Many, many years ago (17, to be exact), I spent 10 weeks at the University of Alabama in Huntsville participating in their Research Experiences for Undergrads program at the Center for Space Plasma and Aeronomic Research.
Anyhoo, the REU program at UAH was the perfect opportunity to get paid for grad-level research and to decide if said grad-level research was something I wanted to pursue after receiving my undergrad degree. Let me say this. I wouldn't trade those ten weeks for anything, but they helped me decide I didn't want to follow-through with the lifetime study of ionized particles in the Earth's magnetosphere.
Yeah.
So, for your reading pleasure, I present to you the abstract of a paper that I co-authored, published in August, 1994, in the Journal of Geophysical Research. Sixteen years ago this was big stuff. In layman's terms, we were studying the aurora borealis. Satellite data and computer modeling data regarding the behavior of the aurora borealis weren't matching back then and I spent ten weeks calculating one line of computer code to make the data match.
And it did. Go us!
Brain melt in 3... 2... 1:
The effect of parallel ion acceleration associated with convection was first applied to energization of test particle polar ions by Cladis (1986). However, this effect is typically neglected in "self-consistent" models of polar plasma outflow, apart from the fluid simulation by Swift [1990]. Here we include approximations for this acceleration, which we broadly characterize as centrifugal in nature, in our time-dependent, semikinetic model of polar plasma outflow and describe the effects on the bulk parameter profiles and distribution functions of H+ and O+. For meridional convection across the pole the approximate parallel force along a polar magnetic field line may be written as Fcent,pole=1.5m(Ei/Bi)2(r2/ri3) where m is ion mass, r is geocentric distance, and Ei, Bi and ri refer to the electric and magnetic field magnitudes and geocentric distance at the ionosphere, respectively. For purely longitudinal convection along a constant L shell the parallel force is Fcent,long=Fcent,pole[1-(r/(riL)]3/2/[1-3r/4riL)]5/2. For high latitudes the difference between these two cases is relatively unimportant below ~5 RE. We find that the steady state O+ bulk velocities and parallel temperatures strongly increase and decrease, respectively, with convection strength. In particular, the bulk velocities increase from near 0 km s-1 at 4000 km altitude to ~10 km s-1 at 5 RE geocentric distance for a 50-mV/m ionospheric convection electric field. However, the centrifugal effect on the steady O+ density profiles depends on the exobase ion and electron temperatures: for low-base temperatures (Ti = Te = 3000 K) the O+ density at high altitudes increases greatly with convection, while for higher base temperatures (Ti = 5000 K, Te = 9000 K), the high-altitude O+ density decreases somewhat as convection is enhanced. The centrifugal force further has a pronounced effect on the escaping O+ flux, especially for cool exobase conditions; as referenced to the 4000 km altitude, the steady state O+ flux increases from 105 ions cm-2s-1 when the ionospheric convection field Ei=0mV/m to ~107 ions cm-2s-1 when Ei = 100mV/m. The centrifugal effect also decreases the time scale for approach to steady-state. For example, in the plasma expansion for Ti=Te=3000 K, the O+ density at 7 RE reaches only 10-7 of its final value ~1.5 hours after expansion onset for Ei = 0. For meridional convection driven by Ei=50mV/m, the density at the same time after initial injection is 30-50% of its asymptotic level. The centrifugal acceleration described here is a possible explanation for the large (up to ~10km s-1 or more) O+ outflow velocities observed in the midaltitude polar magnetosphere with the Dynamics Explorer 1 and Akebono spacecraft.
Did your head explode? My pleasure. :)
Author's note: I have read and re-read and re-re-read this abstract, comparing it to the paper sitting next to me. As far as I can tell, I haven't made any typos. If I have, oh well.
Showing posts with label geek. Show all posts
Showing posts with label geek. Show all posts
23 March 2010
Motherhood Math
(zn)(1/x) = (y)dB
Translation: z toddlers raised to the power of the ceiling height (n) (note: a higher ceiling means more echoing power), multiplied by 1 divided by the temperature of the pool (x) is equal to the number of decibels (y) assaulting my ears.
Example: 3 toddlers, 20ft. high ceilings, 85oF pool, all equals 41,020,992 dB. Basically, all of North America should have been disintegrated yesterday. Still here? Awesome.
FD = (doDI x T x C x sa x FJ x Ch x M)z
Translation: Destruction of the inside of your home, on the Fujita Scale of Tornado Intensity (FD) is equal to the number of Dora the Explorer toys (do) raised to the power of the number of Diego toys (DI) multiplied by the number of Thomas the Tank Engines (T) multiplied by the number of toy cars (C) multiplied by the number of stuffed animals (sa) multiplied by the gallons of fruit juice dribbled/spilled (FJ) multiplied by the cups of Cheerios distributed throughout the carpet (Ch) multiplied by the number of minutes the kids were left alone while you folded laundry (M) all raised to the power of the number of kids in your home (z).
Example: Dora toys = innumerable, Diego toys = too damned many, Thomas the Tanks Engines = a zillion?, toy cars = Oh dear Lord, stuffed animals = do you have to ask?, Fruit Juice gallons = 12, Cheerios = thousands, laundry minutes = 30, z = 3. Therefore, the Fujita Scale of Tornado Intensity inside your home... doesn't exist. Again with the disintegration. For the sake of argument, we'll say F6. Yeah. Doesn't that make you feel better?
y + FD = G
Translation: Number of decibels from swim lesson plus house destruction is equal to the number of Godiva chocolate squares consumed.
Example: You seriously want the number? Go away. I'm eating.
*Writer's Note: All of these equations are fake. I'm a bored, frustrated mathematician. Sue me.
Translation: z toddlers raised to the power of the ceiling height (n) (note: a higher ceiling means more echoing power), multiplied by 1 divided by the temperature of the pool (x) is equal to the number of decibels (y) assaulting my ears.
Example: 3 toddlers, 20ft. high ceilings, 85oF pool, all equals 41,020,992 dB. Basically, all of North America should have been disintegrated yesterday. Still here? Awesome.
FD = (doDI x T x C x sa x FJ x Ch x M)z
Translation: Destruction of the inside of your home, on the Fujita Scale of Tornado Intensity (FD) is equal to the number of Dora the Explorer toys (do) raised to the power of the number of Diego toys (DI) multiplied by the number of Thomas the Tank Engines (T) multiplied by the number of toy cars (C) multiplied by the number of stuffed animals (sa) multiplied by the gallons of fruit juice dribbled/spilled (FJ) multiplied by the cups of Cheerios distributed throughout the carpet (Ch) multiplied by the number of minutes the kids were left alone while you folded laundry (M) all raised to the power of the number of kids in your home (z).
Example: Dora toys = innumerable, Diego toys = too damned many, Thomas the Tanks Engines = a zillion?, toy cars = Oh dear Lord, stuffed animals = do you have to ask?, Fruit Juice gallons = 12, Cheerios = thousands, laundry minutes = 30, z = 3. Therefore, the Fujita Scale of Tornado Intensity inside your home... doesn't exist. Again with the disintegration. For the sake of argument, we'll say F6. Yeah. Doesn't that make you feel better?
y + FD = G
Translation: Number of decibels from swim lesson plus house destruction is equal to the number of Godiva chocolate squares consumed.
Example: You seriously want the number? Go away. I'm eating.
*Writer's Note: All of these equations are fake. I'm a bored, frustrated mathematician. Sue me.
04 March 2010
Half-Assed
Feel free to read part one of my experiences as speech coordinator for Georgia Academic Decathlon here.
When I took over as speech coordinator for GAD, I was handed two boxes full of binders, folders, and stuff, patted on the shoulder, and told See you in February!
Yeah. So not cool.
