A Week Off for Pop Culture Cred

I recently took a long-awaited mental vacation. I am happy with my standards of quality entertainment, but they are getting tougher to maintain. It's good to relax them once in awhile, because you come back more invigorated.

The preceding was a flimsy justification for watching 2012 and reading the latest Dan Brown book.

If you have to see 2012 -- and if you really do have to, I can only assume you have made poor life choices so far -- you really must see it with as many science nerds as you can. The riffing that occurs is actually educational. I expected a lot to happen during that film, but "learning stuff" was not on the list.

If you need to borrow some science nerds, I recommend my friend Nicole. You may have to sweeten the pot to get her to sit through that movie again, but it's well worth it. If you need her address, let me know! (Hmmm... I don't recall... NoisyAstronomer doesn't read this blog, does she?)

It started innocently enough. I would be passing near her town on my way to visit my sister, so I asked if she'd like to join me for some Roland Emmerich-spawned disaster porn? Most of you, be you man, woman, child, or fetus, would react to that question by launching yourself at me and trying to beat me into unconsciousness, then phoning the authorities. And you would be right to do it. But Nicole has a trusting nature, so she went for it. (Rather, she HAD a trusting nature. I think the last of that burned away at the beginning of Hour Two.)

2012 begins by ignoring the myriad of doomsday scenarios attached to the end of the Mayan calendar, and creating a phenomenon even dumber. Here is a non-verbatim-but-representative discussion by some scientists near the beginning.

Scientist 1: "Look at all those neutrinos coming out of the sun!"
Scientist 2: "Is that bad? Neutrinos don't really interact with normal matter."
1: "These are Super Neutrinos."
2: "Oh!"
Scientists in the Audience: *spitting out popcorn* "HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! SUPER NEUTRINOS!"

These Super Neutrinos are turning the core of the planet into a liquid, see. Which means the Earth's crust will be floating on a lot of magma, totally unlike what it's doing now, and the whole place is about to be in a right dreadful state.

That setup took about 10 minutes, and we spend the rest of the movie fretting about whether John Cusack's ex-wife Amanda Peet will fall in love with him again before they all die, and whether he will give her the sandwich she so desperately needs. (If you strip out the End of the Earth stuff, Cusack has made this movie at least a dozen times already. Somewhere in all this, an iPod with "In Your Eyes" playing must have slid under the lava.)

Of course, there is a happy ending as about 500,000 people are saved (roughly 0.008% of the present population - party time!), and it turns out that Africa wasn't destroyed, even by the waves that washed over the Himalayas. I bet those people feel stupid for loading all those giraffes and elephants on the arks. You are going to miss those yaks, people.

Oh, I forgot. There were a bunch of arks.

It was a long way to drive to see this movie. I spent the time softening my brain for it by listening to an audio version of Dan Brown's book, The Lost Symbol. Let's spin the Secret Society Wheel and see who we get! ... Spinning ... Spinning ... No Whammies! ... Whew! We don't want a book about the Boy Scouts ... and the winner is... the FREEMASONS! YAAAY!

Dan Brown is one of those authors that millions of people read, but no one admits to reading. For good reason: he's a terrible writer. The frustrating thing about him is that his Robert Langdon books have a hint of a good story under them, but they are buried in howlingly awful dialog, ridiculous plot devices, and so much exposition that it seems he's writing for Clive Wearing.

Brown doesn't give us credit for basic observation either. Here is another sample paraphrased from this latest book. It's Langdon's inner monologue after he discovers a human hand lying on the floor of the U.S. Capitol, right under the dome.

