on-an-oatmeal-carton and cat’s whisker design just isn’t that easy to pull off anymore, mainly because the BOM isn’t really something that you can just whistle up from DigiKey or Mouser.

Or is it? To push the crystal radio into the future a bit, [tsbrownie] tried to design a receiver around standard surface-mount inductors, and spoiler alert — it didn’t go so well. His starting point was a design using a hand-wound air-core coil, a germanium diode for a detector, and a variable capacitor that was probably scrapped from an old radio. The coil had three sections, so [tsbrownie] first estimated the inductance of each section and sourced some surface-mount inductors that were as close as possible to their values. This required putting standard value inductors in series and soldering taps into the correct places, but at best the SMD coil was only an approximation of the original air-core coil. Plugging the replacement coil into the crystal radio circuit was unsatisfying, to say the least. Only one AM station was heard, and then only barely. A few tweaks to the SMD coil improved the sensitivity of the receiver a bit, but still only brought in one very local station.

[tsbrownie] chalked up the failure to the lower efficiency of SMD inductors, but we’re not so sure about that. If memory serves, the windings in an SMD inductor are usually wrapped around a core that sits perpendicular to the PCB. If that’s true, then perhaps stacking the inductors rather than connecting them end-to-end would have worked better. We’d try that now if only we had one of those nice old variable caps. Still, hats off to [tsbrownie] for at least giving it a go.

Note: Right after we wrote this, a follow-up video popped up in our feed where [tsbrownie] tried exactly the modification we suggested, and it certainly improves performance, but in a weird way. The video is included below if you want to see the details.

Unless you’ve got a shop with a well-stocked hardware bin, it’s a trip to the hardware store when you need a special screw. But [Sanford Prime] has a different approach: he prints his hardware, at least for non-critical applications. Just how much abuse these plastic screws can withstand was an open question, though, until he did a little torque testing to find out.

To run the experiments, [Sanford]’s first stop was Harbor Freight, where he procured their cheapest digital torque adapter. The test fixture was similarly expedient — just a piece of wood with a hole drilled in it and a wrench holding a nut. The screws were FDM printed in PLA, ten in total, each identical in diameter, length, and thread pitch, but with differing wall thicknesses and gyroid infill percentages. Each was threaded into the captive nut and torqued with a 3/8″ ratchet wrench, with indicated torque at fastener failure recorded.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, overall strength was pretty low, amounting to only 11 inch-pounds (1.24 Nm) at the low end. The thicker the walls and the greater the infill percentage, the stronger the screws tended to be. The failures were almost universally in the threaded part of the fastener, with the exception being at the junction between the head and the shank of one screw. Since the screws were all printed vertically with their heads down on the print bed, all the failures were along the plane of printing. This prompted a separate test with a screw printed horizontally, which survived to a relatively whopping 145 in-lb, which is twice what the best of the other test group could manage.

[Sanford Prime] is careful to note that this is a rough experiment, and the results need to be taken with a large pinch of salt. There are plenty of sources of variability, not least of which is the fact that most of the measured torques were below the specified lower calibrated range for the torque tester used. Still, it’s a useful demonstration of the capabilities of 3D-printed threaded fasteners, and their limitations.

Solderless breadboards are a fantastic tool for stirring the creative juices. In a few seconds, you can go from idea to prototype without ever touching the soldering iron. Unfortunately, the downside to this is that projects tend to expand to occupy all the available space on the breadboard, and the bench surrounding the project universally ends up cluttered with power supplies, meters, jumpers, and parts you’ve swapped in and out of the circuit.

In an attempt to tame this runaway mess, [Raph] came up with this neat modular breadboard system. It hearkens back to the all-in-one prototyping systems we greatly coveted when the whole concept of solderless breadboards was new and correspondingly unaffordable. Even today, combination breadboard and power supply systems command a pretty penny, so rolling your own might make good financial sense. [Raph] made his system modular, with 3D-printed frames that lock together using clever dovetail slots. The prototyping area snaps to an instrumentation panel, which includes two different power supplies and a digital volt-amp meter. This helps keep the bench clean since you don’t need to string leads all over the place. The separate bin for organizing jumpers and tidbits that snaps into the frame is a nice touch, too.

