Black Hole Fails to Destruct

 Jonny Arnold, a Doctoral candidate at the California Institute of Technology, re-packages particle minutia into manageable Duplo block chunks. He describes protons like they are Tonka toys, designed to neatly align and click together in your mind. Better yet, he does not patronize his audience with wonky analogies.

Recently, one right-brained intern at a scholarly journal headquartered in Washington set out to understand particles, black holes, the beginning of the world, the end of the world and everything in between, through a series of chatty emails with Mr. Arnold. Little did she know that their correspondence would yield  accessible and particle-sized results. Freed from the stress of feigning comprehension, she absorbed Mr. Arnold’s information, both weighty and non-weighty. Below are the results:

The Large Hadron Collider (LHC) at the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) in Switzerland (CH) (Thank the God Particle for acronyms!) is where it’s at: quite literally.

As of December 15, engineers at CERN have successfully introduced beams of particles into the LHC, they have aligned the beams so the protons collide, and they have pushed the collisions to energies higher than ever before, and as far as anyone can tell, the universe remains intact. Members of the fear media are sorely dissappointed that no life-ending black hole materialized (or de-materialized). As they scramble for reassurance that a black hole is still a terrfiyingly real and  newsworthy threat,  particle physicists the world over are elated.

After all, the goal of the LHC is to create a field where humans can observe the elusive God Particle ( less popularly known as the Higgs boson, a particle that will explain how mass is formed). Each tiny crash in the collider is a piece of our planet’s story that will write itself in data for all to see; and by this measure, the collider is a smashing success.

State of the Dinner

Is it just the news media, or do we all wish we’d crashed the Obama’s state dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Sanini?  That’s their name, right?  You may think this blog is six weeks late, but the lasting power of the Sha-nee-nee’s story is a story in itself , one that couldn’t be broken any earlier:

Americans are jealous!

You betcha! Only deep-seeded resentment could keep a story alive this long.

Envy-evidence can be found all over the news. Instead of processing through our feelings of inadequacy, we demand an investigation. Instead trying to crash Copenhagen, we deliver subpoenas. Instead of accepting the Shaleely’s wily triumph, we bust them for invalid claims of Range Rover sponsorship.

It doesn’t take a PhD. to see that statements like, “I am concerned for the President’s safety!”, really mean, “If I had known it was that easy to get in to the blickin White House, I’d have been there in a DC minute!” (Which is roughly 1.5 minutes according to local EMTs)

Some Obama-manic members of the news media go so far as to misspell the names of the revelers… or refuse to name them at all!

Rest assured, dear reader, the green-eyed monster has yet to invade this blog.

Is There a Third Person in the Room?

Rest your feet awhile in a Barnes and Noble children’s section and grab a listen; you will hear mothers (and a few corrupted fathers) making frequent and unseemly use of the third person.

“Come to mommy!” they instruct.

“Daddy feels frustrated!” they inform.

Just like baby boomers beget blog-writing gen-xers; these millennial moms and dads are adding their stain to the literary drape. With self-defacing solidarity, they are dumping the words “I”, “me” and “my” from every sentence; and in so doing they are training their babes to avoid the third person with post-traumatic attention to detail. You mark mommy’s words: in twenty years, wee Michaela and Max will dump the third person and stick with numbers one and two!

Of course, the possibility of a literary coup is tangential to the psychological ramifications of constant exposure to babble. A child who is repeatedly misdirected to an imaginary third person is likely to be confused and frustrated by her parent’s feeble grasp on reality:

“Look at mommy!” says Cindy Schwartz (35) to poor Shana Schwartz (4) who searches the empty space next to her mother, desperately trying to see “mommy”.

“What does mommy have in her hand?” asks Cindy Pern (32) of dear Bobby Pern (3) who would like to respond, “I have no idea what ‘mommy’ has in her hand, but you have an effin red ball.”

Thankfully, most kids invent coping mechanisms within two minutes of realizing that mom’s lost her mind.

If your child stands two feet to your right and stares into mid-space when you say “come to mommy” it’s because he doesn’t actually know who “mommy” is. His enabling skills have developed far past your ability to identify the subject of a sentence. He thinks you have an imaginary friend and is playing along with the farce.

Go see for yourself! Every Tim, Darth and Larry at the Kinder-Roll accepts that mom has a fantasy sidekick who makes demands and wants him all the time. Dad has a sidekick too, but he only appears when “daddy feels powerless”. Out of pity, Jane allows the “mommy charade” to continue, all the while wondering why dad is so worried about her imaginary friend.

Improper third personage takes its chunk of the blame for failed familial communication. Simple questions like, “What do you want for lunch? Turn into: “Tell mommy what Chrissie wants mommy to make her for lunch”. Mommy should expect no less than a tantrum after a thick inquiry like that!

