Set Phasers to Stun

Dr. Theodore Maiman passed away on May 5 of this year. I learned of his passing from an article I discovered while reading an online news site. Dr. Maiman’s name was, perhaps, not widely known and certainly could not be called a household word.

But his invention is one that we all see in use at sometime during the week, and the same invention actually struck fear in the hearts of many a few decades ago. Dr. Maiman was credited with developing the first operable laser, the same sort of device found in every CD player and many once believed would be harnessed as a kind of “death ray.”

Dr. Maiman built his laser back in 1960 with a pink ruby rod as a medium for focusing light. He worked for Hughes Research at the time. By 1962, Dr. Maiman had started his own laser company with backing from Union Carbide Corporation.

Which brings me to the reason why Dr. Maiman’s work is important to me. My father worked for Union Carbide pretty much all his adult life. By the early 60’s, Dad was celebrating his tenth anniversary with the company and he happened to be working for Carbide’s Linde division, which produced oxygen and other gasses as well as synthetic rubies.

Dad was employed in a small plant filled with ovens, powder delivery systems and annealers that manufactured Linde star sapphires and ruby rods. Most of the sapphires went to exquisite jewelry pieces and many of the rubies were used in lasers of one kind or another.

It is possible that Dad may have met Dr. Maiman along the way. I remember him talking about a very intelligent engineer who came through the plant at one time. The details of that memory are fuzzy but I recall Dad saying the gentleman headed up a division that was developing lasers.

At any rate, I will never forget an open house held at the plant when I was a young boy. I was in awe as I watched powdered crystals drop in super hot ovens, turn to liquid and grow into what was called a “boule.” Later, these boules were hardened, then cut into whatever shape was desired.

But what held my fascination even more was the laser Union Carbide had set up near the end of the tour to show how one of their products could be used. I was small then, so my proportions may be off, but I felt like that laser was big enough to fill an average sized room.

When the operator turned the machine on, it whined like a turbine as it powered up. What happened next was nothing short of amazing.

Light sped through the ruby rod producing a barely perceptible beam that was concentrated in the center of a one inch thick steel plate. Beyond the plate were two balloons – a black one inside of a white one.

Almost immediately, the steel plate began to glow red hot at the point where it met the laser beam. Soon, chunks of glowing steel fell to the ground.

In an instant, the beam finished cutting through the plate and a loud pop could be heard as the operator shut down the laser. The pop was the black balloon bursting inside of the white one. The white balloon remained in tact as if nothing had happened.

My twelve year old jaw must have hit the ground. I could scarcely breathe. It was the best show I had ever seen up to that point in my life. I could not help but recount what I had just seen. The same single beam of light that cut right through solid steel went harmlessly past a white balloon only to burst a black one.

I didn’t want the tour to be over. I know I must have made Dad take me to the laser at least half a dozen times that day. Each time I was just as thrilled to watch the awesome power and selective gentleness of that red beam.

Lasers are much smaller today. They can fit into a store’s scanner to ring up the price of food items and, with the aid of a computer, track inventory and trigger purchasing points. We’ve used them to measure the distance from the earth to the moon, accurate to less than an inch. They can repair eyes and perform other medical miracles. They can be used as pointers in presentations and to produce annoying dots on people’s foreheads courtesy of sophomoric humorists. I even have a green one I can use to point out stars and other objects in the night sky.

But one thing they have never become is anything close to a death ray. Dr. Maiman predicted as much. He said he did not think it likely the laser could ever be developed as a weapon despite the fears of his time.

In a name recognition competition, he may not be able to hold his own with the likes of Alexander Graham Bell, Louis Pasteur or Ron Popeill, but as far as a meaningful contribution to society with far reaching applications, Dr. Theodore Maiman has to be a top vote getter.

Can't Beat 'Em? Blog 'Em!

Springfieldians are some of the nicest, friendliest people you'll ever want to meet. Until they get behind the wheel of an automobile.

Case in point: last week, while driving home from work, I came up behind a lady going fifty while driving in the left lane. She had a small child in the front seat and one in the back as well. Since the speed limit in this particular stretch of highway was sixty and this driver made no effort to move into the right lane, I did. I signaled, checked my side view, and eased my truck to the right.

