Thursday, March 4, 2010

Really Cool Kid Experiment -- Ball Floating on Air



Kids will love this experiment. If it is done correctly, they can make a ball float on air, and it will not fall off.


DO NOT JUST IMITATE THE PICTURE. INSTEAD, FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS SET FORTH BELOW. That Cub Scout up above was lucky. That ball he used is only roughly spherical. Balls which are oddly shaped usually don't work well. Also, he's using one of those elbowing straws. They tend to not work well, because the bent elbow disorganizes the stream of air coming out of the straw.


So, MATERIALS: (1) Styro balls, from one of those arts and crafts superstores; and (2) drinking straws, without elbows, if possible, but if you must have elbowed straws, don't bend them -- keep them straight.


DIRECTIONS: The first time you do this, lay on your back on the floor, put one end of the straw in your mouth, and point the other end of the straw straight up.


Carefully balance the styro ball on the end of the straw.


Take a very deep breath.


Then, NON-explosively blow a steady stream of air onto the ball. It will float up and remain seated, in mid-air, on the column of air.


THE SCIENCE INVOLVED: Air molecules move around like crazy, bouncing off everything in the armosphere, like a trillion, trillion ping pong balls.


This is where air pressure comes from.


When the air from the straw speeds around the smooth sides of the ball, the air molecules in that speeding air don't hit the sides of the ball as well as they used to.


The result is that the pressure of the air on the ball in the speeding air is less.


But, if the ball begins to tumble off and out of the column of speeding air, the air pressure on the ball on the side of the ball touching the still air outside the column of speeding air is much larger, right at that point, knocking the ball back into the speeding column of air.


Thus, the still air, outside the stream from the straw, forms an invisible wall, holding the ball in place.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

9/11 Was Good Luck!, Or, Why the US Fears a Nuclear Iran

On 9/11, my dad called me and said, "Pete, quick, turn on the TV! Someone crashed a passenger jet into the World Trade Center! It looks like an intentional act!"

I did, and I was amazed as I watched Jet #2 slam into the other tower, and then I heard about the Pentagon jet, and the jet which crashed in Pennsylvania.

I watched and watched and watched the TV, sitting there with raw fear, wondering if something else was about to happen to New York or Washington or both -- something I had feared since my college days.

I knew that we wouldn't be out of the woods until nightfall, when the TV cameras couldn't get really good shots of the World Trade Center or Pentagon.

And, God bless us!, it didn't happen!

I began to tell people that we were lucky on 9/11.

Why did I say that?

Today, an Islamic extremist wrapped in explosives covered, I heard on the radio, with an Iraqi poilice uniform jumped onto an ambulance with a person badly wounded by another suicide bomber. He escorted the bombing victim into the hospital, filled with doctors and mauled and bleeding helpless people. He probably carefully walked into the center of this place of human love, and probably yelled soimething like, "ALLAH AKBAR!" and blew everybody up.

That's the way they do it. Once help comes to clean up the damage, and the TV cameras are rolling, Islamic extremists cause a bigger catastrophe, so that all watching their TVs will see how deadly they really are.

What I was waiting for and feared terribly on 9/11 was something like this happening in New York, or Washington, or both, while 1 billion eyes, worldwide, were focused on their TVs...
Think of the devastating effect that would have had upon our civilization, in the name of Allah.


As demand for oil worldwide begins to vastly outstrip remaining supply, OPEC stands to make ten times as much as they did from the sale of the first half of the supply.

That will tend to make OPEC the "center of the world." Competing tribes of Muslims will undoubtedly conflict over this unique power over the world. We will have to choose whether to lket them fight over the supply, or instead to become involved.

Every time we sit back, oil will jump from $15 per gallon to $50 per gallon, as the flow is distupted by attacks upon the presiding group.

But if we alienate parties to such warfare -- or even if we just sit here and watch and wait, remembering that 9/11 was essentially unprovoked -- the following might occur, if radical Islam has nuclear capability.

Early one morning, the captain of one of the ferries feeding rush hour traffic to New York City is greatly annoyed at a vast container ship improperly anchored in his path. He gets out his binoculars and examines the vessel for signs that they are about to weigh anchor and depart.

Instead, all he sees is a lone dark-skinned man sitting in a chair on a vast pile of container-ship containers, with a shiny steel something in his left hand and a book in his right hand. As the ferry captain studies the figure, he sees him put down his book and look at his watch.