Or, far, far worse:

“Mommy would really like daddy to bring over a bib. Wouldn’t that be great if daddy would think of someone else for one second and bring over a bib?” To which daddy replies, “Daddy would really like mommy to nag in the first person!” as he walks out the door.

Incidentally, have you ever heard a child refer to himself in the third person? Neither has the author. Case closed.

If Then

If a few future lawyers are irked, some future lawyers are irritated, and many future lawyers are weighing the benefits of aggravated assault, then what can you deduce about most future lawyers?

According to the LSAT prep instructor holding court in the basement of the Hotel Monticello: not a damn thing.

Curiously, all the future lawyers in the room appear conclusively pissed. But that is not an answer choice.

As it turns out, the words “few”, “some”, and “many” mean the same thing: a number between one and infinity. Who knew? (Offhand, you may be able to think a few people who didn’t know, like, say, all the Talmudic scholars you’ve ever met, the editors at The New York Times, and Mr. Webster himself, but la heim!) To complain is futile!

Yet somehow, in every LSAT prep class there are at least two Ivy Leaguers hell-bent on futility. Book-smart and street-silly, these anti-test crusaders insist on challenging every answer choice with a barrage of faux-philosophical, deeply personal questions.

“I am struggling with the word “except”’, whines one Ivy-diva. “Can you graph the linear, paradoxical, and emotional implications of “except” then hold still like a statue until I’m sure I understand?”

Revealing a deep misunderstanding of social cues, she prods long after answers A though D are eliminated; until (at last!) the instructor cedes ground to the possibility that “an answer may not exist in this stratosphere”. 

Meanwhile, her peers are curled in the fetal position on the floor trying to identify the flaw in the following statement:

People who attend Ivy League Universities are more likely to succeed in school. People who do not attend Ivy League Universities are less likely to succeed in school. Therefore, people who attend Ivy League Universities are more likely to succeed.

The LSAT prep instructor, ever-mindful of the type of person who will pursue the money-back guarantee, allows this lady, the bane of his existence, to yap indefinitely while his non-ivy clients finally discover the flaw:

The statement erroneously assumes that “success in school” is a sufficient condition for “success” in life.

Boom Town

If a dog walker short shrifts his bowwow by ten minutes and no human is there to see it, is he still an asshole? Boomer, a blue-eyed husky mix, will not answer this question. In fact, Boomer will not implicate anyone who is willing to take him on a walk. Some days, he goes so far as to fake exhaustion to convince his humans that the walker wore him out. Never mind if the walker merely strolled him round a magnolia and let him sniff the neighbor’s gate.

On a recent Monday, Boomer’s humans arrived home at 12:20 and found Boomer massacring imaginary squirrels in his bed. The walker’s note read as follows:

Pet Name: Boomer

Pick Up Time: 12:00

Drop Off time: 12:30

#1 : x

#2:

 Comments:

The only thing missing in the “comments” section was, “I am a pathological liar”.

Sharing Boomer’s blind allegiance to the walker, his humans attributed the error to “pre-writing the walk notes”; deeming the walker both blameless and incredibly efficient. Then, they swatted Boomer out of his bed and instructed him to walk himself for ten minutes.

Perhaps the walker in your mind is a shy teenage dog-lover trying to raise money for veterinary school. If so, delete that naive picture and begin again. This walker drives a new car, has designer male highlights, and talks on his i-phone while Boomer tries valiantly to turn him into a sled.

If you need more ammunition, here it is: the man makes twenty dollars a “walk”.

What an asshole.

Bowie Roadhouse

On a typical day, a Washington urbanite need never stop at the Texas Roadhouse in Bowie, Maryland. It is a chain restaurant with faux-casa decor and a parking lot ringed with pick-ups. However, a Washington jet setter who gets stuck in airport traffic, misses her flight, and furiously reroutes through Bowie on her way back to the city, will find the Roadhouse a welcome haven.

At the Roadhouse, there are people like Melissa who will pull a refrigerator out from the wall to plug-in your cell phone; and Meghan, who will give you detailed directions back home then write them on a receipt with a mechanical pencil. More than likely, an older couple at the corner of the bar will offer to watch your beer while you go to the bathroom.

If your decision-making abilities are at all stymied by starvation or frustration, fear not! The Roadhouse menu refuses to intimidate. As you know, “Roadhouse” is synonymous with “steak house” (You knew that, right?) and considering this shop’s proximity to the Chesapeake Bay, you will obviously stay on the turf side of surf. New York Strip: boring, Filet Mignon: yeah right. The only items left are the Ribeye and a flock of sides!

