Nerd-vana

One thing about my April Fool's post where I claimed I was tired was that almost all of that was true: I do have a lot of work ahead of me, or to do, or on my plate, whichever cliche you'd like to us. I did a lot of that this weekend, specifically on Saturday. Thusly, I rewarded myself on Saturday and Sunday nights.

How? you might ask. Well, I laid on my bed and/or couch and flipped back and forth between the Lord of the Rings movies on TNT and the Star Wars prequels on Spike (with a little bit of Kansas beating the shit out of Carolina on Saturday night, just for the sheer joy that it brought me). To add to that, I also threw in a healthy dose of Final Fantasy XII and, in case I didn't get me enough Tolkien with the movies, I was reading Children of Húrin.

Yes, I had reached a state of Nerd-vana. The only way I could go further would have been to have a stack of old X-Men comics at my side so that I could read up on the whacky adventures of Wolverine and Jubilee. *shudder*

One thing that stood out for me, though, whilst viewing these two trilogies: as good as the Lord of the Rings movies were (and I have some serious issues with the Two Towers...I don't consider myself a Tolkien purist, but there was just some bad series of events that went on in the second movie), the Star Wars movies were that bad.

I realize that Lucas could never connect with the awesome power of the original three stories (episodes IV through VI, if you will), since we all already knew what would happen to Annakin Skywalker. But, come on. Let someone read through your script and be like "Wow, this dialogue sucks, dude." For all the sweeping camera angles, immense battle scenes, and close ups of the characters so that you couldn't tell they were standing on their knees, the cinematography of the Lord of the Rings movies was incredible. Not so with the Star Wars movies. Oh, here, let's zoom in on a couple of Clone Troopers pointing to a target. That's not awkward or anything. While Peter Jackson masterfully wove together the two or three major story elements that were going on (depending on where the story stood) by putting together long scenes filled with character and plot development, Lucas hashed together several short, disjointed scenes that did not forward the story at all, but rather simply gave us one more thing to guess at (wait, why was this guy doing this?).

While neither series was perfect (though, in my opinion, Return of the King was about as perfect as you could get), the flaws of one movie series were enough that it detracted from the story overall. Though there were several instances of very "un-Tolkien-like" dialogue in the Lord of the Rings ("No one tosses a Dwarf!" or "This...is a pint!"), the dialogue at least worked well with the characters. Not so with Star Wars. Lines such as "I killed them...I killed them all!" should have been character-defining moments; instead, they were insipidly delivered, invoking a groan and a rolling of the eyes from the audience rather than empathy and compassion and a glimpse into the defining soul of the character.

If nothing else, I can take from this a more rounded critical eye that I can apply to my own works. One thing that I've heard over and again is that I have none of these dialogue issues; however, the delivery of some of the words and lines need to be more fine tuned (again, thanks to Julie, who originally wrote that down for me in some of my earliest editorial comments). With this in mind, I have more comfort and more confidence in pushing forward and getting these things cleaned up and ready to go. That is, of course, unless there's another marathon of movies on that I want to watch (despite the fact that I own the DVDs...).

Note: I learned while searching for pictures that there are a lot of people out there that have named their cats Eowyn. And taken pictures of them. And shown them on the internet. Yeesh.

Not Quite Sleeping Beauty

This just probably proves that I'm a sadistic bastard (but some of you would have it no other way), but this story is too good to pass up. At least in my quaint little corner of twisted reality.

I was in the lab the other day, waiting for my column to finish running on the Companion. While standing there, I was staring out the windows and noticed a body sprawled across one of the benches of one of the picnic tables outback. I immediately assumed it was someone from one of the companies that has offices and labs on the front side of the building, and I also assumed that it was a certain Chinese guy that works there. Now, before you get upset with me and label me a bigot, I'll just point out that most of the guys who work there are Chinese, AND it's the only company that has no offices on the backside of the building. This guy, though, always throws me off because he looks like a Chinese version of my friend Ozzy. The very first time I saw him, I thought "Shouldn't you be playing catcher for the Dragons?" Ozzy plays semi-professional baseball in the Chicago area, in case you were confused by my thought pattern there.

