Thinking Critically

(Source: Wikimedia Commons)

Social media has opened the door to all manner of debate and discourse. It's a new age forum, a virtual Speakers' Corner, if you will . Unlike the famous Speakers' Corner in Hyde Park in London, home to prophets and proselytizers since the mid 1800s, this one is accessible to all, and one need not even wait a turn at the podium.

Pick a topic, any topic, and Google it. You'll find blogs, chat boards, and something called "affinity spaces." If you have something to say, sites like Facebook, Twitter --and way too many more to mention -- give you a place to say it.

Check this out.



(Source: Brian Solis & JESS3, with permission)

This is a good thing, I guess. Mostly, anyway. But thus a world of "experts" on anything and everything was born. Perhaps the ease of expressing one's thoughts has fostered too much easy thoughtless expression.

I recently posted a citation on a Facebook thread about GMOs. The article I cited had links to several studies claiming GMOs are harmful to humans. I offered no opinion (because I don't know enough to have one), I simply posted the link. Well, down came the wrath of The Gods-of-What's-Happening-Now upon my virtual head. Boom. As an example: "#*&!@%* (name removed to protect the apparently guilty) is a joke, and one becomes a joke when citing it." My bad, because being as uninformed as I am, I didn't know the people behind with article were aligned with the dark side, and nothing I saw when checking it out before posting it told me so.

Now, I have no problem with people expressing their opinions. But something about the tone of certitude many commenters take doesn't sit well with me. I've been thinking about it since, and what bothers me is that some people seem to have forgotten that that's just what their comments are, opinions. And like concrete, opinions set quickly and become immoveable bias or partisanship.

One commenter advised me to check out a link that offered "A Guide to Looking Smart on the Internet." I kid you not; that was the title of the article. He then went on to recommend sites targeting skeptics.

Hmmm, am I a skeptic? I suppose I may appear to be. I hope I'm not, though. The road from skepticism to cynicism is a short one. I would prefer to think of myself as a critical thinker. I wish more people were.

Oh, and about my thoughts on the GMO thing? Like I said, I don't really know much about it. And let's face it, you can find opinions from an army of those aforementioned experts, on either side of the GMO fence, citing research studies to support their position that may or may not be valid. (Beware using one of them in a comment at the Speakers' Corner, however, lest... well, you know.) But here's what I think. There is enough "out there" that says the pesticides used on GMO crops (crops developed by the same companies, by the way, who manufacture the pesticides) may be harmful to humans. That's enough to make me come down on the side of caution, when I can. Unfortunately, since we don't have uniform labeling, it's not always possible, but I try. Thinking critically, you know.

Intimate Strangers

(Source: clker.com free clipart)

(Preface: OK, so here's the deal. I haven't written much of anything for months. It's time to get back to it, but those muses up there ↑ in the blog banner are being stubbornly uncooperative. So, okay. Fine. Be that way. I'll go it alone, and use the stuff floating around in my head. Maybe they'll get jealous and come out to play.)

Intimate Strangers

Lately, I've been pondering the mystery of internet intimacy.

I've been hanging around the internet for about five years. Oh, there was AOL before that, but that was different. Kind of flat and one-directional. Today, thanks to blogging and Facebook (hard to believe that Facebook is only 10 years old!), cyberspace is a community, more of a community than the one outside my front door. I know this sounds crazy, in a delusional sort of way, but the cyber-citizens who live in my online community, people from around the world, many of whom I've never met (with a few exceptions)... Those people are my friends. Not just the Facebook kind of friends, but real friends.

A couple of years ago, I invited a man I’d met online -- and his wife, lest you think there was something wonky going on -- to come for a visit. When I told my daughter I’d done that, she was appalled.

“You’ve never met him? Are you insane? You’re gonna end up dead in your bed.”

“Not to worry,” I told her. “I know him. It’ll be fine.”

And it was. They came and spent several days. We had fun. And I’m still among the living. Because you know what? I did know him.

I’ve met several other people from my internet community, and lo! In person, they were exactly the people I’d come to know online and think of as friends.

Somehow, the internet makes it possible to develop an intimacy with total strangers. My dictionary defines intimacy as “close familiarity or friendship; closeness, rapport, affection, confidence.” I would definitely apply those terms to many of my online relationships. This intimacy is based on more than just a casual relationship. Over time, you come to “know” people, to know about their lives, their family, their likes and dislikes, what makes them laugh. When you see their names pop up on Facebook, in a text or a blog comment, it gives you the warm fuzzies.

