Brain Candy - Fire from Water

Yes, we know it sounds hard to believe, but a man in Erie, Pennsylvania, has apparently managed to set fire to a vial of salt water with a self-built radio frequency generator. When John Kanzius tried to desalinate seawater with a device he had created to (supposedly) treat cancer, he found he could keep the water burning like a candle as long as it was exposed to the proper frequencies.

Not surprisingly, many in the scientific community initially dismissed Kanzius’ claim as a hoax. However, when Rustum Roy - a professor of chemistry at Penn State University - took him up on the challenge and attempted to recreate the experiment, he was amazed to see that it actually worked. And, no, there were no tricks to it either (or electrodes, as many thought).

According to Roy, the salt water itself isn’t actually burning - what happens is that the radio frequency helps weaken the bonds holding together the water’s constituents, releasing the bound hydrogen which burns when exposed to the frequency’s energy field. At a temperature of around 3,000°F, the flame reflects a tremendous energy output, Roy explained.

Roy, who deems the discovery “the most remarkable in water science in 100 years,” will now take up further research with the Departments of Energy and Defense to investigate its potential applications as a source of alternative energy. “We will get our ideas together and check this out and see where it leads. The potential is huge,” he said.

Now we’re talking clean energy.

Source:
A blog that has been deleted as of 12-03-2010

Speck's Bible Collection

I am not a Bible scholar by any stretch of the imagination. Whenever I have a question about some Bible quote I have to ask my Bible-toting Baptist sister to look it up in her concordance. I came across this old email cleaning out my files tonight. Truly amazing stuff.

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Sent: Monday, December 09, 2002 11:05 PM
Subject: Speck's Bible Collection

NeNe wrote:
>I'm wondering if you have Bibles of all the denominations you mentioned in researching "Partridge in a Pear Tree" or whatever the name is.

Gnat straining is what I was researching.

Yes I have all those bibles and more.

1.) Methodist version, 1946, embossed with my name, presented to me when I was confirmed into the Methodist church, August 31, 1969.

2.) Church of England version #1, 1947, white with zipper closure and embossed with my name, presented to me by Mammaw at high school graduation, May 26, 1979.

3.) Missionary Baptist version, 1977, presented to me by the St. Jimmy Goad Missionary Baptist church at my baptism-by-dunking on Sunday, April 24, 1988.

If St. Peter is of the Baptist persuasion and at the Pearly Gates asks me if I was
"saved", I can tell him yes 'cuz it says so right there in my Bible. There is a written attestation by Bro. Billy Bob Meyers that I was "Saved Thursday night, April 21, 1988." I just noticed this was written on the first page when I was searching for the copyright date last night.

On a tangential note, "saved" is an interesting term to use in regards to a person. My first thought is that I have lots of newspaper articles that I've "saved" and stuck in various places. If I have been saved, I wonder where in the files God stuck me? Inquiring minds want to know.

4.) Church of England version #2, 1970, found in the bottom of a box of books purchased at an estate sale for $5 in 1999. The box had three old high school yearbooks in it, and some dude offered me $2 each for them. I got a box of books and $1. It was a good day.

5.) Catholic version, 1999, actually, the Catholic Serendipity Bible for Personal and Small Group Study, the only Catholic Bible sold by the Baptist Bookstore.

6.) The Infancy Gospels of James and Thomas by Ronald F. Hock, "The Scholars Bible", 1995, that got edited out of the big Bible somewhere along the way.

I seem to acquire a new bible every 10 years or so. Now, if I would just
*read* any of them.....

Love,
Your "Heathern" Daughter,
Speck

Creatures of the Night

December 18, 2002

Last night I was out on the front porch around midnight. It was a warm, still night, rather unusual for December. It was the kind of night that makes me want to do something wild.

