Superstition be damned

Luckily most adults aren’t silly enough to believe in Santa Claus.  It’s a little cruel to subject kids to it, but I had no problem with it growing up. I kinda liked the guy. He was always generous with us.

I got this in my email, without any copyright and barely any attribution, so I’ll post it here pretty much as I received it – though I added a few illuminating links – and hope I’m not stepping on too many toes.  I always like to see logical explanations disproving silly things; it’s too bad the arguments against god(s) aren’t this ridiculously easy and amusing:

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From: Andrew Rojecki <XXXXXX@uic.edu>
Date: Dec 19, 2006 11:20 AM
Subject: The physics of Santa Claus (do not read if you believe in Santa)
To:

1. No known species of reindeer can fly. BUT there are 300,000 species of
living organisms yet to be classified, and while most of these are insects
and germs, this does not COMPLETELY rule out flying reindeer, which only
Santa has ever seen.

2. There are 2 billion children (persons under 18) in the world. BUT since
Santa doesn’t (appear) to handle the Muslim, Hindu, Jewish and Buddhist
children, that reduces the workload to 15% of the total – 378 million
according to the Population Reference Bureau. At an average (census rate of
3.5 children per household, that’s 91.8 million homes. One presumes there’s
at least one good child in each.

3. Santa has 31 hours of Christmas to work with, thanks to the different
time zones and the rotation of the earth, and assuming he travels east to
west (which seems logical). This works out to 822.6 visits per second. This
is to say that for each Christian household with good children, Santa has
1/1000th of a second to park, hop out of his sleigh, jump down the chimney,
fill the stockings, distribute the remaining presents under the tree, eat
whatever snacks have been left, get back up the chimney, get back into the
sleigh and move on to the next house. Assuming that each of these 91.8
million stops are evenly distributed around the earth (which, of course we
know to be false but for the purpose of our calculations we will accept), we
are now talking about .78 miles per household, a total trip of 75.5 million
miles, not counting stops to do what most of us must do at least once every

“,0] ); //–>31 hours, plus feeding, etc.This means that Santa’s sleigh is moving at 650
miles per second, 3000 times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison,
the fastest man-made vehicle on earth, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a
poky 27.4 miles per second – a conventional reindeer can run, tops, 15 miles
per hour.

4. The payload on the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming that
each child gets nothing more than a medium-sized lego set (2 pounds), the
sleigh is carrying 321,300 tons, not counting Santa, who is invariably
described as overweight. On land, conventional reindeer can pull no more
than 300 ponds. Even granting that “flying reindeer” (refer to point #1)
could pull TEN TIMES the normal load, we cannot do the job with eight, or
even nine. We need 214,200 reindeer. This increases the payload – not even
counting the weight of the sleigh – 353,430 tons. Again, for comparison -
this is four times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth.
353,000 tons traveling at 650 miles per second creates enormous air
resistance – this will heat the reindeer up in the same fashion as
spacecrafts re-entering the earth’s atmosphere. The lead pair of reindeer
will absorb 14.3 QUINTILLION joules of energy per SECOND, EACH! In short,
they will burst into flames almost instantaneously, exposing the reindeer
behind them, and create a deafening sonic boom in their wake. The entire
reindeer team will be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second. Santa,
meanwhile, will be subjected to centrifugal* forces 17,500.06 times greater
than gravity. A 250 pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be
pinned to the back of his sleigh by 4 billion pounds of force.

In conclusion – If Santa ever DID deliver presents on Christmas Eve, he’s
star dust by now.

*Please note that centrifugal is a made-up non existent word. The real word
should be centripetal. Centrifugal is a made up force that physics people
HATE! So please, everyone use the world centripetal, not centrifugal.
Thanks!

