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Daily Blah for... Monday, August 28, 2006
Reverting to Type
Off to Burning Man for a week, with typewriter, shiny cowboy hat and dishdasha in tow. I would bring my laptop, as in years past -- there are two wifi networks on the playa this year -- but surfing the web and sipping mochas at the Smoochdome (part of my camp this year, New Amsterdam, with a very recognizable dome cover -- it's Christo's Gates, the Central Park art project, stitched together) would just seems wrong. No, this year it's all about the typewriter I just bought on Craigslist -- lovely industrial German design from the 50's, mechanical, impervious to the elements, and the perfect object with which to interview Playa denizens about this year's theme -- the Future -- in my Future Boy guise.
It's time once again to cut the umbillical cord of civilization, to get a bit dusty and out of touch. See you back here on Labor Day.
Daily Blah for... Thursday, August 24, 2006
Requiem for an Ex-Planet
Somewhere out between the orbit of Neptune and the Kuiper Belt, a small, spherical object is shedding an icy tear. Yes, it was the shot heard around the solar system: the International Astronomical Union has demoted Pluto from planet to "dwarf planet," a new category of orbital object that seems uncomfortably close to "Special Olympics." Bad enough that Pluto doesn't get to sit at the grown-up's table any more; did we really have to make a dig at its size, too?
The demotion has, of course, been a long time coming. Pluto couldn't pretend forever that it was the largest chunk of stuff out there in post-Neptunian space, or that it wasn't falling slowly to pieces as the solar wind whips its icy surface off. It's a comet, really, made from the same stuff; closer to the sun, it would have a tail. But bless the little thing -- it was the little comet that could. It tried so hard to get nearer to that dim star in the distance, even though the star would hurt it. And it did it. It came out of the Kuiper belt, and got a pretty damn stable orbit going. It kept steady, even with that blasted Charon, the Robin to Pluto's Batman, circling so close, throwing it off its game.
And why did the IAU demote Pluto? Because it hadn't "cleared its orbit of other objects". What other objects? Like, uh, Neptune. Every once in a blue Charon, Pluto hops over its neighbor's lawn, and one of these millenia, I suppose, they might bump into each other. But even leaving aside the obvious question -- hey, instead of picking on the little guy, why doesn't the IAU demote Neptune instead? -- it seems horribly unfair. I mean, Pluto barely skips over for twenty years or so, hardly a moment in Plutonian years. Lookit:
See? Pluto so nearly made it to being a planet under the new definition. And what does it get now? The status of dwarf planet. Oh, and it gets to "act as a prototype for a yet-to-be-named category of "Trans-Neptunian objects." Which is rather like kicking your kid out of the house and then saying "don't worry, you can still be a prototype for a yet-to-be-named category of our family."
Ah, you say, but look at the worldwide outpouring of grief for poor Pluto. Doesn't that prove we care for the little Neptunian Trespasser? No, not really. "Once a planet is deemed a planet, named a planet and represented in every grade school science fair with a ball of styrofoam painted purple," wrote a friend on an email list today, "it should remain a planet." We don't feel sorry for Pluto -- we feel conservative, as conservative as a 19th-century clergyman reading the Origin of the Species for the first time. We want science to remain the same. We want the solar system to remain the way we learned it. The mnemonics are suddenly useless. My Very Elderly Mother no longer Just Served Us Nine Pizzas. She Just Served Us Nine. It's all wrong. When the universe changes, it worries us. We get a glimpse of the awful truth that things are not as set in stone as they seem.
There's all sorts of emotions mixed up in there. We picture our future child sitting in the future kitchen, leafing through a future edition of the Bumper Book of Planets, cheated out of a whole chapter, of a whole "wow." Or worse, perhaps he will leaf to a page that says "your parents might tell you there's a ninth planet, but that's because they're fuddy-duddies who didn't pay attention to the news back at the beginning of the century." And our children will turn and look at us with pity, and we'll blush and mumble something about going for ice cream. Remembering Pluto will become another one of those age markers, like being alive when Star Wars came out. It will prove that you were brought up between 1930 and 2006. It will date you horribly.
But who weeps for the lonely ice-bound lump itself? No one. We don't write, we don't visit. And now we probably never will. Which is a shame, because Pluto, being slowly ice-stripped to death by the solar wind, could literally use our tears.
Daily Blah for... Monday, August 21, 2006
Perpetual Amusement
Heard the one about the Irishman who claims to have invented a perpetual motion machine? Gosh, it would be nice if this one withstands the tests of dull, reasonable science and gives the world limitless energy, which we could really do with right about now. But if not, it would give the testing committee the chance to use one of my favorite Simpsons quotes, from the episode where Lisa's teachers go on strike and the bored young Simpson is forced to invent a perpetual motion machine. "Lisa," scolds Homer in his best scolding voice, "in this house we obey the laws of thermodynamics!"