The ferry captain was the right man in the right spot at the right time. Rather than use his ship's radio easily-monitored ship-to-shore frequency, he dials the head office with his cell phone, and he says, "Boss, this is Perkins. I haven't been drinking. I'm cold sober. I'm not playing an irrational joke. I'm serious: Out here, just off the Battery at Manhattan's southern tip, a giant container ship is anchored in the wrong place, dead ahead of where the ferry is supposed to go. I only see one man on board through my binocs -- a fellow in a lawn chair soaking up some rays on the top of the container pile. If you ask me, he looks like an extremist suicide bomber type reading the Koran in his right hand while he holds a Dead Man Switch in his left hand."

While the report gets passed up the chain of command, a computer monitoring calls for something called the Echelon Program flags the call because of the words "extremist suicide bomber," "Koran," and "Dead Man Switch." A front line "triage" listener reviews the system's recording of the ferry captain's call, and sounds an alarm which goes off in about 20 offices at once. Intelligence and spy people in New York and Washingtopn rush to their phones and listen to the recording. Within a few minutes about a dozen binoculars are trained on the giant container ship. Trusted officers in Homeland Security think, "The ferry captain was correct. Good powers of observation." The President and Joint Chiefs are instantly notified, and everyone is quickly joined by telephone.

It's 20 minutes before 9:00 a.m. The President thinks, "If we're lucky, that gives us 20 minutes."

A secret anti - nuclear - terrorism unit convenes in the President's conference room. They quickly decide that the situation doesn't make sense unless there is a very, very powerful nuclear weapon in the container ship. A check quickly confirms that every major port in the United States has a similar problem -- a container ship with a man in a chair sitting on top with a Koran and what looks like a Dead Man Switch.

If these weapons go off, the President thinks, between 10,000,000 and 50,000,000 people will die outright, depending on megatonnage and bomb ignition success rate. The President knows that milliseconds count, here.

If we send Tomahawks to poison the weapons with neutron bomb explosions, how many can we cause to arrive at their targets with perfect simultaneity?"

"Four," says the anti - nuclear - terrorism unit's quartermaster. The President looks annoyed. "Four???!!!" he asks, angrily.

The trick is to explode a neutron bomb with a very low yield explosion but an extremely high yield of neutrons as close as possible to each container ship at the exact same moment, across the country. The aim was not to "kill terrorists." The aim, ironically, was to cause the fissionables in the weapon to "go nuclear." In effect, by showering them with shielding-penetrating neutrons, the fissionables in the terrorists' weapons would get hot and explode without a massive nuclear blast, because this would happen before conventional shaped explosives outside the fissionable mass had had an opportunity to smash the fissionable core down to critical massive. By "igniting" the fissionable core without any compression, it would heat up and blow itself up with a harmless number of "doublings" -- functionally, increases in power due to critical mass -- and just destroy the ship.

About 80,000 people would have to die in the trade-off in the case of each neutron bomb, but that was worth it.

Only 4 simultaneous neutron bombs meant that only four weapons were "guaranteed" to be "neutralized" in this fashion. Six were at risk of going off before their Tomahawk arrived, if word reached their triggerman of the other blasts.

"Okay, I authorize the immediated coordinated launch of 4 neutron bomb Tomahawks. And 6 more uncoordinated, but as close as possible to the first 4, time-wise. Maybe we'll get lucky. Gentlemen, I hereby declare martial law. I need my helicopter to take me out to Andrews. This is going to be messy."

Nobody ever figures out exactly what happens. 3 nuclear weapons, only, were neutralized. The other 7 destroyed their respective port cities, including New York and Newark, and San Franciso. Washington, it turns out, was incinerated by the most powerful blast of all. The American system collapses and descends into 100 years of deadly chaos. Nationwide, transporatation and utilities shut down. Millions starve to death. In four years, the population of the United States drops from 300,000,000 to 70,000,000.

We've been "bombed back to the stone age."

Quickee Divorce

(This was my favorite Amazing True Stories story. Women from patriarchal Third World countries generally love it.)

Many women will greatly enjoy the following true story, heh, heh, heh.

The wife essentially always discovers “the other woman,” correct?

