I know a place where the Sun never sets.

It's a mountain, and it's on the Moon. It sticks up so high that even as the Moon spins, it's in perpetual daylight. Radiation from the Sun pours down on there day and night, 24 hours a day — well, the Moon's day is actually about 4 weeks long, so the sunlight pours down there 708 hours a day.

I know a place where the Sun never shines. It's at the bottom of the ocean. A crack in the crust there exudes nasty chemicals and heats the water to the boiling point. This would kill a human instantly, but there are creatures there, bacteria, that thrive. They eat the sulfur from the vent, and excrete sulfuric acid.

I know a place where the temperature is 15 million degrees, and the pressure would crush you to a microscopic dot. That place is the core of the Sun.

I know a place where the magnetic fields would rip you apart, atom by atom: the surface of a neutron star, a magnetar.

I know a place where life began billions of years ago. That place is here, the Earth.



I know these places because I'm a scientist.

Science is a way of finding things out. It's a way of testing what's real. It's what Richard Feynman called "A way of not fooling ourselves."

No astrologer ever predicted the existence of Uranus, Neptune, or Pluto. No modern astrologer had a clue about Sedna, a ball of ice half the size of Pluto that orbits even farther out. No astrologer predicted the more than 150 planets now known to orbit other suns.

But scientists did.

No psychic, despite their claims, has ever helped the police solve a crime. But forensic scientists have, all the time.

It wasn't someone who practices homeopathy who found a cure for smallpox, or polio. Scientists did, medical scientists.

No creationist ever cracked the genetic code. Chemists did. Molecular biologists did.

They used physics. They used math. They used chemistry, biology, astronomy, engineering.

They used science.

These are all the things you discovered doing your projects. All the things that brought you here today.

Computers? Cell phones? Rockets to Saturn, probes to the ocean floor, PSP, gamecubes, gameboys, X-boxes?

All by scientists.

Those places I talked about before — you can get to know them too. You can experience the wonder of seeing them for the first time, the thrill of discovery, the incredible, visceral feeling of doing something no one has ever done before, seen things no one has seen before, know something no one else has ever known.

No crystal balls, no tarot cards, no horoscopes. Just you, your brain, and your ability to think.

Welcome to science. You're gonna like it here.

- Phil Plait, author of Bad Astronomy addressing an eighth grade class of science fair participants in June 2005.

The Shiny, Red, Candy-Like Button...

Reading as much news as I do will go a great length in diminishing even the greatest faith in the human race. It seems far too often, I will finish a story off the lines of the AP or Reuters, clasp my hands over my face and start humming to drown out the voices in my head that tell me none of us deserve our place at the top of the food chain. This morning was particularly gruesome, not just because of the subject matter of the stories I encountered, but because I’ve just spent the last twenty minutes curled into the fetal position, sucking my thumb, visions of sweet, sweet nuclear halocaust dancing in my head.

The Goat for Coke Scandal

Four men, ages 20 to 38, are currently being held and charged with theft, cruelty to animals and other charges in Bullskin Township, PA. It seems the “ringleader” James W. Albright (I shudder to apply such a flattering title to the type of guy that yells at the television during the Montel Williams show, but “drooling, mouth-breathing sack of pig excrement” does very little to betray his status in this group of vacuous pus-bags) developed a plan of fiendish mastery, and convinced his fellow idiot savants on the virtues of a greatly underestimated avenue of extraneous income: goat-napping.



Albright stole his neighbor’s daughter’s pet pygmy goat and tied it to a tree in his back yard, where he and his friends proceeded to beat it to death with sticks. While the image of four drunken hillbillies beating a miniature goat to death with some two-by-fours they found under the house may seem funny as hell, I assure you little Kimmy next door found it none too amusing. They then took the corpse of the goat to Albright’s father and aided him in skinning and butchering it with the intent of selling the meat FOR COCAINE.

In all seriousness, if you’ve got a coke habit that you need to feed, what kind of a person (scratch that, four persons) decide the most likely bargaining chip in the seedy underworld of the drug market would be goat flesh?

The Chicken for Sex Scandal

Our next tale brings us to Stoddard, NH, and into the life of Ryan Park, a door-to-door meat salesman and recalcitrant lover of the fairer sex. Mr. Park is currently in custody, charged with assault after he offered a potential customer an uncooked chicken in exchange for sexual favors. When his advances, and his uncooked chicken, were rejected, he forced himself upon the woman and “forcefully kissed” her. While we can be happy that the poor woman’s sanctity was violated no further than a forceful kiss from a meat salesman, we can only hope he washed up after touching the raw chicken.



I just get fed up sometimes. I wonder about the future of the human race when some skinhead nutter saws off an old guy’s head over a property line dispute, and then makes it into this country with the bloody chainsaw in the trunk of his car. I get distraught when an abortion doctor is accused of devouring human fetuses. I start to worry when Sean Penn decides to become a reporter and go to Iran to cover their sham elections.

Although, the new Pope-Mobile sounds pretty cool...