Then, when I got home and actually started going through all of said stuff, I ended up Tweeting the following:
There were papers from four years ago that no longer pertained to the job, crap everywhere, nothing organized, and no notes leading me in any direction. I didn't know what reference sheets to give the judges, if there was a slide show to present, and which of the six VHS tapes/DVDs included speech examples for the judges to practice score during their training.*
Train wreck was an understatement.
The state director would send me e-mails asking Do you have this form? or Do you know where that letter is? and I would basically faff about, arms waving worthlessly in the air, whining How the frak am I supposed to know if I have this stuff? If he asked me if I have crap, well then yeah, I have crap! But a form?!? GAH! To say I was lost was an understatement.
When I walked into Berkmar High School for last weekend's competition, I had no clue what I was going to say to my judges, no idea if the handouts would give them the information they needed to perform their jobs, and no inkling if Friday night's speech competition would end in a flaming pile of dog poo.
Flaming? Yes. Dog poo? No.
Speech judges, fellow coordinators, the state director, and the Eastern European janitor** came up to me throughout the weekend and thanked me for the amazing job I did, thanked me for caring about the job and the kids, and were amazed that the speech competition ran so smoothly.
Basically, my half-assed, blind attempts to run my part of the competition were better than the full-fledged, everything-at-her-disposal attempts of the coordinator before me.
Wow.
GAD? Prepare to be blown away next year. With one year's experience behind me and the knowledge of what needs to stay and what needs to go, I've got your number.
Heh.
P.S. Watch this awesome video about the 2010 competition. Just 2-1/2 minutes. Please? Thanx!
*Thank God for the state director emeritus. If it hadn't been for her, I may have sworn off the whole thing. She patted me on the shoulder and gave me much assistance. See, she trains the speech judges for the national USAD competition. She is bad ass.
**OK. The Eastern European janitor (named Dmitri - pinky-swear) smiled at me. A lot. Either he thought I was cute or he had gas. I'm going with gas.
When I took over as speech coordinator for GAD, I was handed two boxes full of binders, folders, and stuff, patted on the shoulder, and told See you in February!
Yeah. So not cool.
Then, when I got home and actually started going through all of said stuff, I ended up Tweeting the following:
There were papers from four years ago that no longer pertained to the job, crap everywhere, nothing organized, and no notes leading me in any direction. I didn't know what reference sheets to give the judges, if there was a slide show to present, and which of the six VHS tapes/DVDs included speech examples for the judges to practice score during their training.*
Train wreck was an understatement.
The state director would send me e-mails asking Do you have this form? or Do you know where that letter is? and I would basically faff about, arms waving worthlessly in the air, whining How the frak am I supposed to know if I have this stuff? If he asked me if I have crap, well then yeah, I have crap! But a form?!? GAH! To say I was lost was an understatement.
When I walked into Berkmar High School for last weekend's competition, I had no clue what I was going to say to my judges, no idea if the handouts would give them the information they needed to perform their jobs, and no inkling if Friday night's speech competition would end in a flaming pile of dog poo.
Flaming? Yes. Dog poo? No.
Speech judges, fellow coordinators, the state director, and the Eastern European janitor** came up to me throughout the weekend and thanked me for the amazing job I did, thanked me for caring about the job and the kids, and were amazed that the speech competition ran so smoothly.
Basically, my half-assed, blind attempts to run my part of the competition were better than the full-fledged, everything-at-her-disposal attempts of the coordinator before me.
Wow.
GAD? Prepare to be blown away next year. With one year's experience behind me and the knowledge of what needs to stay and what needs to go, I've got your number.
Heh.
P.S. Watch this awesome video about the 2010 competition. Just 2-1/2 minutes. Please? Thanx!
*Thank God for the state director emeritus. If it hadn't been for her, I may have sworn off the whole thing. She patted me on the shoulder and gave me much assistance. See, she trains the speech judges for the national USAD competition. She is bad ass.
**OK. The Eastern European janitor (named Dmitri - pinky-swear) smiled at me. A lot. Either he thought I was cute or he had gas. I'm going with gas.
03 March 2010
The Future's So Bright
As I've noted a couple of times on this blog, I'm involved with the Georgia Academic Decathlon state competition.(What's an academic decathlon, you ask? Well, just go here for more info. In a nutshell, it's a bunch of A, B, and C students, getting together to compete in 10 events/tests - speech, interview, essay, social science, economics, language/lit, music, art, math, and science. Condensed down to three words - Two day geekgasm.)
I was an academic decathlete in high school. I loved every aspect of the decathlon, save one. Twenty years ago (Twenty?!?) this month, I was sitting in a back hallway at the University of Charleston, waiting my turn to give my speech in front of three volunteer judges. My knees jiggled, my heart pounded, and I stared at a point on the floor, quietly repeating my speech to said spot. Over and over, for the ten minutes it took the decathlete before me to finish his speech and for the judges to score his performance, I sweated bullets. I hated the speech portion of the competition. Sit me in a room to take a test about The Sound and the Fury, or trigonometry, or macroeconomics? No problem. Put me in an auditorium with 90 other students competing in an oral relay on the history of Native Americans? Lived for it. Tell me to give a prepared speech in front of three complete strangers followed by an impromptu speech that I've had one minute to prepare? Um, where's the nearest exit?
Suddenly, it was my turn. In I walked, index cards clutched in my sweaty palms. I nervously stepped to the center of the room and listened to what the judges had to tell me about time limits and such. Then, I began speaking about the space program, the only topic my geek mind knew it could memorize with no issues since it was a topic I loved. A little under four minutes later, my speech was done. I was given a sheet of paper with three topics listed and I had one minute to prepare a speech based on one of those listed topics. There, at the top, was What are the main ways to prevent the contraction of AIDS. Expound on each. I was elated. That topic, I could do. Our sex ed class had just spent a week on STDs and here was a topic I could talk about for two minutes, with a beginning, a body with points to make, and a conclusion. And I could make it make sense without a lot of stalling and Ums.
I walked out of there confident, feeling good about what I had done. Never before, in my short 18 years, had I ever felt good about speaking in front of people. Those short six minutes gave me hope and the next day, I was rewarded with a gold medal for my efforts.
Six years ago, I was asked by a good friend to volunteer as an interview judge for Georgia's academic decathlon competition. In the intervening years, I also co-coached a team in the subject of astronomy and even volunteered as a testing proctor.
Last year, I was contacted by the state director who asked if I would mind taking on the job of speech coordinator for the 2010 competition. This meant I would train the volunteer speech judges, train the student volunteers, herd the students where they needed to go for their speeches (and get them there on time since they then had interviews immediately after), and make sure every student had three score sheets filled out. Or the state director would have my head.
The best part about this year's decathlon wasn't getting to run an entire event. It was watching those students, mirror images of a 20-year-younger me, sitting outside their classrooms, knees jiggling, lips moving, practicing their speeches to spots on the tile.
It brought back wonderful memories and made me remember that those high schoolers and I aren't so far removed from one another.
(Check back tomorrow for part 2 of my experience running an event for Georgia Academic Decathlon.)
14 October 2009
Kirk Fights Dirty and Vader Spits
I wrote this article a month ago for my Community Sherpa gig. Bow and worship. Or run screaming. Whatev.
You know you’ve wondered about it, in the dark of night, when the deep recesses of your brain are working overtime after six hours of reality TV. What have you wondered, you might ask? Well, I’ll tell you.
Star Wars vs. Star Trek.
Oh, come on. It’s the epic battle we’ve all salivated to see that Gene Roddenberry and George Lucas never saw fit to bring to the big screen. Can’t you just see it with picture-perfect HD clarity? The USS Enterprise (NCC-1701 of course)battles the Death Star. Captain Kirk dukes it out with Darth Vader. Spock battles wits with Emperor Palpatine. Luke Skywalker matches his lightsaber with Sulu’s rapier while Uhura and Leia compare hair styles and we mustn’t forget to compare the mad engineer skills of Chewbacca to Scotty. As human beings we must, nay, we are compelled to analyze the two most epic science fiction stories of all time and set them as rivals against one another.