There is a huge oak tree in the neighbor's front yard and just beyond it an orange streetlight. It silhouettes the tree in a weird, permanently Halloween kind of way. I'm used to seeing bats flipperating under the tree. I enjoy watching their erratic flapping and I'm also happy knowing that they are gulping down twice their weight in mosquitoes. Bats are a Good Thing.

Last night out of the corner of my eye I saw something *big* swoop down and land in a tree just beyond the oak. It scared me to death, this big flying night creature. I knew it wasn't a bat, I caught a glimpse of individual flight feathers. What was so eerie was that it was deathly silent. Not a single sound. It didn't even rustle the crispy leaves still clinging to the tree branches.

I finally came to the conclusion that it must be an owl. I wouldn't think my neighborhood would be a very hospitable owl habitat; too much light and activity. I couldn't resist the silly urge to make a "Whoo-whoo-whoo" sound. Yeah, right. An owl is really gonna come to a human making a stupid whoo-whoo sound. But, truth is stranger than fiction and the owl flew over to a branch in the Halloween oak that was nearest to me, about 40 feet away.

I continued making a soft whoo-whoo sound and I could see him cock his head from side to side trying to zero in on the sound. After a minute or so he decided I wasn't worth his attention and took flight in total silence. He was magnificent. There is magic in the night and all those early to bed, early to rise people miss out on some good stuff.

I like being a creature of the night. There is a different flavor and rhythm to the night. Life seems to be distilled down to its essence; there is no extraneous fluff to have to deal with. Day dwellers, upon encountering one another, feel compelled to acknowledge the other's presence with a "Howya doin'" or some other pleasantry. Creatures of the night merely make eye contact, respect each other's privacy and go on about their night business. There is a community of sorts among creatures of the night, but an arm's length community, valuing solitude and silence. I like that. I think I would have made a good vampire.

Tape Gun in the Bathroom

Hubby and I have been married almost 30 years. There are times when he asks questions of me he knows he probably shouldn't, but just can't help himself. Times, for instance, when I get quiet but he can see the wheels turning in my brain.

He knows I'm mentally chewing on something big and wants to know what that "big" involves. Namely, does it involve something he has done wrong or some project I want him to do? He's always on the alert for those kinda "bigs." Should he prepare himself for an ass-chewing or a trip to Home Depot? He wants to know.

More often than not my ponderings have nothing to do with him. I give him the long-married secret code reply that sets his mind at ease: "You don't really want to know." When we were younger he would press further, not satisfied with that answer so I would tell him what was on my mind. His eyes would glaze over and realize my original answer was succinctly accurate...he *really* didn't want to know.

The long-winded answer might include my ponderings on the metallurgy used in war-time coin minting, technologies of ancient Egypt, constructing woodworking jigs, and how all that relates back to wind turbines in west Texas. Yeah, you get the picture. Nobody wants to know that. But that's what I'm pondering at the time he asks.

Now that he is older and wiser, he takes the "You don't want to know" answer at face value. He also has learned I don't bother to ponder on ass chewings or fix-it requests. I just blurt those out the minute they pop in my head. But he still likes to check from time to time. Things may have changed when he wasn't lookin'.

The other day, he just couldn't help himself. He had to ask one of those questions.

He emerged from the bathroom with our tape gun in hand. It's a big honkin' tape gun; industrial handle, 400 yards of heavy-duty packing tape, and a Serious Business tape cutter that will take off a finger if you aren't careful. His voice has a quizzical timbre as he yells across the house to me....

"Honey, why is the tape gun in the bathroom????"

There is a long pause here on my part as I consider my answer. This is one of those "You don't really want to know" situations. It involves a long explanation about a Bad Hair Day which I imagine will lead to even more questions. None of those questions are worth asking or answering in the great scheme of things because the need for the tape gun in the bathroom has long passed and I just forgot to put it back in the drawer and they used tin in wartime pennies and wind-driven turbines in west Texas aren't yet fiscally practical because of start up costs versus the energy produced and the ancient Egyptians had some technology involving light bulbs with electric eels to light the dark insides of their tombs why can't Texans figure out that same technology and he does *not* want to know any of that.....