As I sped up to pass, she inexplicably increased her speed. I tried going a little faster, but she kept pace. Since we were quickly approaching a slow moving vehicle in my lane, I decided to slow down, move back to the left lane and pass that vehicle.I signaled, and scooted over.

Now behind this lady who felt the sudden urge to accelerate past the posted speed limit, I was both shocked and miffed when she pulled up even to the slow moving right lane vehicle and decelerated to match its speed. The only apparent purpose in this maneuver was to irritate me and any drivers behind me.

There is a little bypass I like to take around Republic when the traffic gets too thick to make the drive enjoyable. It's not really a time saver as much as it is a sanity saver. I decided this was a good time to take that road.

As I entered the turn lane, I looked up to see the lady flip a cigarette out the window and give me a long-lasted, one-fingered salute in the process. I couldn't believe it. My anger turned to hurt. I didn't do anything wrong, but I got flipped off anyway. And that while she had two small children aboard. A fine example for those tykes.

The problem is, this is not any isolated incident in Springfield. I see it happen to others all the time and I have had it happen to me before. Usually, it results when someone else is doing some incredibly stupid driving and they lash out at you when you simply try to avoid them.

Springfield is noted for an unusually high incidence of road rage. I wonder why? These are people who'll strike up a conversation with a stranger in the mall and act as if they've been friends for years. Do motorized chunks of steel and vinyl have some kind of mystical powers over our residents?

I think it's a power thing. Traffic in Springfield is awful and traffic lights hinder the process more than help it. There is a stretch of road near I-44 and in front of a Wal-Mart superstore that has - count 'em - three stop lights in a span of about one city block. And none of them are coordinated with one another. You should try getting through there on a Friday night about 5:00 pm.

I digress. There is little any of us can do about the traffic or the lights for which our burg is noted. So we tend to take out our frustrations on one another. When someone has control over little else, they exercise control on whatever they can. Like somebody who tries to pass them on the highway. It's a reaction to a perceived threat to one's dignity, I presume.

So lady in the beat up, paint-peeling Chevy Cavalier headed to Republic at 5:15pm last Thursday night, I forgive you. I understand your need to have control over some small part of your life. I just wish you hadn't dragged your kids into all this.

Pretzel Logic

I understand the theory of supply and demand. Pretty much all of us do. I used to teach it to fifth and sixth graders when my daughters were in school. I brought in donuts, gave each class member an envelope stuffed with Monopoly money and auctioned off the donuts.

To simulate real life conditions, not everyone had the same amount of Monopoly money in their envelope. Some students were relatively rich, others were relatively poor. There also were not enough donuts available for all the students. That illustrated too many people chasing too few goods and services.

The first donut auctioned off for a measly sum – maybe five dollars. I’d hand over the iced confection to one smiling student while the others salivated. Invariably, everyone wanted the next donut for the same price the first sold for. But alas, there were even fewer goods now, so I said I wanted more money for the next one. That made a lot of the “poorer” students drop out of the bidding. I’d sell the second donut for a princely sum and thereby demonstrate the forces of supply and demand. As the supply of donuts dwindled, prices rose.

I would eat a donut myself and watch the student’s eyes widen as they understood the impact on supply. I gave one to the teacher as “payment” to my supplier for use of her classroom. The students got creative. One group, working as a team, pooled their funds, bid for and won a donut then shared it, each taking one bite. Another time, I auctioned off the empty box just for the crumbs it contained.

But now I’m getting off track. My point is this: while supply and demand pressures are simple with donuts in a classroom full of hungry elementary students, it’s not quite so easy with gasoline prices and thirsty vehicles.

I just spent $75 to fill up my truck with gasoline valued at $3.14 a gallon (should have done that three days ago when it was “only” $2.99). As gasoline prices rose for the summer driving season, I also read that oil prices decreased about three bucks a barrel.
I was confused. How could that be? Raw material prices fall, finished product prices increase. Oil prices go up, gas goes up. Oil prices go down, gas goes up. Heads I win, tails you lose.

Since oil prices are speculative of future demand, it seemed that a drop in oil should equal an automatic and noticeable drop in gasoline prices. But, not so.

That’s where the complications arise. Oil is not gasoline. It has to be refined. Apparently, several refineries are offline as a result of fires and other problems. And that during the start of peak driving time for vacations. In fact, raw oil prices could be dropping because of the shutdown refineries since speculation may be that less convertible oil will be needed in the next several weeks.