It’s an argument that will never be resolved and one that rests on the opinion of whomever is doing the arguing, but we can certainly imagine the fisticuffs exchanged between the tall, imposing, armor-clad Vader and the yep-his-shirt-is-ripped-again Kirk. Sure, Vader commands the power of The Force at his fingertips but he doesn’t have the moxie, the contempt for finesse that Kirk exudes. Please, the man is all brawn and no subtlety. He may not beat Vader but he’ll certainly make his helmet spin.
You know the most compelling competition to watch would be Chewie in the guts of the Millenium Falcon and Scotty elbow-deep in the Enterprise’s warp core. I can hear the competition referee now, Gentlemen! There is an Imperial Star Destroyer/Klingon Bird of Prey coming up fast! Your hyperdrive/warp core is on the fritz! Fix it before they fire on you! And… go! I’m not sure who would win that contest. It would probably be a very close tie with Scotty muttering in his thick Scottish brogue and lamenting about his “wee bairns” while Chewbacca menacingly waves a wrench to the tune of Wookie wails. Regardless of who wins, you know they’d end up sharing not only a bottle of single malt Scotch whiskey, but stories of miracle repairs, as well.
We all have our opinions of which story would win the contest. It all depends on if you’re a Trekkie or a Jedi. Whatever your sci-fi leanings, in the end it’s more fun to contemplate the story, rather than the ending. Wouldn’t you like to know what happened prior to Spock’s defeat at the flicker of Palpatine’s Force lightning or just how Uhura ended up with Leia cinnamon buns?
I know I would.
You know you’ve wondered about it, in the dark of night, when the deep recesses of your brain are working overtime after six hours of reality TV. What have you wondered, you might ask? Well, I’ll tell you.
Star Wars vs. Star Trek.
Oh, come on. It’s the epic battle we’ve all salivated to see that Gene Roddenberry and George Lucas never saw fit to bring to the big screen. Can’t you just see it with picture-perfect HD clarity? The USS Enterprise (NCC-1701 of course)battles the Death Star. Captain Kirk dukes it out with Darth Vader. Spock battles wits with Emperor Palpatine. Luke Skywalker matches his lightsaber with Sulu’s rapier while Uhura and Leia compare hair styles and we mustn’t forget to compare the mad engineer skills of Chewbacca to Scotty. As human beings we must, nay, we are compelled to analyze the two most epic science fiction stories of all time and set them as rivals against one another.
It’s an argument that will never be resolved and one that rests on the opinion of whomever is doing the arguing, but we can certainly imagine the fisticuffs exchanged between the tall, imposing, armor-clad Vader and the yep-his-shirt-is-ripped-again Kirk. Sure, Vader commands the power of The Force at his fingertips but he doesn’t have the moxie, the contempt for finesse that Kirk exudes. Please, the man is all brawn and no subtlety. He may not beat Vader but he’ll certainly make his helmet spin.
You know the most compelling competition to watch would be Chewie in the guts of the Millenium Falcon and Scotty elbow-deep in the Enterprise’s warp core. I can hear the competition referee now, Gentlemen! There is an Imperial Star Destroyer/Klingon Bird of Prey coming up fast! Your hyperdrive/warp core is on the fritz! Fix it before they fire on you! And… go! I’m not sure who would win that contest. It would probably be a very close tie with Scotty muttering in his thick Scottish brogue and lamenting about his “wee bairns” while Chewbacca menacingly waves a wrench to the tune of Wookie wails. Regardless of who wins, you know they’d end up sharing not only a bottle of single malt Scotch whiskey, but stories of miracle repairs, as well.
We all have our opinions of which story would win the contest. It all depends on if you’re a Trekkie or a Jedi. Whatever your sci-fi leanings, in the end it’s more fun to contemplate the story, rather than the ending. Wouldn’t you like to know what happened prior to Spock’s defeat at the flicker of Palpatine’s Force lightning or just how Uhura ended up with Leia cinnamon buns?
I know I would.
10 July 2009
Does a Little Bear Scheisse in the Woods?
We are a Little Bear family. Over two years ago, when the kids started paying attention to the television and I realized I could use this to my advantage (plop kids down for 30 minutes, get dry hair - AMAZING!), I knew we had to pick a show that wouldn't drive us bat shit crazy. Barney? Hells no. Dora the Explorer. Shoot me. That's when our friends told us about Little Bear. When we determined the character and stories were created and written by Maurice Sendak (Where the Wild Things Are? Anyone? Anyone?) we were all in.And the stories are sweet and engaging. Little Bear loses a tooth. Little Bear has an uncontrollable sweet tooth. Little Bear builds a house for his friend Emily. Little Bear solves the mystery of who stole Father Bear's pie. And on and on.
But the one story not dealt with? Where the frak does Little Bear go potty? He and his parents live in a house with two bedrooms. You never see a bathroom. They take baths in a big metal tub in the kitchen. They obviously don't have indoor plumbing because Mother Bear has to get water from a hand pump in the kitchen. When Little Bear and his friends play around the house, you never see an outhouse. So here's my question:
Does Little Bear shit in the woods?
Seriously! Do he and his parents take care of business in the woods surrounding their home? Is there a section of woods, just past the garden, where they all take care of business? Does Father Bear go out and dig a new ditch every few months, covering the old ditch with lyme? Or does Mother Bear use the stuff for her garden's compost? Do Little Bear's anthropomorphic friends (Cat, Duck, Hen, Owl) use the same area for their bowel movements? And what about Little Bear's human friend Emily? When the Bear family built a house for Emily and her Granny, again there was no bathroom.
WTF?
I just don't get it. And, yes, this is the type of thing that keeps me up at night with worry.
07 July 2009
Michael Bay Can Suck It
Ahead are spoilers. Not plot-point spoilers, but character and location spoilers. You've been warned.
I saw the new Transformers movie over the weekend. And you know what pushed me over the edge? Not the racially-offensive Autobot twins. Not the humping dogs. And not the marijuana-laced-brownie-eating-mom-of-main-character*. Nope none of that, though they contributed to my overall distaste for this life-sucking movie.
What really pissed me off? Last time I checked, this is the 21st century. The age of the Internet. The dawn of What are my six degrees of Kevin Bacon**? Lemme check from my iPhone. The era of Look! There's my house on Google Earth! Michael Bay thinks we'll just accept that the pyramids are five kilometers from the Persian Gulf and that you can walk out of the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum and into a southwestern airplane graveyard.
This is the kind of "movie magic" that pisses me off. If you're going to have your characters walk out of a set of hangar bay doors at the Air and Space Museum's Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center in Chantilly, Virginia and find themselves at an airplane graveyard in Tuscon, Arizona? At least blame it on a wormhole. Don't try to pass it off to me as reality. Granted, we're dealing with a movie about talking robots from space. But don't f*** with my geography.
And then? Oh, this is criminal. The characters are in Jordan, then at the pyramids, then at Petra (back in Jordan), then running through a couple of temples, then at the pyramids, then running through some temple ruins, and blah, blah, blah.
You want to know where all this stuff is truly located? Check it:
To do everything they did in the last 30 minutes of the movie, that's the route they would have had to run to truly hit all the high points. I did all the stuff on the left side of that map and it took me TWO WEEKS!
