Media for moron-Americans

I wasn't paying attention

We have been treated to a fascinating spate of right-wing commentary on President Obama's state of the union speech. Former half-term governor of Alaska, Sarah Palin, used an interview with Greta Van Susternen (on Fox, of course—the only media she's permitted to appear on) to inform us that it was inappropriate for the president to cite Sputnik. After all, the Soviet Union won the space race, you know. (Unless, of course, you're intelligent and informed—and therefore not part of Palin's key demographic.)

I already knew about Obama's major faux pas since I had caught a few choice minutes of KSFO talk radio on the morning after the speech. Low-rent talk show host Brian Sussman—who replaced the high-priced Lee Rodgers in an economy move—babbled cheerfully with sidekick Officer Vic:

Brian Sussman: So you had Obama giving references to Sputnik. Okay, come on. This was a Russian spacecraft in 1957. Okay. Case in point, Obama went after the young voter to get elected. Right?

Officer Vic: That's correct.

Sussman: Okay, there's a young voter in the room right now with us. Young Katie's here.

Vic: Yeah.

Sussman: Katie's going to be helping us out next week with some news and stuff.

Vic: You should pop on the mike there, Katie.

Sussman: Okay, so Katie, here's my point to you. Here you are, young person, right in Obama's prime demographic, and when he talks about Sputnik—that we need to have our “Sputnik moment” in America—did you have any idea what he was talking about?

Katie: Absolutely not.

Vic: [Laughter]

Katie has a throaty contralto voice that suggests she has a bright future as a Coulter clone, as well as the forgivable ignorance of sweet youth. Her older-but-not-wiser radio companions pressed the Sputnik issue.

Sussman: When you think of the word “Sputnik,” what comes to your mind?

Katie: For some reason, a potato.

Vic: [Laughter]

Sussman: We need to have our potato moment!

Katie: Exactly!

Vic: That would be “Spudnik”!

Katie: I had trouble relating to anything he was saying, though.

Sussman: Well, I'm just wondering how many people were turned off by the Sputnik thing.

Vic: What's a Sputnik?

Sussman: Again, you know, Vic and I, we're middle-aged crackers. All right. We're middle-aged crackers. I didn't know what he was talking about! Come on!

Sussman was born in the year before Sputnik's launch. By the time he got to school, science and math curriculum had been revamped in the post-Sputnik furor. Despite his first-hand experience of growing up in the Space Age and the nature of his profession as political commentator, Sussman confesses that he knows nothing about Sputnik or the shock it delivered to American society. He's too young, of course, to remember having stood outside to look up at the “red star” arcing through the night sky over our heads, but the impact of this epochal event echoed down the decades.

But never in Brian's head, despite the excellent acoustics it must provide.

Idiot America doesn't need history or book-learning or context or even accurate memories. It cramps their style. No problem, though, if they listen to KSFO. It's media tailored to the needs of moron-Americans.

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It's just another day

Irrelevant ancient history

Today is July 20. Remember when Olin Teague kept trying to make a national holiday of it?

Of course you don't. In fact, you're probably saying, “Who the heck was Olin Teague?”

That's okay. He's been gone awhile. U.S. Representative Olin Teague held a congressional seat from Texas for a big chunk of the 20th century. He chaired the Select Committee on Astronautics and Space Exploration. The Apollo moon program occurred on Teague's watch. You could say he was a big space booster.

By now you've recalled (or figured out) that July 20 is the anniversary of the first Apollo landing on the moon, the Apollo 11 mission that took Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin down to its dusty surface. Sometimes, in a fit of nostalgia, I bother to mention it to my summer school students (if I'm teaching summer school that year, of course). Their reaction is usually dispiriting.

The last time I did it, I wrote “July 20” on the board and left it there for a while. Since I don't normally bother writing the day's date on the board, it was anomalous behavior. Successfully stifling any curiosity—intellectual or otherwise—my calculus students did not ask the date's significance.

So I did.

“Does anyone know what today it?”

A couple of my more insightful students said, “July twentieth!”

I gave them a sickly smile.

“Thank you for the obvious answer. Can anyone dig a little deeper than that?”

“It's my niece's birthday!”

“Okay,” I said, with great forbearance. “I hope you got your niece an appropriate birthday present.”

“I don't know. I'll find out this afternoon when Mom gets back from shopping.”

Things were not developing in an encouraging direction. I abandoned subtlety.

“Today is the anniversary of the first moon landing,” I said.