So, we have a diminished supply of gasoline at a time when the demand for the precious fluid is on the rise. And prices rise. Just like they did for my donuts.

The thing is, I didn’t really have just one box of donuts. I brought in enough for everybody. I just chose not to disclose that or my supply and demand illustration would have been useless.

So, oil companies: we get it. Now bring out the donuts for all of us.

The Block

Whether it's the yips, the jitters, a slump or the shanks, we've all experienced something like it. You're off your game, out of the zone. You have to pull out of it or give up. A bad case of writer's block is no different. And when matters get complicated by spending time writing html code instead of stories, well, it just doesn't help.

While I needed to spend time with a web site redesign (thus the html bogey in this story), I do admit it was a convenient way to avoid having to assemble words. Bad thing was, once I completed my web project, I found I was plagued with the block. I couldn't think of anything to say. I stared at my blog and nothing came to mind.

When I quit smoking eighteen years ago, I didn't cut down, didn't use the patch or chew nicotine gum, and I didn't get hypnotized either. I quit cold turkey. Threw it all away and never looked back. And, as a very wise person recently reminded me, sometimes the only way around a problem is through it.

So through it I went. Gimme the ball coach, head down, follow my blockers, into the end zone. I had forgotten that some of my most productive writing time is when I am not writing at all. I know that doesn't make sense at first, but it's like this: I walk most evenings. Three miles. It is a great time to let my mind wander where it will, associate freely and see what happens. Generally, about two-thirds of the way through my jaunt, I come up with a story. Or two. Three if I'm very lucky that night.

Last night I was very lucky. Up until last night, I had forgotten to relax. Forgotten to focus. I had my mind on business too much and that stifled my creativity. So I quit thinking business and started to wander, to associate. And I got through the yips. The writer's block is gone for now and I'm ready to take up the keyboard once more. It may not make me a better writer, but at least I'll write.

A Star No More

Sometimes nouns can become so popular and recognizable we can hardly resist the urge to give them wings by adding a couple of extra letters and turning them into verbs. For example, you can be easily be punk'd or spammed and, even without the extra letters, you can Google something or email someone.

We could probably assemble a lot more of them, but that's not where I was going with this post. I wanted to mention just one such noun-to-verb transformation that entered the vernacular in 2006: you can now be "plutoed." In fact, the American Dialect Society (who would have thunk there was such a social organization) selected "plutoed" as its 2006 Word of the Year.

To be "plutoed" is "to demote or devalue someone or something." And that is exactly what the General Assembly of the International Astronomical Union did to the ex-planet, Pluto, when they decided the puny sphere failed to meet its definition of a planet.

It was not disclosed how tight the balloting ended up, but plutoed did squeeze out a victory in a runoff against "climate canary," which was defined as "an organism or species whose poor health or declining numbers hint at a larger environmental catastrophe on the horizon." Interestingly, the American Dialect Society also considered: murse (man's purse) and flog (a fake blog that promotes products). Try using all those in a sentence.

It kind of gives you a warm feeling to see a demoted planet rise from its own ashes to become a Word of the Year, doesn't it? Looks like it was the Astronomical Union that ended up getting plutoed.

A Bank for the Frugal

I came across some news on the wire about the Tightwad Bank closing in Tightwad, Missouri, population 63. You can read more about the closing here in an article I wrote for YourPanorama. Granted, most of the accounts at that branch were probably small and only set up for the novelty of having checks that read: Tightwad Bank. It's like something you would expect to find in a game of Monopoly. In fact, I can picture the bank president with a white mustache, top hat and cane.

After I wrote the article, I started to wonder how many of those Tightwad checks were actually cashed. Especially if they were written for smaller sums. Bank patrons were sure to have saved money just by issuing Tightwad checks to individuals because the novelty was certainly passed along. I once recall reading an article stating that Pablo Picasso always paid his bills with checks. Why? They bore his signature, which meant the savvy investor would never cash the instrument, preferring instead to keep it for the value of the signature alone.

So why not the same thing for a Tightwad check? I'm not naive enough to think the value of such a document would equal that of a famous painter's signature, but there has to be some level of value there. The test is whether it is enough to outweigh the amount of the check. Something to consider if you are in possession of a Tightwad check.