Want to roll your own? Not a problem, as [Raph] has thoughtfully made all the build files available. What’s more, they’re parametric so you can customize them to the breadboards you already have. The only suggestion we have would be that making this compatible with [Zack Freedman]’s Gridfinity system might be kind of cool, too.

If you’re used to thinking about 3D printing in Cartesian terms, prepare your brain for a bit of a twist with [Joshua Bird]’s 4-axis 3D printer that’s not quite like anything we’ve ever seen before.

The printer uses a rotary platform as a build plate, and has a linear rail and lead screw just outside the rim of the platform that serves as the Z axis. Where things get really interesting is the assembly that rides on the Z-axis, which [Joshua] calls a “Core R-Theta” mechanism. It’s an apt description, since as in a CoreXY motion system, it uses a pair of stepper motors and a continuous timing belt to achieve two axes of movement. However, rather than two linear axes, the motors can team up to move the whole print arm in and out along the radius of the build platform while also rotating the print head through almost 90 degrees.

The kinematic possibilities with this setup are really interesting. With the print head rotated perpendicular to the bed, it acts like a simple polar printer. But tilting the head allows you to print steep overhangs with no supports. [Joshua] printed a simple propeller as a demo, with the hub printed more or less traditionally while the blades are added with the head at steeper and steeper angles. As you can imagine, slicing is a bit of a mind-bender, and there are some practical problems such as print cooling, which [Joshua] addresses by piping in compressed air. You’ll want to see this in action, so check out the video below.

This is a fantastic bit of work, and hats off to [Joshua] for working through all the complexities to bring us the first really new thing we’ve seen in 3D printing is a long time.

Thanks to [Keith Olson], [grythumn],  [Hari Wiguna], and [MrSVCD] for the near-simultaneous tips on this one.

Spoiler alert: almond butter isn’t phosphorescent. But powdered milk is, at least to the limit of detection of this homebrew phosphorescence detector.

Why spend a bunch of time and money on such a thing? The obvious answer is “Why not?”, but more specifically, when [lcamtuf]’s son took a shine (lol) to making phosphorescent compounds, it just seemed natural for dad to tag along in his own way. The basic concept of the detector is to build a light-tight test chamber that can be periodically and briefly flooded with UV light, charging up the putatively phosphorescent compounds within. A high-speed photodiode is then used to detect the afterglow, which can be quantified and displayed.

The analog end of the circuit was the far fussier end of the design, with a high-speed transimpedance amplifier to provide the needed current gain. Another scaling amp and a low-pass filter boosts and cleans up the signal for a 14-bit ADC. [lcamtuf] went to great lengths to make the front end as low-noise as possible, including ferrite beads and short leads to prevent picking up RF interference. The digital side has an AVR microcontroller that talks to the ADC and runs an LCD panel, plus switches the 340 nm LEDs on and off rapidly via a low gate capacitance MOSFET.

Unfortunately, not many things found randomly around the average home are all that phosphorescent. We’re not sure what [lcamtuf] tried other than the aforementioned foodstuffs, but we’d have thought something like table salt would do the trick, at least the iodized stuff. But no matter, the lessons learned along the way were worth the trip.

If you’ve been tearing electronic devices apart for long enough, you’ll know that the old gear had just as many mysteries within as the newer stuff. The parts back then were bigger, of course, but often just as inscrutable as the SMD parts that populate boards today. And the one part that always baffled us back in the days of transistor radios and personal cassette players was those little silver boxes with a hole in the top and the colorful plug with an inviting screwdriver slot.

We’re talking about subminiature intermediate-frequency transformers, of course, and while we knew their purpose in general terms back then and never to fiddle with them, we never really bothered to look inside one. This teardown of various IF transformers by [Unrelated Activities] makes up somewhat for that shameful lack of curiosity. The video lacks narration, relying on captions to get the point across that these once-ubiquitous components were a pretty diverse lot despite their outward similarities. Most had a metal shell protecting a form around which one or more coils of fine magnet wire were wrapped. Some had tiny capacitors wired in parallel with one of the coils, too.