So there is a lengthy pause. I finally yell back:

"Sometimes ya just gotta tape stuff in there."

There is a long pause on his part as he considers my answer. While I didn't use the secret code words "You don't really want to know," he is quickly translating my response and decides that's what it means. He is also momentarily considering how a tape gun in the bathroom might have anything to do with the life cycle of cicadas, Aztec pottery shards, the manufacture of pink attic insulation, or something else he can't quite fathom.

He appreciates the fact I spared him from any of that explanation and groks that he is not in trouble nor is he required to break out the toolbox. Satisfied that all is right with the world and that he should let any sleeping dogs lie, he replies simply and quietly:

"I understand."

Smart man.

Traumas at the Library Check-out Desk

I got my hot button pressed today. Had to rant and rave, take a trip down memory lane, and investigate a few rabbit trails along the way. Get a cup of coffee and settle in, this is gonna take a while.

Karen Blados blogged that her first-grade son, "The Punk," was all excited because he had checked out a "chapter book" from the library. There was a substitute librarian on duty at the time who didn't know first-graders weren't allowed to get books from the yellow section.

Well bully for him! I hope he sneaks over to the yellow section every time he's in there. I hope he can manage to tote out stacks and stacks of chapter books that are supposedly too advanced for him. Because if a kid has a burning desire to read a chapter book, he shouldn't be limited to Fuzzy Bunny's Adventures in ten pages with more pictures than words.

Yep, this is a big ol' hot button for me...The Yellow Section Restriction. Brought back a particularly hateful memory which I've never forgotten or forgiven. Trailing on its heels was another library moment as a little kid that turned out OK, and another which happened just recently. Childhood traumas are not easily forgotten it seems.

Let's start this story at the beginning, shall we? Nana, my sister, is twelve years older. She was born a teacher and I was her star pupil and teaching guinea pig. She instilled in me a love of reading. She would bring me the good stuff, Newberry Award winners like Charlotte's Web and Dr. Doolittle, and a mystery series with five kids, The Happy Hollisters. (Yes, I remember this like it was yesterday, are you impressed Nana?) I sucked them up like a sponge. Thank you Nana!

My real passion for reading started somewhere around the third grade. That's when I became too nearsighted to see the world beyond the length of my arm. I could live out my childhood adventures in the pages of books. I read everything I could get my hands on. Our house was full of books and I was free to read anything I wanted. Mother probably didn't realize I was reading Valley of the Dolls at age eleven, but it kept me out of her hair and that was fine with her.

Nana and Pris (the middle sister) brought home their worn out high school Literature books the school was replacing. From those I got my first taste of Sherlock Holmes in The Adventure of the Speckled Band. I also got bits of Pygmalion, Cheaper by the Dozen, The Ransom of Red Chief, and other great classics. I read those Lit books cover to cover at least three times.

I also discovered a cache of the complete Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew series in a dusty corner of the church basement. Every Wednesday after choir practice I'd get three and return them Sunday morning. Took me about a year to read through the whole collection.

On Saturday morning Mom did the grocery shopping. She didn't want to lug me through the grocery store so she dropped me at the library and picked me up when she finished. I had about 40 minutes to snatch up a week's worth of reading material, somewhere in the neighborhood of ten to twelve books. That would last me from Saturday to Wednesday until I got to choir practice.

Suffice it to say I was an avid reader and read well beyond my grade level. One of the first "adult" books I was allowed to buy was Shakespeare's Four Tragedies: Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Julius Caesar, and Hamlet. (It's still in my bookcase to this day.) I was in elementary school at the time. I was looking for something a little meatier to read. I chose well. Shakespeare is a bit meaty for a grade-schooler. I remember Mom raising an eyebrow and asking if I rillyrilly wanted *that* book. I said yes. She shrugged her shoulders and paid for it which is very unlike my Mother now that I think about it. I guess she figured if I wanted to try to tackle Shakespeare it was worth the 60 cents.