So how does this happen? Well, my current theory is based on the fact that I “met” many of my online friends through writing. Some of that writing is like this post, a bit of a rambling mind dump. But it also includes fiction, poetry, and most recently, some scripts. I’m not sure why, but here’s what I think. People present something of a public face when going about their day, just being themselves. But when they write? Oh, my.

The words come from the core. They’re fed by the writer's heart, and his or her dreams and fantasies as well as the mind. And the writing carries echoes of the past as well as the present. It’s like a window into the writer’s true self. And the trust writers place in their readers when they expose themselves like that? Well, that builds intimacy.

Anyway, that’s my theory. Am I crazy, in a delusional sort of way? Maybe. But it’s a good thing.

***

Transference

(Photo from 123RF, Royalty Free Stock Photos, edited)

I called your office one weekend. I knew you wouldn’t be there, but just knowing the phone would ring in your space made me feel closer to you. Your answering machine picked up my call, and I was shocked to hear your voice. Not one of the many layers between us had snagged the call so some self-important guardian at your gate could ward me off. Instead, I heard your voice, filled with warmth and caring. I wondered: how did you know I would call?

Once I knew you were waiting for my call, I punched in your number over and over, and listened to your unspoken words of affection. I called so many times, I could picture the telephone lines between my phone and yours burning up from overuse. With every call, I expected Ma Bell to answer, chastising me with “now you’ve done it.” But you were always there, filled with anticipation. Your voice embraced me, though you concealed your feelings from prying ears with words about office hours and the doctor on call.

That was so many years ago, and I got over you. Sorry. I heard after a while that you and your wife got divorced. By then I didn’t care, but I wondered: how did she know about us? You never did.

Buster Brown and the X-Ray Machine

I have big feet, which always seemed somewhat unavoidable, as these things go. I come from a family of Sasquatch. The footprints my brother leaves in the forest while hiking in the Pacific Northwest brings out the National Enquirer and legions of Bigfoot spotters. So there was little hope for his little sister to have dainty ballerina feet. And that’s not the all of it. Not only are my feet big, they’re ugly. Cinderella’s mean step-sisters ugly.

Yesterday, I had an epiphany. An ah-ha moment. I was walking down Main Street (with my solid “under-standing,” as my husband -- who loves me in spite of my feet -- says) and I passed a shoe store. Up on the marquee over the store front was a picture, faded but still quite visible, that I remember well from my childhood.

I can even hear his voice: "I'm Buster Brown, I live in a shoe. That's my dog, Tige, he lives there too!"

I immediately flashed to my mother taking me into the Buster Brown shoe store to get new shoes for school. And that’s when my ah-ha moment struck. One of the perks of buying a kid’s shoes at Buster Brown was that a mother could be confident of a good fit for her little darling’s feet. How? They used a fluoroscope to view the child’s foot inside the shoe, thus ensuring those little toes were perfectly and comfortably shod. And for the kid, well, it was fun. I mean, it was all very Flash Gordon, wasn’t it?

But, see, here’s the rub (so to speak). A fluoroscope performs its x-ray vision with, you guessed it, x-rays! X-rays! As we now know, over-exposure to x-rays is not a good thing. If you doubt that, just look what it did to Buster’s dog, poor thing. I wore Buster Brown shoes for years. Years of being zapped by the fluoroscope.

No wonder my feet are unnaturally awful. I’ve got gamma ray feet!

Hmm, I wonder if I can get into some kind of class action suit…

100-Word Challenge: Lethal Weapon

This is my entry in Velvet Verbosity's 100-Word Challenge, hosted by LouCeel here.

Lethal Weapon

I have to wonder. What causes a celebrity to self-destruct?

Is fame too heavy a mantle wear 24-7? Is it uncomfortable rattling around in a 7000 sq. ft. house? Or cumbersome driving a big Lexus? They can be so hard to park.

Take Mel Gibson. Here’s a guy who seemingly had it all. Then one day several years ago, he opened his mouth, and began shooting himself in the foot. His ammunition of choice? Anti-semitism. Racism. And most recently, domestic abuse.

It seems Mr. Gibson has been carrying an unconcealed lethal weapon. And he’s using it to commit professional suicide.