Perhaps the most obvious feature of these IF transformers was their tunability, thanks to a ferrite cup or slug around the central core and coils. The threaded slug allowed the inductance of the system to be changed with the turn of a screwdriver, preferably a plastic one. [Unrelated] demonstrates this with a NanoVNA using a nominal 10.7-MHz IFT, probably from an FM receiver. The transformer was tunable over a 4-MHz range.

Sure, IFTs like these are still made, and they’re not that hard to find if you know where to look. But they are certainly less common than they used to be, and seeing what’s under the hood scratches an itch we didn’t even realize we had.

If you think your job sucks, be grateful you’re not this homebrew sewer inspection robot.

Before anyone gets upset, yes we know what [Stargate System] built here isn’t a robot at all; it’s more of a remotely operated vehicle. That doesn’t take away from the fact that this is a very cool build, especially since it has to work in one of the least hospitable and most unpleasant environments possible. The backstory of this project is that the sewer on a 50-year-old house kept backing up, and efforts to clear it only temporarily solved the problem. The cast iron lateral line was reconfigured at some point in its history to include a 120-degree bend, which left a blind spot for the camera used by a sewer inspection service. What’s worse, the bend was close to a joint where a line that once allowed gutters and foundation drains access to the sewer.

To better visualize the problem, [Stargate] turned to his experience building bots to whip up something for the job. The bot had to be able to fit into the pipe and short enough to make the turn, plus it needed to be — erm, waterproof. It also needed to carry a camera and a light, and to be powered and controlled from the other end of the line. Most of the body of the bot, including the hull and the driving gear, was 3D printed from ABS, which allowed the seams to be sealed with acetone later. The drive tracks were only added after the original wheels didn’t perform well in testing. Controlling the gear motors and camera was up to a Raspberry Pi Zero, chosen mostly due to space constraints. An Ethernet shield provided connectivity to the surface over a Cat5 cable, and a homebrew PoE system provided power.

As interesting as the construction details were, the real treat is the down-hole footage. It’s not too graphic, but the blockage is pretty gnarly. We also greatly appreciated the field-expedient chain flail [Stargate] whipped up to bust up the big chunks of yuck and get the pipe back in shape. He did a little bit of robo-spelunking, too, as you do.

And no, this isn’t the only sewer bot we’ve ever featured.

We received belated word this week of the passage of Ward Christensen, who died unexpectedly back in October at the age of 78. If the name doesn’t ring a bell, that’s understandable, because the man behind the first computer BBS wasn’t much for the spotlight. Along with Randy Suess and in response to the Blizzard of ’78, which kept their Chicago computer club from meeting in person, Christensen created an electronic version of a community corkboard. Suess worked on the hardware while Christensen provided the software, leveraging his XMODEM file-sharing protocol. They dubbed their creation a “bulletin board system” and when the idea caught on, they happily shared their work so that other enthusiasts could build their own systems.

BBSs were the only show in town for a long time, and the happy little modem negotiation tones were like a doorbell you rang to get into a club where people understood your obsession. Perhaps it’s just the BBS nostalgia talking, but despite the functional similarities to today’s social media, the BBS experience seemed a lot more civilized. It’s not that people were much better behaved back then; any BBS regular can tell you there were plenty of jerks online then, too. But the general tone of BBS life was a little more sedate, probably due in part to the glacial pace of dial-up connections. Even at a screaming 2,400 baud, characters scrolled across your screen slower than you could read them, and that seemed to have a sedating effect on your passions. By the time someone’s opinion on the burning issues of the day had finally been painted on your monitor, you’d had a bit of time to digest it and perhaps cool down a bit before composing a reply. We still had our flame wars, of course, but it was like watching slow-motion warfare and the dynamic was completely different from today’s Matrix.