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I’d never heard such invective against centrifugality. Of course, I’m not a physicist, nor am I a physician. But then, look here:

I’m all out of coffee

I don’t know why, but I have had absolutely no motivation to write lately. I miss the wonderful urge, always of varying strength and duration. It is pointless to reminisce and rehash, because that will certainly not bring it back. The paradox is that I’m writing without an urge – or am I? I listened to PHC (how the hell do I add a link to “Prairie Home Companion” without having to search and dig for a tutorial?) this evening, and had yet another pang of misundercomplishment. It was during a somewhat unpleasant rendition of a fairly enjoyable Xmas carol, when suddenly the ensemble broke into skit. It was a sketch in which Garrison Keillor trys to get his mother to realize he won’t be home for the holidays because he has to try to meet with an editor to finally get something published; he’s been in New York trying to be an author for years, but all he’s found is work as a balloon clown. He’s pretty much a failure, including a recent breakup after 15 years with a woman his mom says has a serious body proportion problem, but he remains optimistic and fights off the loving onslaught of his monther’s reality for quite a while, until he finally agrees to use the tickets she’s bought for him and come home to Minneapolis for Christmas. He is able to maintain a shred of his dignity, refusing to accept that his mother bring some winter clothes to the airport so he can change in the men’s room, saying “I’m 64 years old, mom, I have my own clothes.”  Somehow this story struck a chord with me. I find myself all of a sudden at the age of 30, and really nothing has turned out the way I had envisioned it – other than the fact that I’m living in a city I love (now there’s a topic I could write on for days.. why don’t I do this?). I’m not unhappy, but I’m not content. I have never been content. I think that is what I long for the most in my life – contentedness. What a silly thing to realize, all of a sudden, at the age of 30. Should I have followed my “dreams” and my mom’s advice, and gone into acting? I don’t really want to be a waiter, and I don’t enjoy struggling. I obviously don’t have the discipline and drive to be a writer – I can’t even maintain a blog, ferfuksaik. Should I forge into the law path? Should I try to excel and conquer in my current career? My rope of my life – with all these lines of impulse entwining in some way – is as frayed as ever. The only solution I can see at the moment is to bitch.

I broke a glass earlier in the kicthen while cleaning. Soap, I have come to discover with the wisdom advanced age brings, is slippery as hell. No matter how much I sweep, I seem to find shards of the former pint glass everywhere, knifelike little memories of beverages past.  I had an urge to go to Aldi to buy paper towels to clean my microwave – a strange urge, I know – and decided while there to get the staples I had planned to buy at Trader Joe’s. I was pleased with my flexibility, and so happy with myself for having unexpectedly accomplished so much – it’s the little things that truly make me happy, like finally closing the storm windows, or wiping down a dirty windowsill. This buoyant, sepia-toned feeling of halcyon happiness was crushed by the realization that I am out of Trader Joe’s Bay Blend coffee.

Not a tragedy, but not a good thing, either, by far.

New … resolutions

I’ve been following a monastic regime. I got tired of the way things were going, so I decided to change them, and it’s been difficult – though maybe it’s this monstrous beastly cold spell, combined with the dirty crunchy snow that’s getting me down.

I eat much less. This is kind of a fun game to play with myself, I’ve found. Before bed, I can actually remember what I’ve eaten during the day. Eating less somehow gives me more energy, too. I imagine I was just taking in so many calories before that I was sluggish just trying to process them.

I wake up at 5am to go to the gym before I go to work – every day. This also helps with energy, and with the day as a whole. I had hated going after work, and getting home with little of the day left to me. Unfortunately I also hate waking up, so I just made a choice, decided I would believe the latest study, saying 7 hours sleep is optimal, and package the whole thing into this quasi health kick I’m on.  So while I do have difficuly actually getting out of bed at 5, working out in the morning is much more pleasant than in the evening, which I’ve occupied otherwise…

I spend the evening studying for the bar. I have to pass, this second time around; I’m just sick of this state of not-having-passedness. I’ve started hating it more than actually studying.

So now I have no time for my friends, my books, or my Netflix. Boo hoo, poor me. At least I’m starting to feel better, and I’ve got a head start on all those annoying New Year’s resolutions one is supposed to make.

What the…

Crazy day yesterday… well, lotsa craziness lately. I’ll write about it quite soon. Consider this a temporary post – I just can’t believe I haven’t written in SO long.

My Big Fadasse

The Sun Times was entertaining today. In an article reporting about obesity rates in the various states, I found some interesting quotes.

“Overweight is defined as having a body mass index (BMI) greater than 25. A BMI greater than 30 is considered obese.” Very scary. I’ve calculated my BMI before, and it says I’m morbidly obese. In talking to friends, I don’t skirt the issue. I like to wail and gnash my teeth about how huge I am. Many reply perplexedly that I’m not fatty, I’m just big boned. One even went so far as to imply that I likely have beautifully marbled meat. I haven’t verified that, yet.