The Thing in the Shadows

As my readers will know, several bloggers in our community, myself included, have been victims of plagiarism.  The "perps," as they say in crime novels, are two members of a site called Thoughts.com.  But I hasten to say that these two are just the thieves of whom we are aware.  I suspect that there are others, and that they draw their words from anyone brave enough to bare his or her creative soul on a blog.

You know, I feel like there is something eating away at values we hold dear in our collective lives today.  I can't exactly put my finger on it.  It's a little like catching sight of something that flits past in your peripheral vision. You spin around to look, and it's no longer there, but you absolutely felt its presence. 

Every time I face a store clerk who can't make change; listen to someone (it used to be teenagers, but they are moving into adulthood, and taking this baggage along with them) who can't form a sentence that doesn't include the word "like" several times; or see an "official" printed document with incorrectly-spelled words or tortured grammar on it, I see the "thing" in my periphery flit past.  (n.b.: As I was writing this, my husband read a line from the Boston Globe to me:  "His medal was tested..."  Methinks it's not the medal that is tarnished.)

Every time I read of yet another scam or scheme designed to take advantage of the trusting naive; receive a warning of a new, more sophisticated computer virus lurking out there, ready to steal my identity at the first opportunity; hear of another acquaintance who has fallen victim to some nefarious deed or another, I see it. Every time a product fails to meet what I would consider minimum standards of quality, I see it.

The issue with basic education isn't new. My children used to bring home mimeographed tests from school with misspelled words printed on them, correct answers marked wrong, and incorrect ones marked right.  I have long referred to this sad situation as the "dumbing down of our country."  (I can't speak about other countries; perhaps you see it too.)  But it seems that the basic reading, writing, and 'rithmatic skills are not the only fundamentals  people aren't learning.  Good behavior, a sense of decency, basic ethics: all seem to be falling prey to the monster in the shadows.

I don't know about you, but I find this scary as hell.

*************************************

I reported the plagiarism of my words to the site administrator of Thoughts.com.  This morning I received this  e-mail from them:

"We have remove the duplicate of your post.... We are deliberating the best mode of discipline for this serious offence."

It's a beginning, but if you see this post anywhere but here, do let me know, won't you?

Thundering into Extinction

 Dinosaur Footprints, Holyoke MA

They stomped the earth

Many millennia ago,

Shaking the ground

With permanence.

Enormous,

Indestructible,

They towered over all

And feared none.

And then they were gone,

Leaving only the occasional bone

And footprint behind

To tell all of their might.

These few remnants

Speak of  the power of time

And remind us:

Nothing is forever.

*********************************

For more information about the Dinosaur Footprints site in Holyoke, Massachusetts, visit The Trustees of Reservations here.

 This is my entry for Friday Flash 55.  Got something to say in exactly 55 words? Go visit G-Man at Mr. KnowItAll.

Climbing Maslow's Pyramid*

Millions are hungry, thirsty, homeless, and sick.

Asking for little but the bottom.

And here I sit, sated,
Striving only for the pinnacle.

My heart weeps in guilt.

 

This was written for Sunday 160. Got something to say in 160 characters, including spaces?  Visit Monkey Man.

 

* If you aren't familiar with Maslow's pyramid:

Joey Stink-Eye Smiles

He was little more than a bagman,
Just a tramp and a swagman,
Riding the rails from somewhere near
To the distant back of beyond.
NY to LA, through TX, KS and PA,
Boxcars filled with this and that
Were the only homes he knew.

Stopping off along the way
He looked for friendly signs.
Who to trust, where to eat,
There was lots he didn’t know.
But others like him
Who’d stopped before him
Left cryptic maps and notes behind
To show him where to go.


“There’s a lady here in this farmhouse
With a heart that’s made of gold.
Help her out with a chore or two,
She’ll invite you into her red-and-white kitchen
And give you a meal, maybe beans and chicken.
If you’ve worked hard and you’re weary, really needing sleep
She’ll send you out to that barn back there
To share some space with sheep.”

After some food and maybe some rest,
He was ready to be on his way,
He gathered his gear and shouldered his bag
And followed the signs to the train.
He was little more than a bagman,
Just a tramp and a swagman,
Riding the rails from somewhere near
To the distant back of beyond.

******************************************************

Hobos are a part of American history we learn very little about in school. It is thought that they first appeared on the railroading scene after the Civil War. Historians estimate that the hobo population swelled to hundreds of thousands during the Great Depression, and that there are still thousands riding the rails today.

