intergalactic fools

I wrote the following during my Astronomy lecture this evening. _____________________________________________ We are learning about the huge basin on Mercury caused by a catastrophic meteroid impact billions of years ago. And we're looking at some diagrams and photographs showing how the shock waves are imbedded in the current geological makeup of the terrain of the hinterlands. But wait. "Kid" has a question. Kid is the eight year old son of a thirty something student in this Astronomy lecture. Kid is, along with his mother, the near-perfect manifestation of "That Guy." Every class has a That Guy. That Guy assumes the demeanor of knowing everything, yet is able to, simultaneously, assume the responsibility of asking questions at the most aggravating and inconvenient moments over the course of a lecture. That Guy moves you to believe that there is such a thing as a stupid question. Kid and "Hippie Mom" (yes) together join forces to fulfill the role of That Guy. Hippie Mom could easily leave Kid at home. He is eight. But, more importantly, one could interpret the interaction between them to indicate some sort of extraordinary intellectual ability on his part. I will explain. Hippie Mom approached Drennis (my secret name for Dr. Ennis) on day 1 of class, explaining that Kid would be attending throughout the quarter and that she hoped it wouldn't be an issue. Of course, Drennis could never have known. How could any of us? It seemed touching, even. Sure! Let Kid dabble in planetary studies! See Drennis' rocks and models at work! We were so wrong. We were all so very very wrong. Kid asks 95% of the questions in lecture. 100% of which may be considered part of the stupid category. Not as if he can't help it. Kid is the evil creation of Hippie Mom, who encourages and allows his innappropriate behahvior to flourish unchecked. She tossles his hair which each new, brilliant, out-loud observation - which for the rest of us was a subconscious reckoning at the age of five - rudely brought into actual discussion. Drennis is forced to subdue his genius to answer Kid's questions using such analogies as "Jupitor is like silly putty or apple sauce." Today, we see that Kid has gotten a haircut over the weekend. Of course, Kid and Hippie Mom are available for full viewing pleasure of any in the room, as they sit front and center of one of the largest pit lecture halls on campus. Hippie Mom is clearly thrown off her usual hair-tossle routine, and instead feeds Kid's ego by handing him treats, such as pretzel or dorritos (what kind of a hippie is she anyway?) or just gasps at him in disbelief. In fact, Kid and Hippie Mom often repeart variations of a performance in which Hippie Mom will ask a question and Kid, clearly insprired and unable to help his pavlovian response, actually attempts with his eight year old jargon to answer Hippie Mom's question. Drennis is speechless. We are all beside ourselves with shock. I have actually paid money to be here. Not only has Hippie Mom managed to be unsure as to why planetary bodies do NOT, in fact, orbit the earth, Kid is actually able to give her an incorrect and incomprehensable explanation for this staggering phenomenon...possibly even with a vague reference to Star Wars or mumblings about the speed capabilities of the mothership. Today's question? After Drennis flashed a slide stating that the average temperature of Venus is 900 degrees F, Kid asks if people burn when it's that hot. If Kid belonged in this classroom or paid any attention at all, he would know that there is no oxygen on Venus so there is no combustive activity. Drennis decided to tell Kid that they burn bodies at the crematorium at 12oo degrees. Kid was noticeably shaken. Strike one for Drennis.

...and what if you held all the cards?...

...or the coin? If you had the choice of sacrificing one to save thousands, would you do it? What gives you the authority to make that decision? Ever? Is it justice? Is it morality? Where do we draw the line? I was watching John Adams, the HBO miniseries a few weeks ago with a friend, and I noticed my increasing annoyance with a Mr. Dickinson of Pennsylvania. He was the only man in the First Continental Congress to hold out against building the Continental Army until the final vote. He refused to be moved. Why? Because he was a Quaker, and fundamentally opposed to violence of any sort. Of course, I have the benefit (or the curse) of hindsight. Mr. Dickinson was standing in the way of my America! Was Mr. Dickinson right or wrong? Let's examine the possible consequences: If Mr. Dickinson was able to sway the vote to his side, and encourage the other delegates to opt for the most peaceful activity possible, the United States would be another Canada or India or Australia. Sounds good, right? Not to us. But imagine: The future of the Western world was determined by a few dozen men in an unbearably hot room a couple hundred years ago. The question on everyone's minds? What right does Britain have? What rights do we have? I ask the same question of each one of us. How much power are we given? I realize that reducing the entire early history of the United States to a few moments in a chamber in Philadelphia is a rediculous exercise, but the point is this: Why do we choose to take things into our own hands and at what points? Defense and standing up for what we believe in is without a doubt something everyone must learn. But what of when it comes time for us to pull the trigger in the name of preventative justice? Nearly every story we are told has a good man and a bad one. The best stories are the ones in which the good man is good through and through - he does what is right no matter the circumstance, no matter how much the bad man deserves to be finished. In the moment when we ourselves feel the tension of the glorious moment when the villain will be vanquished, he is left hanging by a thread, untouched because it is right to spare him. It is just to spare him. But we are continually called by the allure of preventative justice. Sacrifice the vallain, save the innocent. What a tempting course of action. So what do you say? Would you take the reigns? Would you sacrifice one man to save a thousand? One hundred? Five?