The temples they run through to get from the pyramids to their destination a half-mile away? Are actually Karnak and Medinet Habu, over 440 miles away to the south. And all the little half-ruined temples/homes they then duck and cover around? Parts of Trajan's Kiosk, located even further south. And part of the Ptolemaic period. Two-thousand years after the pyramids. And in the movie? We're told the pyramids, where this super-secret Decepticon machine is located, are on this strip of land that looks like a dagger. See my notation above? Dagger BS? Yeah. That's actually a Red Sea resort town. You go there to catch a dive boat not to catch some Old Kingdom mortuary architecture. The pyramids are actually located next to downtown Cairo. I believe there's a KFC across the street from the Sphinx. Seriously.
But that's not even my "favorite part" of this whole debacle. This is the one that killed the movie for me. A major character (sitting on top of one of the pyramids) calls for an air strike and tells the USAF he's located five klicks west of the Gulf. Five kilometers. West of the Persian Gulf.
Wow. Just? Wow.
Michael Bay, this may have worked twenty years ago when normal people didn't have access to this type of information at the tips of their fingers. But we're in the 21st century. Quit treating your movie-going public like we're information morons. I look forward to lambasting your next movie Transformers 3: Who Gives A Shit What I Do Because I'm Mr. Michael "Slo-Mo Camera Moves" Bay And You're All Sheep And Will Pay $20 To See This Claptrap That Will Never Be Nominated For a Best Picture Oscar But Will Gross $100 Million Dollars In Its Opening Weekend And I'll Be Laughing All The Way To The Bank.
Ass.
*Not that the eating of said Mary Jane brownies upset me, but that the eating of said brownies did nothing to further the plot in an already ridiculously too-long movie. And it was a stupid sequence. And don't even get me started.
**Kevin Bacon was in Apollo 13 with Tom Hanks. Tom Hanks was in Catch Me If You Can with Jennifer Garner. And I went to preschool with Jennifer Garner. A stretch, but I'm three degrees from The Bacon. Boo-yah!
I saw the new Transformers movie over the weekend. And you know what pushed me over the edge? Not the racially-offensive Autobot twins. Not the humping dogs. And not the marijuana-laced-brownie-eating-mom-of-main-character*. Nope none of that, though they contributed to my overall distaste for this life-sucking movie.
What really pissed me off? Last time I checked, this is the 21st century. The age of the Internet. The dawn of What are my six degrees of Kevin Bacon**? Lemme check from my iPhone. The era of Look! There's my house on Google Earth! Michael Bay thinks we'll just accept that the pyramids are five kilometers from the Persian Gulf and that you can walk out of the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum and into a southwestern airplane graveyard.
This is the kind of "movie magic" that pisses me off. If you're going to have your characters walk out of a set of hangar bay doors at the Air and Space Museum's Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center in Chantilly, Virginia and find themselves at an airplane graveyard in Tuscon, Arizona? At least blame it on a wormhole. Don't try to pass it off to me as reality. Granted, we're dealing with a movie about talking robots from space. But don't f*** with my geography.
And then? Oh, this is criminal. The characters are in Jordan, then at the pyramids, then at Petra (back in Jordan), then running through a couple of temples, then at the pyramids, then running through some temple ruins, and blah, blah, blah.
You want to know where all this stuff is truly located? Check it:
To do everything they did in the last 30 minutes of the movie, that's the route they would have had to run to truly hit all the high points. I did all the stuff on the left side of that map and it took me TWO WEEKS!
The temples they run through to get from the pyramids to their destination a half-mile away? Are actually Karnak and Medinet Habu, over 440 miles away to the south. And all the little half-ruined temples/homes they then duck and cover around? Parts of Trajan's Kiosk, located even further south. And part of the Ptolemaic period. Two-thousand years after the pyramids. And in the movie? We're told the pyramids, where this super-secret Decepticon machine is located, are on this strip of land that looks like a dagger. See my notation above? Dagger BS? Yeah. That's actually a Red Sea resort town. You go there to catch a dive boat not to catch some Old Kingdom mortuary architecture. The pyramids are actually located next to downtown Cairo. I believe there's a KFC across the street from the Sphinx. Seriously.
But that's not even my "favorite part" of this whole debacle. This is the one that killed the movie for me. A major character (sitting on top of one of the pyramids) calls for an air strike and tells the USAF he's located five klicks west of the Gulf. Five kilometers. West of the Persian Gulf.
Wow. Just? Wow.
Michael Bay, this may have worked twenty years ago when normal people didn't have access to this type of information at the tips of their fingers. But we're in the 21st century. Quit treating your movie-going public like we're information morons. I look forward to lambasting your next movie Transformers 3: Who Gives A Shit What I Do Because I'm Mr. Michael "Slo-Mo Camera Moves" Bay And You're All Sheep And Will Pay $20 To See This Claptrap That Will Never Be Nominated For a Best Picture Oscar But Will Gross $100 Million Dollars In Its Opening Weekend And I'll Be Laughing All The Way To The Bank.
Ass.
*Not that the eating of said Mary Jane brownies upset me, but that the eating of said brownies did nothing to further the plot in an already ridiculously too-long movie. And it was a stupid sequence. And don't even get me started.
**Kevin Bacon was in Apollo 13 with Tom Hanks. Tom Hanks was in Catch Me If You Can with Jennifer Garner. And I went to preschool with Jennifer Garner. A stretch, but I'm three degrees from The Bacon. Boo-yah!
09 June 2009
She's a Wonder!
There will be no decent posts until I get this out of my system:
Yes. I'm watching Wonder Woman. All three seasons. Blogging will cease until I form a coherent thought that doesn't include spinning, golden lassos, and red, gold, blue, and white superhero costumes.
Damn. That Lynda Carter was bad ass.
Yes. I'm watching Wonder Woman. All three seasons. Blogging will cease until I form a coherent thought that doesn't include spinning, golden lassos, and red, gold, blue, and white superhero costumes.
Damn. That Lynda Carter was bad ass.
22 May 2009
Relativity
A recent post reminded me of my favorite quote (from The Man himself) about the relative nature of time:
Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. THAT'S relativity.
I think about time a lot. I'm a clock-watcher. I need to know what time it is, all the time. Every room has a clock, my watch is constantly on my wrist, and I'll check my watch against the atomic clock weekly to make sure I'm on time. And each day, upon its completion, I will collapse into bed declaring Whew! This day flew by! or Geez, could today have been any slower?. And as I get older, I notice the days moving by faster and faster and I understand that as I march closer to my end days, my time moves more and more quickly. But is it because I'm getting older or because my existence, in the grand scheme of the universe's, can be equated to the blink of a cosmic eye?
When I think about how long the sun has fused hydrogen into helium, when I think about how many times the Earth's core has spun, and when I think about how long ago the Big Bang occurred, my thus-far-all-too-brief-37-years-with-a-potential-for-80-plus-years-total is nothing. I wonder if we all lived as long as the stars, would we experience a slower, more peaceful time? Would we live more slowly and therefore savor every moment? Is it because we have such short lives that we do everything now, NOW, NOW! But then again,when I think about my life span relative to the existence of the planet Jupiter, or the Andromeda galaxy, or the universe as a whole, I'm frankly shocked that time isn't going by much, much faster.
When I think about cosmic time versus my time, I'm surprised my time isn't a bullet train, traveling from point A to point B, dragging me alongside, whisking me at breakneck speeds to my final destination while I simply try to hold on for dear life. Literally. As it is, I feel like I'm on an Amtrak, going pretty quickly with short delays (i.e. waiting in line at the grocery store) and fast stretches of track (i.e. watching my children play in the sun).
I'm sure the bullet train is soon to come.
Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. THAT'S relativity.
I think about time a lot. I'm a clock-watcher. I need to know what time it is, all the time. Every room has a clock, my watch is constantly on my wrist, and I'll check my watch against the atomic clock weekly to make sure I'm on time. And each day, upon its completion, I will collapse into bed declaring Whew! This day flew by! or Geez, could today have been any slower?. And as I get older, I notice the days moving by faster and faster and I understand that as I march closer to my end days, my time moves more and more quickly. But is it because I'm getting older or because my existence, in the grand scheme of the universe's, can be equated to the blink of a cosmic eye?