The hand lay still, thumb and forefinger extended towards the top of the dome. I could tell from the large ring with the Freemason crest that this hand belonged to a freemason. I was worried for my friend Peter, the freemason, who had gone missing. Peter would also occasionally extend his index finger and thumb out like this, as though he was pointing, though I had never seen him do it towards the top of the U.S. Capitol's dome. Odd how the stranger on the phone had said that the hand would lead the way. I assume he meant this hand, the one on the floor here with the extended index finger and thumb. I do not see any other hands around here, except for those attached to the arms of the tourists. This was going to be a long night. Above my head, the top of the U.S. Capitol dome remained unmoving, as it had for many years, since it was first installed on this building, although not always above the hand of a freemason with the index finger and thumb extended upward like this...

Evetually, it occurs to Langdon to look where the fingers are pointing (i.e., "up" or "towards the dome") where he is reminded of some other piece of arcane knowledge that he explains in excruciating detail. Also, those of you who have read The Da Vinci Code and Angels & Demons might be interested to know that there is a mysterious stranger (with a dark past and a secret he wants to keep) working against Langdon, who is aided by a beautiful woman that also happens to be a leading expert in a ridiculously obscure science... a science that will come in very handy before the end.

After these twin experiences, my brain is relaxed and as razor sharp as ever. I am ready for some deep thoughts and highbrow entertainment!

Who wants to come see New Moon with me this weekend?

Must... keep... writing...

So I've been awful about posting lately. I feel terrible about it. I am very fond of all six of my regular readers, and I don't want them to abandon me for Phil's blog. (Don't do it, Artful Dodger! It will only encourage him!)

Unfortunately, it's probably going to keep up at least through Thanksgiving, because I find myself wrapped up in NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month. The thousands of us doing this are supposed to complete a 50,000-word novel by the end of November -- roughly the equivalent of 175 pages in a real book.

Edited to add: If you're also doing NaNoWriMo, please add me as a writing buddy. My nick there, like most everywhere else, is "phlebas."

I started writing on Nov. 2, and after four days I'm just over 13,000 words, so it's moving along better than I expected. I believe it is already the third longest work of pornography featuring ocelots, horny priests, and a traveling production of Oliver! If I get to 50,000, it'll be the second longest. I cannot compete with the seminal (ha ha!) work in the genre: Saint Humberto the Sniffly wrote his eight-volume masterpiece Eu Estou Revendo a Situação Santamente do Ocelot (or I Am Reviewing the Holy Ocelot Situation) in 1963.

But 13,000 is respectable for less than a week. Good thing, too. I'll lose about four days at Thanksgiving for l-tryptophan poisoning and the Alabama/Auburn game. I think we should move this to March when there's nothing going on but St. Patrick's Day, hockey, and frakkin' basketball.

It's a great deal of fun, too. I've learned that not all of the novelists in the world are schizophrenic nutjobs when talking about their own works. For example, fiction writers often say things like "I had no idea my character was going to do that! I am as surprised as you are! I thought this one thing was going to happen, and this other person just strolled in and did this!" To most of the non-novelist world, this sounds fatuous, at best. (Insane, at worst.) Especially if that writer uses so many impersonal pronouns.

But I get it now. If you have your characters fully realized, at least in your head, and you drop them in a situation, you might intend to get to a specific outcome. But sometimes if you stay true to your characters, you can't get them there. You either have to change the initial situation or roll with the new outcome. Or you could completely insult your readers and not worry about it, but I can't imagine selling millions of copies of a book that awful.

This happened to me just yesterday. I got to the end of the scene, thinking "what the hell am I going to do now?" This particular scene would change my protagonist's motivation completely. See, when a priest loves an ocelot very much, he sometimes dresses as Fagin and [SPOILER ALERT]. I'm keeping the new scene, because I like this set of motives better, but I'll pay for it with some tricky emotional scenes down the line.

I am enjoying this, but I understand why some people write science books with plenty of pictures. (In an unrelated question, do all of you have a copy of Death from the Skies! yet?)

Stay tuned! I'll be back!