Interestingly, hobos had their own lingo, as well as a vocabulary of symbols used to alert other hobos to conditions in a town.

Several years ago, author and satirist John Hodgman wrote about hobos in his own inimitable style in his book, The Area of my Expertise. The creator of this video (which never appeared on PBS, I'm sure) used the hobo segment from the audiobook of the same name as the narrative for the video.  As you will quickly discover, Hodgman describes the history of hobos during the depression with his tongue planted firmly in his cheek.

On Memorial Day, Another Thank You

In ceremonies all over the country today, the fallen are honored for their sacrifice.  Flags wave and marching bands play Stars and Stripes Forever. On the podium and quietly in hearts and prayers, gratitude is offered to those who died in the name of freedom.

But it’s easy to forget that other sacrifices were made when these heroes fell. As Memorial Day ceremonies play out today, there are many beating hearts heavy with loss. Because for every soldier killed, there is a family left behind. Wives and husbands, children, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, grandparents: these survivors have all made a tremendous sacrifice as well. I'm saddened that, too often, their grief and sacrifice goes unrecognized.

Thank you, Families.

 *******************

For more information about the challenges of military widows, visit:

Where Do We Fit In?

The American Widow Project 

And for a moving tribute to our heroes and their families, be sure to check out this wonderful slide show by political cartoonists!

Political Cartoonists Honor Heroes

Remember, Part 2

Remember back when we could play outside morning till night? My favorite childhood years were the four years I lived on a street where nearly every house had a least one child. I was nine years old when we moved there, and I had about 15 friends within two years of my age.

One summer, the day began at around 7AM, when my friend Barbara came over and we had fried bologna sandwiches for breakfast. You remember, a slice of bologna with a hump in the middle from the frying, grease seeping into the soft white bread you could smoosh up into a pea-sized ball to use for bait (except for when you needed it flat for a sandwich).

And then we’d head outdoors for the rest of the day, joining the others in the game of the moment. Sometimes it was jacks, sometimes four-square, sometimes dodge ball or keep- away. I was a major tomboy and I liked to play Cowboys and Indians because I always got to play an Indian with the boys. They let me play because I could shoot my imaginary bow and arrow straighter than any of them.

But my favorite time was the evening. It started at dusk with an important ritual. Every night, as we all sat with our families at the dinner table, the street lights would come on. With some innate sixth sense given only to kids, we all knew just when those lights came on. A minute or two before, kids would jump up from the table, saying “I’ll be right back!” and run outside. Up and down the street, you’d hear the screen doors slam: Slap! Slap! Slap! We’d all run and put our hand on the nearest light pole so we were touching it when the light came on. (This was important, because if you weren’t touching the pole when the light came on, you were a monkey’s uncle.) Then “see you later,” and we went back in to finish dinner.

After drying the dishes, we were back out, playing hide and seek in the shadows, or just laying on the warm sidewalk, looking up at the stars and sharing secrets. And if one happened to have a “boyfriend” or “girlfriend,” there might be someone to hold your hand.

Television? We didn’t need no stinkin’ television.

You remember.


Epilogue: I went back to that old neighborhood 30 years later. I found my initials still there, carved into the street light pole nearest my house.

Remember, Part 1

Remember what it was like before we got caught up by the high-speed technology train, and were rushed into the future at breakneck speed? Life was simpler. I know many would say that it wasn’t better, that all our technological advances are, well, advances. But it was simpler; you can’t argue that. 

Take toys. Kids today yearn for complicated whiz-bang toys that, at the end of the day, often languish on the closet floor. Remember when a refrigerator came boxed in a magical castle, and after the pesky refrigerator was out of the way, you could climb into the castle and rule your kingdom?  Remember when a bike was just a bike, and the jazziest accessories were a bell, handlebar tassels and playing cards clipped to the spokes for that zoom-zoom-y "putt-putt-putt" noise? Remember when skates had four wheels, and you attached them to your shoes with a skate key that hung around your neck?

You don’t remember that??? (sigh...)

A Loss of (Global) Innocence

With airplanes, satellite television, the Internet, and the global sourcing of American goods and services, my world has shrunk. I remember when all I knew about a foreign culture was what they taught me in school or I heard on the nightly news. And I assume the same was true of the denizens living in a country on the other side of the globe.

