Don't Call Me Ishmael

Well, here I am again, back from an unsuccessful whaling expedition out of Boston. Didn't see a single thing, thus missing out on any number of inappropriate Moby Dick quotes. Some people might be a bit mad at spending $50 on a boat trip across the freezing wastes of the Atlantic with a constant gale-force wind and nothing to show for it. Well, I'm not mad, I'm madness maddened. There ! Obligatory Melville quote achieved.

The aquarium did give everyone a replacement ticket, but it's only valid until October (when the whaling season ends). Which means, I suppose, that I'll have to go back to Boston in the next few months. Oh deary deary me, what a terrible shame that is, having to visit a city so civilized that they cut  bagels by means of a conveyor belt and a circular saw. They even sell Magners, which gives them at least 10 million brownie points.

Boston is much like any other European city, except that it's a good deal taller and newer. Unlike the Arizona town of Flagstaff (featured on my previous visit to the States), whose "historic" district was built in the laughably recent 1900, Boston has some claim to history, dating back to the 1600's. Lots of stuff happened here relating to the Skirmish for Independence, apparently, and the local colonists have even built an obelisk to remind themselves of the British troops beating them into submission at the Battle of Bunker Hill.

For some reason these trifles of history haven't stopped the Bostonians from having a peculiar penchant for "British" brands. There's even a shop called "Fabulously British" which as far as I could tell sold a lot of outfits in Union Jack design but with flashy colours  (except that they'd spell it without a u, thereby proving themselves to remain merely ignorant colonists). Other places seem to venerate British cultural sophistication, leading me to strongly suspect that few of these people have ever visited Cardiff on a Saturday night.

Another bizarre aspect of Boston is that they have an affinity for weird names, some of which are ironic, others just plain odd. There's the 20-storey Little Building, the chain restaurant of Legal Sea Foods (its Illegal counterpart doesn't exist as far as I know), and my favourite, the ABCD University. Apparently this is a school for over-age and/or under-achieving students, but no-one thought this name would be cruel. Strange people.

Despite these oddities Boston appears to me to be about twenty million times more culturally sophisticated than Puerto Rico. It has public transportation. It has parks. It has concert-halls and theaters are abundant. It has cafes which sell tea, although it isn't very good. Maybe they're still dredging it up from the harbour after that little tea-party fiasco.

It's also rich. Really stinking rich. So rich that the AAS opening and closing reception were held in a ballroom, the kind where you'd expect someone to shout "Oh, Mr Darcy !" rather than discuss the funding situation for the James Webb Space Telescope. The rest of the city is also hopelessly trendy and full of hip young people who seem to have walked straight out of an American teen movie. This kind of happy, can-do attitude to life annoys me intensely, but I'll forgive the Bostonians because they've created such a nice place to live.

Well this isn't a science blog and God willing it never will be, so I'm not going to mention the conference at all. My re-introduction to Puerto Rican life began at the airport, when the plane was delayed by an hour because the cleaners hadn't shown up. Back at the San Juan airport, the scheduled taxi driver didn't show up either. Perhaps he was eloping with the cleaners.

In other news, this blog has seen a weird surge in views while I was away. Partly this is due to the WHY ?! post, written at a low ebb while struggling with driving tests. Suddenly its page views have shot up from nearly 0 to 35 at the last count. This, I suspect, is not due to 35 random people suddenly caring about the motivations of an astronomer, but probably because it uses an image from a Pirates of the Caribbean movie, and a new one's just come out. Though quite why the total views for this month (something approaching 500) are about double last month's, I've no idea. Still, if ever there was call for an image of Ian McShane, this is it !

Ian McShane through the ages

Ode to the Passing of the Cornell Administration

One of the dangerous properties of an e-book reader is the superabundance of books available for free, and the staggeringly obscene levels of books at prices so minute they're practically quantum (some sort of Planck Price, it seems). Of course, many of these are by new, struggling and therefore hopeless authors and I'm sure I don't need to read any of them to know that for a fact. But, on the plus side, there's a vast assemblage of expired copyright material, e.g., all of H. G. Wells, Jules Verne, etc. Which brings us to Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

I downloaded the complete works of the said author on a whim, having previously taken a shine to Kubla Khan and The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. Little did I suspect that this 18th century poet was actually a blogger, and worse, a tweeter. This guy wrote his every waking thought, apparently convinced that there was no subject too petty, boring or utterly unsuitable for a short yet enormously dramatic poem. I was under the impression that writing one's most fleeting and inconsequential  thoughts to the world in general was a modern abuse of technology. Oh how very wrong I was.

