If You Can't See It, Does that Prove It's Really There?

Well, it’s finally happened; positive proof that black holes do not exist.  Please consider that for a moment before going on.

Let me expand on my amazement with that brilliant statement.  A scientist has, mathematically mind you, proved that a theoretical concept whose fundamental physical characteristic is that it cannot be seen does not exist.  Let us recall that Einstein’s theory of gravity predicts the existence of black holes.  And so predicted, they have become the metaphorical rack upon which cosmologists have hung their big bang theory.

Now Professor Laura Mersini-Houghton from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill tells us that our previous understanding of what happens to a really big star when it dies is all wrong.  The theory of black holes is that when a particularly large star (much larger than our Sun) runs out of fuel for its fusion, the star collapses on itself.  The gravity of the collapsed star is so great that nothing can escape, not even light; ergo, black hole.

One of the problems with this theory has been the nagging inconsistency with what we believe to be true at the other end of the universe; the very tiny, tiny world of quantum theory (which for Scott Bakula fans, I’m sorry to say, has nothing to do with time travel) makes gravity impossible.  Tell that to your knees next time step on your own shoe laces.

Without getting too technical, not because I don’t think you can handle it but more because I don’t understand it, it seems that when a very large star collapses on itself it releases a type of radiation (energy) known as Hawking radiation; so called because it was predicted by Professor Stephen Hawking.  “Professor Mersini-Houghton believes the star also sheds mass, so much so that it no longer has the density to become a black hole.” (source).  Therefore, black holes cannot exist.

“So what does this mean, Dale?”  Well quite simply, this:  If someone tells you they saw me at Pure Platinum, it is prima facie evidence that I was not there.  Everybody knows I don’t emit any excess energy anyway.

Global Warming!

Relax, this is not going to be a political diatribe related to the hotly contested proposition that the world is well on its way toward destruction resulting from the runaway greenhouse effect. Although this past week has been one of the warmest I remember with midday temperatures rising to 105 degrees, today the trend seems to have broken and we are back to the usual range for September in the coastal valleys of San Diego.  My impression:  It was hot!

How hot was it?  It was so hot I was running my air conditioner for the better part of the day.  Now being a member of the Skinflint clan, the notion of spending money just to cool the air is rather odious to my nature.  But when it became impossible for me to watch my favorite Fox News Channel programs for the sweat cascading from my forehead into my eyes, I realized it was time to acquiesce and open the pocket book.  I guess it won’t be too damaging to forego eating for a few days; I could stand to lose a few pounds anyway.

I remember when I was in high school a day was set aside, April 22, 1970, on which we students were assembled to hear lectures from visiting pundits expounding the theory that increasing levels of Carbon-dioxide in the atmosphere put us all in danger from an imminent ice age as a result of global cooling.  Just a few degrees decrease in global mean temperatures would cause the earth’s free water supply to be locked up in the polar ice caps leading to death by thirst or hypothermia, whichever came first (or seemed scarier).  As I recall, it was a pleasant day and the lectures were presented outside in the warmth of the sun.  No mention was made of the likelihood of the return of the Wooly Mammoth.

It is now nearly twenty years later and we are still “celebrating” earth day each April and to my great disappointment, nary an iceberg is to be seen in San Diego Harbor.  Today, we needn’t fear a frozen planet.  The polar ice caps it seems have out flanked the global cooling proponents and instead are threatening us with rising sea levels.  Although I have yet to observe sea waves lapping at the intersection of Broadway and Front Street, the experts assure me that soggy days are ahead.

Well, to continue in the tradition of public education this blog provides, I will now share with you the steps I have taken to protect myself from either extreme.  First, to limit the importance of future climatic catastrophe, I have had no children.  Once I’m gone, I don’t care what befalls the planet.  Second, I have chosen to live well beyond the tidal zone no matter how much of the ice melts.  My home is at 1,700 ft. elevation.  Come on Poseidon; give me your best shot.

You might recoil from such thinking, believing it to be rather selfish.  You are correct!  Nature has proven itself to be no friend of life; just look at the paleontological record.  There are more species extinct in the history of the world than currently exist today.  And most of them expired well before humans starting meddling with the environment.  We are just one Yellowstone volcanic eruption or one asteroid collision away from extinction ourselves.  Both of these phenomena are overdue, by the way.

