In order to make amends, here are 56 episodes of Star Trek: The Original Series - - all at the same time. Several people sent me this link today, and so I thought I'd share the beauty of synchronized Trek episodes.
Enjoy!
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Star Trek Overload
I've been a bit busy, and I'm feeling a little guilty about not posting for a long time.
In order to make amends, here are 56 episodes of Star Trek: The Original Series - - all at the same time. Several people sent me this link today, and so I thought I'd share the beauty of synchronized Trek episodes.
Enjoy!
In order to make amends, here are 56 episodes of Star Trek: The Original Series - - all at the same time. Several people sent me this link today, and so I thought I'd share the beauty of synchronized Trek episodes.
Enjoy!
Friday, March 16, 2012
You Lonely Travelers All
As you can tell from the name, I'm an Irish American. My mother's parents were both straight-off-the-boat Irish, and my dad's family only a generation further than that. So, Ireland and its history and culture still play a significant role in my family's life. And since it's St. Patrick's Day, what better time to discuss the Old Country?
When England colonized northwestern Ireland in the 1600's, the native Irish were chased up into the rocky hills while the colonials took over the fertile lowlands. There, the English built plantations, constructed dams and ponds, and turned the place into an agricultural engine. One of my grandmother's earliest memories (back during the Colonial period) was being chased by a British landlord's dogs while poaching fish to eat out of a stock pond.
My mom's parents left Ireland for several significant reasons - - not the least of which was that their homes in County Mayo suffered some of the worst violence during both the 1916 revolution and the years that followed. It was really bad stuff - - stuff I've typed and erased three or four times because it's difficult to even think about. Let me give you an idea about how bad things were: my cousin Agnes volunteered to be a nurse in London during World War II because she wanted to be able to watch British soldiers die. Like I said: bad, bad stuff.
Wars end. Things calm down. Today, the stock pond where my grandmother was chased is now owned by my cousins, her great-nephews and great-nieces. They raise cattle and sheep to sell to the French and the Belgians. There are statues and memorials to family members who perished during The Troubles, but that strife has evaporated over the decades. It's a happy place once again.
I think the turmoil, the anguish, the suffering, and the struggle is what shaped Irish creative endeavors, most notably in Irish ballads and songs. Most of my ancestors were musicians: my grandfathers played the fiddle and the button-box accordion, my dad and my aunts and uncles played the piano, harp and bagpipes. Growing up, I didn't know that there were families who didn't play instruments, and whose houses didn't have live music in them every week. I'm not sure if this is just an "Irish thing," but it always seemed to be so as I grew up. Being able to play a tune or sing a song seems to be as much a part of family life as making a cup of tea or cooking eggs. Music, to me, is what made a house a home, and made people who lived in that home a family.
Hearing live music in the house growing up, I think, made me appreciate the musical talents of others, especially those who can convey emotion in songs. It's not the mastery of an instrument that impresses me - - I've heard clumsy fiddle players who can still bring me to tears by instilling passion in a tune. Sharing music in a home is personal, emotional, and seems to draw people closer together. If you're in a house with someone playing a song on a piano, you'll never feel lonely.
I've meandered about here quite a bit, but let me tie it all up with an example of how music can bind you with others. About three years ago, I had an opportunity to play the fiddle with composer Jay Ungar (he of "Ashokan Farewell" fame). When you play with someone, you get a chance to read their cadences and their playing style, and you attune your own playing to the song they play with you. In playing with Jay Ungar, I learned his bowing style and subdued, easy movements on the strings. So, when I see him playing ensemble in other venues, I can see Jay Ungar playing the same style with other musicians in much the same way he played with our group. It's an odd connection, but if you've played music with someone else, you'll know what I'm talking about. They're links between people that stay with you for a long time. Maybe that's why the Irish play so much music together - - they've scattered across the world, but they keep their connections.
Here's Jay Ungar, his wife Molly, fiddle legend Aly Bain, and Irish singer Mary Black sharing a beautiful song called Farewell, Farewell. Happy St. Patrick's Day.
When England colonized northwestern Ireland in the 1600's, the native Irish were chased up into the rocky hills while the colonials took over the fertile lowlands. There, the English built plantations, constructed dams and ponds, and turned the place into an agricultural engine. One of my grandmother's earliest memories (back during the Colonial period) was being chased by a British landlord's dogs while poaching fish to eat out of a stock pond.