Since I had nothing better to do than make sure my column didn't over pressurize, I kept an eye on the figure. Finally, after about fifteen minutes (I had changed to a new column at this point), he stirred, sitting up and confirming that it was, indeed, the False Oz. However, my delight at pinpointing the guy from an educated guess was amplified when he tried to stand and, evidently, did not realize that his legs were numb. CRASH! to the ground he crumbled, eliciting a tumult of giggles from my oh-so-mature throat. Pulling himself to his feet, he tried to walk again and BOOM! to the ground he fell. I'm chortling with delight at this point. Finally, he pulls himself up onto the bench and sits for another five minutes, bouncing his legs to work feeling back into them. Finally, he stands and, slowly, begins to walk with the shambling gait of a bog zombie or a newborn calf. He manages to make his way across the road to the building and from there, he disappears from my sight.

Having been thoroughly entertained for a good twenty to thirty minutes (give or take), I return my vigilent watch to the column. When it's done, I clean everything up and decide to make a restroom run (I've been drinking a lot of water of late...more on this later). As I complete said task, I wash up, leave the bathroom and make my usual jaunt through the lobby area where I see the False Oz just now getting up the steps and making his way over to his work.

Wow. Now, I'm not exactly a ball of fire on most days, but even I draw the line at napping on park benches during the day. No sir, I always take my naps on the toilet (after waltzing in around ten a.m., googling my own name for two hours, and then taking a donut break...unfortunately, I yelled this out while making love to my wife one night, so she's onto me).

Sale on Nitrogen, This Weekend Only!!!

I'm a chemist. And, as a chemist, I know things. I know things like all matter has mass. I know that an atom is the smallest bit of a substance you can have and still retain the properties of that substance. I know things like which elements are electronegative, and what a pi-bond is, and the octet rule.

I also, thanks to extensive work done by guys like Boyle, Charles, and Guy-Lussac, that gasses behave a certain way.

You can imagine my...confusion...last night when I was listening to/watching the news whilst working on editing my book, and an officer from the Garner police was talking about filling the tires on his cars with nitrogen, because, you see, nitrogen is not affected by changes in temperature.

Uh. Hmmm.

Officer, I'd like to introduce you to my friend, the Ideal Gas Law.

Ideal Gas Law, officer dumbass.

Now, it should be said that we here at the sprawling A Crown of Thistles home office have nothing but respect for the boys in blue. My uncle was a cop, my aunt is a county dispatcher, my cousin was a jailor, my other cousin is also a dispatcher, and I believe my uncle served as a dispatcher, as well, after retiring from the force. So, you can see, my family likes cops. Sure, sometimes they can be dickish, but for the most part, they're there to help.

It's just a frustrating thing when you hear someone touting the benefits of some new piece of technology, and yet, they are off base.

For the Garner police officer (and anyone else who hasn't spent their life dedicated to this thing), the Ideal Gas law is pV=nRT, which basically states that the pressure (p) and volume (V) of a certain amount of gas (n) is related to the temperature (T). That basically says that, as you heat a gas, it expands. If the vessel is closed, the pressure goes up, too. So, nitrogen, being a gas, would adhere to this.

Another thing the good officer failed to realize is that in every breath he takes, 70% of it is nitrogen. When he exhales, 70% of that is nitrogen. When he inhales, the air is cool. When he exhales, the air is warm. What this means is that nitrogen does, in fact, get affected by changes in heat.