 

So take my advice:  Forget about EPA ratings and buy a fast car.  You may not be able to outrun Armageddon, but you’ll be among the last to go and enjoy the ride to boot. Whee!

Investment Opportunity!

The truth is, I am a liar.  I have been all my (long, long) life.  Here’s a harder pill to swallow; so are you.

Think about what you are seeing in the news presently.  In the last three days, NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell has changed his story about his awareness of the facts in the Ray Rice story (Baltimore Ravens running back accused of battering his wife) every time a fresh news tidbit is released by TMZ.

It seems each week we are regaled with yet another tale of lost e-mail archives belonging to IRS operatives close to Lois Lerner.  But we are assured that the system crashes and hard drive destruction do not implicate any of the players.  The events, it seems, were all in line with standard data protection procedures.

Three CIA contract security officers (all ex-spec ops veterans) are making the media rounds promoting a book they co-wrote in which their central point is they were prevented by order from responding to the American diplomatic compound in Benghazi during the September 11, 2012 attack during which four Americans were killed, including the U.S. Ambassador to Libya.  In form of a denial, officials of the State Department and CIA parsed words over the meaning of “stand down”.

Just yesterday, President Obama delivered a prime-time televised address in which he presented his plan to arm the Syrian Rebels as part of the effort to “degrade” ISIS.  In an August 8 interview, the rebels were described by the President as not capable of using and protecting such assets effectively.

This is not intended to be a political rant.  I just use these recent events to illustrate the propensity of humans to use falsehoods.  Everybody lies.  The question is why.  Where do we learn this shameful social behavior?

I posit that we do not learn to lie, but rather we must be taught to tell the truth.  Self-preservation is the strongest driver of the human psyche.  Lying is innate.  The instinct to avoid conflict runs deep.  And one way to avoid conflict is to rearrange facts to mirror the information people want hear:  “If I can just get them to believe me, I can get out of here with a minimum amount of damage.”  We don’t even work to make the lies believable.  As long as it delays punitive action (yes, we are an instant gratification culture) we are satisfied.

“But Dale,” you ask, “How can you say this is instinctive rather than learned?”  Because as soon as we can talk, we start telling lies: Ask any toddler with cookie crumbs on that innocent little face, “Did you get a cookie out of the cookie jar?”  Their instant answer, bolstered by the dramatic, thoughtful head shake is, “No.”

So there you have it, immutable proof that we are born liars.  And how, you wonder, is this going to make you rich?  I am offering you an opportunity to get in on the ground floor of the next big thing.  An invention so right for our times that it will become an instant best seller, Halon Pants.  These pants would be lined with thin pockets filled with halon 1301.  The material of which the pockets are made would melt well below the ignition temperature of the fabric of the trousers.  The release of the halon gas prevents fire by chemically mixing with all three of the elements necessary for ignition, oxygen, heat and fuel. Voila!  Fire proof pantaloons.

Our engineers were interviewing women about the unique challenges related to the design of fire-safe skirts and dresses when they assured us such work was unnecessary as women never lie.

      

The Princess and the Pee-er

This post is not about fairy tales.  It is not about urinary tract infections.  There is no misspelling which might suggest the title references vegetables.  No, this is a blog about May-December romances.  You know the ones I mean; older guy playing the role as sugar daddy to a young hotty.  Or it could be a fading dowager entertaining the advances of a young gigolo.  You know the story; robbing the cradle.  As the examples attest, we generally pooh-pooh such matchups as serving some nefarious stratagem designed to exchange emotional and physical affection for monetary advantage or economic security.

But there are other motives:  Men seeking affirmation that their masculinity is intact; women with daddy issues; men with unnatural attachments to their mothers; power plays.  One can identify myriad reasons for May-December unions, but rarely does the list include true romance.  Can the heart of a man of advanced maturity truly harbor an untainted love for a woman one or maybe two generations removed?  Is it possible for a well-centered young woman to attach emotionally to a man of age without at least the hint of some economic motive?  Must there be exceeding emotional vacancy in the heart of a sage woman for her to attach to a man much younger?  Will only a young man seeking to fill the void of motherly love unite with a woman beyond her reproductive years?

Hollywood says yes, or no, depending on which of these questions one is seeking to answer.