UMB, current owner of Tightwad Bank, cited economic reasons for the closure and went on to say they were corralling costs. That may be the case if UMB accountants and auditors looked only at the raw data: number of accounts, value of deposits, average deposited per customer. Accountants and auditors tend to look at the world that way - very dryly.

But take a look beyond that initial dry set of stats. Try to see what describes the number, not just states it. What I mean is considering how long a deposit stays at the bank. If checks aren't being cashed, a specific deposit should sit there a longer time. And that means, well, money in the bank.

Banks like deposits that sit there a while. That's because the money doesn't really just sit there. It gets invested, or it gets loaned to other customers. Either way, the bank makes its money from interest earned on the loans and investments. So, if a banker doesn't have to pay out a sum because a check is not cashed, the result is dollars that stay out there collecting more interest.

Seems to me UMB had a golden opportunity in the Tightwad Bank. One that should have been celebrated and promoted instead of shut down. Accounts were established at the bank from all over America, so the marketing efforts could have been nationwide. Tightwad t-shirts and coffee mugs could have fetched additional revenue along with the well known checks. Maybe even a bronzed figure of a hand gingerly rubbing two pennies together would have adorned fireplace mantles and office desks all across our country. Who cares if each customer only had a small deposit on hand. Isn't a million one dollar deposits the same as a single one million dollar deposit?

Instead, the Tightwad Bank will be no more come January 31. Another missed opportunity based on static numbers trying to describe a dynamic world.

Visions of Christmas Past

As was certainly true for most young boys and girls in their single digit years, Christmas for me was a colorful and mysterious event with its own compliment of scents, tastes, sights and experiences to awe and amaze.

From our home in northwest Indiana, we made an annual Christmas journey to Chicago by South Shore, an electric passenger train. Cars painted a dull orange would take us directly to downtown shopping, depositing us right at the doorstep of Marshall Fields. Only after careful consultation with the Sears Christmas catalog were my brother and I ready to make the trip. We understood that Santa brought a great many things our way, but we also knew Mom and Dad supplemented what was in Santa’s sack. So, Ron and I made lists of all the toys we could possibly want and included a few extra knowing that we could not get everything we desired, and knowing it didn’t hurt to hedge our bets a little. Then, at some point, Mom, Dad, Ron and I whisked off to Chicago, ostensibly to see all the store displays but there was more to it than that.

Ron and I were very much dazzled and preoccupied by the animated Christmas displays luring shoppers to store windows. It was like nothing else we had seen before. Electric trains journeyed around magical towns occupied by elves that slowly moved their heads and arms. Mechanical toys that went far beyond our imaginations filled the windows and made us want to revise our Christmas lists with a couple of lengthy addendums. By the end of the day, Ron and I were so tired we hardly took notice of the sacks Mom and Dad carried with them as we boarded the South Shore for the trip back home to Indiana. They had done a little Santa work while we soaked in the lights, the sounds of traffic, the crush of shoppers.

At home, we alternated each year between an artificial tree and live ones we purchased at a grocer in town. But one year Dad took Ron and I to a farm to cut a live one ourselves. I think we ended up going to a farm that belonged to somebody Dad worked with. I can remember snow on the ground, not much, just a dusting but it started to snow again while we were picking out a tree to take home. For someone as tall as a seven year old, the Christmas trees looked big and they were difficult to see around. There was a shuffling among the trees and I looked over to see two horses make their way into the clearing we occupied. They didn’t stay long but it was an impressive sight to a city boy.

We ended up taking home two trees that day. One big one for the living room and a smaller one for the room Ron and I occupied. We were proud of that tree. It was the first time we had one of our own. I can recall drifting off to sleep to the twinkle of Christmas lights and the scent of pine needles.

Suddenly, deep in the night, Ron and I were startled awake by strange noises that seemed to be emanating from our tree. It was a popping sound, the source of which was not clear until morning. Only then did we realize that the tree had been set up too near a heat register. Anytime the house needed to be warmed, pine cones on the tree opened up and seeds sprang forth, ready to produce a sapling. Difficult to do on hardwood floors but the pine persisted, evidently convinced spring had arrived.

I haven’t even begun to tell you about singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” to Grandma, or Dad as Santa, or any one of a thousand other wonderful Christmas memories. But this blog entry can only cover so much. I’ll leave the rest for other times because I am certain I will never forget.