Word up, party people in the place to be. Today, I would like to talk about purple haze. No, not the Jimi kind. Or even the M.I.A. kind. But the kind that points to the existence of that oh-so-cleverly-named and elusive substance (not to be confused with the ether): dark matter.
We don't know what it is. It's not antimatter. It seems to work through gravity. It doesn't defy the laws of physics, but it certainly defines them. We need it to help explain why galaxies spin faster than the visible objects in them would dictate. Our observations have long pointed to the fact that we can't see 90% of the mass we detect in the universe. You can't hold dark matter in a bucket, but it does exert a force. It might even be made out of particles we haven't named yet. And for the first time, using one of the many tricks in our astronomy bag, we've discovered hard evidence that it really does exist.
Read the article for a great layman's breakdown of what's going on here, and why we care.
Just thinking about this sort of stuff gets my cogs turning, and I keep coming back to an old idea: worlds within worlds. Anyone out there ever just sit and marvel at how far beyond our comprehension the universe is? I nearly had myself convinced today of some pretty wacky ideas. I mean, the symmetry is there. Just look at the repeating patterns. Somewhere, deep down, doesn't it make sense that not only is the universe functionally infinite on our scale, but reaches to infinity above and below? Think of the paradigm of small bodies orbiting larger bodies. What's to say there aren't entire civilizations rising and falling on the surface of electron-planets orbiting the atomic nuclei of the molecules that make up your spleen? What's to say that all the accelerating galaxies of our universe aren't just soap particles in a drop of water falling past a needle?
On a separate but related note, I'd like to steer you in the direction of two new bloggers. One lives a life I dream about. In fact, he is constantly traveling from one microworld to another within this world. Say hello to my island-hopping friend Ahmed Zahid. You may know him from his photostream on flickr. Take a look at the stories he has to tell.
The second blogger needs no introduction. Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a warm round of applause for everyone's favorite Persian typhoon from L.A., Toufan.
Just a snippet from the daily deluge of information. Anyone out there think it's possible to harness the placebo effect? Or is there something greater at work here? You tell me.
Just a quick note: I've had to go back to filtering comments. Thirty spam comments a day is too much. I can't have all that crap showing up on the site. So while it hampers rapid fire communication and the ability to comment upon comments, you're just gonna have to wait a while to see your feedback. Sorry. Blame the spammers. I mean, I do.
No, it's not the coolest new band you've never heard of. That's Metric. What I'm talkin' 'bout is a little idea I thought was mine. But as Popular Science has proven to me since I was five, I still haven't had an original idea.
A few months ago, as part of a course on human spaceflight, we were tasked to design an emergency escape system for the International Space Station. At first I tossed around a plan to have individual pods placed like flower petals at each air lock. They would be lightweight and simple, consisting of not much more that a heat shield, parachute, survival gear for land or water, a limited navigational system and small rockets for deorbit and attitude control. The trick was getting rid of the bulky pressure vessel: the astronaut would simply don a spacesuit before leaving the station. Since the mission was short (separate, deorbit, enter, decelerate and land), power and life support stores could be minimized. While we eventually settled on a seven-person capsule with a "shirt-sleeve" environment, the idea always sort of stuck in my head.
As it turns out, the plan was first pitched in the '60s. I'm telling you, the more I learn about the original team at NASA, the more I realize they pretty much had everything figured out fifty years into the future. I mean, shoot, the next American space vehicle is going to be a capsule! What excites me about what I learned today, however, is taking the one-person pod and using it not just on the way down, but on the way up too. Sounds crazy, right? Yeah. Crazy enough to work.
If you can drastically reduce the payload weight by launching astronauts sans spacecraft, you can equally reduce the cost of getting to space. Picture this: you don a spacesuit and strap yourself to the top of a rocket. Oh yeah. I'm liking this. There's an aerodynamic shroud around you, but once you're out of the lower atmosphere, it's jettisoned to save weight. Then it's just you, fire at your back, and nothing below your feet but the limb of the earth, nothing above but the blackness of space, nothing ahead but your gentle rendezvous with the space station.
It's brilliant. I only wish I'd thought of it first.
And I do mean Dallas. Alright cowboys and cowgirls, sit right there and let me tell you a story.
This weekend past I went to the second of what I hope to be a long string of fabulous weddings of amazing couples. The first was Lacey and Myk. This weekend, in Texas, it was Naseem and Greg. Everyone there could feel the love of this union. The halls resonated with joy. We danced the night away. But that's not what I'm here to tell you about. What I'd like to relate is the short story of why I shouldn't have made it to Dallas in the first place.