So, that's my background on books and reading. Now we get to the nasty memory.

Third grade, class trip to the library. The school library is one small room. Low bookcases under the windows for Grades 1-3, tall cases on the opposite wall for Grades 4-6. Every person in the class gets to check out a book to take back to the classroom for the week. The books stay on a reading table and we can read any of them after we finish our work. I always finish early and snatch up a book. Had the whole pile read in a matter of days. By the time I reached third grade I had read most of the books in the Grade 1-3 section.

This particular library trip I'm searching in vain for fresh reading material. I realize I've either read everything at my level, or what I haven't read is below my level. I need to hurry and pick something because time is running out. I turn to the big stacks on the other side of the room. Ah ha! Big books, chapter books, books I won't finish in fifteen minutes. Fantastic! I wander over and gaze in wonderment at all the marvelous books in front of me, scanning the titles, trying to decide on just one.

Then the evil librarian catches me in The Forbidden Zone.

"Hey! You can't be over there! You have to get a book from this section!" she snarls, pointing at the low bookcases.

"But I've read all those books. They're all to simple." I reply.

"It doesn't matter. You can't have a book from over there. Pick one from over here...and hurry up about it."

So, frustrated, I walk to the low bookcases and grab whatever my hand lands on. What I really wanted to do was scream, "Look bitch, I'm slogging my way through a high school Lit book at home and you are forcing me to take Fuzzy Ducky's Bathtime? Are you crazy???" But I was only eight and didn't have adequate vocabulary at the time.

"This one. I'll take this one," handing it to her to check out for me.

"You didn't even look at it!" she says, accusing me of being a smart-ass with her glare.

"It doesn't matter. I won't read it anyway. It's too simple."

She checks it out to me, still glaring, and I'm almost in tears. I want more than anything to read, but I want a big book, one with chapters and no pictures, one that will entertain and enlighten for longer than 15 minutes. But that's forbidden just because I'm in third grade, not fourth grade.

I hated that woman from that day forward. She was the librarian, someone who is supposed to nurture and encourage a child's love for reading and books, not smash it flat with stoopid rules. I thought she should be fired. When I read her obit in the hometown paper I had a satisfied smirk for the rest of the day. Good riddance.

Fast forward a year or two. Saturday morning county library/grocery trip. I have collected my dozen or so books for the week and go to the checkout counter. I'm barely tall enough to see over the top. I set my stash on the counter along with my library card as I have done for weeks and weeks and weeks. The lady at the counter (new, not the librarian) peers over the counter at me and says, "Oh, little girl, you can't check out all these books. There's a three-book limit."

"But, but, but, I always check out this many."

"There's a limit, only three a day."

"But I'll finish three by this afternoon!" I say, my bottom lip quivering and tears welling in my eyes imagining a week with no books to read.

The new lady, who is actually very nice about it all, sees my panic and tries to explain again. I try to explain again to her.

"But, but, but, I get this many every week. I always get this many. Look at my card!"

By this time Miss Baker, the librarian, steps out from the office to see about the commotion. (Yes, at our quiet little county library this would be considered a commotion.) The nice lady explains to her, pointing at my mountain of books, that I'm over the limit.

Miss Baker is something like second cousin once removed to my father and is approaching a hunnert years old. She is the quintessential old-maid librarian who has devoted her entire life to books, the library, and her library patrons. She has checked me out every Saturday for most of my life and has never batted an eye at my carnivorous reading habit. That's why I was clueless about the three-book limit.

Miss Baker adjusts her bi-focals (complete with the little chain that clips on the earpieces and goes around her neck, draping across the shoulders of her ancient cardigan) and peers over the counter at me. Then she smiles a little smile. She turns to the nice lady and says, "It's OK, I know her. She can check out all she wants."

