Penta-seen

August 31, 2009


I don’t want to get all High School Biology Teacher on you, but This. Blows. My. Mind.


©IBM Research – Zurich | Photo from IBM Research – Zurich’s Flickr page.

It’s a pentacene molecule. 22 carbon atoms. 14 hydrogen atoms. Smaller than I can even comprehend. And, for someone who spent two hours a day in science classes throughout college, surprisingly breathtaking.

Not because it’s so small. And certainly not because it’s a clear picture, or because of the technology involved.

It’s breathtaking because it’s exactly the way we always thought it would look. Five circles of atoms, hooked together in the same way as my Organic Chemistry 201 textbook.

But seriously. THOSE ARE ATOMS. IN A PICTURE.

(Via Make the Logo Bigger. Funny how I learned about a major breakthrough in science from an ad blog.)

Tags: Education, Photography, Science |

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Mirar fijamente

August 27, 2009


nullEvery question is followed with a soul-piercing stare.

Deep brown eyes, round like a Fiestaware bowl, with a raisin of a black dot floating in the center. Occasionally blinking, but always staring. Right at you. Waiting for an answer. Waiting for the right words.

The stare is partnered with a wide smile – the kind of smile that’s cute when alone, but unsettling when paired with two burrowing eyes. A stare that isn’t swayed by time, either – it will continue to burrow through your brain until it feels it should stop.

And it’s not just once. It happens several times over a half hour. A question. A look to the audience. A sidekick mimicking the act, failing to grasp the same creepiness but still working in concert with the original. Two stares now. TWO STARES.

That’s what unnerves me. I’d have thought the DVD was frozen if it wasn’t for the unfeeling blinks that accompany each stare.

Where’s the answer, kids?

Keep trying.

Staring. Staring. STARING STARING STARING.

This is why I’m thankful it’s taken two years for Sierra to get into Dora the Explorer. The songs, the repetition, the odd mix of Spanish and English – these don’t bother me.

But those stares. * shudder *

Tags: Annoyances, Sierra, Television |

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Pickin’ on huckleberries

August 25, 2009


Despite their common appearance, there is little similar between a blueberry and a huckleberry.

A blueberry is pale, with a subdued taste. It’s common. It’s boring.

A member of the same family, the huckleberry is tart and wonderful, every bite similar to what caviar must feel like.

Blueberries are typical. Huckleberries are rare. In fact, blueberries are often used in less particular creations that claim to be made with huckleberries. One huckleberry to every three blueberries – enough to keep everything legally “huckleberry-ish.” They cost a fortune when offered pure, and they’re almost as good when offered muddled.

They’re like gold. Except worth more, it seems.

Huckleberries can’t be grown in captivity.

They are a mystic fruit, dripping with old west legend. Their name is rustic in a way no other can claim. Nestled in the family tree next to the cranberry and the blueberry, they serve as a backwoods cousin.

Like homemade whiskey, they pucker your lips. You shudder, waiting for the next rude smack of insolvent country manner. Instead, you’re treated to a taste that blueberries still fight to attain.

Though I’ve grown up around both, only one carries the legacy of hand-picking, the plunk of a tin bucket as we wind our way through a wooded hill, speaking loud to keep the bears away and wondering if all of the work is worth it – if these few handfuls of berries will be able to ease our sore knees and purplish hands.

But a few handfuls are all you need. And yes, once paired with cream, or siphoned into jelly, it’s more worth it than any food you’ve had the trouble of fighting for.

You’d get in trouble for stealing a few, but Grandpa Boyer scolded in jest. After all, his lips had the same purple tint as yours.

They’re irresistible. And no amount of blueberries will ever suffice.

Tags: Food, Grandpa Boyer, On..., Outdoors |

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On the fickle hand of the Great Idea

August 24, 2009


In my business, you should never trust an idea.

Ideas are cruel. Ideas are fickle. And, if you wait long enough, an idea will break your heart.

If you fall in love with an idea – especially in the early stages of creative discourse – you are guaranteed to see it fall apart. You will discover flaws in recesses you never knew existed. Your idea, despite your fawning defense of it, will crumble beneath the critical eye of the Masses.

Great ideas are rare. Priceless ones are impossible. They depend not only on the enthusiasm of the creator, but also an infectious ability to wow everyone on the way up the ladder.

Sometimes that idea – the one you’ve mistakenly fallen for – will nearly make it to print. Sometimes, that idea will die once it’s reached the top of the heap, like a weakened crusader forced to battle one last monster of an enemy.