“Of the 10 fattest states, all but Indiana are southern.” Ah, that explains it all. I was born in Indiana.

From another article a few days earlier, this gem: “”America is becoming known as a nation of gluttony and obesity, and churches are a feeding ground for this problem,” says Ken Ferraro, a Purdue sociology professor who studied more than 2,500 adults over a span of eight years looking at the correlation between their religious behavior and their body mass index.” The article seems to postulate that the emphasis on “clean living” leads some to find that gluttony is the only pleasure in which they’ll guiltlessly indulge. No, there was more to the theory than that, but I saw a section heading reading “Casserole As Sacrament” and I couldn’t finish reading through my tears; I was laughing that hard.

Back to yesterday’s paper: “BMI has come under criticism for exaggerating the obesity epidemic. Eight years ago, for example, 35 million Americans became fat overnight when the government lowered the BMI threshold for overweight. Critics also note that under BMI guidelines, President Bush is considered overweight, while some well-muscled athletes are obese.” Uh huh. Well. Bush may be a fathead at times, but I don’t think even his bitterest enemies would consider him overweight. So, this last quote gives me solace. I have yet another excuse – a reason to deny the very existence of a potentially icky situation.

I’m not fat, it’s your definition of obesity that is flawed.

Sigh.

I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve written. I’m such a sloth.
There goes the summer. Labor day fast approaches, and talking to my mom today, she suggested that we have a family labor day get together. Something in her tone I found ominous – I can’t say why. I feel I’m beginning to sound like a broken record – “oh my, look how old I’m getting, I’ve accomplished nothing, look how time flies” – but these are things weighing on me.

There was a great burst of energy in July, despite dissatisfaction with the lack of challenges afforded me at work, and I even started working out. I nearly organized the apartment, throwing out another massive load of accumulated paper – where does it all come from? Then I hit that old wall again ,that old familiar wall. My 30g Video iPod went missing – let’s say “stolen” at the gym – and I think I’ve just been despondent for weeks. I’d grown accustomed to carrying around a virtual world, and all of a sudden it was gone. In my grief, as a replacement, I bought an MP3 player, and it was good quality – even attractive in a non-apple way. After a few days, however, I returned it. I needed the money, and I didn’t want to deal with the possibility of further absentmindedness or theft, and the resulting grief.

I have been taking refuge in the company of my friends. I almost compusively “entertain”. At any opportunity I call all the people I can think of, and beg them to come ’round for a barbeque (though the photo above of Jennifer is at Maiko’s 27th floor pad). Being cash poor and spur-of-the-moment, my friends are forced to bring their own entertainment, as I provide only grilled ground beef on cheap buns, on paper plates sogging with beef juice and condiments, along with plastic cups and cheap beer. Certainly a far cry from dinner parties of old, where I might have served that Salmon with green peppercorn cream sauce I’m so fond of making, or the scallops with the…

Enjoying the company of my friends helps me forget the lethargy and dread that periodically descend on me. I suppose it is all just superficial fun, but they take me away from the world of massive debt and career boredom. For that I thank them, and hope that my frequent summons, when complied with, provide them with something worthwhile. They must get something out of it. Chilled Lambrusco and garlicky burgers aren’t everyone’s idea of a swingin’ summer fete.

Hearty Laughs

Please, read this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fred_phelps
It is truly an enjoyable, unforgettable read. Mr. Fred Phelps is an entertaining phellow.

Quick! To the library!

“The History of Farting by Benjamin Bart is a collection of assorted limericks, facts, and blurbs on farting, while Who Cut the Cheese: A Cultural History of the Fart by Jim Dawson gives a more complete cultural discussion of the historical and social significance of farting.” – From a wikipedia post.

Brilliant

Please click this and watch it. It is brilliant cinema within a cartoon.

Oh, the crazy things you’ll see

I see in the NY Times that a 30-something man went on a bit of a rampage with two cordless power saws, one in each hand. He succeeded in “slicing open” one man’s chest, but otherwise – apparently – did no other damage.

New York was positively boring when I lived there – aside for a rather large terrorist attack.