Daily Blah for... Friday, August 18, 2006
Idiot Country
You know American politics have gone down the rabbit hole when a rabid right-wing cable show like Scarborough Country features a segment entitled "Is Bush an 'Idiot'?" Those quote marks around 'idiot' are the merest fig-leaf of respect for the presidential office. Scarborough and chums lay into their once-mighty leader with all the jaded, righteous anger of nihilistic teenagers. Of course, there's no mention of the fact that every other segment on the show for the last six years could have been subtitled "Is Bush a Genius?" Which leaves plenty of room for a retrospective rehabilitation of the Idiot-in-Chief once he's left office -- or once the GOP has squeaked through the midterms. Still, one can always hope that a lesson has been learned, and will be remembered, and America will never again choose a candidate based on Reaganesque appearances. Or does such relentless optimism make me an idiot too?
Daily Blah for... Sunday, August 13, 2006
The Shush Lady
To Harbin Hot Springs, a curious historical resort three hours north of San Francisco. It's a valley with hot and cold running water supplied by nature; the Victorian-era San Franciscans, who, like most Victorians, loved to take the waters, flocked there in droves and stuffed the place with hotels. A fire in the early 70's burned most of their tourist constructions but left the pools intact. Now it's a much smaller resort, with a few rooms and a lot of camping. In summer, many visitors sleep out on mattresses on the decks overlooking the valley, hoping that the chatter of the crickets will drown out the snoring of their neighbors.
Harbin these days is a strange mixture of hippy and fascist. Everyone's very cool and relaxed and, you know, kind of naked. But extremely strict rules are enforced. No booze is allowed anywhere on the grounds. Leave your child unattended for thirty seconds while you run to the kitchen to get him some milk, as one unfortunate father I met there had done a year ago, and you'll be hearing the harsh rasp of security radios talking to each other within seconds; days later, you'll get a letter banning you for six months.
Certain of the pools are designated "quiet," which I can understand perfectly -- it's pretty easy to shut up, and produces a blissful, meditative effect while you're soaking. But the main hot spring pool is designated "whisper," which seems to be a problem. Once you start getting into a conversation, it's hard to keep your mind on modulating your voice -- especially at night, after your party has been lounging on the lawn on blankets watching the meteor shower and sipping from coffee cups filled with Irish Milk and Mexican Water and Spicy Pirate Punch, and other euphemistically-named beverages.
That's when you'll run afoul of the Shush Lady, who patrols the pool at night with a flashlight and a radio. Raise your voice above what the Shush Lady decides is appropriate, and she'll shine her torch in your eyes, then wave it in two irritated strokes at the No Loud Noises sign. Now I know some Blah readers, especially some who've spent a lifetime in classrooms (hello, mum) who'll be thinking: good for her. If you can't police your own whispering, you deserve a bit of kleig light action. Problem is, the Shush Lady wasn't really policing whispering. You can whisper quite noisily, and that is in fact what my party was doing. Go ahead, try it. Take a draught of Spicy Pirate Punch and whisper at the top of your lungs. I'll wait.
On the whole, though, I was glad of the Shush Lady and the bizarre fascist-hippydom she embodied (not to mention the ghosts of the Victorian-era Harbin I like to think she was channeling). Why? Because nothing fosters community faster than having Authorities to outmaneuver. Supping on the lawn under the stars became a kind of reassertion of personal freedom, the Being Naughty that we all need from time to time. Throw in a meteor shower and a blanket full of giggling friends, and it's well worth the price of entry.
Daily Blah for... Thursday, August 10, 2006
Be Careful What You Beg For
There's a homeless guy who sits outside the Noah's Bagels on Market selling copies of Street Sheet. Actually, I'm assuming he's homeless because of his wares, but he is kitted out in athletic attire and does seem rather well-groomed, as does his dog. Anyway, I see the guy almost every day on my way to lunch, and nearly every time he's asking passers-by if they can spare "an onion bagel with cream cheese and tomato." Not only is his request that specific, it's delivered in somewhat irritated tones, as if there were an unspoken "excuse me waitress, but half an hour ago I ordered ..." preceding it.