When I think about how long the sun has fused hydrogen into helium, when I think about how many times the Earth's core has spun, and when I think about how long ago the Big Bang occurred, my thus-far-all-too-brief-37-years-with-a-potential-for-80-plus-years-total is nothing. I wonder if we all lived as long as the stars, would we experience a slower, more peaceful time? Would we live more slowly and therefore savor every moment? Is it because we have such short lives that we do everything now, NOW, NOW! But then again,when I think about my life span relative to the existence of the planet Jupiter, or the Andromeda galaxy, or the universe as a whole, I'm frankly shocked that time isn't going by much, much faster.
When I think about cosmic time versus my time, I'm surprised my time isn't a bullet train, traveling from point A to point B, dragging me alongside, whisking me at breakneck speeds to my final destination while I simply try to hold on for dear life. Literally. As it is, I feel like I'm on an Amtrak, going pretty quickly with short delays (i.e. waiting in line at the grocery store) and fast stretches of track (i.e. watching my children play in the sun).
I'm sure the bullet train is soon to come.
08 May 2009
Oh My God. I'm A Geek.
Sitting in the theater last night before the Star Trek movie (ZOMG!!!! GO SEE IT!!! NOW!!!)...
Ty: Do you think Star Trek fans are as excited about this movie as Star Wars fans were before Phantom Menace came out?
Me: But you're a Star Trek and Star Wars fan. Aren't you as excited?
Ty: Yeah, but Star Wars fans are so much more avid in their love of their movies. More so, I think, than Star Trek fans.
Me: But, what you're saying is that Star Wars fans are better than Star Trek fans. And that's just elitist.
Ty: No. But Star Wars fans are on a different plane than Star Trek fans.
Me: What about LOTR fans?
Ty: Well, that's a completely different subject. They're on a completely different plateau than sci-fi people. Kind of like you Dune geeks.
Me: HEY! HEY! Don't go there! Don't mesh me and my kind in with that LOTR ilk!
Ty: Well, you know what I mean. You guys are just different.
Me: You know, Dave turned his Little Dave graphic into Paul Muad'Dib and I had a total geek out on his blog the other day. I want a Little Heather Fremen!
Ty: Would you be that chick...
Me: NO! I so wouldn't be Chani. I'd be a Bene Gesserit. Reverend Mother. Definitely.
Ty: Would you have to be a concubine?
Me: Probably. Almost all Bene Gesserits were part of the Kwisatz Haderach breeding program. So, I most likely would have to go off to some remote planet and shag some obscure member of the Landsraad.
Ty: Yeah.
Me: But I am infertile, so I would probably not be a breeding Bene Gesserit. But then again, Reverend Mothers could control their bodies with a thought, so I could cure my own PCOS! Bonus!
Ty: Blink
Me: Oh my God. I'm such a geek.
Ty: Yes. Yes you are.
Ty: Do you think Star Trek fans are as excited about this movie as Star Wars fans were before Phantom Menace came out?
Me: But you're a Star Trek and Star Wars fan. Aren't you as excited?
Ty: Yeah, but Star Wars fans are so much more avid in their love of their movies. More so, I think, than Star Trek fans.
Me: But, what you're saying is that Star Wars fans are better than Star Trek fans. And that's just elitist.
Ty: No. But Star Wars fans are on a different plane than Star Trek fans.
Me: What about LOTR fans?
Ty: Well, that's a completely different subject. They're on a completely different plateau than sci-fi people. Kind of like you Dune geeks.
Me: HEY! HEY! Don't go there! Don't mesh me and my kind in with that LOTR ilk!
Ty: Well, you know what I mean. You guys are just different.
Me: You know, Dave turned his Little Dave graphic into Paul Muad'Dib and I had a total geek out on his blog the other day. I want a Little Heather Fremen!
Ty: Would you be that chick...
Me: NO! I so wouldn't be Chani. I'd be a Bene Gesserit. Reverend Mother. Definitely.
Ty: Would you have to be a concubine?
Me: Probably. Almost all Bene Gesserits were part of the Kwisatz Haderach breeding program. So, I most likely would have to go off to some remote planet and shag some obscure member of the Landsraad.
Ty: Yeah.
Me: But I am infertile, so I would probably not be a breeding Bene Gesserit. But then again, Reverend Mothers could control their bodies with a thought, so I could cure my own PCOS! Bonus!
Ty: Blink
Me: Oh my God. I'm such a geek.
Ty: Yes. Yes you are.
23 January 2009
Shame
I'm horrified to admit that at the tender age of 13, I actually watched this show. I'm sorry for diluting the gene pool with my obvious tastelessness.
14 January 2009
Crackbook
In the beginning, there was the Commodore 64. It gaveth The Adolescent CMG the ability to programeth in BASIC and to becometh a geek. This was found to be good.
The advent of DOS helped The CMG to spreadeth her wings. Commands such as DIR, FORMAT, CLS, and MKDIR filled her days with wonder and delight. The CMG was decidedly content.
BASIC, Fortran, and Pascal mark'd her lonely college days with programming and the commanding of computers. Better than commanding man. Almost. The CMG smiled and these languages were found to be excellent.
With the dawn of the Internet came the ability for The CMG to shopeth for books, gargoyles, and quilt racks, the brick-a-brack so desperately needed by all upwardly-mobile 20-somethings of the 1990s. And this? Was deemed spectacular.
And now came the blog, a place for The CMG to ranteth and raveth and air her insanity publicly. And She was ecstatic.
Within a year came Twitter. The CMG tweeteth'd and twateth'd and found Herself poorer in writing material by 1,016 Twitter updates. Suddenly, The CMG was disillusioned and yet, She soldiered on.
The CMG tried MySpace and found it to be infantile, high-school, and generally annoying as Hell. And She was displeased.
This brings us, dear children, to the Facebook, the application from Hell, spawned by demons and dredged from the fires of Damnation to take away The CMG's sanity, time, and ability to function beyond moronic, two-line, status updates. The CMG realized her life was now a chaotic jumble because Facebook brought together friends from high school, college, old jobs, and blogging. Without the ability to keepeth her multiple personalities separate, The CMG twitcheth'd the muscle above her right eye, frowned, and deemed the Facebook as an abomination that must be destroyed.
That is why, dear readers, if any of you have Facebook accounts, you should brace yourselves. I may have to hack into the Facebook, Inc. servers and annihilate them from the inside out. I apologize for any grief this may cause you, but it must be done, for I have spoken and it must be so. I do this for the sake of mankind, the Universe, and my sanity. Which is far more important than the world knowing "It is currently 41F outside. Am going to go eat some ice cream. That's how I roll."
You're welcome.
The advent of DOS helped The CMG to spreadeth her wings. Commands such as DIR, FORMAT, CLS, and MKDIR filled her days with wonder and delight. The CMG was decidedly content.
BASIC, Fortran, and Pascal mark'd her lonely college days with programming and the commanding of computers. Better than commanding man. Almost. The CMG smiled and these languages were found to be excellent.
With the dawn of the Internet came the ability for The CMG to shopeth for books, gargoyles, and quilt racks, the brick-a-brack so desperately needed by all upwardly-mobile 20-somethings of the 1990s. And this? Was deemed spectacular.
And now came the blog, a place for The CMG to ranteth and raveth and air her insanity publicly. And She was ecstatic.
Within a year came Twitter. The CMG tweeteth'd and twateth'd and found Herself poorer in writing material by 1,016 Twitter updates. Suddenly, The CMG was disillusioned and yet, She soldiered on.