If you think you’ve come up with a perfect idea, keep trying. There’s no such thing.

This is why, when it comes to ideas, a thick skin is required.

Now, all I need to do is develop a thicker one.

Tags: Career, Writing |

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Get off the lawn

August 24, 2009


When we moved into our new home, we inherited – among a sea of weird design choices and awful fluorescent lighting – a genuine Rainbow playset and a slightly weathered trampoline.

Simply put, the previous owners didn’t want to move either item. In regards to the playset, I don’t blame them. But this trampoline – who knows why it wasn’t moved.

I suspect because once you’ve got it up, it’s impossible to get rid of.

I never wanted a trampoline. Being a grumpy curmudgeon of a father, I assume trampolines are only good for raising your insurance rates and causing broken bones. Still, we gladly accepted the trampoline because we figured we’d sell it on a rummage sale and make a profit.

(A profit could be made because, as is customary, any non-crucial home items involved in the sale of a house are grouped together and sold for $1. Therefore, our trampoline was purchased for a fraction of that $1 – probably about $0.15.)

So it sat. And it sat. And no one really paid it much attention. Weeks went by before Sierra even realized its existence. A few more weeks, and we finally – for whatever reason – let Sierra hop on the trampoline.

Now, she loves it. ADORES IT. Wants to jump on it all the time. Has discovered the beauty of forced suspension – of being lifted off the ground at a level impossible without the aid of a springy tarp – and wants only to “GUMP GUMP BOOING BOOING.” Preferably while I sing the ABCs.

Thing is, this trampoline has been promised to someone else. We’ve already sold it, and we just need to get it off of the damned lawn, where it sits and ruins the yard like the constant trample of neighborhood children.

I hate the thing. Always have. Always wanted it gone; wanted that spot in the yard to be free and open, preparing for a garden or a fire pit or something, anything for the love of God that wasn’t a trampoline.

Yet, here we are. We still have the trampoline. And we’re moving farther away from the perfect moment to get rid of it. Because as Sierra’s devotion toward keeping it grows, my devotion to her happiness makes it harder to take away.

Tags: Outdoors, Sierra |

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Pressing pause

August 20, 2009


(c) Jerry Lodriguss

Great sports photography.

Seriously. I could look at this stuff all day.

(c) Jerry Lodriguss

From Jerry Lodriguss’s collection.

(Via Ball Don’t Lie)

Tags: Basketball, Photography, Sports |

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Searching for patience

August 19, 2009


It has occurred to me that, as some point in the parenting process, your children begin to turn on you.

I doubt that it’s done maliciously – in fact, I assume that it happens without them even knowing. It’s just The Way Things Are. It’s as natural as aging – children grow, understand, comprehend their own individuality, and begin forcefully showing it in ways you hoped you could avoid.

Sierra is now two. The Terrible Twos™. The beginning of the end. She might as well be in adolescence. With this has come an independence that is jarring – her need for things to be done to her liking has gone from a cute sign of growth to a struggle for control; her mind at the crossroads of knowing exactly what she wants – and knowing most of the words needed to express it, but still held hostage by her incomplete mastery of the language.

And while I always knew it would happen, I feel I’m losing something I had always held dear.

My patience.

It was one of my positive traits. The thing you’d mention in a job interview. The thing Kerrie was always impressed by.

Now, it slips away with impressive speed.

Through whatever combination of annoyance and frustration, my patience takes death kicks from Sierra’s whining and stubbornness. Simple misunderstandings wreak havoc to my patience, my levels dropping drastically. I imagine my patience as an energy bar in Street Fighter, with Sierra’s moves and combinations quickly knocking it down in huge chunks.

Which goes to prove, as parents, how fragile our plans for life with children really are.

Because I was never going to be the “quick to lose patience” father. I was going to let things go, understanding that children are smarter than the credit they receive, and that no father/daughter relationship was ever made stronger through short tempers and a lack of patience.

But here I am: snapping at Sierra, raising my voice over the din of her persistent noise, pleading, giving up, letting it ride out and hating myself for letting it get so far. Knowing that, each loss of patience runs the risk of chiseling away at our relationship, and understanding that, without the patience I once had, I’ll never regain my parental goals.

Then, I sit down. I bury my head in my hands. I wonder where my patience has gone. When it will decide to return, and what I can do to bring it back.

Tags: On..., Sierra |

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