They looked at me, mostly blankly. A couple of students said “oh” without much enthusiasm in their voices.

“Yes, I realize we're talking about ancient and boring history,” I said. “No doubt you've heard of the Apollo program and seen photos or videos of it, but it's probably difficult to imagine how exciting it was to see it all occur in real time. We saw the lift-offs and moon landings on live television, just as it occurred. It was a thrilling time to be a witness to history.”

“My father said he actually got hives on the day of the moon landing,” said one student, a small smile on her face. “But he's an electrical engineer.”

“Oh, an engineer. That explains it, of course,” I replied.

Students nodded their heads as if everyone knew that's the way engineers are. They're easily susceptible to hives and other allergy-related afflictions. It's possible—or even likely—that they were dutifully humoring me, having no particular opinions of their own. One should always encourage a teacher who is off-topic and telling stories instead of lecturing.

“The space program was a great motivator when I was in high school. It was exciting to all of us who were interested in math, science, and engineering. The Apollo moon rocket generated seven and a half million pounds of thrust to lift a six million pound vehicle from the launch pad. It began painfully slowly, but the final stage reached speeds of seven miles per second as it left earth orbit. That's about twenty-five thousand miles per hour. Residents of Hawaii actually got to see the third stage of Apollo 11 light up overhead as it pushed the spacecraft toward the moon.”

Some of my students goggled as I reeled off the numbers. I had either captured their attention or they were good at feigning interest. (Either—or both—is entirely possible.) I turned to the board and wrote “F = ma.”

“What does that mean?”

Many students were ready to blurt out the answer.

“Force equals mass times acceleration.”

“Indeed. As I was watching the moon rocket take off on live television, I saw how slowly it rose during the first moments of its flight. It took several seconds to clear the tower. Since I knew its mass and the force of its rocket engines, I could compute its acceleration. Only one problem, though.”

I paused for a long moment, waiting.

“The mass wasn't constant!” a student proudly announced.

“Exactly!” I said. “The first stage was burning off fuel at a rate of fifteen tons per second.”

Even some of the more jaded students were a bit slack-jawed with wonder now.

“So, what to do? Well, I broke the time interval into short segments.” On the board I wrote t₀, t₁, t₂, and so on. “Since I knew the rate of fuel consumption, I knew the mass of the rocket at the beginning of each subinterval. I could compute the acceleration for that interval and calculate the rocket's change in altitude. The computations were simple, but there were a lot of them. How could I get my results to be even more accurate?”

“Do even more calculations,” they said. “Use shorter subintervals!”

“Quite right! And how does that compare to something you've learned in this class?”

“Smaller intervals for more accuracy in Simpson's rule. Or in Riemann sums!”

“Indeed,” I agreed.

“Hey, you were giving a math lecture after all!” cried a student.

“Gotcha!” I admitted.

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God'll get you for that

Let us pray

I keep hearing religious people say that “God is not mocked.” What they really mean (since God is actually mocked all the time) is that the divinely benevolent invisible “man in the sky” will get even. So there!

We must therefore be careful not to offend the easily offended resident of the cerulean heights. My father thoughtfully forwarded me some “inspirational” spam-mail that had all the usual earmarks of multiply-forwarded tripe. It's based on a true story, and is supposed to stir the reader into righteous indignation that officials at public high schools can't lead attendees at football games in prayer. (Please note that football is a religion to a lot of people.)

Here are some key bits of Dad's forwarded e-mail:

This is a statement that was read over the PA system at the football game at Roane County High School, Kingston, Tennessee, by school Principal, Jody McLeod:

"It has always been the custom at Roane County High School football games, to say a prayer and play the National Anthem, to honor God and Country."

"Due to a recent ruling by the Supreme Court, I am told that saying a Prayer is a violation of Federal Case Law. As I understand the law at this time, I can use this public facility to approve of sexual perversion and call it "an alternate life style," and if someone is offended, that's OK."


"I can designate a school day as "Earth Day" and involve students in activities to worship religiously and praise the goddess "Mother Earth" and call it "ecology."

"I can use literature, videos and presentations in the classroom that depicts people with strong, traditional Christian convictions as "simple minded" and "ignorant" and call it "enlightenment."

"However, if anyone uses this facility to honor GOD and to ask HIM to Bless this event with safety and good sportsmanship, then Federal Case Law is violated."

"This appears to be inconsistent at best, and at worst, diabolical! Apparently, we are to be tolerant of everything and anyone, except GOD and HIS Commandments."