In the 1990s, in Prague, capital city of the Czech Republic, Franz Czermak kissed his wife Vera Czermak goodbye and left their fourth floor apartment for the day.

Then, a note under the door? A mysterious telephone call? The reports don’t say. One thing is certain: Suddenly, Vera Czermak knew.

All day long, Vera Czermak swung from rage to sorrow and then rage again, from a desire to kill her husband to a desire to commit suicide to a desire to kill. Murder, suicide, murder, suicide.

With more charity than hate in her heart, Vera Czermak decided in favor of suicide. Just before her husband was due to come home, she moved across the room to the door to the balcony, where she and her husband used to sit on warm Summer evenings. She opened the door, went onto the balcony, climbed onto the railing and, without looking down, she jumped to the concrete sidewalk below.

Some time later, Vera Czermak awakened suddenly. Maybe at first she wondered if she was in Heaven, for deciding to kill herself instead of her husband, or in Hell, for taking her own life?

No! She was in the hospital! And doctors and nurses and police stood around her bed, looking at Vera with a very strange look. Mrs. Czermak thought, “How did I survive? And why are they looking at me like that?”

“Mrs. Czermak,” said the policeman in charge, “We have good news and we have bad news.

“The good news is that you survived your fall from the balcony to the concrete sidewalk below without hurting yourself too much.

“The bad news is that you are suddenly a widow. Your husband died. When you fell from the balcony, you happened to fall on your husband. He died of his injuries, but his body saved you from hitting the sidewalk.”

Muslim Suicide Bomber Blows Up Hospital

MUSLIM SUICIDE BOMBER, WRAPPED IN EXPLOSIVES BENEATH HIS CLOTHING, RIDES TO A HOSPITAL WITH WOUNDED FROM ANOTHER SUICIDE BOMBING IN IRAQ, ENTERS THE HOSPITAL, AND BLOWS IT UP.

See http://www.nydailynews.com/news/world/2010/03/03/2010-03-03_suicide_bombers_kill_30_in_iraq_one_rode_in_ambulance_with_wounded.html

This sort of thing should be headlines all over the web, so that Muslim extremists can see what they are doing to their holy religion.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Chandler Wobble: A Ticking Time Bomb?

The Earth has a problem: It's a very slowly rotating top on perfect ball bearings.

Do you remember that toy gyroscope you received for Christmas years ago -- it would slow down, and start wobbling.

The Earth does the same thing -- it wobbles, in several ways!

For years, it hardly wobbled at all. Why?

Because of snow.

Because of global warming, it's snowing heavier in Antarctica than it has in thousands of years.

So, while ice shelf calving lightens one side of our slowly spinning top in space, more and more snowfall is increasing the snow tonnage on the other side -- the much larger side -- of Antarctica.

By trillions of tons.

Despite global warming and snow pack increase on one side of Antarctica, a few years ago, the wobble, called Chandler Wobble, was nearly gone. Nearly no wobble at all, for a short time.

Probably, snow tonnage accidentally perfectly balanced-out the other factors impacting wobble.

But things are changing. The two great ice shelves are getting smaller, as the oceans warm. And as the atmosphere warms, evaporation of the oceans increases, and snowfall at the poles increases. Antarctica is getting more and more imbalanced, relative to the Earth's core beneath it.

Imagine one day, you come home from work and turn on the news and the anchorwoman reports that scientists note that the Earth's wobble is the largest ever measured.

Ten days later, another report mentions a meeting at the White House to talk about the impact of global warming on Earth wobble.

Five days later, troops start being called home from Iraq and Afghanistan ahead of schedule, in great numbers, to the delight of many families, but to the puzzlement of many.

Two days after that, a spokeman for the Franklin Insitute notes that there has been talk of a "surprising" amount of wobble in the Earth's rotation. It is 1,000 feet off! The spokesman notes that he is having difficulty getting answers from government agencies.

Then a new phenomenon starts coming up in the news with surprising frequency -- small earthquakes -- many of them -- as well as some tsunamis.

And then, the volcanoes start. Lots of them.

Then people start trickling into hospitals at an increasing rate -- very, very slowly at first, but then the numbers become ever larger. The diagnosis is "motion sickness"!!!

Doctors are astonished, and mystified.

But then someone notices that the Sun is not quite rising and setting in the same place every day.