My mom's parents left Ireland for several significant reasons - - not the least of which was that their homes in County Mayo suffered some of the worst violence during both the 1916 revolution and the years that followed. It was really bad stuff - - stuff I've typed and erased three or four times because it's difficult to even think about. Let me give you an idea about how bad things were: my cousin Agnes volunteered to be a nurse in London during World War II because she wanted to be able to watch British soldiers die. Like I said: bad, bad stuff.
Wars end. Things calm down. Today, the stock pond where my grandmother was chased is now owned by my cousins, her great-nephews and great-nieces. They raise cattle and sheep to sell to the French and the Belgians. There are statues and memorials to family members who perished during The Troubles, but that strife has evaporated over the decades. It's a happy place once again.
I think the turmoil, the anguish, the suffering, and the struggle is what shaped Irish creative endeavors, most notably in Irish ballads and songs. Most of my ancestors were musicians: my grandfathers played the fiddle and the button-box accordion, my dad and my aunts and uncles played the piano, harp and bagpipes. Growing up, I didn't know that there were families who didn't play instruments, and whose houses didn't have live music in them every week. I'm not sure if this is just an "Irish thing," but it always seemed to be so as I grew up. Being able to play a tune or sing a song seems to be as much a part of family life as making a cup of tea or cooking eggs. Music, to me, is what made a house a home, and made people who lived in that home a family.
Hearing live music in the house growing up, I think, made me appreciate the musical talents of others, especially those who can convey emotion in songs. It's not the mastery of an instrument that impresses me - - I've heard clumsy fiddle players who can still bring me to tears by instilling passion in a tune. Sharing music in a home is personal, emotional, and seems to draw people closer together. If you're in a house with someone playing a song on a piano, you'll never feel lonely.
I've meandered about here quite a bit, but let me tie it all up with an example of how music can bind you with others. About three years ago, I had an opportunity to play the fiddle with composer Jay Ungar (he of "Ashokan Farewell" fame). When you play with someone, you get a chance to read their cadences and their playing style, and you attune your own playing to the song they play with you. In playing with Jay Ungar, I learned his bowing style and subdued, easy movements on the strings. So, when I see him playing ensemble in other venues, I can see Jay Ungar playing the same style with other musicians in much the same way he played with our group. It's an odd connection, but if you've played music with someone else, you'll know what I'm talking about. They're links between people that stay with you for a long time. Maybe that's why the Irish play so much music together - - they've scattered across the world, but they keep their connections.
Here's Jay Ungar, his wife Molly, fiddle legend Aly Bain, and Irish singer Mary Black sharing a beautiful song called Farewell, Farewell. Happy St. Patrick's Day.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
The Department of Worms
Back before the magnificent Internet, we had two methods of finding out something we didn't know: we either went to a public library to look things up, or we telephoned people who might have the right answer. I believe the TV show Ca$h Cab defines these methods as the "Street Shout-Out" and the "Phone a Friend" options.
Springtime in the Eastern US is traditionally a rainy season, so many science questions about rain and biology arise during this time of year. A question my son brought up on a rainy spring morning highlighted an overlooked science topic: why, he asked, were there so many soggy, dead earthworms on our asphalt driveway, but none on our lawn?
At the time, we lived in Northern Virginia, not too far from one of the greatest repositories of science knowledge in the pre-Internet world: The Smithsonian's Natural History Museum. Experts from every branch of science were a mere phone call away.
I called the Natural History Museum and asked to speak to someone about earthworms. "One moment," said the Smithsonian operator. She transferred the call.
"Invertebrates," said a new voice on the line.
"I'd like to ask a question about earthworms..." I began.
"Just a second, let me transfer you," he replied. Another couple of clicks later, and a new voice answered the phone.
"Worms," said a tired-sounding fellow at the Smithsonian.
"I was going to ask a question about earthworms," I said, "but I have to ask: how did you wind up with a career where you get to answer the phone with the word 'Worms?' "
"I studied," he replied.
The head of the Department of Worms then explained all about why there were dead earthworms on my driveway. He said that worms mostly live underground and breathe through their skin. When it rained, the worms would work their way to the surface and get on top of the grass to avoid drowning. Worms that wound up on the asphalt couldn't climb up on any grass, and, even though it doesn't look like that much water, most driveways have a layer of water on them during rain storms that's about one worm's depth. And that's all the water you need to drown a worm.