I seem to have missed the commandment that says “Thou shalt pray at sporting events.”

"Nevertheless, as a school principal, I frequently ask staff and students to abide by rules with which they do not necessarily agree. For me to do otherwise would be inconsistent at best, and at worst, hypocritical.

"For this reason, I shall "Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's," and refrain from praying at this time."

"However, if you feel inspired to honor, praise and thank GOD and ask HIM, in the name of JESUS, to Bless this event, please feel free to do so. As far as I know, that's not against the law -- yet."

Oh, oh! She's on to us! The next step, of course (supported by all secularists as part of our international conspiracy) is to ban private prayer. We dished the public stuff, next it's equipping a national police force to hunt down and punish people who pray in secret. (I know it seems impractical, but Satan commands!)

One by one, the people in the stands bowed their heads, held hands with one another and began to pray. They prayed in the stands. They prayed in the team huddles. They prayed at the concession stand and they prayed in the Announcer's Box!

The only place they didn't pray was in the Supreme Court of the United States of America -- the Seat of "Justice" in the "one nation, under GOD."

It gives you a lump in the throat, doesn't it? (Try to keep it down.) And anyone who didn't pray was beaten up in the parking lot during half-time. (I just made that last bit up. I doubt anyone dared not pray (or at least pretend to) in the face of so much public pressure.)

This message in my in-box concluded with the exhortation common in such e-mail: “If you are not ashamed, pass this on.”

Actually, I am a little embarrassed that I have so many family members who think this is a telling tale and that it's worth sharing.

I could dismiss it as just another example of the small-mindedness of the true believer, who insists that the public sphere should conform to his or her personal religious beliefs—and that local majority rule can establish a religion because that's what (most of) the people want. But I didn't simply ash-can the message.

Something about “Kingston, Tennessee” tickled my brain cells. I poked it into Google to discover the following:

And last year, a billion gallons of muck containing coal ash flooded the town of Kingston, TN, in a spill 100 times larger than the notorious Exxon-Valdez spill.

An Act of God! The prayer incident occurred in 2000. The toxic ash spill happened in 2008. Post hoc ergo propter hoc, y'all!

I readily confess that this is a puzzler. Despite my nonbelief, I'm wondering if perhaps God exists after all and gets pissed off when his silly followers make asses of themselves.

“These jerks are an embarrassment to me. I think I'll smite them.”

Ashes to asses, you true believers.

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The Eagle has landed

History from a front-row seat

July 20, 1969, was a Sunday. Therefore we went to 8:30 mass in our parish church. Our fire-and-brimstone monsignor was no longer pastor and our new parish priest had yet to hit his stride. While Monsignor could whip through a mass in 35 minutes, Father clocked in at about 50. (We were supposed to offer up our sufferings as penance.) I was fidgety through the whole ceremony and got a couple of nasty looks from Dad and a elbow-nudge or two from Mom. Finally the mass was ended and we could go in peace to love and serve the Lord—and to get the hell out of there.

It just so happens that our home and our parish church form a nearly perfect east-west line, several miles in length, but there is no through road there. We would normally travel north from home till we hit the major east-west thoroughfare (such as it was, given the standards of county roads), and then jog back to the south once in the neighborhood of the church. The north route was the better road and the faster route, but on July 20, 1969, Dad decided to return home along the south route.

Fear gripped my heart. Was he planning to drop in on his sister? Dad's brother-in-law had a dairy farm on that road. We could be stuck there for hours. Would the television be on? Probably, but I couldn't be certain. Our car headed south and made the turn onto Dad's chosen route. A man in a pickup truck waved at us and Dad pulled over. He clambered out, strolled over to the pickup, and engaged a fellow farmer in conversation.

I was practically vibrating in my seat. Mom turned around and gave me a look. My siblings simpered.

It was only a few minutes, but it seemed like eternity. Dad finally walked back, climbed into the car, and we were off again. The next danger point was my uncle and aunt's dairy farm, but we blew past it without slowing down. I didn't start breathing regularly, though, till we turned the corner of our street and home was directly ahead.

Under normal circumstances, the standard practice in our home was to ask a parent whether or not it was all right to turn on the TV. (Imagine that.) But it was July 20, 1969. I was in high school and history was unfolding. I rushed into the family room and turned on the television on my own authority. Sure enough, Walter Cronkite and Wally Schirra were there to comfort me. I breathed a sigh of relief.