Wobble is suddenly 250 miles wide!

Very shortly thereafter, all of these steadily increasing manifestations of a problem begin filling the news in an ever increasing chorus. The weather starts changing. People watch the stars. New stars are seen on one horizon at night, other ones disappear on the opposite horizon. An amateur astronomer manages to get a time-lapse photo of Polaris, the North Star. It's a big circle on the film -- not stationery.

Panic begins to grip society. Winds start increasing everywhere. Earthquakes start occurring everywhere. Volcanoes start erupting in ridiculous places. Billions start suffering from a subtle motion sickness.

Then, the impossible suddenly occurs. The Sun sets in the south! After only a few hours of day! The Sun is darkening, the moon turns red, from volcanic dust in the sky!

And suddenly, the oceans jump up on the Western edges of all continents. Near what was the Equator, completely absurd tidal waves, traveling northeast at 700 miles per hour, 20 miles high, rush onto land. The water pressure at the base is ridiculously huge -- thousands of tons per square inch. Everything is ground into mud, as the Earth begins to wobble wildly out of control.

That's kind of what it would be like if Chandler wobble got out of hand.

My War with MRSA

Please pardon the extremely personal details, here. The disease MRSA unfortunately gets into our most personal nooks and crannies. To fight it successfully, we have to "get personal." Sorry.

About 8 years ago, my wife worked in a privately-owned parolee supervision facility in Camden, New Jersey. She shook hands with a parolee fresh out of Camden County Jail, she scratched an itch on her hand, and within 48 hours she had a MRSA infection.

We did not understand MRSA well, then. The disease quickly spread to our 3 sons, probably via sweat left behind on the toilet seat.

About a year later, I finally got the disease, and I got it big time. It just about killed me. We have learned a lot. Here is what we learned.

The disease has one great goal -- to eat the iron molecule in your hemoglobin. Its processes, in doing so, dissolve flesh. So, MRSA boils tend to bleed like crazy when they pop -- like giant bullet wounds. If one pops, try to get it to pop in the bathtub. You will understand why when it happens. There will be blood everywhere.

Doctors tell you, "Don't try to pop them!" They are afraid that if you squeeze, they will break on the underside -- into your flesh. This causes a very fast moving, extremely dangerous infection called "cellulitis." If you don't stop it, you will die. (Once I came with about 24 hours of dying. A neighbor of ours -- who did not get it from me -- did die.)

MRSA kills. The variety I had had a 15% death rate -- 1 out of 6 people. Years ago, a client died after I caught it and I sent her a letter without realizing how dangerous it was and how easily it spread. I always wondered, Did I cause that, though the mail?

When, after I, myself, nearly died of cellulitis, I sat down with an infectious disease specialist. He explain that my skin was probably huge invisible patches of MRSA bacteria which were 90% washed off every day I took a shower, but which rejuvenated themselves every day so that by night I had fully reconstituted patches of MRSA all over my body, ready to infect me through a break in the skin, or to similarly infect others.

He recommended that I shower 2 to 3 times a day, every day for a year. He prescribed pHisohex as a shower soap.

At first I showered thrice daily with pHisohex, but I started getting sick, and I realized that I was poisoning myself with the pHisohex. 3 times a day is too much.

So, I switched to the cheapest soap on the shelf -- Ivory.

Every day, three times a day, I soaped myself head-to-toe with Ivory -- scalp, hair, skin. The "dark places" were critical -- armpits, crotch, scrotum and anal area. Complete soaping and rinsing was absolutely necessary.

It worked. After I became "the world's cleanest human being," I clearly became non-communicable.

Except in two ways: Sex and potty.

At one point the MRSA entered and attacked a testicle. The doctor said, "IMPOSSIBLE! THE pH IS WRONG!!!" But then he saw my swollen testicle, fell quiet, and asked me if I would agree to castration, to save my life!!!!!!!!!!

It was at that point, in my raw desperation to save my masculinity, that I discovered, on my own, the most effective treatment of MRSA -- POWER WALKING.

At that time, I was deeply, deeply, deeply depressed. So, I forced myself to walk at a forced march rate -- 4 mph -- 9 miles a day, 6 in the early morning, 3 at night, with hard breathing, to work on the depression.