At nine o'clock on Thursday night, I was busy finishing up two laps on Nurburgring in a GT-prepped Ferrari 550 Maranello. It had been a long day, and I didn't feel like packing for the Friday morning trip. So by 9:30 I'd talked myself into going to sleep early, waking up at 4am, packing, driving 45 minutes to the airport, and arriving around 6am for my 8:15 flight. This was, after all, the day after the foiling of the alleged Transatlantic Aircraft Plot in Britain, and because I'd like to brush my teeth before the wedding, I would have to check a bag for the first time in five years.
12:45 am I sit bolt upright in bed and look at the clock. Just after midnight? No way! I feel totally rested, so I drop my head back to the pillow with the drowsy notion that the next three hours of sleep are gravy.
4:00 am Little do I know that the DJs in my dreams are actually those from the radio alarm.
6:30 am WHAT THE?! I wake up sans alarm, my mind jumping from neutral to fifth gear in seconds. Six thirty?! I do a quick mental calculation. Maybe I can still make it. But I need to pack in fifteen minutes.
7:00 am Luckily there are still some clean clothes left in my bag from the trips to Chicago and Mexico. I throw out the dirties, add some new duds (don't forget the suit jacket and tie) and get on the road half an hour after waking up.
7:30 am Some slow-moving traffic appears after the first toll booth in Orlando. There's a section just before the airport that opens up the three lanes. The right lane is clear. Just as I'm about to move ahead of the bunch, I see what's holding everything up: an Orlando cop in the passing lane. Whoops. Suddenly an SUV jumps into my lane to avoid the cop swerving into his. On the brakes as hard as I can, but the pedal stiffens and stops half way to the floor. In slow motion, I come to within two feet of the SUV before they get off the brakes, avoiding a collision by the narrowest of margins. Now the cop is in front of the SUV, slowing further. We're doing 30mph on the freeway as he expects me to fly around him so he can chase me. No such luck, buddy. The SUV finally gets over, leaving me behind the fuzz. He flicks his lights. Yes, I know. I've already been on the shoulder for fifty feet. He finally pulls over and I roll up behind him. Flustered, he exits his squad car in his street clothes. I'd caught up with him on the way into work.
"You in some kind of hurry?"
"Yes, officer, I have an 8:15 flight, and slept through my alarm."
I can tell immediately that he sympathizes. All I have to do now is play it cool. I hand him my license.
"When was the last time you got a speeding ticket?"
"I don't recall," I reply in true Washington fashion. I completed a driver improvement course last weekend for the ticket I got in July.
"You were hauling ass. I didn't even have time to clock you." Hallelujah!
"I'm sorry," I mutter, my hand shaking as I try to find my registration. I resist the urge to blame the terrorists.
"Alright, well, I'm gonna let you go. Just slow down, people are trying to get to work."
"Yes sir, officer."
Surely this was karmic repayment for my last ticket, in which I'd pulled over before she could turn around. "At least you're honest," she'd said cheerfully, then promptly issued me a citation. Helluvah reward for honesty. Reminds me of this one time in Customs. But I digress.
7:35 am I'd long since made the decision to park in the garage and pay the extra seven bucks a day. Satellite parking can take up to 45 minutes. That was just shy of the time I had before the plane left the gate.
7:40 am After a brisk jog down the stairs, across the street and up to the arrivals curb, I spy a long line of other people who have the same brilliant idea I do: curbside check-in. I've already decided to check Elvis, against my better judgement, in an effort to smooth out the security screening process. Next to the queue is a man on a computer. I pace up to him and avoid the dirty looks.
"Sir, are you checking bags?"
"Absolutely, give me one moment," he says without looking up from the screen. After a short pause, he lifts his head and asks, "Your boarding pass?"
I hand it over and he scans it. "I'm sorry, bag check for this flight is already closed. You'll need to stand in line inside and see if they can get you on another flight."
I thank him and trundle inside to find the line snaked outside of the corral, a hundred souls ahead of me.
7:45 am "This is ridiculous," I think to myself. "Here I am a half hour before my plane leaves and I've already missed it. How does this even make sense?" I seriously consider chucking my toiletries into the trash and taking my chances with the bags in the overflowing security line. Suddenly an American Airlines attendant walks out into the crowd.