Now, the Garner police department is using nitrogen to fill up the tires on their cruisers in an attempt to lower gas consumption. It's supposed to increase your gas mileage by up to ten miles per gallon. I'm guessing that there is no neat trick to having nitrogen, as opposed to regular air, in your tires. My best guess is that, since it's pure nitrogen, you're not getting partial pressures of all the mixtures of gasses that comprise "air". One thing about the Ideal Gas Law is that you're assuming the gas is pure, which "air" is not. It's a mixture of nitrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide, water vapor (I haven't yet seen a dessicator line on an air pump at the gas station), and a host of other gasses that comprise the last 1.3% or whatever it is.

There is another law that would cover this mixture is the Law of Partial Pressures, which basically states that the ratio of the gasses inside a vessel exerts a ratio of the pressure on the vessel, so nitrogen would exert 70% of the pressure inside of your tire if it is filled with air. Now, each of the other gasses on the inside of your tire would adhere to the Ideal Gas Law separately, and therein might lie the problem. Different gasses expand and contract different volumes when heated at the same temperature (that's basically what the n is for in the Ideal Gas Law). Also, I think the big key is that 23% of the air inside your tire is oxygen.

Oxygen is a nasty, nasty gas if you don't know how to use it. Your body basically has to repair itself constantly from oxygen's nastiness. Singlet oxygen (and Dr. Creary forgive me if I've switched the two) is the more reactive form of oxygen, which can do deleterious things to the inside of your tire. Also, water vapor on the insides of tires is probably not a good thing (and as I mentioned earlier, I've yet to see a gas station attendant changing the drierite on the air pump outside his station) and can cause some issues. Nitrogen, however, is damned inert and happy to remain as such.

Now, the kicker that really astounded me wasn't even the cop claiming that nitrogen is not affected by the changes in temperature. No, at the end of the report, the reporter told of a garage that will fill your car's tires with nitrogen...for $50!!! I'm not sure if that's per tire or the whole deal. But, fifty freaking dollars for nitrogen, the most abundant gas on earth? Well, hell, that's like paying $5 a bottle for water, the most abundant...substance...on...earth... Oh wait.

I need to come up with a good idea for people to throw money at me. Maybe I should start touting how helium in your tires will make your car lighter and therefore more fuel-efficient.

Hey wait...that just might work. I'll talk to you later. I think I just heard the unmistakable sounds of suckers being born this past minute.

Appetite for Algebra

I was on my home this evening from tutoring when I heard a DJ come on the local radio ("the everything that rocks" station...for what it's worth) and say that it was 20 years ago when Guns & Roses first released something off their "Appetite for Destruction" album. This didn't make me feel old, though I probably should, but it did make me think of my 7th grade math class.

That's probably a strange sort of memory to be stirred by GnR, but it made me think of a t-shirt design that was proposed for the math classes under the tutelage of my math teacher, Mr. Wallace. The t-shirt design had the cross with roses in place of the heads from the Appetite for Destruction album cover, and in the same font as on the album was written "Appetite for Algebra". Someone actually sketched the design freehand (we had many pretty decent artists in my middle school...I sometimes fancy myself a bit of an artist, but my designs, drawings and everything paled in comparison to some of my middle school classmates). I believe that it was going to be a black or slate gray shirt with red letters and it was going to be really nice, especially to a seventh grader. I'm sure my mom would have crapped to have something like that in her house, which always seemed like the worst insult ever. "I wouldn't have something like that in my house!" "I won't allow that in my house!" What about in the yard, mom? The car? Just on the porch?

Anyway, all of these are in the "possible" range since I never received my shirt. You see, I wanted one, wanted one badly. I saved up my lawnmowing money for a couple of weeks and the money I could con out of my parents in order to buy "extra milk" on chocolate milk days. Then the day came when the sign up sheet was passed around. So, Mr. Wallace put the sign up sheet on a desk by the door to the math room and stepped out a second for coffee, and now that I'm an adult, I can't fault him for that. With Mr. Wallace gone, havoc was sure to ensue. And it did.