Wall of Hair: The Legacy of Phil Spector

The world loves celebrity. Here in America, we especially love the formulaic story of rise to fame through hard work and perseverance, and making success from meager beginnings. The only thing the world enjoys watching more than the rise of a star, is its inevitable fall. With the trial of Michael Jackson at a close, the media in the United States is in a blind panic. “Wacko Jacko” has been acquitted, and Robert Blake is out walking the streets again, a proposition that keeps many of us up at night. The folks that decide what’s going to be important to you have nothing left to report, especially in New Jersey. What celebrity court debacle will the nation fawn over for the next six months? Sure, Russell Crow will be going to court soon, but he’s already admitted to assault on The Late Show and will probably plead no contest, not much to report there. Phil Spector’s trial is scheduled to start soon, but who the hell knows who Phil Spector is?

The answer: You should.

It’s very likely that you don’t know who Phil Spector is, or if you recognize his name, don’t realize how fundamental he was in the shaping of American music, and by “American music,” I mean all music. Spector has been a huge figure in innovation of the music industry in the last thirty-five years, and has made millions developing recording technology and techniques, and has created some of the biggest names in music history, and the media can’t even justify following the proceedings of his murder trial.

Spector’s life, like most folks that fight the current in an industry as unforgiving as music, has been marred with turmoil and struggle, leaving him eccentric and, some would say, dangerous. If one examines the evidence, it becomes clear that Spector’s career, which peaked in 1970, can be said to have gone downhill in perfect ratio to the increasing circumference of his hair.




In 1958, and the age of 19, Phil’s first band, The Teddy Bears, release their million-selling hit, “To Know Him is to Love Him.” This was to be the beginning of an illustrious career in music, and as you can see, is marked with cute, short, wavy hair typical for the time. Phil and his hair are destined for big things.




Armed with the reputation garnished from the success of The Teddy Bears, and gifted with perfect pitch, I might add, Spector went on to his first independent production success in 1961 with “Pretty Little Angel Eyes” but Curtis Lee. That same year, before he even turned 21, Spector started his own label, Philles Records, with music great Lester Sill. With complete creative control, Spector went on to produce numerous hits from his tiny Gold Star Studio in Fontana, CA.




During this time, 1965-1969, Phil introduced names like The Ronnettes, The Crystals and many others, developing for the first time the concept of the “girl group.” Unfortunately, as you can see, his hair had started its journey skyward, marking the beginning of the end. The real breakthrough, however, was Spector’s “Wall of Sound” recording technique that used numerous musicians in the tiny studio playing orchestrated parts on top of one another, lending the recording a rich, dense sound that was especially enjoyable on jukeboxes of the day. The song usually credited with popularizing Spector’s technique of layering music was “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling” by The Righteous Brothers.




In 1970 both Phil and his hair exploded in terms of recognition, success and density. John Lennon, a great fan of Spector’s work, approached him that year and asked him to lend a hand in completing the abandoned recordings of the Beatles’ “Let it Be.” Already on the rocks, the relationship between Lennon and McCartney became even more strained after Spector completely reworked the album, and fundamentally changed McCartney’s “The Long and Winding Road,” applying his signature “Wall of Sound” techniques and added an entire orchestra to McCartney’s sparse piano ballad.




The 70’s and 80’s were tumultuous years for Phil and his hair. There were some significant gains, but also some real setbacks. His name was as well-known as it had ever been, but his eccentricity and need for complete control over the projects he produced gave him a reputation as a tyrant at the boards, and he was even said to have discharged a firearm in the studio while John Lennon was recording and forced Leonard Cohen to record “Death of a Ladies’ Man” at gunpoint. Despite these bizarre occurrences, this time was greeted with the success of albums he produced for John Lennon, George Harrison, The Ramones, Dusty Springfield, Harry Nilsson and The Beach Boys.




In the early 90’s, it seems Phil realized what a danger his hair had become and for the first time, he was trying to fight it. He had retreated into relative obscurity, probably brought on by the epic battle he had incited with the mass of tangles and curls that had nested on his head, bent on world domination. Unfortunately for us all, Phil was not to win this battle.





Holy fucking Christ on a crutch! I never knew it would get this bad. By now, the roots have sunk deep within his brain and he is no longer in control of his actions. He is utterly at the tender mecries of that horrible creature, coiled on top of his head, ready to strike at any moment at anyone who dares stand in its' way.

In February 2003, Harry Phillip Spector and his hair were arrested as part of the investigation into the murder of Lana Clarkson, an actress whose body was found in Spector’s home in Alhambra, California. It would seem Phil’s hair won the struggle that kept him for the public’s eye throughout the 90’s, and now we shall all suffer.

Phil Spector has been responsible for the success of acts like Tina Turner, Cher, Darlene Love, The Righteous Brothers and has greatly influenced musicians and producers like Brian Wilson and Bruce Springsteen. Spector’s imprint will always be felt in music, and the fact that most people are unaware of his legacy is unfortunate. So next time you pop in “Let it Be” and marvel at the genius of those four chaps from Liverpool, think about Phil and his life long battle with the maniacal tendencies of his hair, and how great success is always tainted with great struggle.

Poor Guy, He's Got Bandwidth Issues...

Proof positive that, on average, we all have far too much free time on our hands. I might also add that I can't believe I (or Luke) didn't think of this first.

Cats + Stuff = Awesome.