The Narcofod

Our front lawn persists in being a battlefield.  First there was the city of Mountain View planting two trees in our yard that we are now required to water and care for (at our expense, in a drought-plagued area where water is expensive, even as we receive Mountain View flyers telling us to conserve water), trees that will ultimately blot out the sun from our backyard garden.  Then there was the SWAT team trudging back and forth through our yard, glaring at us for daring to peek as they traumatized (wrong-headedly ) our quiet neighbors (I still see them in their dark uniforms with kevlar vests, knee pads and equipment belts, hair shorn shorter than crewcut, and strapped to their thighs these oversized guns resembling the symbol pi, only with snout and balls).

Now it’s the slugs and snails.

We thought we’d plant moss roses as a border.  They’re drought-resistant and make a good cover.  But the very next morning we found that a good number of them had been munched to the ground.  So began our nightly flashlight expeditions, hauling along a bucket of soapy water.  The worst area owes to a ground-hugging evergreen bush.  It’s not that big — maybe the size of BP’s CEO (without his ego).   But at night it looks like an insanely-decorated Christmas tree, so heavily laden with snails and slugs that one must take pause and step back, blinded by the spectacle.  We (actually I — Lori would only hold the flashlight) have plucked hundreds of snails and slugs from that bush night after night, and finally, just possibly, we are beginning to make a dent.  Or perhaps the weather has been drier, or the snails and slugs have finished their heavy feeding and breeding for a spell.  But there is hope — hope that the surviving moss roses will make it.

Unless another SWAT team comes trudging through with their cold uncaring boots.

I have this recurring nightmare where I’m being chased.  I keep trying to run faster, but the ground has turned to mud, deepening, up to my knees now, and I can hear them, all these people chasing me, their heavy breathing and angry shouts as they close in, and then suddenly I cross the finish line to wild cheers and this authoritative figure thrusts a huge trophy into my hands and calls me champion and I wake with tears of joy.

Professor Leonard Susskind cut his lecture short last night so we could all attend a presentation by Joachim Stohr about the birth of the X-Ray Laser. Susskind was not entirely thrilled about going, but his position at Stanford comes with certain responsibilities, and he had gotten in trouble before for failing to attend presentations by fellow faculty in the physics department. So off we went.

Joachim Stohr, Professor of Photon Sciences and Director of the world’s first x-ray laser, the Linac Coherent Light Source (LCLS), gave an excellent presentation aimed at the layperson, explaining the nature of light, how it consists of photons that behave like particles or waves — depending on how you study them — and how photons come in a variety of wavelengths. The shorter the wavelength, the higher the frequency and overall energy.

While scientists have found ways to align and compress low-energy photons into coherent laser beams, attempts to do the same with very high energy photons — x-rays — had met with failure. In fact, many felt it impossible. But researchers at Stanford, using a good portion of SLAC, figured out a way to jostle x-rays repeatedly — akin to jostling passengers on a Tokyo bus — coaxing them into a compacted alignment. The result? An x-ray laser.

An x-ray laser is much different than an x-ray machine. An x-ray machine is like a scattergun; it bombards an object with random x-rays, and from the scattering one can deduce the shape of large objects. An x-ray laser — because the beam is so compact and coherent — can define very small objects, even down to the atomic scale, and with astonishing precision. For comparison, an x-ray laser can give a trillion times the definition of photos taken with top-of-the-line high-speed/bright-flash cameras used to freeze the beating of hummingbird wings. What can one do with an x-ray laser? Study the knitty-gritty details of matter. Two examples. Water is a mystery. We know it is composed of H2O, but nobody understands the mechanics underlying its behavior. Just how do the bonds shift about, and how are electrons exchanged, as water “flows?” How does it all unfold? Another example is photosynthesis. How exactly does it happen at the particle level? As Joachim explained it, by zapping samples of water, or chlorophil, with an x-ray laser and observing the resultant scattering, one could capture a movie of what is going on.

At the end of his presentation, Joachim Stohr took questions, and before very long Professor Susskind’s hand shot into the air. “Forgive me for introducing a note of skepticism into all of this,” he said, “but how can you possibly create a movie of activities at the atomic level? How do you account for quantum effects?” Joachim responded haltingly that it wasn’t necessary to take those into account, and that much like x-ray diffraction one could get a picture of what was happening. “So we can ignore quantum effects,” Joachim concluded. Susskind retorted that you CAN’T ignore quantum effects, that they ARE the reality at that level. Joachim may not have heard him, or if he did, he chose to move things along. He called on someone else and the subject was dropped.