"Is anyone flying to Santo Domingo?" she yells. No answer. "Dallas?"
My ears perk up. I raise my hand in shock.
"Sir, you need to proceed to the end of the hall."
I run to the end of the counters to find a sign that says "Dallas Check-In ONLY." What?! I suspend disbelief and walk up to the counter, past the empty space where a line should be.
"What time is your flight?" the man asks. I tell him 8:15. "Well, no more bags are going on that flight."
"Yeah, curbside told me it was closed. When does that happen?" I ask.
"Forty minutes ahead," he replies. I missed it by seconds.
"I can put your bags on the 8:55 flight," he offers. A ray of hope.
"Awesome. Do you think I can talk my way through security?" I respond.
"You can try. But you need to make it to the gate soon, before they give away your seat to a standby. It's a good thing you printed your boarding pass online, or else it would already be gone," he says, even as he's typing furiously.
In one deft move he applies the baggage tags and steps across the divider. "I'll walk these to security for you. Gate 15. You'd better hurry, the 8:55 flight is full."
I break into a full run.
7:55 am After hurdling several bags and a few small children, I arrive breathlessly at the sprawling security lines. "I have an 8:15 flight," I sputter at the first TSA agent I see. Without a word she unhooks the barrier and motions me in. I bypass a hundred people.
I approach the metal detectors and x-ray belts, already having targeted the shortest line. Just as I get there, an agent steps in front of me. "This line is now closed," he says gruffly. Damn. I choose the one with about 15 people.
7:58 am I'm waiting as patiently as possible as people fumble with their personal effects. Still wondering if I'm going to make it, a man steps up right next to me and silently opens another line. In thirty seconds I'm through.
7:59 am I drop my boarding pass on the way out of the detectors. As I kneel to pick it up, I glance 150 feet ahead. The train is at the station. I inaugurate a new Olympic event: the 50-yard security dash. Heavily armed TSA agents optional.
8:01 am The train arrives at the terminal. I treat the opening door as a starting block. On the fly, I identify my hallway out of the three available. My gate is at the end. Of course. I chuckle to myself at all the stares; it's rare to see runners in the airport after 9/11.
8:02 am I slow the pace as I approach gate 15. At that very moment, the attendant announces the final boarding call. I waltz up to the scanner nonchalantly. It beeps cheerfully.
"Welcome aboard."
..............................................................
As we taxi toward the gate at DFW, the flight attendant gives us the green light to power on our cellphones. I have three voicemails from the night before. As I listen, I ponder how the hand of God came down to usher me through security on one of the busiest days in history, just so I could be at Nas and Greg's wedding. I think about all the cancelled flights, and wonder if I would have even made it to Dallas the same day if I'd missed my scheduled departure. The voicemail robot brings me back to the moment.
"Third message, Thursday, 10 PM."
"Hey George, it's Bill. I'm watching the news here and you may wanna give yourself some more time at the airport in the morning. They're saying four hours, but I think three should be plenty."
How about forty-five minutes?
..............................................................
In hindsight, checking my computer bag was not the greatest idea. After I arrived in Dallas I opened it to retrieve my bluetooth headset. It wasn't where I put it in Orlando. I checked all the pockets. I specifically remembered zipping it up, just in case the velcro pocket came open. How could I have lost it? I blamed myself until I pulled out all the electrical cords to see if it was stuck in the rat's nest. Then it hit me. Where was my headset charger? No way that was a coincidence. I'd been robbed. I found a note from the TSA that they had hand-inspected my bag. Yeah. And saw my headset and charger together. Now wait a minute, where's my USB SD card adapter? That was gone too.
I made my way to the car rental, counting my blessings. I'd made it to Dallas in time for lunch. Heck, I'd made it to Dallas period. Elvis had made it through checked luggage. Apparently they don't have the balls to steal laptops yet. At the counter, the kid asked me if I'd like to upgrade from a full-size to a premium car for three bucks a day. Apparently my girl Kia, who works for the rental agency, had given me the hook-up. "Does it have four doors?" I asked, thinking of all the peeps I'd be giving rides to during the weekend. "Let me check. Yes," he replied. "Are you kidding me? Heck yeah!"