P.S. In CPAP news: I hate my damn CPAP. I have yet to get a full night's sleep, and I've had the stupid thing for almost a month. I had to take a few days off from it because I needed the rest, and then I had a head cold. Sneezing in a mask would be like a SCUBA diver barfing into his respirator. I've got another week, and maybe I can ditch it.

This has been this week's edition of Sinus Digest.

I need Sigourney Weaver ASAP

Check out my new face hugger.



Looks sort of like a Muppet, doesn't it? A Muppet down whose mouth I stick my nose, and whose eyes I press against my forehead. It's my new CPAP!

I talked about CPAPs before. "CPAP" stands for "Completely Prevents Any Peace" and it blows air into your nose while you sleep. That gray hose you see at the bottom attaches to a machine about the size of a shoebox, and it makes a noise THEY claim is a gentle puff of air. To me it sounds like Darth Vader trying to say something in Parseltongue.

I wanted the surgery. I don't want sleep apnea and I don't want to be tethered to some iron lung wannabe every night for the rest of my life. Jesus H, it's hard enough to fit everything in one suitcase when I travel. But the insurance people weighed in, and said they wanted me to do a CPAP for a month before they pay for the surgery.

What they did not tell me is how they'll decide at the end of that month whether I get the surgery.

Agent: It's been a month. Did your like it?
Me: No. It was like having an air compressor blow-drying my sinuses.
Agent: Did your snoring stop?
Me: Yes. I haven't slept in 31 days.
Agent: So your snoring did stop?
Me: It has, as have many of my normal brain functions and sensory perceptions. Just this morning I was having a conversation with former president Warren Gamaliel Harding about whether the Kansas City Chiefs would win the Americas Cup. One more night with the CPAP and I will either kill myself or start a cult. Does that window open onto the street?
Agent: Did you know it also came in red?

Not that the surgery is a pleasure. It's another overnight stay in the hospital (with all the attendant Crocodile Dundee issues) and you feel like you have gravel in your nose for about two weeks. But then you're DONE. No more sleep apnea, no snoring, and no inflating my sinuses to 44psi.

Something just seems wrong with the CPAP notion. My problem comes from a partially blocked nasal passage after a broken nose when I was a kid. "Solving" it by just blowing air through it harder seems less like sound medical advice and more like something physicists would try on a bet.

I just had a horrible thought. What if I get a stuffy nose? Happens all the time when you get a simple cold. With that thing on my face, I won't have time to get a tissue. The pressure will just increase until the blockage clears. That's no way to cure snoring -- that's a way to kill zombies.

Off to bed! If my new Muppet doesn't smother me in the night, I'll be back to tell you all about TAM London!

I miss the ol' drought...

Well that was fun.

The last few days have easily dumped more rain on Atlanta since we were not affected at all by hurricane Katrina in 2004. We don't have any levees to break or anything, so talking about Atlanta flooding to a New Orleansianite is sort of like bitching about the cold to someone in North Dakota.

Still... what a mess.

This is the fancy Canoe Restaurant on the west side of town. If they reopen, they might want to change their name to something less nautical. Care for a bite at Towels Under the Door?

The rains have made many locals recall when our Idiot Governor Sonny Perdue prayed for rain back in the clutches of the drought two years ago. I'm sure he's counting this as a win, but he might want to not say that near the friends and family of the nine people that drowned.

And I blame Sonny as well. He should have known what he was stepping in. Responding to a rain prayer by extending the drought another 18 months and then washing the whole state into the Gulf of Mexico is normal behavior from God. You have to be very specific what you're asking for with him.

"Lord, we beseech thee for rain to ease our suffering and refill our reservoirs, but for that rain to not exceed five inches in any 10-day period and at no time should the volume of water exceed our drainage system's ability to absorb it, in thy mercy."

Personally, I'm thankful we didn't have a vicious cold snap long enough to get Sonny back on his knees. The last thing we need is for the whole state to catch fire.