I do enjoy the ease of Google-ing information nowadays, but I miss the chance to talk about careers -- and worms -- with researchers on the telephone.
Springtime in the Eastern US is traditionally a rainy season, so many science questions about rain and biology arise during this time of year. A question my son brought up on a rainy spring morning highlighted an overlooked science topic: why, he asked, were there so many soggy, dead earthworms on our asphalt driveway, but none on our lawn?
At the time, we lived in Northern Virginia, not too far from one of the greatest repositories of science knowledge in the pre-Internet world: The Smithsonian's Natural History Museum. Experts from every branch of science were a mere phone call away.
I called the Natural History Museum and asked to speak to someone about earthworms. "One moment," said the Smithsonian operator. She transferred the call.
"Invertebrates," said a new voice on the line.
"I'd like to ask a question about earthworms..." I began.
"Just a second, let me transfer you," he replied. Another couple of clicks later, and a new voice answered the phone.
"Worms," said a tired-sounding fellow at the Smithsonian.
"I was going to ask a question about earthworms," I said, "but I have to ask: how did you wind up with a career where you get to answer the phone with the word 'Worms?' "
"I studied," he replied.
The head of the Department of Worms then explained all about why there were dead earthworms on my driveway. He said that worms mostly live underground and breathe through their skin. When it rained, the worms would work their way to the surface and get on top of the grass to avoid drowning. Worms that wound up on the asphalt couldn't climb up on any grass, and, even though it doesn't look like that much water, most driveways have a layer of water on them during rain storms that's about one worm's depth. And that's all the water you need to drown a worm.
I do enjoy the ease of Google-ing information nowadays, but I miss the chance to talk about careers -- and worms -- with researchers on the telephone.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Take Two
Thirty years ago, I was a Radio-TV-Film student at the University of Texas. I thought I was going to be involved in the film industry, and I studied editing, lighting, and cinematography.
Life intervened, and my career took a different path. While I watched the industry from afar, I saw the techniques I learned in college become obsolete or outdated.
Three decades later, I have an opportunity (through the good graces of the Rhode Island School of Design) to catch up on some of the widgetry that's replaced the old kinescopes and editing benches of my undergraduate days. I'm taking a course in Adobe After Effects techniques that seems to marry what I used to know with what I don't know now.
My first homework assignment for After Effects was an open-ended project: I could choose any opening credits sequence from a film or television show, and "re-imagine" the sequence in whatever way I'd like. The only restriction was that I needed to use three of the After Effects techniques I had learned in class dealing with opacity, scale, and position of image layers.
I chose to remake the title sequence of what is undoubtedly my favorite film: director William Wyler's 1946 classic, The Best Years of Our Lives. Although the movie was beautifully filmed by cinematographer Gregg Toland, the opening credits were dull, static title cards dissolving into each other.
The Best Years of Our Lives was a story about soldiers, sailors, and airmen returning to civilian life after their struggle for survival through World War II. Audiences of 1946 knew that struggle intimately in their own lives, so there was no need at the time to portray that struggle on screen. Seventy years have put a lot of distance between us and that incredible time, so I thought I would try to show a few moments of that global battle as the credits appeared. Here's my attempt at condensing years of history into a minute and seventeen seconds:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BmTYspHZha4
(Apparently Youtube isn't going to let me upload this video correctly, so you'll just have to click the link. Sorry!)
Life intervened, and my career took a different path. While I watched the industry from afar, I saw the techniques I learned in college become obsolete or outdated.
Three decades later, I have an opportunity (through the good graces of the Rhode Island School of Design) to catch up on some of the widgetry that's replaced the old kinescopes and editing benches of my undergraduate days. I'm taking a course in Adobe After Effects techniques that seems to marry what I used to know with what I don't know now.
My first homework assignment for After Effects was an open-ended project: I could choose any opening credits sequence from a film or television show, and "re-imagine" the sequence in whatever way I'd like. The only restriction was that I needed to use three of the After Effects techniques I had learned in class dealing with opacity, scale, and position of image layers.
I chose to remake the title sequence of what is undoubtedly my favorite film: director William Wyler's 1946 classic, The Best Years of Our Lives. Although the movie was beautifully filmed by cinematographer Gregg Toland, the opening credits were dull, static title cards dissolving into each other.
