Lightning Striking Again

lou-christie Do you think maybe a Lou Christie tune plays in your head all day because a renegade programmer at Amazon is beaming music directly into your brain?  No, I didn’t think so either.   Still, it does support the idea of direct human downloading: no more messy Paypal signups, MP3 conversions and ear buds.   Unfortunately, my brain only plays vinyl, and on a ’70s  turntable.  And cassettes.   So I will need new headware.

Brain_WavesJust in a nick of time however there is a stunning development in the exciting world of microwave technology.    Those irrepressible engineers at Duke University have invented a “power harvester”.    Not to be confused with the all new Swiffer Steamboost, their device actually sweeps up lost and mis-directed microwaves and turns them into useful electricity.   Science alert– we are surrounded, perpetually smothered, in a cloud of energy waves which are whipping around us like angry fetuccine, bouncing off furniture and walls, looking for something soft to stick to.

Energy Capturing Gizmo

Duke’s energy capturing gizmo

It turns out that Duke’s “meta-materials” absorb microwaves faster than ranch dressing on a new tie.   So all that wasted energy– whole zettawatts  of British football crowds, lawyer commercials, deer whistles, Neil Diamond songs, tax returns, trees falling in the woods– can be packed up in sparky voltage to power necessary devices like power tooth brushes and Twitter.

This is a bonus development of quantum proportions.   Until now, we had to collect electricity the old fashioned way, rubbing our shoes across a plush broadloom to carefully dispense with a finger touch on our little sister’s neck.  Until now, electricity poured out of the wall sockets into invisible pools that Grandma’s cat rolled in before zapping her with a nose-kiss.

Ghostbusters-15And of course it has military significance.   Not only does the device collect electricity, but it can transmit it too.  It can zap.   See that bug on the wall?  Cinders.

If you ever had any doubts about the prescience of Ghostbusters, rest assured, the Dukesters are working on a strategic capability as you are reading this.

kiss-2009I am sure you are thinking “wireless Taser cannons”.  But no, it’s far more formidable, and on a galactic level.    Before long, they will be sweeping up enough subway announcements, Honey Boo Boo ads and congressional filibusters to beam the entire KISS video anthology to Andromeda, thereby warding off potential invaders.

In the mean time, preparation is the key priority.    As for me, the tunes just keep on coming, so I have ordered Google Glass.

Which I will hook up to my VCR.


Over The Top

Recently, our way of life has experienced a major transformation.  A positive change for good.  You may be thinking I have given up sweatpants.   Or started composting.   But no.  Actually, this goes to sustenance, almost at a spiritual level, and whom do I thank?

Martha Stewart.

As a youngster, I looked forward to Sunday dinners where my mother would deliver a beautiful roast beef accompanied by Yorkshire pudding.


My father would happily growl in hungry anticipation as this feast came to the table.   On the platter rested a brown-crusted beef, glistening in its juices.    And beside it—Yorkshire pudding– a 10-inch-square slab of lifeless, yellow putty about one inch thick, with a burnt collar around its edges.    Suitable stuffing for kneepads, or maybe for filling in a broken window pane, the object of our appetites looked like a weathered soccer ball flattened by a Mack Truck.

Yorkshire pudding is basically unleavened pancake mercilessly fried in beef drippings.     Famished, we happily glopped gravy over the mass, and munched it down between mouthfuls of beef, potatoes and broccoli.   The Yorkshire acted like cement, filling in every nook and cranny of a kid’s stuffed tummy.

It wasn’t until years later that I discovered the same recipe miraculously delivered popovers.  Beautiful, robust, baked puffs that burst out of cupcake molds like mushrooms on steroids.  And my wife was a popover queen.   No, she did not burst out of cakes on steroids.  Better: she made fantastic popovers.   Our visits back to my parents’ home were highlighted by her popovers.   So the Yorkshire “pud” was dispatched to the neighbor’s dog and to the plumbers to pack around weeping water pipes.