But at least the drought is over. We have a lot of water thundering down the Chattahootchie River to Florida. If you're in Florida, be careful -- we had some treatment plants get overtopped and knocked offline, so some of that is pure, all-natural sewage! Enjoy!

Out in our area, things weren't so bad. We live on a slope, so we had a couple of new fast-moving rivers on the property that could have swept away a smallish rabbit. The creek the runs past the house, which is normally a placid three-foot-wide by six-inches-deep affair became a roiling whitewater some 30 feet across and 8 feet deep. THAT could have caused problems if anyone had been stupid enough to step in it.

Our more impressive creek

Our new river behind the yard

Our fence's new waterfall

Apart from Monday's traffic snarls, the most obnoxious part was trying to get the dogs to stay out long enough to do what they needed to do. We went through a lot of rubdowns, and there were still a couple of atypical indoor accidents.

So we're fine, but at least nine people are dead and a whole lot of others are displaced. If you want to help, it looks like most of the relief work is being taken on by the Red Cross, although there are spots available for volunteers. Of course, donations always welcome.

As I write this, the National Weather Service is predicting more rain in the area in the coming days. If you will excuse me, I'm going to head downtown and shove a wet, mildewed sock in Sonny's mouth.

The Physics of Costco

I've been in Costco twice in the last couple of days to get supplies for the Star Party. Everyone who comes gets a free five-gallon jug of mayonnaise and we're raffling off a case of 800 mini-quiches.

Not really. It's just for soft drinks. You guys can get your own eight-pack of hair gel.

But I love going into those places, just to watch. Because everything is in bulk, people shove these giant overstuffed carts around. The backstories you can build by watching a 5'2", 95-lb elderly woman balance a month's worth of bacon and 200 yards of garden hose on a 52" plasma TV will keep you in giggles all the way home. Try it.

Still, today wasn't about stories. Today was a harsh lesson in basic physics.

There was a standard shopping cart filled to overflowing. I didn't inventory what was in there, but what I noticed was meat-based. The 20-something woman pushing it was a little heavyset, but nowhere near the equivalent of the cart. She was clearly frustrated in dealing with this quivering food mass.

She starts pushing, and it moves. She keeps pushing, and it moves faster. Faster. Faster. She was a woman possessed. Got the thing up to about a slow jog or medium mall-walk.

I'm no physicist, but I do have a minor in physics and a passable amount of familiarity with how inertia works. There are a lot of ways this cart can stop, almost all of them hilarious.

She had aimed well, but apparently forgot that she has to stop so the Costcestapo can check her receipt. (My least favorite part about Costco. How am I going to fit a 55-gallon drum of milk in my jacket anyway? Where's the trust?)

The poor girl tried to stop. She could have done it with a little more of two things: friction and upper-body strength. She actually slid for a couple of feet before the cart tore loose from her hands. Then everything else froze as the cart trundled out the door and into a concrete column. The top 20% of the contents slid to the sidewalk.

It was hard not to laugh. At least, I think it was hard not to laugh. I didn't try. But it could have been tragic -- that cart could have hit a child or someone in a wheelchair. Or my car.

Okay, the wheelchair would have been kind of funny.

All was well. When I walked out, she was trying to rebalance everything in her cart as the CostCop ticked things off her receipt. No lasting harm done, and she learned a basic principle of the universe that she should have picked up in high school -- and she wasn't the first: that was a well-scuffed column. Some people just have to see things in action.

I hope all of you reading this can take a little something from this. Always be aware of your surroundings at Costco. Being mowed down by 450 pounds of yogurt cups and dishwashing soap would be a hila-- horrible way to die.

You Don't Know Jack

Sad news. A few days ago, my mom had to make The Long Drive to the vet with her 12.5-year-old dog Jack (a Jack Russell terrier). The poor guy had bone cancer in one of his legs, and it had gotten to the point where he couldn't breathe and was in pain pretty much all the time. Knowing its really the right decision doesn't seem to make it easier, though I imagine the local chipmunks are having a block party.