Speaking of yearning for a probably mythical Golden Age, Casio has announced a smart ring that looks like a miniature version of their classic sports chronograph wristwatch. The ring celebrates Casio’s 50th anniversary of making watches, and features a stainless steel case made by metal injection molding. The six-digit LCD is pretty limited in what it can display, and the ring doesn’t do much other than tell the time and date and sound alarms. So we’re not sure where the smarts are here, except for the looks, of course.

We got a tip recently on a series of really interesting videos that you might want to check out, especially if you’re into EMC simulations. Panire’s channel is chock full of videos showing how to use openEMS, the open-source electromagnetic field solver, with KiCad EDA software to simulate the RF properties of high-speed circuits. He’s got some in-depth videos on getting things set up plus some great tutorials on creating simulations that let you see how your PCB designs are radiating, allowing you to make changes and see the results right away. Very useful stuff, and pretty fun to look at, too.

Here at Hackaday, we get a surprising and disappointingly regular stream of projects that claim to finally have beaten the laws of thermodynamics. So the words “Perpetual Motion” are especially triggering to us, but we instantly put that aside when we saw the title card on this video about the Atmos Clock. No, it’s not perpetual motion, but since as the name suggests, being powered by atmospheric pressure and temperature changes, it’s about as close as you can get. We remember one of these beautiful timepieces on the mantle in our grandparents’ house, gifted to “Grampy” for years of faithful service by his employer. It was a delicate machine and fascinating to watch work, which it only briefly did once we grandkids got near it. Still, watching how the mechanism worked is pretty interesting stuff.

And finally, if you haven’t checked out The Analog, you really should. It’s a weekly newsletter written by our friend Mihir Shah and is full of interesting tidbits from the world of electronics and technology. This time around he gifted us with a video that looks inside optical sorting in food processing. You’ve probably seen these in action before, where cascades of objects — grapes in this case, obviously in a winery — are spread out on a high-speed conveyor belt under the watchful gaze of a computer vision system, which spots the bad grapes and yeets them into oblivion with a precisely controlled jet of compressed air. The mind boggles on the control loops needed to get the jet and the bad grape to meet up at just the right time so that good grapes stay in the game.

These days, oscilloscope hacking is all about enabling features that the manufacturer baked into the hardware but locked out in the firmware. Those hacks are cool, of course, but back in the days of analog scopes, unlocking new features required a decidedly more hardware-based approach.

For an example of this, take a look at this oscilloscope beam splitter by [Lockdown Electronics]. It’s a simple way to turn a single-channel scope into a dual-channel scope using what amounts to time-division multiplexing. A 555 timer is set up as an astable oscillator generating a 2.5-kHz square wave. That’s fed into the bases of a pair of transistors, one NPN and the other PNP. The collectors of each transistor are connected to the two input signals, each biased to either the positive or negative rail of the power supply. As the 555 swings back and forth it alternately applies each input signal to the output of the beam splitter, which goes to the scope. The result is two independent traces on the analog scope, like magic.

More after the break…

If you’re wondering how this would work on a modern digital scope, so was [Lockdown Electronics]. He gave it a go with his little handheld scope meter and the results were surprisingly good and illustrative of how the thing works. You can clearly see the 555’s square wave on the digital scope sandwiched between the two different input sine waves. Analog scopes always have trouble showing these rising and falling edges, which explains why the beam splitter looks so good on the CRT versus the LCD.

Does this circuit serve any practical purpose these days? Probably not, although you could probably use the same principle to double the number of channels on your digital scope. Eight channels on a four-channel scope for the price of a 555? Sounds like a bargain to us.

[Dale Cook] has cats, and as he readily admits, cats are jerks. We’d use stronger language than that, but either way it became a significant impediment to making progress with an RFID-based sensor to allow his cats access to their litterbox. Luckily, though, he was able to salvage the project enough to give a great talk on RFID from first principles and learn about a potentially tragic mistake.

If you don’t have 20 minutes to spare for the video below, the quick summary is that [Dale]’s cats are each chipped with an RFID tag using the FDX-B protocol. He figured he’d be able to build a scanner to open the door to their playpen litterbox, but alas, the read range on the chip and the aforementioned attitude problems foiled that plan. He kept plugging away, though, to better understand RFID and the electronics that make it work.