The Best Years of Our Lives was a story about soldiers, sailors, and airmen returning to civilian life after their struggle for survival through World War II. Audiences of 1946 knew that struggle intimately in their own lives, so there was no need at the time to portray that struggle on screen. Seventy years have put a lot of distance between us and that incredible time, so I thought I would try to show a few moments of that global battle as the credits appeared. Here's my attempt at condensing years of history into a minute and seventeen seconds:
(Apparently Youtube isn't going to let me upload this video correctly, so you'll just have to click the link. Sorry!)
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Aunt Effie's Farm
My bucket list spans several pages. Some items are difficult ("visit every existing American manned spacecraft" has been a decades-long process) but some are quite easy - - provided I set aside time to put the item as a priority "to-do."
I live in eastern Massachusetts, and one of my long-time unfulfilled bucket list items has been to visit the site of Robert Goddard's first liquid-fueled rocket launch. Today is the day I've managed to check that particular item off my list.
Goddard launched his rocket at a field on his Aunt Effie's farm in Auburn, Massachusetts. It's about 12 miles from his home in Worcester, and the site is still (fortunately) undeveloped. The reason the site is undeveloped is because it's on the 9th fairway of the Pakachoag Golf Course. There are houses scattered up and down the hills surrounding the field, but thanks to the 18 holes, Dr. Goddard's launch site is pretty much the way he left it back in 1926.
The Times finally retracted their comment on July 16, 1969 - - the day Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins headed for the Moon in a Goddard-derived launch vehicle.
I live in eastern Massachusetts, and one of my long-time unfulfilled bucket list items has been to visit the site of Robert Goddard's first liquid-fueled rocket launch. Today is the day I've managed to check that particular item off my list.
Goddard launched his rocket at a field on his Aunt Effie's farm in Auburn, Massachusetts. It's about 12 miles from his home in Worcester, and the site is still (fortunately) undeveloped. The reason the site is undeveloped is because it's on the 9th fairway of the Pakachoag Golf Course. There are houses scattered up and down the hills surrounding the field, but thanks to the 18 holes, Dr. Goddard's launch site is pretty much the way he left it back in 1926.
Goddard was treated as a crackpot by newspapers of the day. The NY Times chided him for an implied ignorance of physics. "That professor Goddard, with his 'chair' in Clark College and the
countenancing of the Smithsonian Institution, does not know the relation of action to reaction; and
of the need to have something better than a vacuum against which to react - to say that would be
absurd. Of course, he only seems to lack the knowledge ladled out daily in high schools."
The Times finally retracted their comment on July 16, 1969 - - the day Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins headed for the Moon in a Goddard-derived launch vehicle.
The only other place I can think of that comes close to the historical importance in the timeline of flight is Kitty Hawk. I've been to Kitty Hawk, and the reverence for the site in Massachusetts is nowhere near the veneration received by the Wright Brothers in North Carolina. The entrance to the golf course is a modest building at the top of Upland St. in Auburn.
Nobody was at the pro shop today - - the door was locked, and there were no exterior signs pointing to the Goddard marker. Fortunately, there was Internet access on my Droid, so Captain Girlfriend and I managed to geocache our way to the memorial.
It's a pretty far trip down the front 9 holes - - fortunately all downhill - - but an icy wind was blowing from the west. The Captain hunched up inside her coat (she never wears a hat) as we marched down the fairway.
It really was an ideal place for rocketry experiments, especially back before there were any nearby houses at the borders of this cow field. The gently sloping hill afforded a great view to see a rocket's path high in the air.
Finally, at the foot of the long hill, we spotted the marker. It's a very simple stone pillar that marks yet another place where the path of history changed forever.
The American Rocket Society erected this memorial in 1960. Which means, of course, that the town fathers of Auburn, Massachusetts never bothered with recognizing this place for 34 years. But that's the case with most of Robert Goddard's work in America, anyway.
Here's the mandatory bucket list picture:
And here's The Captain, patiently waiting to get her picture taken next to the stone so we could hurry up and get the heck outta there. What a trooper.
We took a fast, freezing jaunt back to the truck. I was imagining living in a house backed up to the golf course. I'd probably try and build a replica of Dr. Goddard's original pipe-nightmare rocket and donate it to the site. But probably the golf course folks wouldn't allow it.