Jack had a tough early life. He spent his first four years with my uncle Charles, who either didn't know much about taking care of dogs or wasn't interested. You can't really leave a Jack Russell outside all the time, even in a climate as mild as north Alabama's. At his chunkiest, Jack couldn't have topped 10 pounds, and didn't have much hair.

In Charles' defense, he was also fighting with cancer (a fight he would eventually lose). During that fight, my mom would visit, and that's when she met Jack. One day Mom was out there, and noticed that Jack had been "skunked." When she left, she scooped up Jack and drove back home. Jack got a bath, went on his very first vet trip ever, and never went back because Charles passed away a couple days later.

Being adopted by my mother is the dog equivalent of winning the lottery. Food and shelter become last on your list of worries, replaced by finding the right spot on the couch to nap between chasing chipmunks in the back yard.

The last thing many chipmunks saw

Jack was a horror of Biblical proportions to chipmunks. Everything else out back -- squirrels, rabbits, etc -- were perfectly safe from the Tiny Ferocity, but chipmunks and mice? Doomed, unless they could climb a minimum of two feet up a tree.

To everyone else, he was friendly and cuddly. When you walked into Mom's house, he spent about 30 seconds making noises like a handgun being fired into a frying pan. If you withstood such an onslaught, you were okay by him and he would totally sit in your lap the minute you sat down. (Unless my mom was also sitting down. That was a dog that never forgot where his bread was buttered.) He was also one of the most well-traveled dogs I knew. Mom used to make the occasional business trip to Denver, CO, and she would drive it with Jack in a dog bed on the passenger seat.

Jack never really shook off his hard youth. When Mom got him, he was riddled with heartworms. After they were gone, he had a slight wheeze in his breath, and we always sort of suspected he would go early. That he made it to 12.5 and died from something else is a testament to Mom's Extreme Pampering Skilz.

So, it's a little quieter at Mom's these days, although not by a whole bunch. Mom also pampers a chihuahua named Chico and a Schnauzer named Beardo. (Also good dogs, but didn't have Jack's humble beginnings, the ungrateful brats.) As for Jack: when your story starts out hard, you can do a lot worse than to have a comfy and loving middle and a merciful end.

Goodbye, Jack. If you're anywhere right now, I hope the pillows are fluffy and the chipmunks are fat.

Sexy time!

Lots of discussion these days about sexism among the skeptical movement. It's very depressing to read, both because I don't see a solution, and (or maybe "therefore") I'm not sure I can see the problem.

There's a voice in my head that says "stay out of this," and "no happiness lies at the end of this road," and "seriously, stay the hell out of this and keep your stupid mouth closed." But where would I be if I listened to advice like that, besides thin and rich? I'm going to wade in anyway, mostly to organize my own thoughts. Should they occur.

I think I just exist with a neutral zone around my head on this issue. Maybe I am just so damn male that I'm blind to sexism. I'm sure that's part of it. But it's scary too, because I would be horrified if everyone thought I was a sexist. How would I get my feet rubbed? Tim might be my Hetero Life Mate but I don't want his fingers on my plantar fascia any more than he does. (Before you write your "What's the Harm in The Man Version?" SkeptiSlashFic, look up what the plantar fascia is, please.)

Why aren't women better represented in skepticism?

I've tried to noodle this out, oblivious as I am. It's tough, because I don't think we know a cause. Some possibles have floated by:

Skepticism is still a Good Ol' Boys Club.

There are undoubtedly pockets where this is true, but I think it fails as a cause for two reasons: 1) No one has pointed to any instances of actual repression of women by the hoary old men, and 2) accusing a group of nameless men someplace of being unable to accept women in their groups strikes me as... well... sexist.

From what I've heard of the latest discussion, no one is really accusing anyone of intentionally shunning the ladies. We're probably guilty of some mannerisms and telling some stupid jokes that can be offensive, but that's hardly unique to skepticism. Nor is it a one-way street.