To that end, [Dale] rolled his own RFID reader pretty much from scratch. He used an Arduino to generate the 134.2-kHz clock signal for the FDX-B chips and to parse the returned data. In between, he built a push-pull driver for the antenna coil and an envelope detector to pull the modulated data off the carrier. He also added a low-pass filter and a comparator to clean up the signal into a nice square wave, which was fed into the Arduino to parse the Differential Manchester-encoded data.

Although he was able to read his cats’ chips with this setup, [Dale] admits it was a long road compared to just buying a Flipper Zero or visiting the vet. But it provided him a look under the covers of RFID, which is worth a lot all by itself. But more importantly, he also discovered that one cat had a chip that returned a code different than what was recorded in the national database. That could have resulted in heartache, and avoiding that is certainly worth the effort too.

Thanks for the tip, [Gustavo].

When you tear into an old piece of test equipment, you’re probably going to come up against some surprises. That’s especially true of high-precision gear like oscilloscopes from the time before ASICs and ADCs, which had to accomplish so much with discrete components and a lot of engineering ingenuity.

Unfortunately, though, those clever hacks that made everything work sometimes come back to bite you, as [Void Electronics] learned while bringing this classic Tektronix 466 scope back to life. A previous video revealed that the “Works fine, powers up” eBay listing for this scope wasn’t entirely accurate, as it was DOA. That ended up being a bad op-amp in the power supply, which was easily fixed. Once powered up, though, another, more insidious problem cropped up with the vertical attenuator, which failed with any setting divisible by two.

With this curious symptom in mind, [Void] got to work on the scope. Old analog Tek scopes like this use a bank of attenuator modules switched in and out of the signal path by a complex mechanical system of cams. It seemed like one of the modules, specifically the 4x attenuator, was the culprit. [Void] did the obvious first test and compared the module against the known good 4x module in the other channel of the dual-channel scope, but surprisingly, the module worked fine. That meant the problem had to be on the PCB that the module lives on. Close examination with the help of some magnification revealed the culprit — tin whiskers had formed, stretching out from a pad to chassis ground. The tiny metal threads were shorting the signal to ground whenever the 4x module was switched into the signal path. The solution? A quick flick with a sticky note to remove the whiskers!

This was a great fix and a fantastic lesson in looking past the obvious and being observant. It puts us in the mood for breaking out our old Tek scope and seeing what wonders — and challenges — it holds.

When electronics release the Magic Smoke, more often than not it’s a fairly sedate event. Something overheats, the packaging gets hot enough to emit that characteristic and unmistakable odor, and wisps of smoke begin to waft up from the defunct component. Then again, sometimes the Magic Smoke is more like the Magic Plasma, as was the case in this absolutely smoked Omron programmable logic controller.

Normally, one tasked with repairing such a thing would just write the unit off and order a replacement. But [Defpom] needed to get the pump controlled by this PLC back online immediately, leading to the somewhat unorthodox repair in the video below. Whatever happened to this poor device happened rapidly and energetically, taking out two of the four relay-controlled outputs. [Defpom]’s initial inspection revealed that the screw terminals for one of the relays no longer existed, one relay enclosure was melted open, its neighbor was partially melted, and a large chunk of the PCB was missing. Cleaning up the damaged relays revealed what the “FR” in “FR4” stands for, as the fiberglass weave of the board was visible after the epoxy partly burned away before self-extinguishing.

With the damaged components removed and the dangerously conductive carbonized sections cut away, [Defpom] looked for ways to make a temporary repair. The PLC’s program was locked, making it impossible to reprogram it to use the unaffected outputs. Instead, he redirected the driver transistor for the missing relay two to the previously unused and still intact relay one, while adding an outboard DIN-mount relay to replace relay three. In theory, that should allow the system to work with its existing program and get the system back online.