Auburn's high school team is called "The Rockets" but that's really about all the town has done to memorialize Robert Goddard. How is it possible that this town missed the boat to capitalize on its place in history: the birthplace of modern rocketry?
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Godspeed, John Glenn
Glenn's Mercury flight as a staggering moment in history cannot be overstated. Although the Soviets had launched Gagarin and Titov before Col. Glenn, this would be the first time a human being would be launched into orbit on live television. The American way of doing spaceflight was a marked difference from those launches behind the Iron Curtain. We, as a nation, were willing to show our triumphs and failures as they happened, not hiding the news until after a mission was successful. Glenn's ship was being launched immediately after the loss of Liberty Bell 7 the summer before - - an event where viewers around the world were treated to the live scene of Gus Grissom nearly drowning in the Atlantic as recovery crews grappled with his capsule. We wouldn't see a live Soviet launch until 13 years later, when a Soyuz left the pad to rendezvous with an American Apollo spacecraft. Our attitude in making the race to the Moon a public one (at least on our side of the racetrack) was as much a political success as a technological one.
A lot of the legend-writers, though, oversimplified both the nature of the hardware and the people involved in getting Friendship 7 up and back to Earth. Tom Wolfe, for example, portrayed John Glenn as a naive bumpkin, spouting stars-and-stripes cliches and relying on engineers to do all the "real work." John Glenn was a Marine aviator and combat warrior. He flew 59 combat missions in the South Pacific during WWII, and stayed on as a jet fighter during the Korean War, shooting down three MiGs in some of the first jet dogfights in the history of the world. Colonel Glenn was no greenhorn newbie - - he was a survivor of some of the fastest, deadliest action on the planet.
After all of his wartime adventures, he still wanted more. Glenn campaigned and was accepted into NASA in 1959, despite a lack of a college degree - - beating out 104 other applicants. He was at the top of his field proficiencies, both in aerodynamics and reacting to a rapidly-changing aircraft environment. There were few people - NASA counted 7 - who would be capable of handling the rigors of flying a Mercury spacecraft into orbit.
It's amazing that after a half-century, Colonel (now retired Senator) Glenn is still with us, along with his fellow Mercury 7 astronaut, Scott Carpenter. Glenn would take to the sky again in 1998, riding onboard Space Shuttle Discovery, ostensibly to test geriatric responses to weightlessness, but also to inject a bit of PR into the routine and somewhat lackluster Shuttle program. Fifty years on, John Glenn continues to press for NASA's manned space program, returning to the stage when budget cuts are threatened. He remains our national hero, a man for whom people once wept on seeing in parades.
The pilot of Friendship 7 is one of those rare people whose hype doesn't exceed their true stature. I feel proud to be a part of the generation who saw his heroism as it happened. Godspeed, John Glenn.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Some things never change
One of the best parts of living in The Future is that things I'd normally have to go to a library to do I can now do while couch-surfing on my laptop at home.
When I was a kid, I used to haunt the basement of my local public library, perusing the stacks of old magazines and newspapers. It was fascinating to read the letters columns of popular science magazines such as, well, Popular Science, and see what the subscriber base at the time thought of Things to Come.
I remember reading this particular letter to the editor from October of 1949, and I managed to find it again, online!
Not sure what R. Klingbeil's life was like after 1949. A Google search shows a "Klingbeil Shoe Labs" from Queens doing quite a healthy business in ice skating equipment today. I hope Klingbeil got to see Sputnik flash overhead only a decade after this note was published.
Funny, or maybe sad - - I had a similar discussion with someone about this same topic on a pier at the Banana River in Florida. We were both waiting for the final launch of Space Shuttle Discovery. I was amazed that the concept of how orbits work still evades the minds of many people currently living in the Space Age. How is this possible?
When I was a kid, I used to haunt the basement of my local public library, perusing the stacks of old magazines and newspapers. It was fascinating to read the letters columns of popular science magazines such as, well, Popular Science, and see what the subscriber base at the time thought of Things to Come.
I remember reading this particular letter to the editor from October of 1949, and I managed to find it again, online!
Funny, or maybe sad - - I had a similar discussion with someone about this same topic on a pier at the Banana River in Florida. We were both waiting for the final launch of Space Shuttle Discovery. I was amazed that the concept of how orbits work still evades the minds of many people currently living in the Space Age. How is this possible?
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