Until we can get more women really active in the sciences and in science advocacy, I think the women we have need to do some grass-roots stuff. It's thanks to grass-roots skepticism that most of us have heard of HLM Tim Farley, or Robert Lancaster. Or Rebecca Watson.

Which brings us to...

There aren't as many women in the sciences.

This has certainly been traditionally true, although I hope the numbers are getting better. (I could tell you for sure, but that would require research I would frankly rather not do.) Is there still a stigma about women going into science and math? Is there some cultural facet that keeps the ladies out of theoretical physics classes but tuned into Oprah? I don't know -- which is just as well, because if there is, I don't have a clue how to fix it.

Oh, Oprah. Is there anything you can't make worse?

Skeptical gatherings aren't family friendly.

Since I don't have kids, this idea didn't occur to me until my friend Lisa mentioned it in a comment on Skepchick. Almost every local skeptic group I've heard of meets in bars. The Amazing Meeting is held in Las Vegas (which hardly anyone confuses with Disneyworld, except when Disney is covered in sand, filled with hookers, and baked at 350 degrees) and is one long drunken debauchery broken up by guest speakers. If any of that sounds like family entertainment, your kids may end up being taken away. Or lost in a blackjack game.

As a life-long teetotaler, I admit I've been frustrated that every skeptical gathering of more than two people has to be around alcohol. It must be worse for parents who would like to be more involved but can't just leave Junior alone with a box of diapers, 20 tins of tuna, and a can opener while Mom and Dad go to a five-day frat party. (I don't have a solution here, either. Getting skeptics out of a bar is probably harder than getting an Oprah fan to be an astrophysicist.)

So what do we do?

I am not going to presume to lecture the women who are discussing this issue on Skepchick and other forums. They are all way smarter than me, and I've already admitted a blind spot.

I don't know how to get young girls interested in science across the board. For science to become "cool," something bigger than this blog (!) has to happen with our culture. Broader space exploration might help recapture the days of the Apollo missions. Or space tourism, if that ever becomes safe and affordable. All that seems like a long way off when we're actually arguing about whether the U.S. President wants send senior citizens to their deaths. (Doesn't that sound like a certain radio talk-show host got baked on oxycodone and watched Logan's Run over and over? And aren't we due for a Logan's Run remake? And is Logan's Run available on Netflix? I should go loo--.... sorry.)

Until then, any science interest must be planted and fostered at home. So we have to get moms and dads interested in science. Grrrr... I blame Oprah again. Maybe the best investment for all this stimulus money is to make jobs in science for attractive financially.

As for the family friendly thing...

I'm not just kissing up to Lisa (although doing so has always been a good policy), but the more I think about this, the more I see how this can be a barrier. It sucks, because my experience with people in the skeptical movement has been entirely positive. I've never met more caring, friendly, and interesting people, and there's not a group I'm prouder to be associated with. Even the more bizarre members are very kind. Except for that one guy. You all know who I mean, right? That dude is a tool.

I hate to think that others who want to be with us cannot because they're having the kids that we so desperately want to become scientists. Maybe it's time for skeptic gatherings to evolve beyond the floating kegger stage. We're smart people - I'm sure we can figure out a kid-enabled alternative that wouldn't ruin the dynamic that we currently have. I *like* Las Vegas, but maybe it's costing us in ways we can't feel in the pocketbook.

(In fact, I know we can make these things kid-friendly, and we're going to prove it once again at Dragon*Con. If they get bored by skeptic speakers, the children are never more than a few feet away from someone in an Iron Man outfit.)

Like everyone else, I don't have answers. (But I do have access! I can get right to the top of the JREF with a simple phone call! I just have to say "Maria, next time you talk to Phil, tell him I said hi!" I am so in.) We're smart folks, we skeptics. We can think through this if we can define the problem. I don't think we've quite taken that step yet.