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I've been working with storage engines for quite a while and really there was no similar tool to sysbench and or HammerDB for key-value storage engines. Thus I introduce a POC called keybench. I hope you check it out, and do give it a run to drive your favorite engine. Cheers!

The first time I encountered an EIA-96 resistor , I assumed the marking would tell me the resistance value directly. I was troubleshooting a PCB and found a resistor marked 24C . Naturally, I expected some relationship between "24" and the actual resistance. After measuring and checking the datasheet, I discovered the resistor was 17.4 kΩ . That raised an obvious question: Why doesn't the code match the resistance value? The Problem With Traditional SMD Codes Most electronics enthusiasts learn resistor markings through familiar examples: 103 = 10 kΩ 472 = 4.7 kΩ 681 = 680 Ω These markings are straightforward. The first digits are significant figures and the last digit is a multiplier. The system works well for common resistor values, especially 5% tolerance components. However, things become complicated when manufacturers need to identify large numbers of precision resistor values on extremely small packages. Enter the EIA-96 Series Precision resistors often use the E96 preferred value series. Instead of having only a handful of values per decade, the E96 series contains 96 standardized resistance values between powers of ten. Some examples include: 100 Ω 102 Ω 105 Ω 107 Ω 110 Ω 113 Ω Notice how closely spaced these values are. Trying to represent all of them with traditional three-digit markings would quickly become messy and inconsistent. A Different Approach Rather than printing the resistance value directly, EIA-96 uses an index system. Each number from 01 to 96 corresponds to one of the standard E96 values. For example: Code Base Value 01 100 24 174 68 499 96 976 A letter is then added to indicate the multiplier. So the resistor marking becomes: Number + Letter Instead of: Resistance Value Example: Decoding 24C Let's break down 24C. First, look up the base value: 24 → 174 Next, decode the multiplier letter: C → ×100 Now calculate: 174 × 100 = 17,400 Ω Final resistance: 17.4 kΩ At first glance, nothing about "24C" resembles 17.4 kΩ, but that's because the code i

Ask a roomful of engineers where the name "Arduino" comes from and you will get confident answers about acronyms, Italian for "bold friend," or some clever electronics pun. Almost all of them are wrong. The most influential open-source microcontroller board in history — the one that introduced millions of students, artists, and tinkerers to embedded development — is named after a bar. The pub in Ivrea The story begins in Ivrea, a small town in northern Italy straddling the Dora Baltea river. In the early 2000s it was home to the Interaction Design Institute Ivrea, where a team led by Massimo Banzi was looking for a cheap, approachable way to teach design students how to make things that sense and respond to the world. The tools available at the time were either too expensive or too intimidating for people who were not electrical engineers. So, in 2005, the team built their own board and released the design as open hardware. They needed a name. Banzi and his collaborators were regulars at a local pub called Bar di Re Arduino — "the Bar of King Arduino." When it came time to christen the project, the bar's name stuck. There was no acronym, no marketing committee, no focus group. The board was named after the place where the people who made it spent their evenings talking through ideas. The medieval king behind the bar The bar itself carries a much older name. Arduin of Ivrea — Arduino in Italian — was a real historical figure, an Italian nobleman who became King of Italy in 1002 and held the crown until 1014. He is one of Ivrea's famous "underdog kings," remembered locally long after his short reign ended. So the chain runs a thousand years deep: a development board used in connected sensors and robots today is named after a pub, which was named after an early-medieval king who ruled around the year 1000. It is the kind of detail that sounds like trivia, but it points at something real about how durable technology actually comes together. Why the origin story matters