We all lined up for sign ups. We joked, talked, goofed off...all the things you'd expect from a bunch of seventh graders. I thought nothing of it, but the air was filled with electricity from the merriment surrounding both the sign up sheet as well as the lack of Mr. Wallace. It was the build up to the perfect storm. Finally my turn in line came, and so I dutifully bent over the desk to write my name, number of shirts, size, money enclosed for payment...

Let's point out here that, in the seventh grade, I was about six foot tall. The desks were about mid-thigh high on me, so I had to bend over quite a bit to get down to the sign up sheet. Instead of crouching down by the side of the desk and filling out the paperwork like I had a fricking brain in my head, I bent over, at the waist. Doing so caused the waistband of my jeans to dip low down my backside. Fortunately for me, the waistband of my underwear was rock solid and did not move at all, providing a delectable target that was too delicious to avoid for my friend Chris Long. I had just managed to jot down my first name when I felt that horrible tug on the waistband of my drawers as they shot skyward. Searing pain shot through my nether regions as the crotch of my briefs threatened to emasculate me and the bulk of my underwear were turned into butt-floss.

The pain was real, that was for sure. My fragile seventh-grade ego also was shattered--doubtless word would spread soon after the attack on my backside to the remainder of my classmates who were not fortunate enough to witness my unmanning. Worst of all, however, was that, while the Mother-of-All-Wedgies was happening to my backside, the only face I saw was that of the alabaster angel who sat on the other side of the room by the far wall: Stacie Farmer.

In the seventh grade at my school, we got a whole new batch of kids from another school that did not have a middle school. Among these imports from Lancaster Elementary were my best friend, Jason, one of my closest confidants through middle and high school and beyond into college, Kelly, and the perfect, unfettered beauty, Stacie Farmer. The one problem with my infatuation with Stacie was that it was quite unrequited. Being a writer, I'm sometimes hostage to the whims of my passions, which flow through my veins like white-hot lead. It's these passions that I spill out onto paper in the form of prose, most of the time. Being an awkward seventh-grader, my passions would often fully encompass my being, smothering all sense and reason.

The unrequited nature of my desire for Stacie happened pretty much from the first day the new students arrived from Lancaster Elementary. I was blessed enough to have Stacie sitting behind me in science class. One day, that fateful first week of seventh grade, I turned around, smiled, and opened my mouth to speak. Unfortunately, that was the exact moment my wits decided to leave me, and thus my opening line was:

"You don't blink very often, do you?"

Not the smoothest pick-up ever. In fact, that pretty much sealed my fate with Ms. Farmer. I could tell because her answer was "What are you, stupid?"

That did not stop the ball of emotion within my chest from beating solely for Stacie Farmer. It would not, however, amount to anything, but I still remained completely infatuated with that blonde beauty. So, you can imagine that, upon that fateful day in math class, when I looked up and saw the look of astonishment and amusement on Stacie's face as my underwear was being heaved up around my shoulders like the raising of the mizzenmast, a piece of my soul shattered.

So, when I heard that Appetite for Destruction was 20 years old this year, I didn't feel old. I felt a small twinge of pain deep in the pit of my heart, thinking about the time when I was completely and thoroughly embarrassed and unmanned, and my poor little heart was crushed.

And I also felt like I needed to pick my underwear out of my butt.

A Modest Proposal

A few months ago (probably at the beginning of the year, being that is the resolution time and all) my company offered this special discount with Weight Watchers. We still had to pay an inane amount of money to join, and the WW food wasn't discounted or anything, but we could pull out the payments from our paycheck so that we were losing weight tax free!!! And there was much rejoicing.

The response was...luke warm at best, I'd say. We got several emails from HR demanding asking people to join. Naturally, all of the people who don't need to do Weight Watchers joined. It was around this time that HR put pressure on one of my associates to get ME to join the program. This really pissed me off. Not because I'm not a fatass (I'll admit to being one readily), but just the gall of someone to think they can pressure a person into doing something they don't want to do just because they're in the front of the building...well, I shan't start on HR people. At my old job, the HR idiots directors were sneaking, conniving, evil people. Here, they just call you fat and pressure you into losing weight.