macbeth takes a nap, and i write something else

My adrenaline levels until I finish papers will be a bit high, as they will be all that I can think about until they are gone from my life forever. I made the unfortunate mistake of deciding that I would get everything done before Saturday morning and drive to Pittsburgh for a couple of days. It is only unfortunate insofar as I cannot sleep very much before I actually go to Pittsburgh. And lack of sleep, as many of us know, has this knack for increasing any current anxiety or stress or frustration. The only frustration I have is with the fact that I have to write these papers. I think there should be a class in which my entire grade is based upon participation. And maybe if they need some concrete evidence of writing ability, a brief in-class writing assignment. Why is more necessary? Why don't I just carry around a portfolio of the thousands of pages I've written throughout my life as evidence that not only have I demonstrated that I learned something in class, but that I can write just fine. Practice makes perfect, you say? Yeah. Unless the assignment is incomprehensible and just ends up doing more harm than good. I had a discussion last night in which I became quite convinced that learning about State Government is important and that it is unfortunate the public school system neglects to teach its students how the State actually gets things done. It's always federal federal federal. The more we were talking, the more I realized that actually, knowing how something works is important. Yet, what good does it do for you if you only rarely can use it to change anything? That is, unless you decide that you are a destined politician (gag). I guess you could apply that to pretty much anything, following my off-the-cuff logic here, but I think what I'm saying is that I am more of a cynic every day. I hate watching the news. I hate reading the news on the internet. Listening to it on the radio can be alright, but whenever I turn on AM610, Rush is doing those cheesy radio ads about PosturePedic matresses or dental glue. So how am I supposed to know what is going on if a) I can't find a news source that isn't inundated with headlines about how Actress B slapped Actress D in the face and Model R has turned singer and made a new album and b) I can't read private news sources like the drudge or something at work, because they are politically tinged and biased (as if work isn't political or biased). It's too bad that I am feeling an all-time high of apathy and cynicism during the election year. Or maybe it's just the fatigue and papers talking. I would like to note that those who were fired today have my deepest sympathies. The boss-man clearly needs to rethink his decision making.

bliss

Today whilst I sat in front of my new flat-screen computer monitor at work, I was overcome by the most extraordinary bout of thirst. I quickly finished entering a phone number into google contacts, hunted the wallet out of my bag, and feverishly dashed from the office in search of a cool, refreshing beverage. Now completely parched, I reached the nearest liquids expo: The vending room. Home of the average pop and chip. Or, so I thought. . . For mine eyes did fall upon a most unexpected and wondrous site. The very last selection of the oldest vending machine, scratched hastily onto a piece of white printing paper and inserted into the button label were the words "Diet Vernor's." I reached quickly to press the button, filled with joy over the prospect of a crisp, cool ginger ale. But, alas. A demonic, red message lit up near the coin slot. SOLD. OUT. But all was not lost. After pressing the button frantically once or twice more in hopes of a computer malfunction, I noticed that "Vernor's" was a legitimate selection, ready for the taking. Complete with the actual Vernor's label on its vending machine button. I inserted five U.S. quarters, made my selection, and heard the satisfying crash of a fresh bottle of Vernor's land at the base of the machine. Retrieving my beverage and enjoying a first sip of that equisite carbonated delight, I could not help but think to myself: Who drinks diet Vernor's, anyway?

blah

Sometimes I really hate this stupid blog.