The CMG tried MySpace and found it to be infantile, high-school, and generally annoying as Hell. And She was displeased.
This brings us, dear children, to the Facebook, the application from Hell, spawned by demons and dredged from the fires of Damnation to take away The CMG's sanity, time, and ability to function beyond moronic, two-line, status updates. The CMG realized her life was now a chaotic jumble because Facebook brought together friends from high school, college, old jobs, and blogging. Without the ability to keepeth her multiple personalities separate, The CMG twitcheth'd the muscle above her right eye, frowned, and deemed the Facebook as an abomination that must be destroyed.
That is why, dear readers, if any of you have Facebook accounts, you should brace yourselves. I may have to hack into the Facebook, Inc. servers and annihilate them from the inside out. I apologize for any grief this may cause you, but it must be done, for I have spoken and it must be so. I do this for the sake of mankind, the Universe, and my sanity. Which is far more important than the world knowing "It is currently 41F outside. Am going to go eat some ice cream. That's how I roll."
You're welcome.
13 January 2009
Rocket Girl
October Sky. It's one of my favorite movies. West Virginia. Coal-mining town. And a boy who makes good on his promise of becoming a rocket scientist. It's one of those movies that I watch to remember who I am and who I thought I was going to be.
You see, I was determined to become West Virginia's second astronaut (just in case you're curious - here's our first). I was going to get a Ph.D. in physics and go the route of many academics who have become members of the astronaut corps.
But then, I fell in love with Ty-man and realized my love for him was more than my love for a job in space. Before Ty, I was on track. I was working on a B.S. in physics (actually did manage to finish that), had spent 10 weeks doing undergraduate research in the field of plasma physics, and had an offer for grad school. But, I chose the Ty-man over grad school. I always figured OK, I'm married. Cool. In a couple of years I'll ditch the job for grad school. I can still do this. I can still make it. But then I felt the pull of a $40K salary and that eclipsed all plans of school. A few years later, when grad school crossed my mind again, the uterine time-bomb was ticking and demanding that it do the job it was paid to do.
And now? Three kids later? Even if I had a Nobel physics prize in my sweaty little palms, I think NASA would snort it's way to hyperventilation if presented with my resume. And honestly? NASA has become such a screwed up organization that I don't know if I want my ass strapped to one of their rockets, getting stuck on the ISS while they attempt to design a new crew vehicle with a pittance for a budget. All while the US government and Putin enter a decade-long pissing contest, keeping our astronauts out of the Soyuz capsules. The space program is such a cluster fuck right now.
But I miss it. I miss the vision. The hope. The dreaming. I sit and look up at whatever stars are visible from my brightly-lit cul-de-sac and I wonder if I could have made it, if I would have had the fortitude to set aside a family for the chance to see Earth from the windshield of a shuttle. Or if I could have done the job of an astronaut, knowing this dream job could kill me at any time and leave my loved ones alone.
I don't know. Anytime I watch a shuttle launch or get anywhere near Kennedy Space Center, I feel a happiness in me, like I'm home. But I also am left feeling empty with a wonder of what could have been.
Could I truly have been a Rocket Girl? And is it truly enough for me to be just Heather?
You see, I was determined to become West Virginia's second astronaut (just in case you're curious - here's our first). I was going to get a Ph.D. in physics and go the route of many academics who have become members of the astronaut corps.
But then, I fell in love with Ty-man and realized my love for him was more than my love for a job in space. Before Ty, I was on track. I was working on a B.S. in physics (actually did manage to finish that), had spent 10 weeks doing undergraduate research in the field of plasma physics, and had an offer for grad school. But, I chose the Ty-man over grad school. I always figured OK, I'm married. Cool. In a couple of years I'll ditch the job for grad school. I can still do this. I can still make it. But then I felt the pull of a $40K salary and that eclipsed all plans of school. A few years later, when grad school crossed my mind again, the uterine time-bomb was ticking and demanding that it do the job it was paid to do.
And now? Three kids later? Even if I had a Nobel physics prize in my sweaty little palms, I think NASA would snort it's way to hyperventilation if presented with my resume. And honestly? NASA has become such a screwed up organization that I don't know if I want my ass strapped to one of their rockets, getting stuck on the ISS while they attempt to design a new crew vehicle with a pittance for a budget. All while the US government and Putin enter a decade-long pissing contest, keeping our astronauts out of the Soyuz capsules. The space program is such a cluster fuck right now.
But I miss it. I miss the vision. The hope. The dreaming. I sit and look up at whatever stars are visible from my brightly-lit cul-de-sac and I wonder if I could have made it, if I would have had the fortitude to set aside a family for the chance to see Earth from the windshield of a shuttle. Or if I could have done the job of an astronaut, knowing this dream job could kill me at any time and leave my loved ones alone.
I don't know. Anytime I watch a shuttle launch or get anywhere near Kennedy Space Center, I feel a happiness in me, like I'm home. But I also am left feeling empty with a wonder of what could have been.
Could I truly have been a Rocket Girl? And is it truly enough for me to be just Heather?
05 December 2008
Date Night Aftermath
Ty-man and I had a date night.
Toy shopping. Pappasito's. Quantum of Solace.
What do you get?
You're welcome.
Toy shopping. Pappasito's. Quantum of Solace.
What do you get?
You're welcome.
04 September 2008
Big Joe's Polka Show
A few years back, we were hanging with friends and the subject of TV channels came up. They, like us, subscribed to DirecTV.Them: You guys heard of that farm channel?
Us: Wha? Farm channel? What the hell?
Them: Yeah. It's like channel 379. It's awesome! Trains and state fairs and polka!
After that? I was hooked. When nothing else is on? Off I go to channel 379, RFD TV:
A 24-hour network with educational and informational programming targeting rural America. RFD TV focuses on rural news, events, and convention coverage, agricultural information and family-oriented programming.
I'll admit, it's pretty boring at times. But every now and then, you catch the gem known as The Big Joe Polka Show. I think after watching this clip (rather long - just warning you), you'll agree with me and head right over to upgrade your channel selections. 'Cause if you're not watching it? Then you're not one of the cool kids. Dude.
02 September 2008
Halloween in August
I love Dragon Con. It's the one time of the year when the nerdiest and geekiest of adults in the southeast, lovers of all things sci-fi, fantasy, comics, and animé can get together in leather corsets, costumes of all shapes and sizes, and Dune-inspired t-shirts that extol the benefits of caffeine.*
I spent Sunday afternoon at the Con, helping to man our local ghost hunting group fan table. Wow! We have so many fans! So many fans that... I nearly fell asleep a few times. Our group is based in Roswell, Georgia. The most prevalent question asked? Wow! There's a Roswell in Georgia? Do you guys have aliens like the Roswell in New Mexico? Um, that's a no.
So, in between those "high" points of the day, I frolicked with some costumed lovelies and a couple other ghost hunters you may have heard of:
The sweetest little pirate at the Con who, when asked if I could get my picture with her said, "SURE!"
Sweeney Todd! Sweeney Todd! *Swoon!*
Ripley had it all wrong. Those aliens? Just big, cuddly babies. Sweaty, too. Ish.
Oh, baby. I lurv me some Hellboy!
The best looking Wonder Woman of the whole superhero bunch!
Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!
Oh, and did I mention a couple of random ghost hunters? You may have heard of them...
Some dude named Tango.
And that other guy. Whatshisname.... oh, Gill? Garp?
Oh, yeah! GRANT WILSON! WOO HOO!
After that high point, I died happy.
Fin. **
*Yes, I purchased one of said t-shirts. So I'm a big Frank Herbert geek. Bite me.