Tears of joy, tears of relief. I got my books but not without some much remembered trauma. I sniffled all the way home.

Fast forward lots and lots of decades to a year ago. I'm at the community college library checking out four art and drawing books.

Nice lady at the counter says, "I'm sorry, but there's a three-book limit."

Just for an instant I am that little girl at the county library again and I get an adrenalin rush of panic. My eyes moisten in an involuntary reaction. My lower lip runs out just a smidge. The library check-out trauma I had as a child has bubbled once again to the surface. Somebody with stoopid rules is trying to restrict my access to books. I know kindly old Miss Baker will not be here to rescue me this time.

But I relax when I realize I'm a big girl now. The three-book limit is not a problem. I probably won't finish three before the due date anyway. I can come back and get more books any time I want. I have a car and can drive myself. Life is good.

I think about Miss Baker as I hand over one to go back to the stacks. Kids need more librarians like her, somebody who understands that just because you are little it doesn't mean your brain is; somebody who understands that sometimes three books just ain't enough, and that they need to have more words than pictures.

Maybe The Punk found his Miss Baker today in the substitute librarian when she let him check out his chapter book from the yellow section. I hope so.

Who Stole my Bad Boy??? - Part Two

"We need to give you a haircut today. Your hair is looking pretty wild."

"How do you expect me to be a Bad Boy if you keep cutting my hair?"

"It's not wild as in 'Bad Boy, Easy Rider, Born to be Wild' wild; it's wild as in 'Einstein, forgot to put your pants on, mentally unbalanced' wild."

"Maybe that's the look I'm going for."

Who Stole my Bad Boy???

I married myself a Bad Boy. He was wild, had long hair, a leather jacket, a chopper motorcycle, and a switchblade in his boot. Even when he was cleaned up and wearing a nice suit he looked like he would kill you if you looked at him wrong.

I was in love. Momma was scared for my life. My girlfriend said he was "musty."

Then something happened, I don't know what. He cut his hair, got a respectable job, and sold his motorcycle. Now he drives my Granny Ride.

He was up early this morning playing on the Internet and didn't hear me behind him. I expected him to be looking at hot bimbo lesbian porn or something like that. You know what I caught him Googling???

Ziggurats of Mesopotamia, Sumerian water wheels, and ancient Assyrian history.

Who stole my bad boy and left me this geek?

He needs to find that switchblade again and cut the tape off his glasses.

I've Been Bestracked Lately

Hubby was grading papers from his 8th grade history class today. Among the papers was one written in second-grade scrawl ending with a huge "RIP." Oh lawsy I thought, another death threat. He gets them often and we have amassed quite a collection. Why is it that the kids with poor penmanship always write the death threats??? Hummmm....

Anywho, Hubby didn't seem overly concerned about it so I picked it up and began reading. I quickly realized it was just the top paper in a stack of writing assignments. I read through the stack and by the end I was laughing so hard I was crying...and peeing my pants just a little. They were too good not to share.

I would post scans of the actual papers but I thought I would be kind to my dear readers. All but two were practically illegible even though they were all printed. None of his students can write in cursive. Most have second grade penmanship. One kid even drew lines on the paper so he could write on it.

The assignment:

Hubby read a story to his class about Jayhawkers and Scalawags during the Civil War. They would raid isolated farms taking possessions, food and livestock, then kill the occupants. The writing assignment was, "What would you do if a band of outlaws tried to raid your farm and kill your family?"

Before we get to the responses, I have to post a few entries from the Southern Arkansas dictionary for clarification:

bepens - to be determined by something else; be contingent on.
bestracked - drawn (the mind, etc.) away in another direction; diverted.
bie - to stop living
nun - no thing; not anything. (See also nothing) Alt sp. none
war - past subject of be
will - during the time that

These responses were transcribed exactly as written. All spelling, capitalization and punctuation is as it appears on the page.