Did it work? Sadly, we don’t know, as the video stops before we see the results. But we can’t see a reason for it not to work, at least temporarily while a new PLC is ordered. Of course, the other solution here could have been to replace the PLC with an Arduino, but this seems like the path of least resistance. Which, come to think of it, is probably what caused the damage in the first place.

Have you ever wondered how a magnetometer works? We sure have, which was why we were happy to stumble upon this article on simple homebrew fluxgate magnetometers.

As [Maurycy] explains, clues to how a fluxgate magnetometer works can be found right in the name. We all know what happens when a current is applied to a coil of wire wrapped around an iron or ferrite core — it makes an electromagnet. Wrap another coil around the same core, and you’ve got a simple transformer.

Now, power the first coil, called the drive coil, with alternating current and measure the induced current on the second, or sense coil. Unexpected differences between the current in the drive coil and the sense coil are due to any external magnetic field. The difference indicates the strength of the field. Genius!

For [Maurycy]’s homebrew version, binocular ferrite cores were stacked one on top of each other and strung together with a loop of magnet wire passing through the lined-up holes in the stack. That entire assembly formed the drive coil, which was wrapped with copper foil to thwart eddy currents. The sense coil was made by wrapping another length of magnet wire around the drive coil package; [Maurycy] found that this orthogonal of coils worked better than an antiparallel coil setup at reducing interference from the powerful drive coil field.

Driving the magnetometer required adding a MOSFET amp to give a function generator a little more oomph. [Maurycy] mentions that scope probes will attenuate the weak sense coil current, so we assume that the sense coil output goes right into the oscilloscope via coax. Calibrating the instrument was accomplished with a homebrew coil and some simple calculations.

This was a great demo of magnetometry methods and some of the intricacies of measuring weak fields with simple instruments. We’ve covered fluxgate magnetometer basics before and even talked about how they made pre-GPS car navigation possible.

SDRs have been a game changer for radio hobbyists, but for ham radio applications, they often need a little help. That’s especially true of SDR dongles, which don’t have a lot of selectivity in the HF bands. But they’re so darn cheap and fun to play with, what’s a ham to do?

[VK3YE] has an answer, in the form of this homebrew software-defined radio (SDR) helper. It’s got a few features that make using a dongle like the RTL-SDR on the HF bands a little easier and a bit more pleasant. Construction is dead simple and based on what was in the junk bin and includes a potentiometer for attenuating stronger signals, a high-pass filter to tamp down stronger medium-wave broadcast stations, and a series-tuned LC circuit for each of the HF bands to provide some needed selectivity. Everything is wired together ugly-style in a metal enclosure, with a little jiggering needed to isolate the variable capacitor from ground.

The last two-thirds of the video below shows the helper in use on everything from the 11-meter (CB) band down to the AM bands. This would be a great addition to any ham’s SDR toolkit.

A couple of weeks back, we covered an interesting method for prototyping PCBs using a modified CNC mill to 3D print solder onto a blank FR4 substrate. The video showing this process generated a lot of interest and no fewer than 20 tips to the Hackaday tips line, which continued to come in dribs and drabs this week. In a world where low-cost, fast-turn PCB fabs exist, the amount of effort that went into this method makes little sense, and readers certainly made that known in the comments section. Given that the blokes who pulled this off are gearheads with no hobby electronics background, it kind of made their approach a little more understandable, but it still left a ton of practical questions about how they pulled it off. And now a new video from the aptly named Bad Obsession Motorsports attempts to explain what went on behind the scenes.

To be quite honest, although the amount of work they did to make these boards was impressive, especially the part where they got someone to create a custom roll of fluxless tin-silver solder, we have to admit to being a little let down by the explanation. The mechanical bits, where they temporarily modified the CNC mill with what amounts to a 3D printer extruder and hot end to melt and dispense the solder, wasn’t really the question we wanted answered. We were far more interested in the details of getting the solder traces to stick to the board as they were dispensed and how the board acted when components were soldered into the rivets used as vias. Sadly, those details were left unaddressed, so unless they decide to make yet another video, we suppose we’ll just have to learn to live with the mystery.