** Fin. As in French for "The End." You know how those classy, old black and white movies would have "Fin" at the end of the movie instead of "The End," which would make the statement, "Oh, yeah! We're so much better than your basic, average 'Boo hoo! Poor me! It's the Depression!' movie!" So, what I'm saying is that this is a classy blog! Much better than your average "I'm a mommy and I never get out of the house so I bitch, whine, and moan on the Internet!" blogger. Wait, did I just call myself a mommy blogger? Shit. Never mind.
I spent Sunday afternoon at the Con, helping to man our local ghost hunting group fan table. Wow! We have so many fans! So many fans that... I nearly fell asleep a few times. Our group is based in Roswell, Georgia. The most prevalent question asked? Wow! There's a Roswell in Georgia? Do you guys have aliens like the Roswell in New Mexico? Um, that's a no.
So, in between those "high" points of the day, I frolicked with some costumed lovelies and a couple other ghost hunters you may have heard of:
The sweetest little pirate at the Con who, when asked if I could get my picture with her said, "SURE!"
Sweeney Todd! Sweeney Todd! *Swoon!*
Ripley had it all wrong. Those aliens? Just big, cuddly babies. Sweaty, too. Ish.
Oh, baby. I lurv me some Hellboy!
The best looking Wonder Woman of the whole superhero bunch!
Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!
Oh, and did I mention a couple of random ghost hunters? You may have heard of them...
Some dude named Tango.
And that other guy. Whatshisname.... oh, Gill? Garp?
Oh, yeah! GRANT WILSON! WOO HOO!
After that high point, I died happy.
Fin. **
*Yes, I purchased one of said t-shirts. So I'm a big Frank Herbert geek. Bite me.
** Fin. As in French for "The End." You know how those classy, old black and white movies would have "Fin" at the end of the movie instead of "The End," which would make the statement, "Oh, yeah! We're so much better than your basic, average 'Boo hoo! Poor me! It's the Depression!' movie!" So, what I'm saying is that this is a classy blog! Much better than your average "I'm a mommy and I never get out of the house so I bitch, whine, and moan on the Internet!" blogger. Wait, did I just call myself a mommy blogger? Shit. Never mind.
29 July 2008
Fears
Bet you all think this is a post where I get all deep and talk about those fears that keep me up at night watching info-mercials with Bill Mays.
You wish.
Instead, for your reading pleasure, here are the Top 4 Coal Miner's Granddaughter Fears That Were Caused By Modern-Day TV Storytelling!
Fear #1! Steven Spielberg and Stephen King can suck it! Thanks to Poltergeist and It, clowns are on the hit list. I can't stand the damned things. A very well-known doll maker lived down the street from us when I was a kid. She made gorgeous ceramic dolls and stuffed animals of all types. I still have one of her teddy bears. The clown doll she made me? Got stuffed in the closet, never again to see the light of day while I lived with my parents. Yeah. My mom is still bitter about that.
Fear #2! Port-a-Johns. Thank you very much, Chris Carter. I can't go into a port-a-potty without imagining that Flukeman from X-Files is looking up, watching my ass-end make contact with the seat. Yeah. Hate them with a passion.
Fear #3! Chuck Norris singing. My dad loved Walker, Texas Ranger. Watched it without fail. And he knew I hated the intro song, sung by Chuck Norris, with a passion. And he would turn up the volume just to taunt me. Yeah. Thanks Dad. Love you, too.
Only the strong-of-heart and/or deaf-of-ears should click on the below clip.
Fear #4! Billy Mays. Seriously, how can you not be scared of him? Every time I see a commercial for Orange Glow, I just want to drink the stuff just so the agonizing pain will end!
You wish.
Instead, for your reading pleasure, here are the Top 4 Coal Miner's Granddaughter Fears That Were Caused By Modern-Day TV Storytelling!
Fear #1! Steven Spielberg and Stephen King can suck it! Thanks to Poltergeist and It, clowns are on the hit list. I can't stand the damned things. A very well-known doll maker lived down the street from us when I was a kid. She made gorgeous ceramic dolls and stuffed animals of all types. I still have one of her teddy bears. The clown doll she made me? Got stuffed in the closet, never again to see the light of day while I lived with my parents. Yeah. My mom is still bitter about that.
Fear #2! Port-a-Johns. Thank you very much, Chris Carter. I can't go into a port-a-potty without imagining that Flukeman from X-Files is looking up, watching my ass-end make contact with the seat. Yeah. Hate them with a passion.
Fear #3! Chuck Norris singing. My dad loved Walker, Texas Ranger. Watched it without fail. And he knew I hated the intro song, sung by Chuck Norris, with a passion. And he would turn up the volume just to taunt me. Yeah. Thanks Dad. Love you, too.
Only the strong-of-heart and/or deaf-of-ears should click on the below clip.
Fear #4! Billy Mays. Seriously, how can you not be scared of him? Every time I see a commercial for Orange Glow, I just want to drink the stuff just so the agonizing pain will end!
27 June 2008
Glamorous Ghost Hunting
It’s a Wednesday night and you’ve tuned into the Sci-Fi channel for a Ghost Hunters fix. Jason, Grant, Steve, and the rest of the team show up at an old, historical building somewhere in New England, set up their cameras, and begin their investigation. You see 20 minutes of the six investigators walking through the property, EMF detectors, digital audio recorders, and temperature probes in hand. Every now and then, Jason and Grant head through the various rooms with a Flir thermal camera (worth about $12,000). After 20 minutes of highlights, of Grant hearing a knocking from a far corner, Jason seeing a shadow, and Steve pestering Tango, they break down their equipment and head off into the sunrise. After the commercial break, we see Steve and Tango happily going over evidence. They’re watching the infra-red camera recordings and listening to audio. For five minutes, you see them catch a sound or two or shadows on the screen. The final five minutes are taken up with Jason and Grant revealing the evidence, or lack thereof, to the client.
What you don’t see is me, Heather, novice ghost hunter, watching six. mind. numbing. hours. of video for our Georgia group. Video of a bonus room. With a futon in the middle of the room.
Six hours.
Mind-numbing.
The futon never moved, dammit.
No ghosts dancing across the screen for my entertainment. No investigators performing mime. No family dog sauntering across the screen to lick itself. Just a futon and a bookshelf and the intermittent investigator walking in and walking out.
You also don’t see novice Heather nodding off and pausing the recording for 15 minutes to wash dishes. Then going back for more until the numb sets back in and a 15-minute break is needed for some Hairspray action. More futon excitement for an hour until I nod off and decide I need to read some blogs for a few minutes. I’m pretty sure Steve and Tango take frequent breaks to watch Die Hard or back episodes of Sesame Street. Maybe they even do interpretive dance. Or, maybe not. Maybe they watch all six hours straight with no breaks. Maybe I’m just a loser.
Crap.
What you don’t see is me, Heather, novice ghost hunter, watching six. mind. numbing. hours. of video for our Georgia group. Video of a bonus room. With a futon in the middle of the room.
Six hours.
Mind-numbing.
The futon never moved, dammit.
No ghosts dancing across the screen for my entertainment. No investigators performing mime. No family dog sauntering across the screen to lick itself. Just a futon and a bookshelf and the intermittent investigator walking in and walking out.
You also don’t see novice Heather nodding off and pausing the recording for 15 minutes to wash dishes. Then going back for more until the numb sets back in and a 15-minute break is needed for some Hairspray action. More futon excitement for an hour until I nod off and decide I need to read some blogs for a few minutes. I’m pretty sure Steve and Tango take frequent breaks to watch Die Hard or back episodes of Sesame Street. Maybe they even do interpretive dance. Or, maybe not. Maybe they watch all six hours straight with no breaks. Maybe I’m just a loser.
Crap.
05 June 2008
Until I Figure Stuff Out..
... I give you this. I'm shaking my head because I can't believe I used to watch this cartoon. And I can't believe I'd probably watch it again if given the opportunity. Click away, now, please. For the love of God.