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1.) The French Descendant reaction:
I wood cry and hide and stand up and be kill if it take it and I wolid problem bie or not it bepens. RIP

2.) The False Sense of Security reaction:
If one day someone or a group of people came to my house and were trying to kill me and my family I would be very shocked and scared. I wouldn't be able to do anything because that would just get me killed. The only thing I could do would be to try and run away and call for help. But, if it war only one person I might have a better chance of surviving if I tried to fight back. Overall, I would not be able to think straight if it war a real-life situation. So that is how I would feel if someone tried to kill me and my family.

3.) The I'm a Helpless Victim reaction:
If I was in that position, I wouldn't do nun but be scared. I would just let them take the things, because I wouldn't have no weapons, or anything to use, nor I wouldnt want anyone to get hurt, but if it was different, I would shoot them and take the things that they took from me, and then make sure I lock up my place, so It want happen again. What I would do is kind of be scared because theres none I could do, and they would could shoot me.

4.) The I Hold a Grudge reaction:
I would feel sad. I would think of ways to get my stuff back. I would hide and run. I would think of ways to get back at them. I would feel bad for my grandma. I would be mad at whoever did it and never forget who did it to my family.

5.) The Doormat reaction:
If I was happening to me I would have to watch whats happening. I would probably do nothing to do for my family's sake and Jus listen. I would just have to take the pain. And goion with mY Life. Maybe move to another contry and start over.

(This kid will need years on the psychiatrist's couch)

6.) The ADD response:
I would be horrafied. I woul go get help if I could. Than if they wer there

("Somebody is raiding my farm???? Oh look! A Shiny Thing!" This kid needs to stockpile Ritalin.)

7.) The Woe is Me Victim reaction:
If i was in that situation i would be scared. I have never been in that position before, and i hope i dont because I do not want anyone harmed. This is similar to a tv show i watched. This woman was young. She had a husband + 2 kids. She had trusted this man, to take her and her family to the border. Instead the man was a nazi soldier that was disguised and took them to a place, and hitler shot them all in the head! That is horrible. I would be scared for months after.

("Hitler shot them in the head." Either the TV show used revisionist history, or we need to do a bit better teaching World History in our classrooms.)

8.) The Pacifist Tree-Hugger reaction:
If could see my family get beat down I would be Depress. I will feel Preety sad cause sonething like that is just cruel. It's not right to just beat and kill people for know reason. I would be mad and sad at same tine cause that's just not right.

9.) The Passive-Aggressive approach:
If something like that hapend to me like that I waod have told my sister to run + get help will I went in to help my grandmoma. I wad have bestracked them will Sunny ran for help, but I wad not fite back.

10.) The Budding Armageddon Conspiracy Theorist approach:
I would try to make the remaining animals mate. I would spend most of my time digging and eventualy it would make a small bunker. I would round up all my guns and supplies and make an under ground armmory. Id buid several ware houses to keep the food.

11.) The Future Homeless Shelter Inhabitant reaction:
I would feel bad. I would cry and wish I could do something I would hide and hape they didn't find me. I wouldn't be able to sleep. I would problub probley probobly probley starve if there wasn't any neibors around.

12.) The No Grip on Reality reaction:
I would be real scared and hide. and when they leave I would help my grandmother then get the sheriff.

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It's nice to know these kids think highly of their grandmothers. I guess grandpa is SOL.

I found it interesting that only two of the twelve responses were proactive. Ah ha! - signs of critical thinking in the group. This quote came to mind:

"To be prepared against surprise is to be trained.
To be prepared for surprise is to be educated."
--- James Carse

I have hopes for these two, although one needs a dictionary and the other will probably end up on the FBI's Domestic Terrorist watchlist.

"Bestracked" is our new word around the house. Hubby keeps yelling, "Mommy! Kitty is bestrackeding me!"

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Edited to add:

These kids are 13-16 years old. They will be driving in a few years if they aren't already. In four years they will be able to vote. They are the future of my state and our country. I find that more than a little scary.