What do mushrooms have to do with data security? Until this week, we’d have thought the two were completely unrelated, but then we spotted this fantastic article on “Computers Are Bad” that spins the tale of Iron Mountain, which people in the USA might recognize as a large firm that offers all kinds of data security products, from document shredding to secure offsite storage and data backups. We always assumed the “Iron Mountain” thing was simply marketing, but the company did start in an abandoned iron mine in upstate New York, where during the early years of the Cold War, it was called “Iron Mountain Atomic Storage” and marketed document security to companies looking for business continuity in the face of atomic annihilation. As Cold War fears ebbed, the company gradually rebranded itself into the information management entity we know today. But what about the mushrooms? We won’t ruin the surprise, but suffice it to say that IT people aren’t the only ones that are fed shit and kept in the dark.

Do you like thick traces? We sure do, at least when it comes to high-current PCBs. We’ve seen a few boards with really impressive traces and even had a Hack Chat about the topic, so it was nice to see Mark Hughes’ article on design considerations for heavy copper boards. The conventional wisdom with high-current applications seems to be “the more copper, the better,” but Mark explains why that’s not always the case and how trace thickness and trace spacing both need to be considered for high-current applications. It’s pretty cool stuff that we hobbyists don’t usually have to deal with, but it’s good to see how it’s done.

We imagine that there aren’t too many people out there with fond memories of Visual Basic, but back when it first came out in the early 1990s, the idea that you could actually make a Windows PC do Windows things without having to learn anything more than what you already knew from high school computer class was pretty revolutionary. By all lights, it was an awful language, but it was enabling for many of us, so much so that some of us leveraged it into successful careers. Visual Basic 6 was pretty much the end of the line for the classic version of the language, before it got absorbed into the whole .NET thing. If you miss that 2008 feel, here’s a VB6 virtual machine to help you recapture the glory days.

And finally, in this week’s “Factory Tour” segment we have a look inside a Japanese aluminum factory. The video mostly features extrusion, a process we’ve written about before, as well as casting. All of it is fascinating stuff, but what really got us was the glow of the molten aluminum, which we’d never really seen before. We’re used to the incandescent glow of molten iron or even brass and copper, but molten aluminum has always just looked like — well, liquid metal. We assumed that was thanks to its relatively low melting point, but apparently, you really need to get aluminum ripping hot for casting processes. Enjoy.

We’re not very far into the AI revolution at this point, but we’re far enough to know not to trust AI implicitly. If you accept what ChatGPT or any of the other AI chatbots have to say at face value, you might just embarrass yourself. Or worse, you might make a mistake designing your next antenna.

We’ll explain. [Gregg Messenger (VE6WO)] asked a seemingly simple question about antenna theory: Does an impedance mismatch between the antenna and a coaxial feedline result in common-mode current on the coax shield? It’s an important practical matter, as any ham who has had the painful experience of “RF in the shack” can tell you. They also will likely tell you that common-mode current on the shield is caused by an unbalanced antenna system, not an impedance mismatch. But when [Gregg] asked Google Gemini and ChatGPT that question, the answer came back that impedance mismatch can cause current flow on the shield. So who’s right?

In the first video below, [Gregg] built a simulated ham shack using a 100-MHz signal generator and a length of coaxial feedline. Using a toroidal ferrite core with a couple of turns of magnet wire and a capacitor as a current probe for his oscilloscope, he was unable to find a trace of the signal on the shield even if the feedline was unterminated, which produces the impedance mismatch that the chatbots thought would spell doom. To bring the point home, [Gregg] created another test setup in the second video, this time using a pair of telescoping whip antennas to stand in for a dipole antenna. With the coax connected directly to the dipole, which creates an unbalanced system, he measured a current on the feedline, which got worse when he further unbalanced the system by removing one of the legs. Adding a balun between the feedline and the antenna, which shifts the phase on each leg of the antenna 180° apart, cured the problem.

We found these demonstrations quite useful. It’s always good to see someone taking a chatbot to task over myths and common misperceptions. We look into baluns now and again. Or even ununs.