Suddenly Susskind was up out of his seat and squeezing past people in his aisle, shaking his head in disgust. At any moment I expected him to turn and point a glary finger at Joachim, shouting, “Release the quantum!” But he didn’t. And soon he was out the door.

Who was right? I suspect both were. To communicate with nonscientists, Joachim had chosen to use the concept of a movie. He talked as if one could “film” the ongoing activities at the atomic level. That just isn’t possible due to quantum effects. What I believe one could do — and what I think he meant — is that one can capture, in great detail, an instant in a reaction, using an x-ray laser burst. By performing this experiment over and over again, countless times, one could — statistically — glean a process at the atomic level. Still, this amounts to creating a stack of random photos and afterwards trying to arrange them into chronological order — which strikes me as daunting.

Susskind prides himself on communicating with non-scientists in ways that do not distort the reality. He also prides himself on thinking on his feet, being able to tackle any question at a moment’s notice. His lectures are marvelously fluid in this respect, incorporating whatever additional explanation becomes necessary based on student questions.

Joachim, on the other hand, meticulously prepared and presented his powerpoint slides, and though it was a great presentation, his skills at thinking on his feet, and addressing unanticipated questions, are clearly not on a par with Susskind’s.

The clash was unfortunate, but intriguing. I look forward to next Monday’s lecture when Susskind will no doubt give us his candid opinion of just what the x-ray laser is and is not capable of doing.

It seems getting a combine was a bit of a mistake. I thought it would speed up the harvest of my backyard wheat.

But it’s big.  It’s r-e-a-l-l-y big.  I can’t get it through the backyard gate.  It’s sitting out along the street right now.  I’m bound to get a ticket.  It’s so wide it sticks way out in the street.  I don’t have any red flags, so I just stuck a bunch of tomatoes on some sticks that jut out — hopefully so people can see it.  Store-bought tomatoes.  My garden isn’t that far along.

Even if I get the combine in the backyard, it’ll be a tight fit.  I really had no idea it would be so big.  The good news is that I’ll be able to do the whole field in one pass — maybe a 10-second ride before I reach the tangerine tree at the end — and then I’ll have to be careful not to behead myself on the low limbs.

But there’s no way I’ll be able to turn it around.  Do combines have a reverse?  I hope so.

Then again, maybe I should just talk to the dealer, see if I can return it.  This is turning into a whole lot more work than I anticipated.

My mom, who lives in Indiana and is 80, went on this bus trip to see a musical performance. She enjoyed it … but that’s not what she said, or at least not the point of this post.

Afterwards, on the bus ride home, Gus started in. Gus isn’t his real name. But he and his wife were sitting beside Mom, and they’re friends. Gus is always sending Mom emails, and Mom forwards some of the most ridiculous ones to me.

So anyway, Gus starts in. You know, about how Obama is a Muslim, and how he’s destroying our democracy so on so forth… And finally Mom turns to him and says, “Now Gus, you know Obama isn’t Muslim.” To which Gus says, “Well he is too! Everyone knows it!” When Mom asks where he learned it, he said the internet, that it was all over the internet. He proceeded with the litany of other “facts,” that Obama isn’t an American citizen, so forth. My mom told him she had voted for Obama and these things weren’t true. Not that he listened.

The woman behind Mom leaned forward and patted her shoulder in support. Another woman caught Mom’s attention and rolled her eyes.

Afterwards, Mom told the woman behind her, “I probably shouldn’t have said anything.” The woman said, “Oh, I was fully behind you.”

Mom wonders if she’ll stop getting the Obama-bashing emails that Gus sends on a daily basis (and like I said, Mom forwards some of these to me). Too early to tell. But the emails make for very sobering reading. They brim with hatred and ignorance. Many are racist. I don’t know who writes them, and I don’t know how wide a distribution they have. But I suspect it’s substantial, hinting at an American mental wasteland for which there may not be enough reasonable people to neutralize.

Go Mom.

I’m putting up quarter-round trim in Lori’s room. It’s not easy. I cut the strips in the garage. They’re roughly 10 feet long, and getting them into the house, through the living room, into the hallway and then into her room is an awkward twisty-pokey-clattery affair. The trim is bright pink, to go with Lori’s purple room. There’s no accounting for taste. I’m good with color. I did our living room ceiling.

I finagle the first of the quarter-rounds into her room, climb up the ladder, and fit it into place. To my exasperation, it’s several inches short. I can’t believe it. Lori helped me days ago with a tape measure to pin down all the lengths to a 32nd of an inch. How could I miss by inches?