I realize that having a not-overweight workforce is something that companies see as leading to lower insurance costs. I won't deny the logic here. People who aren't grossly overweight make better, healthier, more productive workers. What I'm still pissed about is the notion that the HR woman felt the need to pressure me through another person in the company (this person had already signed up for the program).

The thing that pisses me off, though, aside from HR's antics and all the people who don't need to lose eight joining and that we still have to pay for food, meetings, blah blah blah is the really pathetic notion that people feel they need to have a group supporting them in order to lose weight. It's one thing to be supported by your spouse, especially if he/she does the shopping. It's entirely different to sit around a powwow once or twice a week telling everyone what you forcibly allowed to slither down your throat. Well, here's some news for you, folks: you ain't gonna lose weight unless you want to lose weight. The group means dick when it comes to weight loss, unless the group is going to show up at your house and slap the brownie away from your mouth upon its final approach. If you don't have the willpower to stop licking the cream from between Little Debbie's cookies and shoving ho-hos in your Twinkie hole, you probably should just end it now. Quick tip for you: the best way to lose ten pounds of ugly fat is to just cut off your head.

One other thing that pisses me off, and then I'll get to my point. I'm tempted to go on the Subway diet. Real tempted, except I'm not fooled by Senor Fatass Jared. I hate to tell people who buy into this whole notion that white bread and mayonnaise sammiches ain't the solution to your weight problem. What Subway neglects to tell you is that Senor Fatass walked/jogged for three hours a day in the park beside the optometry school at Indiana. I know this because my best friend went to optometry school at Indiana. So, it wasn't the highly processed carbohydrate-laden buns nor the processed fat-laden mayonnaise on those sammiches which caused Jared to shed the poundage, it was exercise. Gasp! A novel fucking concept.

Now, on the other hand, my wife has a friend/manager who received for Christmas a Nintendo Wii. Since Santa placed this sinful bunch of silicon wafers and circuits under the tree, Ms. Manager has lost 20-25 pounds. I'm willing to bet the last few ounces of Dr. Pepper in my bottle that most, if not all, of the Weight Watchers people did not lose that much weight. Wow. That almost sounds like--gasp! again--exercise! What a concept!

So, here's my proposal the next time HR feels the need to shake the fat tree that I've shinnied up: subsidize my Wii and allow me to buy games tax free. I mean, if I can lose 25 pounds in six months, isn't that getting me to the same goal as the Weight Watchers crowd? I believe it is. Oh, and it's a helluva lot more fun than eating white bread sammiches, counting points, and waiting for the approval of "the group".

So...what do you say, HR? First one to -50 lbs wins?

I'd Like a Little Irish in Me

My good friend, Will, over at City of Tiny Lights, posted the results to this little "who's your inner European?". He got Irish, which is expected...after all, there's many a Shannon on the Emerald Isle. And Will embodies the "spirited and boisterous" descriptor, especially after a few rounds of ale (and don't get him started on politics).

In honor of the only man I've ever known who knew the monarchs of England in order and got all of the dates of their rule within a +/- 2 year error set, I felt the need to take the quiz, too.

Your Inner European is Irish!

Sprited and boisterous!You drink everyone under the table.

Who's" Your Inner European?

Here's to you, my fellow inner Mick. Now let's get the mattresses out and start wrestling in the hallway once more...right after drinking another bottle of Whisky.

Please...don't turn your head all funny trying to look up the Irish lass' skirt.

My Son the Jedi, Part II

In keeping with the Star Wars theme this week, I thought I'd share this story. It probably should be called "My Jedi Children", but I've already got one post about how my son has started his training, so I figured I'd continue it.