Looked like I'd have a Charger in Dallas after all.
upon watching Miami Vice
the shallowness of that existence gets to you
under your skin
it's a challenge to remain detached
from a well done film
but somewhere inside it struck me
watching kids salvage broken styrofoam littering the streets of Montevideo
that all of commerce is like sledding as a kid
or like a water balloon fight
all that preparation
for mere seconds of fun
surely it's worth it or we wouldn't keep doing it
Right?
the moment, the pinnacle, the apex, the coup de grace
is the purchase
it's the money shot
everything else is either before or after
everything else is either prophecy or aftermath
come hither or morning after
it's so brief as to be nonexistent
and yet the world revolves around it
as if it were a god
they call it instant gratification
but then shouldn't it be gratifying?
you can't even fathom what goes into its preparation
the logistics of the petroleum alone boggle the mind
and make the world turn
the petrol to make the plastic
the endless shipping to and fro
and the fossils fuels the shipping consumes
the manufacture of "food products"
like High Fructose Corn Syrup
or Partially Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil
the recipe, the history, the preservatives
the focus groups, the taste tests
the marketing budgets and expense accounts
the advertising dollars and tv spots
sponsorships and billboards and product placement and spokesmodels
the shipping and distribution
the wholesale, resale, discount and retail
all the middlemen
the shelf real estate
the lighting the cooling the refrigeration the store location the local ads
the price
the ever present price
everything has a price
all to separate you from your earning potential
all to take back that part of yourself you sold to make a buck
twice over
all to reclaim the piece of the pie you bought into and spent your time earning
all for that moment
that petty exchange
so small so insignificant
that it barely registers in your frantic life
but added up with everyone else
so large so compelling so fundamental
money makes the world go round, you know
and you walk away
one product richer
consume it unceremoniously
quickly, brutishly
it bypasses your natural nutritive pathways
empty calories for your empty soul
signed, sealed, delivered
you grow fatter
they grow richer
we grow richer
more decadent
more wasteful
more independent
more isolated
alone
separated
solitary
and the waste
the dross
the container that held the nothingness you bought
joins the billions of tons of its brethren
in the deep pit of sold dreams
the landfill of civilization
Through the vast backlog. New pics up on flickr of wakesurfing, billiards and electric cars.
At home, the junk mail is tossed; at work, the email inbox emptied and tasks prioritized. The bills are paid and the 200 spam comments banned and deleted. And now finally with this entry the blank front page of the blog is filled.
It's not easy returning to the workaday world, but the bright full moon in a cloudless sky, the familiarity of home, and a night of Ruhi with friends eases the transition. I thought I would have a day between Mexico and Chicago, but neglected that I returned to Tampa Wednesday night and departed Orlando Thursday morning. Four hours of sleep and a two hour drive meant the first morning up north was spent napping.
There really is nowhere to begin describing my life over the past ten days. I could write a short novel about my experiences in Mexico, each day a chapter. Ain't gonna happen. Not this year, at least. The good doctor and I do, however, have a plan to blog about it cooperatively. He has a few lengths on me already with his recent photo post. Check it out, his images are breathtaking. How he, a family man, manages to outpace a freewheeling bachelor baffles me. Alas, he's taken the lead.
I could write a review about each of the bands I saw at Lollapalooza and the experience as a whole, but it could take days. It seems when I'm away from work I only create more work for myself. And let's not even get started on the hundreds of photos I took in both places, bringing the grand total to 2500 of photos I need to post to flickr before I'm up to date.
Lay-c suggested I simply skip ahead to Mexico and post the interim photos at a later date, "when I have time." Considering the fact that I'm dipping deep into sleep time even to write this, I'm at a loss as to when that time will materialize. And I tried uploading large batches before, promising myself I'd come back to title and tag them; it took months. I also value the chronology of my photostream to such a degree that my only recourse is to be more selective in culling the herd until I can catch up. After that, I'll need to better manage the balance between the number of photos I take and the time I have to transfer, process, upload, title, tag, and caption them, not to mention read and respond to comments. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy doing it. But I want it to feel more like a joy and less like a chore. The other options I patently refuse, namely stop taking so many damned photos or stop living such an active life.
We had an excellent study session tonight, punctuated with and followed by enlightening and spirited conversations regarding many of my friends' upcoming periods of service in Haifa, life in Israel, and the Baha'i Faith in general. It really is amazing, as pointed out to me more than once recently, how much I have changed over the course of the last two years as a direct result of my association with Baha'is. It's daunting, however, to think of what is required in the years to come. Daunting, but somehow fulfilling, uplifting and joyful.
Change is afoot.