But in the past few years, we have encountered challenges.   The popovers weren’t popping any more.   They hid, down low in the muffin pan.   Sullen, staring at you like Jabba The Hut.    Like hockey pucks.  Horse muffins.   We came to call them rock balls.

I longed for the heady days, even the old pudding days, but it seemed like our oven, or the flour, or the cage-free eggs just could not find the chemistry.  The roasts sat naked and insulted on the platter, surrounded by a gang of mean, surly, brown lumps.

Then, an epiphany.

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Martha Stewart’s Living Magazine#239 showed up last month, and there, on page 90 was the most impressive display of popovers ever captured on camera for her readers.    These popovers stood high and proud, like free range souffles: big, golden, slim-waisted, top heavy and delectable.

The recipe was identical, but trust me when I say, get the right equipment, follow instructions precisely, and don’t substitute.    In one week we cooked 4 sets of popovers for ourselves, and for our kids’ families, in three different ovens with the same colossal outcome.

We have been so taken by this recipe that we had it copied and laminated for our family members.  Obsessive or what?

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The secret is air.    To get it hot, in the right place and in a timely fashion.

Want to change the way you live?  Move on from the macrame lessons. Bail on the ballroom dancing package.

Instead, call Martha.    Click here!

direct mail, Education, Science

Measuring Up

Eratosthenes is a giant for me.  Let me explain why.  Just yesterday we received a generous direct mail offer of a trip around the world if we would subscribe to a new credit card. I am sure that’s what they meant, because they promised 25,000 miles on our favorite airline.

I immediately opened our atlas to plan a possible itinerary with our new found gift. That’s when I realized the brilliance of this scheme. You see, leaving O’Hare Field and traveling in an easterly direction for 25,000 miles would mean I would be landing at, yes, O’Hare Field.  No need to leave at all!

Which brings me to the real point: 25,000 is a darn nice number to describe the earth’s circumference. It’s easy to remember, and best of all, it’s miles, not kilometers. Or hectares, or microns or centipedes.

Of course, the ancient Greeks measured the earth’s circumference in “stadia”. Without getting wordy, let’s just say that the measure was related to athletic competitions and stadiums, and was around 500 feet. For instance, “I bet that minotaur will eat the slave before he’s run 500 feet around the stadium.”

Anyway. What is fascinating is that Eratosthenes calculated the earth’s circumference back in 240BC.

eratosthenes 2

One summer solstice, at high noon, he was staring down a well in Aswan, Egypt.

For you geography buffs, Aswan is located on the Tropic of Cancer. The sun was directly overhead, and he noted that there was no shadow on the walls of the well.

ancient well

The germ of an idea came to him.   He already knew the earth was round, and concluded that a well several thousand “stadia” away would have a shadow, due to the curvature of the earth. So a year later, at noon on summer solstice, he told an associate to get to the well in Alexandria which was way to the north.

diagram of circumference

Sure enough, the well cast a prominent shadow, and in fact, it was 7.2 degrees off perpendicular.

Now stick with me on this. Alexandria was 500 miles to the north, or a lot of stadia for you classicists. Because that distance created a 7.2 degree tilt, a full circle of 360 degrees would be 50 times as much (50 x 7.2), or 25,000 miles for Eratosthenes. Turns out he was only off by 2%!

And 2,300 years later– we still get lost going to the post office with GPS.

The icing on the cake here is that Eratosthenes knew there were exactly 5,000 “stadia” between the two cities. How? Because he had measured this countless times by riding a camel between them.

antique saddle

You don’t see that kind of persistence any more. Nor such compassion for his ride. Writing his memoirs, he confessed “I needed to give Falafel a break after these journeys, so I would dismount, and go on foot outside the city gates.”

It turns out Eratosthenes preferred to speak in miles, too, explaining: “I’d walk a mile for a camel.”

So: I am back to my mailbox looking for a new offer. I have not given up on the 25,000-mile pitch. But will I need a saddle?