We're a family who unabashedly shops at Target. I love the store. I loved the store before it went through it's big make-over. When I was a kid, the store in Huntington, IN, always had the best selection of Transformers and G.I.Joe figures going, additionally their CDs were about a dollar cheaper than anyone else's. Plus, for a while, my girlfriend in high school worked there, and I could go see her under the guise of "shopping for stuff" as my parents didn't really like the notion of me dating, whether it was in general or just her, I'm not sure (they weren't too keen on the girl from Lafayette, either, so I'm thinking it was a general thing). For some reason, they thought a 16-year-old boy would be more interested in hanging with his annoying little brother than with a nubile young woman. Life in small town America can be so quaint from time to time.

I'm sorry. I should change the title of the blog to "A Crown of Digressions".

The other night, I needed one or two things from Target, so I packed the kids in the car and we headed out. I picked up the band-aids that I needed (or sterile, self-adhesive bandages or whatever they must be called in order to avoid copyright infringements) as well as some boys pull-ups. My children then asked if we could go look at toys. From the description above (minus the parts about girlfriends and dating), you can tell that I myself always enjoyed the toy aisles at Target, and so I feel the need to allow my children the same little joys in life.

We rarely buy them toys just for the hell of it. Usually, they get big hauls for birthdays and Christmas, and then the occasional Easter/Valentines small present and maybe something in the fall. They have a lot of toys, but they don't get swamped with them, which is good, because we're already outgrowing the house (there I go, digressing again). So, a trip up and down the toy aisles (and I do mean ALL of the aisles) is a treat for them.

We were traveling down the aisles when we were fast nearing the end. We start with the outdoor toys and work our way forward, skipping the baby toys and heading right for Thomas the Train and Bob the Builder, working through Barbie and Disney Princesses, and finishing up with Matchbox and Action Figures. There's something for everyone in there.

Well, upon the final aisles is the Star Wars merchandise. One thing that they've come up with is a small lightsaber where you can press a button and flick your wrist to "eject" a plastic blade. Oh, how I wish they had had these while I was a young lad and wouldn't be called nerd for owning one. Perhaps it would have helped keep away the Townies in college (man, you're nice to those people once and the next thing you know, you're drunk, in the back of a van, playing truth or dare with them...sheesh), or at least I could have had more fun tormenting Giles/Captain Rummy on tequila nights.

One of these new-fangled lightsabers was out, as in the blade was extended. It was a replica of Mace Windu's, and my kids both marveled at its purpleness. I then grabbed an Obi-Wan model (I assume so, due to the color) and flicked it to extend the blue blade. Again, they thought this was pretty cool. They then both grabbed one and started fighting one another. Nice. After a few seconds, I made them put them back. Now they both want lightsabers for their birthday. My daughter, of course, wants the purple one (I did not check to see if "BAMF" was inscribed on the handle anywhere...and if it isn't, I'm sure as hell doing it myself) and my son wants a red one (which, of course, makes him evil). I'm all for arming them with the elegant weapons of a more civilized age (and not one of those clumsy, random weapons that every hack can use), but I don't know if Mrs. Jedi Master (aka the little woman) is for it. Since their birthdays will be spent with my in-laws, this doubles the desire to arm the children with presents they wouldn't approve of.

Incidentally, one of the things I would have done to make the Star Wars prequels better was to have a wider array of colors of lightsabers. That's just me, though. I appreciate variety. Green, blue and red, while all nice colors, just don't cut it. And, of course, purple. I always thought orange would have been a prime color.

No Reason to Live

If I'm not dead by 2100, please, somebody, kill me.

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/living/2002266852_redhair09.html

Hints for Heloise

Since you're never going to read this in the daily featurette, I thought I would share this little sniglet of information with you.

If you find yourself at night cleaning up vomit and your wife has hidden the twin bed sheets from you, a queen-sized bed sheet turned sideways is very effective. Just be sure to spritz it with a little Febreze first to help mask the fact that the room was just covered in vomit.

Puke Scrubbing in Durham, NC.