Immediately -- and I mean "immediately," within 24 hours -- the terrifying MRSA infection in the one testicle began to clear up. I thought to myself, "That's too fast for the walking to be strengthening my immune system." My theory is that MRSA invades my corpuscles through the same oxygen receptor point on my hemoglobin that oxygen uses in the lungs, in effect lodging a kind of "molecular fat man" in the doorway to the kitchen, literally starving the MRSA to death.

MRSA's average life span is 20 minutes. In a random colony there's going to be substantial front-end and back-end generational overlap. So, to effectively attack the MRSA, the power walking probably has to be a full hour at a bite, at least, to cover "grandparents," "parents" and "kids."

My family doctor, DO Leonard Kabel ("Mr. Castration") was amazed at the results of just walking every day for a week. After 7 days, my giant inflamed testicle had shrunk to below normal size. (Damage. It has taken about 5 years to go back up to normal size.)

Word spread. A pediatrician called me and asked what I had done. He almost cried as he told me about infants in his practice that had died. I told him about the showers and forced march walking, and suggested hyperbaric oxygen for invalids and babies.

So, I had two weapons now -- Ivory soap showers, and a forced-march walk to super-oxygenate the blood. (My fingertips turned bright red!)

Problem solved? No. I could tell, from break-outs after sex, even when sex immediately followed a very, very thorough shower, that I carried MRSA (despite the bad pH) somewhere in my reproductive tract -- probably in the undoubtedly-internally-severely-scarred testicle.

We thought that condoms might help. (My wife is no longer ovulating. So, no life-interest was invaded by condom use, while I protected what Catholic theology calls the "unitive interest.") But, surprisingly, condoms made little difference! I thought, "What??????!!!!"

And then I realized that it was in my sexual sweat.

I also read that MRSA tends to be enteric -- in the feces in the bowels. What a perfect hiding place!, I thought.

But then I had an idea: Tums.

Those disgusting little MRSAs could take testicular pH, and urinary tract pH -- but could they take a cloudburst of Tums?

So, secretly, I decided to risk calcium poisoning.

I bought a large bottle of Tums (I weighed 222 pounds) and, on a Friday (so that I could afford to get very, very sick) I ate 1 Tum every half hour, from sun-up to bedtime. (About 6 a.m. to midnight -- nearly 30 Tums!!!)

I ate plenty of well-masticated food and drank plenty of water all day, to drag the Tums into every dark corner of my bowels.

And I got very, very, very sick that night -- the mother of all bellyaches. I was in agony for hours, bent-over double in g-i tract pain.

I recovered by morning, and forced myself to do a power walk, to top it off with a good heavy load of O2. Gradually, we dispensed with the condoms. I even got Rise's permission to dispense with showers before sex, as an experiment. Nothing. So far, so good -- until last week. Pop. One popped-up on my thigh.

But then I saw that one son had an outbreak on his neck. Did I get reinfected by him, or did he get reinfected from me?

I don't know. The jury is still out.

Are your boils MRSA? Test: MRSA has a distinctive smell -- a very sweet smell in your armpits and in the crevices to the left and right of your crotch. If it smells wonderful there, in those places, while you are suffering from really nasty boils, in my opinion you've got MRSA.

Another test: Sit in the bathtub, with water pretty hot (and a quarter of a cup of bleach in the bath water). The hot water immediately drives the MRSA out of your skin into the form of little teeny whiteheads. These are incipient MRSA boils.

If your bathwater is hot, and if it has the one quarter cup of bleach in it, I took a raspy sponge, and dipped it in bleach, and very gently rubbed the whiteheads open. Gently. Gently. (Otherwise, you'll just reinject yourself.) Rinse the sponge like crazy in the bleachy water after each opening.

In any event, 3 Ivory Soap showers a day, being careful to get those dark places.

And walk, walk, walk, walk, like a crazy person, for an hour at a stretch.

With those weapons, you can control it -- if you're lucky, until your immune system finally overwhelms it.

It occurred to me that if your skin can't take the beating of 3 soapy showers per day, there's always the cancer-causing tanning booth.

I'll risk cancer to fight flesh-eating MRSA any day of the week.

No matter what, I've described a personal odyssey, here, some of it pretty darn foolish.

If you have MRSA, print this piece and take it to your doctor, and ask him what his opinion is, before you do anything. Please. That Tum thing was really dangerous!