08 May 2008
The 10 Commandments of Movie-Watching
OK, ladies and gentlebloggers. I, Coal Miner's Granddaughter, am here to deliver to you, straight from the stone tablets given unto me in the Hollywood Hills by George Lucas himself...
The 10 Commandments of Movie-Watching!
(Think a booming James Earl Jones-type of voice. Echoing from on high. Because, as we all know, God sounds like James Earl Jones. Seriously. The burning bush in my front yard told me so!)
1. Thou shalt not use your cell phone in any form or fashion during a movie or its previews. No texting, no receiving calls, no making of calls. - Seriously, people. Can you not live for two f-ing hours, in the moment of the movie, and let your peeps just hang? Come on. You've probably already texted/twittered them that you're at said movie. They can deal! Because if you don't put the phone down? I just might have to throw it at your face.
2. Thou shalt leave your baby/toddler/young child at home with a babysitter. - Honest to God, I am so friggin' tired of going to these really loud and scary horror/sci-fi/action flicks and seeing a young couple in the row in front of me with a baby. A MOTHER F-ING BABY! Put down the large popcorn, Diet Coke, and box of Goobers and use the money you would have spent on said concessions on a damned babysitter. Can't afford it? STAY AT HOME!
3. Thou shalt not talk during the movie. - Duh.
4. Thou shalt not talk during the official movie previews. - Some people in the audience are there to see a specific preview and couldn't care less about the movie. At times, really important upcoming sci-fi movie previews can be attached to the lamest movies and those of us who are die-hard sci-fi geeks are there for the two-minute preview. So, SHUT THE F UP!
5. Thou shalt keep thy feet to thyself. - Yes, if the seat in front of you is empty, feel free to prop up those clodhoppers at will. But? If someone is sitting in front of you? Like me? I'm not your personal ottoman, asshat! GET YOUR FEET DOWN!
6. Thou shalt not "nervous laugh" during pivotal movie moments. - Little air-headed teenage girl? In the back? With your male posse? Trying to be cool? Yeah, um, how do I say this. Those boys aren't at that movie for you. They're at that movie for the movie. What a concept, I know. I'm there for the movie, too. Not for your air-head commentary and certainly not for your ill-timed nervous "how do I respond to this important part of the plot" laughter. Just be quiet. Please? I'm sure you can manage that for two hours. If not? I have duct tape in the car. The silver tape will complement your earrings. Honest.
7. Thou shalt sit next to total strangers on opening night. - That guy? That seriously geeky guy sitting in the center of the theater? He's not going to bite. He's focused on watching this movie on it's opening night. And since it's opening night? It's going to be crowded. Sit next to him - don't leave an empty seat between you. You're going to have to scoot over, anyway. The movie theater goobs will make you move over because the theater will fill to capacity and that family of four over there? They would like to sit together. So... MOVE!
8. Thou shalt watch the credits in their entirety. - Firstly, all those names in the credits? Those are real-ass people who worked on this movie. Worked hard. From the actors to the hair stylists, to the model makers, to the caterers and accountants. They, too, would like the recognition and can only get that if you watch all their names scroll by. Plus? You never know when Hollyweird is going to tack on some important plot point at the end of the credits. It happens all the time and so many people miss these things! TRAVESTY!
9. Thou shalt not complain about movie ticket prices to the movie theater management. - The movie theater management has no say regarding movie ticket prices. That's a movie production house thing. Complain to Paramount, 20th Century Fox, Disney, or don't go to the movies at all! Wait six months for the DVD. Just don't hassle the poor, frazzled theater manager who just wants to keep his employees from pissing in the popcorn machine.
10. Thou shalt pick up your trash once the movie is over. - Look. Don't pick up every piece of popcorn you dropped. But pick up your cup, popcorn container, and Goobers box, haul your lazy ass out of the theater, and drop said items in the trash cans. For the love of Pete - those poor movie theater goobs already have to mop your Iron Man slobber off the floor. Do you really think they want to pick up your trash, too?
Whew! Thanks. Feel better now...
The 10 Commandments of Movie-Watching!
(Think a booming James Earl Jones-type of voice. Echoing from on high. Because, as we all know, God sounds like James Earl Jones. Seriously. The burning bush in my front yard told me so!)
1. Thou shalt not use your cell phone in any form or fashion during a movie or its previews. No texting, no receiving calls, no making of calls. - Seriously, people. Can you not live for two f-ing hours, in the moment of the movie, and let your peeps just hang? Come on. You've probably already texted/twittered them that you're at said movie. They can deal! Because if you don't put the phone down? I just might have to throw it at your face.
2. Thou shalt leave your baby/toddler/young child at home with a babysitter. - Honest to God, I am so friggin' tired of going to these really loud and scary horror/sci-fi/action flicks and seeing a young couple in the row in front of me with a baby. A MOTHER F-ING BABY! Put down the large popcorn, Diet Coke, and box of Goobers and use the money you would have spent on said concessions on a damned babysitter. Can't afford it? STAY AT HOME!
3. Thou shalt not talk during the movie. - Duh.
4. Thou shalt not talk during the official movie previews. - Some people in the audience are there to see a specific preview and couldn't care less about the movie. At times, really important upcoming sci-fi movie previews can be attached to the lamest movies and those of us who are die-hard sci-fi geeks are there for the two-minute preview. So, SHUT THE F UP!
5. Thou shalt keep thy feet to thyself. - Yes, if the seat in front of you is empty, feel free to prop up those clodhoppers at will. But? If someone is sitting in front of you? Like me? I'm not your personal ottoman, asshat! GET YOUR FEET DOWN!
6. Thou shalt not "nervous laugh" during pivotal movie moments. - Little air-headed teenage girl? In the back? With your male posse? Trying to be cool? Yeah, um, how do I say this. Those boys aren't at that movie for you. They're at that movie for the movie. What a concept, I know. I'm there for the movie, too. Not for your air-head commentary and certainly not for your ill-timed nervous "how do I respond to this important part of the plot" laughter. Just be quiet. Please? I'm sure you can manage that for two hours. If not? I have duct tape in the car. The silver tape will complement your earrings. Honest.
7. Thou shalt sit next to total strangers on opening night. - That guy? That seriously geeky guy sitting in the center of the theater? He's not going to bite. He's focused on watching this movie on it's opening night. And since it's opening night? It's going to be crowded. Sit next to him - don't leave an empty seat between you. You're going to have to scoot over, anyway. The movie theater goobs will make you move over because the theater will fill to capacity and that family of four over there? They would like to sit together. So... MOVE!
8. Thou shalt watch the credits in their entirety. - Firstly, all those names in the credits? Those are real-ass people who worked on this movie. Worked hard. From the actors to the hair stylists, to the model makers, to the caterers and accountants. They, too, would like the recognition and can only get that if you watch all their names scroll by. Plus? You never know when Hollyweird is going to tack on some important plot point at the end of the credits. It happens all the time and so many people miss these things! TRAVESTY!
9. Thou shalt not complain about movie ticket prices to the movie theater management. - The movie theater management has no say regarding movie ticket prices. That's a movie production house thing. Complain to Paramount, 20th Century Fox, Disney, or don't go to the movies at all! Wait six months for the DVD. Just don't hassle the poor, frazzled theater manager who just wants to keep his employees from pissing in the popcorn machine.
10. Thou shalt pick up your trash once the movie is over. - Look. Don't pick up every piece of popcorn you dropped. But pick up your cup, popcorn container, and Goobers box, haul your lazy ass out of the theater, and drop said items in the trash cans. For the love of Pete - those poor movie theater goobs already have to mop your Iron Man slobber off the floor. Do you really think they want to pick up your trash, too?
Whew! Thanks. Feel better now...
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