Hewlett-Packard used to make some pretty cool LED displays, many of which appeared in their iconic pocket calculators back in the 1970s and 1980s. [Upir] tracked down some of these classic bubble displays and used them with a microcontroller. We love the results!

The displays featured here, the HPDL-1414, aren’t quite what would have been found in an HP-35, of course. These displays have 16 segments for reasonably legible approximations of most of the ASCII character set. Also, these aren’t just the displays; rather, a pair of the bubble-topped displays, each with four characters, is mounted to a module that provides a serial interface. [Upir] found these modules online, but despite the HP logo on the PCB silkscreen, it’s not really clear who made them. The documentation was a bit thin, to say the least, but with a little translation help from Google, he figured out the serial parameters and the character encoding. The video below shows him putting these modules through their paces.

Unusually for [upir], who has made a name for himself hacking displays to do things they weren’t designed to do, he stuck with the stock character set baked into this module. We think it would be fun to get one of these modules and hack the firmware to provide alternative character sets or even get a few of the naked displays and build a custom interface. Sounds like a fun rainy-day project.

This reminded us of another HP display project we saw a while back. Or, roll your own displays.

Understanding the nature of pH has bedeviled beginning (and not-so-beginning) chemistry students for nearly as long as chemistry has had students. It all seems so arbitrary, being the base-10 log of the inverse of hydrogen ion concentration and with a measurement range of 0 to 14. Add to that the electrochemical reactions needed to measure pH electronically, and it’s enough to make your head spin.

Difficulties aside, [Markus Bindhammer] decided to tackle the topic and came up with this interesting digital pH meter as a result. Measuring pH electronically is all about the electrode, or rather a pair of electrodes, one of which is a reference electrode. The potential difference between the electrodes when dipped into the solution under test correlates to the pH of the solution. [Markus] created his electrode by drawing molten antimony into a length of borosilicate glass tubing containing a solid copper wire as a terminal. The reference electrode was made from another piece of glass tubing, also with a copper terminal but filled with a saturated solution of copper(II) sulfate and plugged with a wooden skewer soaked in potassium nitrate.

In theory, this electrode system should result in a linear correlation between the pH of the test solution and the potential difference between the electrodes, easily measured with a multimeter. [Marb]’s results were a little different, though, leading him to use a microcontroller to scale the electrode output and display the pH on an OLED.

The relaxing video below shows the build process and more detail on the electrochemistry involved. It might be worth getting your head around this, since liquid metal batteries based on antimony are becoming a thing.

[MacGyver] would be proud of [Hyperspace Pirate]’s rough and ready method of producing acetylene gas from seashells and driftwood.

Acetylene, made by decomposing calcium carbide with water, is a vitally important industrial gas. Not only as a precursor in many chemical processes, but also as the fuel for the famous “blue wrench,” a tool without which auto mechanics working in the Rust Belt would be reduced to tears. To avoid this, [Hyperspace Pirate] started by beachcombing for the raw materials: shells to make calcium oxide and wood to make charcoal. Charcoal is pretty easy; you just cook chunks of wood in a reducing environment to drive off everything but the carbon. Making calcium oxide from the calcium carbonate in the shells isn’t much harder, with ground seashells heated in a propane-fired furnace to release carbon dioxide.

With the raw ingredients in hand, things get a little tricky. Making calcium carbide requires a lot of heat, far more than a simple propane burner can provide. [Hyperspace Pirate] decided to go with an electric arc furnace, to which end he cannibalized a 120 V to 240 V step-up converter for its toroidal transformer, which with a few extra windings provided the needed current to run an arc through carbon electrodes. This generated the needed heat, and then some, as the ceramic firebrick he was using to contain the inferno melted. After rewinding the melted secondary windings on his makeshift transformer and switching to a stainless steel crucible, he was able to make enough calcium carbide to generate an impressive amount of acetylene. The video below documents the process and the sooty results, as well as details a little of the excitement that metal acetylides offer.

For more about acetylene and its many uses, [This Old Tony] has you covered.