Later I’ll recall that when we were measuring, I was up on a ladder, barely able to reach, so I placed the spool of the tape measure against the end, then wrote down the measurement where the tape entered the spool — with the understanding that I would then need to add the length of the spool. I even explained all this to Lori at the time. But I never did it. I forgot. The spool is 2.5 inches long — making my cut 2.5 inches short.

But right now I don’t know what’s going on. Flustered, I climb down from the ladder with the strip. I need to take it back out to the garage to recheck my numbers.

Again I’m fighting to maneuver the strip out of Lori’s room, into the hallway, then into the living room. The strip seems determined to snag every object within reach at both ends. Then I hear it — an ominous shifting of porcelain. I glance over my shoulder just in time to see a large figurine atop a small bookcase just inside Lori’s room tottering.

It’s the Monkey King!

There’s no time to get to it. I watch in horror as it falls. Fortunately, it hits the carpet in the hallway and makes a two-inch bounce. But it’s a football bounce, sending it onto the unforgiving linoleum of Lori’s room. There it conks gently and cracks in two, the pieces rocking gently like cradles in hell.

The end … of me.

It’s been decades since I revisited my high school yearbook. A couple things stand out — or rather, fail to. First, though I’m in many photos, you’d have a hard time spotting me. I lurk — in the back, at the edge, peeking from behind. It’s like Where’s Waldo with me as the elusive star. The other thing of note is Bernie, the class bully. In all his photos he looks downright angelic. Not surprising. Around grownups, he had a saintly demeanor. When the grownups were away, he grew horns and made for the smallest and meekest to mete out endless torment.

He would come up behind you and clap his hands over your ears and rub fast and hard, crinkling the ears back and forth, trashing the cartilage to painful effect. He liked punching you in the stomach, pushing you around. He liked intimidating you in every possible way, see your uneasiness and fear. His favorite torture was to bend your fingers backwards, relishing the moment when your knees would buckle and you’d fall to your knees, crying out in pain. He just couldn’t get enough of this one.

One time a teacher caught him pressing his thumbs into a kid’s temples. The teacher stopped him, explaining that this was very dangerous. That was the only time I ever saw a teacher challenge Bernie’s bullying tactics.

A couple of times I challenged him. One time in gym class he had one of my friends down on the floor, and I stepped in and pulled Bernie off. It startled him — he wasn’t accustomed to it — and he wandered off to find someone else. Then there was the day I stood up to him in lunch line. When he approached, ready to grab my fingers, I doubled up my fists and made it clear we’d be fighting it out. Not that I would have fared well. But it would have caused a stir, drawn a teacher, and that’s not what Bernie wanted. So he backed off and went in search of someone else.

In the back of the yearbook there’s an In Memoriam note for Leland Stump — 1951-1966. Leland was my best friend. In his freshman year he was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and I watched him slowly die over the course of a year. I remember praying back in those days when I believed in prayer. I prayed that Leland would be spared, and that Bernie be taken instead. Yes, I prayed for Bernie’s death. That’s how much I hated him, how miserable he made life for me. I dreaded every break, every recess, every moment when grownups wouldn’t be around. Because that was “Bernie time.”

I suppose when it comes to something like Columbine, I hold politically incorrect views. Read into that what you will. But schools should be a place for learning — not discrimination, ridicule, intimidation or fear. When I hear people argue that kids need to learn to stand up for themselves, I wonder if maybe grownups ought to learn to stand up for kids, rather than look the other way.

Yes, I held a grudge against Bernie. I held it a long while. In my 30s I became involved in the martial arts. I trained hard in Shaolin kung fu for nearly 20 years. Along the way I competed in China, even trained for a week under the monks at Shaolin Temple. A couple of times I went back to Indiana for class reunions. Each time I would joke beforehand with friends that it was payback time. Not that I was serious. But the fact that I even thought it shows that I still held a grudge.

How long should one hold a grudge? I mean, grudges seem an unavoidable part of life. You form grudges against people, companies, beliefs, and often for good reason. But it can’t be healthy or right to hold them forever. What’s the correct length to hold a grudge? After a lifetime of experience, I’ve narrowed it down to somewhere between five seconds and fifty years.

Last week I was again back in Indiana. Bernie land. I was visiting my mom and other relatives. While there, I received an email from our high school class. Bernie was going in for some minor surgery. A follow-up email came the next day. Bernie had been sent home with inoperable and very aggressive cancer. While chemo and radiation might give him six months, he’s opted to skip it — because it would make him very ill the whole time. A few classmates arranged a dinner that Bernie would try to attend. I went to it, but Bernie didn’t show. Finally I just sent him an email of encouragement and positive thoughts. No god stuff, because I’m not religious, but it was compassionate and sincere. Because I think it’s time to drop this grudge.

Good luck, Bernie.