It was not yet 10:00 in the morning, Pacific Daylight Time. The moon landing was scheduled for approximately 1:00 that afternoon. We had plenty of time to spare. However, I grudged every minute of live news coverage that I had missed due to Father's slowpoke mass and Dad's leisurely return home. I wanted to be tuned in to Walter Cronkite as much as sports fanatics insist on watching every minute of Super Bowl pre-game programming.

At 1:17 PDT, I wasn't moving a muscle as Armstrong and Aldrin touched down on the moon in the Eagle lunar module. “Houston. Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.”

I remember Cronkite's reaction, but I don't remember mine. My best guess is a slightly slack-jawed “Wowwwwww!” There was a babble from other family members, along with a yell from my kid brother. We were really on the moon!

That night, I scribbled some brief notes in the five-year diary I was keeping at the time. You have only a few lines to record the notable events of the day, and this is what I wrote:

Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin landed the “Eagle” in the Sea of Tranquility; moonwalk: 2 hours, 13 min.

I see from other sources that the first moonwalk was later logged as lasting 2 hours, 36 minutes, and 40 seconds. I don't know what accounts for the discrepancy. Perhaps I was tired. (Perhaps the official timekeepers decided to include the time that Armstrong and Aldrin spent on the lunar module's porch and ladder.) The diary also notes that I didn't get to bed till 1:45 in the morning. You're allowed to stay up late on Moon Day.

I did mention that it was a five-year diary in which I took note of the epochal Apollo 11 moon landing. Having dug up this ancient document, I could not resist perusing it for a while. I was amused, in particular, to see what I had been reading on previous 20ths of July. In 1965, I wrote that I was reading The Deep Range (one of Arthur C. Clarke's non-sf novels). In 1966 my reading material was “Sunjammer,” Clarke's much-admired short story of an inconclusive light-sail race. Perhaps I had run out of Clarke's books by 1967, when I read John Brunner's Secret Agent of Terra. Considering that Brunner also wrote Stand on Zanzibar and Shockwave Rider, I think we must concede that Secret Agent is one of his lesser works. In 1968, I was in the midst of Samuel R. Delany's Einstein Intersection.

And what was I reading during the time of the moon landing in 1969? I didn't mention anything specific on July 20, but later that week I made an entry that I was working through The Riddle of Gravitation by P. G. Bergmann. Just a bit of nonfiction for variety.

Funny thing, though. For all the reading I did—and I did a lot of it—not even one of the sf stories or novels about space exploration ever suggested that the first moon landing would be a live broadcast event. That's a curious failure of the imagination. In 1969, the revolution was televised.

❑

I was (am!) a child of the Space Age. As a teenager during the Apollo program, I fully expected that it would be completely reasonable to book a lunar vacation for my fiftieth birthday, which would not occur until the 21st century. Silly me. I forgot to take into account that Richard Nixon was president and was eager to dismantle the program that had become a monument to the memory of his late rival, the man who defeated him for the presidency in 1960. Nixon had insisted on having his name included in the plaque that remained on the surface of the moon as part of the lunar module landing stage, but he had squeezed as much p.r. as he could out of the event and was ready to wash his hands of the whole thing. Apollo missions 18, 19, and 20 were cut and only one actual scientist (Harrison Schmitt) made it to the moon before the program was cancelled.

And we still haven't gone back.

Well, I don't like to travel that much, but I do rather wish we were a truly spacefaring race by now. It's taking longer than I thought.

Perhaps I should not complain too much. I remember watching coverage of subsequent missions with my grandmother. She was bemused by the entire experience. Wilbur and Orville Wright had yet to make their first flight at Kitty Hawk when my grandmother was born in the Azores. She lived to see jumbo jets, moon landings, and the start of the space shuttle program. When she was a young girl, next year could be relied upon to be very similar to last year. You would probably end up doing what your mother or father did, and probably in the same place. Her expectations were quite contrary to the resulting reality, which transplanted her thousands of miles from home and presented her with a dizzying acceleration of history.

It was that dizzying acceleration that had become my default expectation when I was a youngster, but I still don't have my flying car, rocket belt, or lunar vacation. After the 0 to 60 pedal-to-the-metal spike of acceleration, I guess it's cruise time.

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McCain's "Hail Mary" pass

Looking for a miracle

Hail, Sarah,
Fair of face,
McCain is with thee.
Vetted art thou amongst women,
And swinging is the state of thy state, Alaska.

Pretty Palin, desperate hope,
Can you make John a winner?
How?
Not by the cast of our vote.

Amen.

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