“Aha!” you shout. “This week’s missive is about movies.  Thank God, I thought he was going to drone on about some personal experience that would eventually lead to nausea for us, the readers.”

No, you’re safe.  There are no personal histories or tawdry anecdotes.  But do you find fault with the proposition that in polite society (or am I dreaming of a bygone era) romantic unions that span generations are generally sneered at and believed to have their genesis in prurient or pecuniary motives?

If you look to the Golden Age of Hollywood, it would seem pure May-December romances are not only possible, but common and blissful.  To wit, I offer the reader some of my favorite movies in which age disparity is a key element.

To Catch a Thief (1955-Paramount Pictures): Directed by Alfred Hitchcock, this Riviera set thriller features Cary Grant as a retired, reformed jewel thief, and Grace Kelly as a young jet setter (back when being a jet setter meant something) he sets up as bait to catch a burglar that has been leaving clues behind which suggest Grant has come out of retirement.  As one would expect, a romance ignites between Grant and Kelly.  What is unexpected is the mastermind behind the thefts and how it fits into the theme of this blog entry.  See the movie to understand this assertion.

Love in the Afternoon (1957-United Artists): This is another of my favorite Billy Wilder films (director/writer, to see more about Wilder films, see the post “A Wilder Ride” July 31, 2014) and deals very directly with this subject in a relationship that develops between a young Parisian musician (Audrey Hepburn) and a worldly American businessman (Gary Cooper).  The two engage in an affair of convenience, but as is de rigueur for the puritanical fifties (we had to defeat the march of Communism, for God’s sake… there was no room for moral ambiguity) in the end they legitimize their love by getting married.  What sets this film apart is the deft manipulation of the bon vivant Cooper by the seeming ingénue, Hepburn.

North by Northwest (1959-MGM): Lore has it that Alfred Hitchcock (Director) envisioned a climactic fight scene atop the stone monument at Mount Rushmore and commissioned screenwriter Ernest Lehman to write a script that would get him there.  The product is perhaps the greatest suspense drama ever.  Cary Grant plays a middle-aged business executive thrown into espionage intrigue resulting from mistaken identity.  While trying to unravel the mystery, he encounters the much younger Eva Marie Saint who it turns out is employed by, as well as romantically entangled with, master spy James Mason.  The scene on the Twentieth Century Limited (that’s a train that ran between New York and Chicago, youngsters) in which Saint seduces Grant will reaffirm that the snake (you know, from the Garden of Eden) really was a rank amateur.  It’s Hitchcock, of course there’s a twist!  But it’s consistent with the theme of this post.  You’ll also want to look into a train trip.

Murphy’s Romance (1985-Columbia Pictures):  Directed by Martin Ritt, this is one of two movies for which James Garner was nominated for an Academy Award (The Notebook).  He plays a near-retirement pharmacist in a town where domestically abused Sally Field has just moved with her son to escape the ex-husband.  This is a cute, little love-conquers-all flick that demonstrates how people can overcome generational differences to find true love.  After you have watched this (because I recommended it), then see The Americanization of Emily (1964-MGM, director: Arthur Hiller) to see Garner in a truly tour-de-force performance.

Harold and Maude (1971-Paramount Pictures):  Director Hal Ashby was known for his quirky, off-center comedies that shone a light on the dark corners of life.  That’s not unusual for the times.  But this effort went way beyond quirky.  It’s just sick; in a subdued, comical kind of way.  Bud Cort plays a detached, death obsessed twenty-year-old who stages gruesome accidents and faux suicide attempts, much to the chagrin of his mother.  Her quest is to get Harold involved in a love affair that will change his focus.  Unpredictably, he meets the eighty-year-old Maude (Ruth Gordon) at a funeral for a person neither of them knew.  The relationship they develop is fueled by the isolation each feels from humanity.  The need for human connection and affection evolves into a sexual relationship. I saw this movie about the time I was becoming sexually active and I’m surprised it didn’t set me back a couple of years.  See this movie; no matter your challenges in life, it will make you feel better about yourself.

As much as I love the fantasy world of movies, I live my life steeped in realism and logic.  I don’t believe the power of love can bridge an extreme generational gap. Maybe it would be different for one as handsome as Cary Grant.  But if you care to try to prove me wrong…