Today, I have first-hand knowledge of much more. I can travel anywhere in cyberspace literally with my fingertips. There are TV shows coming at me from everywhere in the world. I can pick up the telephone, dial a local number for assistance of some sort, and speak to someone in a foreign country. The brochures that come with the products I buy are not only written in eight languages, they are actually written in India, China, Mexico, and who-knows-where-else.

In many ways, this is all a good thing. But as foreign became less "foreign," it lost a lot of its charm along the way. The following is a little piece of that charm, coming your way from 1962. Thanks to Roland Brown of Motorcycle Classics for publishing it.

*******

From a 1962 Honda Motor Cycle Owner’s Manual are the following riding suggestions, translated by Honda for the “American Motorcycle Rider.”

• At the rise of the hand by Policeman, stop rapidly. Do not pass him by or otherwise disrespect him.

• When a passenger of the foot, hooves in tight, tootel the horn trumpet melodiously at first, if he still obstacles your passage, tootel him with vigor and express by word of mouth, warning Hi, Hi.

• Beware of the wandering horse that he shall not take fright as you pass him. Do not explode the exhaust box at him. Go soothingly by.

• Give big space to the festive dog that makes sport in roadway. Avoid entanglement of dog with wheel spokes.

• Go soothingly on the grease, mud, as there lurks the skid demon! Press the brake foot as you roll around the corners, and save the collapse and tie up.

Ya gotta love it.

Why I Love the English Language

I can claim no credit for this; it was sent to me.  I cannot even give credit as no credit was ascribed, and an Internet search turned up nothing.

It’s clever and interesting, though, especially to those who of us who love to play in this sandbox of words and phrases, so I wanted to share.  I give all credit, and plaudits aplenty, to Mr. or Ms. Unknown.

  

 Why I love the English Language

You think English is easy???  Consider these:

-  The bandage was wound around the wound. 

-  The farm was used to produce produce.

-  The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.

-  We must polish the Polish furniture.

-  He could lead if he would get the lead out.

-  The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.

-  Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present.

-  A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.

-  When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.

-  I did not object to the object.

-  The insurance was invalid for the invalid.

-  There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row.

-  They were too close to the door to close it.

-  The buck does funny things when the does are present.

-  A seamstress and a sewer fell down into a sewer line.

-  To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.

-  The wind was too strong to wind the sail.

-  Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear.

-  I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.

-  How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?

Let's face it.  English is a crazy language!

-  There is no egg in eggplant, nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple.

-  English muffins weren't invented in England or French Fries in France.

-  Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren't sweet, are meat.

We take English for granted. But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that:

-  Quicksand can work slowly.

-  Boxing rings are square.

-  A guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

-  Why is it that writers write but fingers don't fing, grocers don't groce and hammers don't ham?

-  If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn't the plural of booth, beeth?  One goose, 2 geese.  So one moose, 2 meese? One index, 2 indices?

-  Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend?

-  If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?

-  If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught?

-  If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat?

-  In what language do people  recite at a play and play at a recital?

-  Ship by truck and send cargo by ship?

-  Have noses that run and feet that smell?

-  How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites?

-  You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which, an alarm goes off by going on.

-  Why doesn't 'Buick' rhyme with 'quick'?

-  English was invented by people, not computers and it reflects the creativity of the human race, which, of course, is not a race at all. That is why when the stars are out they are visible but when the lights are out they are invisible.

There is a two-letter word that perhaps has more uses than any other two-letter word, and that is 'UP'.

It's easy to understand UP, meaning toward the sky or at the top of the list, but when we awaken in the morning, why do we wake UP? At a meeting, why does a topic come UP?

Why do we speak UP and why are the officers UP for election and why is it UP to the secretary to write UP a report?

We call UP our friends. And we use it to brighten UP a room, polish UP the silver; we warm UP the leftovers and clean UP the kitchen.

We lock UP the house and some guys fix UP the old car.

At other times the little word has real special meaning. People stir UP trouble, line UP for tickets, work UP an appetite, and think UP excuses.

To be dressed is one thing, but to be dressed UP is special.

A drain must be opened UP because it is stopped UP.

When it threatens to rain, we say it is clouding UP. 

When the sun comes out we say it is clearing UP.

When it rains, it wets the earth and often messes things UP.

When is doesn't rain for awhile, things dry UP.We open UP a store in the morning but we close it UP at night.