If you’re cutting back on fat-marbled-beef, order a dinner salad with nutrition-negating croutons and dressing, dry table bread, or a baked sweet potato that is actually a yam. After all, there is nothing a pound of butter can’t fix. Wash-down with a soothing Blue Moon draft, and prepare to share your yarn. At the Roadhouse, traffic stories are king.

“I was in the middle lane, then moved to the right, and just as I did that…”

“You should-of moved to the left lane right when you saw that black sign! I always do that and I never have a problem!”

And so on.

In an hour’s time, the food, beer, and camaraderie will ease your Air Tran angst, and Melissa and Meghan will send you on your way. You might even forget that you charged your cell behind a cooler so you could scream at an airline representative on the drive home! Rest assured that the inching inbound traffic will jog your memory.

Self Inflicted

This evening, an attractive woman in a brown t- shirt and well-fitting jeans climbed out of her gridlocked car and invited a truck driver to run her over.

COME ON! she yelled, arms raised, fingers twitching. COME ON!! she yelled again, COOOOOMMMMMEE OOOON!!! until the truck’s enormous grate inched forward. Pedestrians paused. The woman stepped closer, into the rippled air that stood between her and a very strange death. COME ON! The truck inched forward again.

Four blocks down, the source of the gridlock pulsed at its center– visible only to those directly beside it. Something (someone) had fallen off Key Bridge.

What must have been hundreds of drivers groaned past both suicidal scenes, penitent at first; far less inspired to speed off in a fury. 

Maybe this effin traffic isn’t so bad after all.

You Can’t Play

During the era of child-centered, adult-castrating, everyone-is-a-bully education reform, some well-meaning child psychologist coined the phrase “You can’t say ‘you can’t play’’’. The goal of this catchy playground policy was to eliminate social rejection and transform the world into a fluffy bubble of love and acceptance. You can’t say you can’t play!

An astute observer of playground politics will note that the only people adhering to this rule are parents, who seem to think that they, too, are not allowed to tell anyone they can’t play—namely their own children.

The dragging mother of a striped-tights tot has this to say: “Sweetie, I need to do a few more things at home so we’re going to have to leave in a minute, and when that happens I don’t want any fussing, okay? Didn’t you promise mommy no fussing? Good, so we are going to go in juuuusst a minute” to which her daughter responds by screaming and running in the opposite direction.

Nearby, Napoleon himself stands atop a slide and announces to a throng of kids “If you don’t care about my dog, then you can’t play!” and commences a riotous game of tag. Those who agree to his terms rapturously join the fray, those who don’t  jump on a spinning tire or continue eating sand.

On this playground, the only people hurt by “you can’t play” are adults. The kid-centered kids either buck up or back off, unwilling to let three silly words ruin their play.

Dismissal: 3:10

It is 3:15 PM at the Palisades Public Library, and the second floor has turned into a veritable romper room. You can spot first-timers because they are looking around for the librarian, trusting that at any moment she will silence the ruckus with one terrifying ssshhhhhhhhh!

But in this Reading Room, the shhhh!never comes. Neither does the librarian. She is downstairs, stoically guarding the main entrance. When future readers of America approach her glass door, she wards them off with scowls and sass (a preventative measure that, incidentally, also allows her to stay sedentary for hours on end).

Upstairs, children and doting adults are left to wander through the curiously copious collection of books– really, the shelves are swelling with books. Bright-spined meticulously alphabetized books. Full-color, national geographic, original edition, lithographed books—right there for the taking!

And taking they are! Children are gleefully reading! They are huddled in threes giggling at prose!

The only sign that anything’s amiss is the table of Polo-ed private school boys who glare at the public malaise with a mix of envy and doubt.

Reading is not FUN, they seem to say.

The Year of the Swine

Mini spokespeople for the CDC are popping up all over area playgrounds. The insurgence of these tiny sani-police can be explained by the advent of the 2009-10 academic year—a year that could be aptly renamed “The Year of the Swine”. In the first week of school, the average elementary public school student was treated to no fewer than sixteen hours of direct instruction on hand washing technique.

And a brilliant campaign it was that prompted a minute Pakistani boy to yell, “It is dangerous to stick your hand in your mouth when you have a cold!” only minutes before he licked the entire length of the slide while sailing down head-first.

“Don’t forget your ‘safe sneeze’!” hollered a charming Florence Nightingale as she rested her lollypop on the top of a trash can before returning it to her mouth with nary a shudder.

Clearly, the CDC has nothing to fear. Its most vulnerable population—those under the age of twelve with no immunity to the swine—are doing their part to educate the masses. Even the teensiest tikes count to twenty with soap in their hands. Even the muddiest preschoolers have a pocket hand sanitizer. Never you mind that they still eat boogers!

These kids are serious about hygiene.