I keep wondering whether he would be indignant if I bought him the same order but on a sourdough bagel, say. If I forgot the tomato, would he tell me to take it back? I also wonder if he's on to something. Maybe those who have the cajones to beg for exactly what they want have the most success; maybe specificity resonates with the hyper-busy, crackberry-toting downtown suits who simply don't have the bandwidth to think up their own charitable actions (and may not carry anything as old-fashioned as hard currency).
But why stop at bagel orders? If it works, why aren’t wild-haired men standing outside liquor stores requesting a bottle of 2002 Georges Duboeuf Morgon Domaine de la Chaponne Beaujolais? Or picketing furniture showrooms with demands for Chesterfield recliners in tan leather? Will opera patrons soon be beset by requests for tickets to the Marriage of Figaro, orchestra section, not too close to the front?
Daily Blah for... Monday, August 07, 2006
Terror Plane Plot = Bloody Nuisance
This just came over the transom from the homeland:
In the light of recent events, British authorities have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved."
Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even" A Bit Cross." Londoners have not been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to a "Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the great fire of 1666.
Also, the French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from "Run" to "Hide." The only two higher levels in France are "Surrender" and "Collaborate." The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France's white flag factory, effectively paralyzing the country's military capability.
Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout Loudly and Excitedly" to "Elaborate Military Posturing." Two more levels remain: "Ineffective Combat Operations" and "Change Sides."
The Germans also increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance" to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher levels: "Invade a Neighbor" and "Lose."
Daily Blah for... Friday, August 04, 2006
Fresh and Perky
I remember how my deputy editor, rushing to fill a half-page hole in the product review section of the magazine, walked in on me downing a couple of Boots caffeine strips. It took 25 seconds, but the deputy editor's dream came true: Boots, the largest U.K. Pharmacy chain, was a perfect subject for the international issue. The review I wrote was a lot like like Listerine breath-strips: in taste, just as bad. But the idea delivered a kick to the caffeine-addicted U.S. audience (which recommends using more than four a day). Now, whenever I next visit the United Kingdom, my father will say to me: "I said toothpaste, not mouthwash. And why did you say it happened 25 years ago -- where's your evidence?" And Boots will say: "thanks for the American tourists trying to get the biggest bang for their weak dollar abroad."
Daily Blah for... Thursday, August 03, 2006
Future Boy Goes On Vacation
No, not literally -- sad to say for any of you who are getting sick of these interminable "Future Boy" plugs. No, this column takes on the shocking fact that the average American gets no more than 12.4 days of holiday a year -- less, according to this nonprofit group with no less grand an aim than taking back time, than the holidays of the average medieval peasant. (It must be like the Moscow State Circus inside Karl Marx's grave right now. Poor guy never guessed about American-style voluntary enslavement.)
Now, maybe I'm just, you know, British. But this seems ludicrous to me, the very definition of insanity. When our time on Earth is so short, why do we give so much of it to our employers? Our employers might be the kind of people who get a kick out of working long hours -- by definition, they pretty much have to be. But that doesn't mean they get to make everyone else play the same game. Or am I just, you know, a believer in representative democracy?
No, I don't think I'm alone, and that's why I chose to predict that this is the nadir of time-off, that the leisure economy is just waiting to muscle in on worktime, especially once employers realize that job burnout is costing them $300 billion a year. Admittedly, I have no more sound basis for this than my own optimistic, if persuasive argument. But that, my friend, is the prerogative of the columnist.
Daily Blah for... Wednesday, August 02, 2006
A Quantum Leap in Simple Explanations
Eighteen months ago, top futurist and GBN co-founder Peter Schwartz asked me to write a feature article for Fortune with him. The aim was to explain simply the simply inexplicable science called quantum computing -- a science that will change the 21st century far more fully and surely than computing changed the 20th. Schwartz' aim: to have it read in the highest corridors of government, to help convince the powers-that-be that we need to fund the Quantum Computing equivalent of the Apollo Project.
Finally, today, the article appears in Fortune and online. From the fictional opening featuring a young woman born on the same day as quantum computers all the way through to the science-fiction vision of the world-changing Quantum Headband suggested by a top DARPA scientist, it is a document into which I poured a lot of energy at a difficult time in my life (one year ago, when I moved house and changed jobs within two days).
Most importantly, it is fully explicable and has an authoratative voice. (Like this particular proudly pompous Blah.) In the clearest and most arresting terms, it makes the reader understand why the spooky science of quantum physics is starting to change the world of computers beyond all recognition. It makes you, I humbly submit, a believer. (Or your money back.)
I don't know how many things it will change in the corridors of power, at least, not these corridors of power. But if just a few low-level, Fortune-reading functionaries get their minds blown, it will all have been worth it.
Daily Blah for... Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Doctored Snapshot
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