To be knowledgeable about the proper uses of UP, look the word UP UP in the dictionary.  In a desk-sized dictionary, it takes UP almost 1/4th of the page and can add UP to about thirty definitions.  If you are UP to it, you might try building UP a list of the many ways UP is used.  It will take UP a lot of your time but if you don't give UP, you may wind UP with a hundred or more.

One could go on and on, but I'll wrap it UP, for now my time is UP, so...

It’s time to shut UP!   

But sometimes I think all the English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane.

Are you feeling it?

Women Airforce Service Corps (WASP) B-17 Pilots

There was an AP news release yesterday that at once made me proud and ashamed.  Haven’t read it? Go here now.  I’ll wait.

                   (humming... "Off we go, into the wild sky yonder.

                                      Keep the wings level and true;

                                      If you'd live to be a gray-haired wonder..." 

Oh, good, you’re back.  So, as I was saying…

Yes, I’m proud. 

Over 65 years ago, during WWII, a group of women took to the air to support the war effort.  Underpaid and unappreciated, they flew for their country nonetheless, 60 million miles in two years.  Many were injured, and 38 were killed.

Yesterday, they were finally recognized, and awarded the Congressional Gold Medal, the highest civilian honor given by Congress.  I’m enormously proud.

But ashamed?  Yes, that too. 

How could it have taken so long for these women to be honored?  Oh, wait, silly me.  After all, they were just women, and “civilians” to boot.  Maybe their contribution was just not worthy of recognition.  Let’s take a look:

• The requirements were tougher for women pilots: they had to have 500 flying hours compared to men’s 200.

• Their pay was less than men’s.

• The women paid their own way to Texas for training, room and board.

• They underwent the same officer’s training as men: ground school, flight school, cross-country flying, night flying, instrument flying, daily calisthenics, flying link trainers, and lots of marching.

•  Anyone who flunked out, and that was not many, had to pay their own way home.

• They flew every type of aircraft the Air Force owned—from trainers to bombers.

• They ferried personnel and cargo, delivered aircraft, tested new and repaired aircraft, trained male cadets, and even towed targets for ground-to-air anti-aircraft gunnery practice and targets for air-to-air–gunnery practice (meaning that they were under live fire).

•  WASPs were used to prove to male pilots that B-26s and B-29s were safe.

• And unlike male pilots who were killed in action, the families of WASPs had to pay for the return of the body for burial and received no Gold Star or even a flag to drape the coffin.

(Information excerpted from Classroom Spice Newsletter. February 2006. University of Science and Arts of Oklahoma, Dr. Jeanne Ramirez Mather, Ed.)

How is it possible that it took over 65 years for this country to officially say, “Thank you”?    How is it possible that over 900 of them have died without ever hearing their country say, “Good job! We appreciate it”? 

How is that freakin’ possible???

Oh, and did I mention that I’m also mad, no, no, outraged at this?

Oh, yeah, I’m proud. And ashamed. And OUTRAGED!

Gravity Redux and the Nick of Time

An interesting factoid in an MSNBC report this morning caused me to revisit the idea of gravity. I’m not going back to its effect on body parts; that was depressing enough the first time around.  No, this time, I’m talking about that which holds us in place on this planet of ours.

We all know that Earth spins around on its axis (the north-south one, that is) once every day.  But did you know that it is spinning at about 1,000 mph?  (I didn’t.)  Yikes, hold on your hat.  Whilst I was bemoaning gravity in my earlier post, I’m forced to appreciate that it’s here. Otherwise… Well, you know.

As an aside, the main focus of the article is worth noting.  According to a NASA research scientist, the 8.8 quake in Chile last week may have knocked us for a loop.  Not quite ass over teakettle, but enough for those who watch this sort of thing to notice.  It seems that the earthquake shifted Earth’s “figure axis” enough to actually change its rotation.  The figure axis is different from the north-south one; this is the one around which the Earth’s mass is balanced.  (I’m pretty sure my personal figure axis shifted a long time ago.)

Anyway, that shift (for all of you who have noticed that odd phenomenon that makes time somehow speed by faster as we grow older) has actually shortened the length of our days. Oh, I don’t think there’s any need to panic. The day has only shortened by 1.26 milliseconds.  But still.  Apparently every strong earthquake has this effect to some degree.  Let’s see, there’s this one, and several other Chilean earthquakes, and the Haitian one, and many Sumatran quakes, and all the Alaskan quakes, and…

Is that just the tiniest bubble of panic I feel forming?  I mean, it’s March already, and I haven’t even started my holiday shopping.