For instance, for one Coleridge's early works is about none other than his nose. His nose ! For goodness sake, what in the world would make anyone write nasal poetry ? I mean, how poetic can a nose be ? Well, in the hands of Coleridge it becomes an 8 stanza weapon of words with which to beat his readers into confused submission - the first two stanzas will suffice :

Ye souls unus’d to lofty verse
Who sweep the earth with lowly wing,

Like sand before the blast disperse —

A Nose! a mighty Nose I sing!

As erst Prometheus stole from heaven the fire

To animate the wonder of his hand;

Thus with unhallow’d hands, O Muse, aspire,

And from my subject snatch a burning brand!

So like the Nose I sing — my verse shall glow —

Like Phlegethon my verse in waves of fire shall flow! 

Which seems to translate roughly as, "You poetry-hating dingbats, I shall blast you all away with my mighty flaming nose !"

Cryptic stuff. Of course, he also wrote about more proper poetic subjects, like the Moon and trees and happy little bunny rabbits and terrible tragedies. All well and good, but he then he also wrote about stuff like universities, protests in the House of Lords, a short climbing trip, the poor quality of suspension on horse-drawn carriages, mathematical problems, and my personal favourite so far - his kettle. All of which are so dramatic they're the 18th century poetical equivalent of Bonnie Tyler on LSD. This is Coleridge on breaking his kettle :

Your cheerful songs, ye unseen crickets, cease!
Let songs of grief your alter'd minds engage!
For he who sang responsive to your lay,
What time the joyous bubbles 'gan to play,
The sooty swain has felt the fire's fierce rage;--
Yes, he is gone, and all my woes increase;
I heard the water issuing from the wound--
No more the Tea shall pour its fragrant steams around!

I guess that's opium for you. Anyway, in the spirit of reporting news items in ultra-dramatic poetic form, Cornell University will cease to operate Arecibo from October. So, here goes...

O Muse who sangest late Cornell's pain

To griefs domestic turn thy coal-black steed !

With much-delayed steps thy administrative transfer must go,

Then over-prompt announcements much confusion sow,

When scatter'd round each dark and deadly malicious news feed,

Thus shalt the hapless rumour mill complain.

While astronomers shall shriek and aeronomers shall howling run !

The telescope is spoilt and Cornell is undone !*

Stanford, thy longful songs, ye unseen crickets, cease !

Let songs of victory your alter'd minds engage !
For they who sang unresponsive to your complete and utter lack of official info,
Shall in time to hear thy will and make it so.


O what whilst thine benefits package dare contain ?
And what retirement options shalt it constrain ?
Not all employees shall e'er again recieve,
A paycheque by a uniform source's leave !
And still, as erst, let favour'd NAIC exist,
Largest ever of the large and oft-shrouded in mist !

* Disclaimer : not necessarily. In fact probably not. All hail out new benevolent masters !

I never claimed it would be any good, but I don't care because now I'm running away to Boston to go whaling. Or maybe it was whale-watching. Probably should check that.

Slacking

Some considerable time has passed since my previous post, and now we live in a Brave New World where we don't have to worry about electoral reform at all. Phew, I'm glad that one's out of the way with. For a minute there I thought Britain was about to do something sensible. Oh well, better luck next generation. At least Nick Clegg is looking very silly, which is at least slightly comforting.

That's right ! I'm recycling pictures from my own blog out of sheer laziness !

In other news, Jabba the Hut has won immense popularity in Scotland*, seemingly - as far as I can tell - by telling ridiculous lies to the electorate about how great Scotland is. Which is a pity because there are quite a lot of truths he could tell about how great Scotland is, but never mind. In yet more dramatic developments, Osama bin Laden has been shot dead and buried at sea (but not necessarily in that order given how much the official story keeps changing).

* http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hAxuustoxVI

The most promising conspiracy theory so far is that he was probably distracted by watching two extremely rich people get married, which seemed to turn even the most cynical journalists' minds into some sort of rose-tinted glue. I don't quite get why watching two strangers with more money than taste take vows to keep on shagging each other (lest some almighty being smite them with thunderbolts) has this effect on people. Why is it that the only thing we as a nation can rally behind is a bunch of inbred accidents-of-birth putting on a cheesy Disney-esque show ?

I digress, but only slightly. For, having received my social security number, I proceeded with all haste to acquire not one but two bank accounts and buy at once a television, amongst other things. Television ! Sweet nourishing T.V. ! Full of HBO and BBC America (a.k.a. "the wedding channel" but I'll forgive them for also showing Top Gear and Dr Who). Among the other things was also something of the highest order of magnificence, the exalted name of which I barely dare venture to contemplate, lest the precious thing should fade like morning mist back unto the ethereal Amazonian vapours from whence it came.... a kettle. It's been over 7 weeks since I last gazed upon such a noble visage. Finally a semblence of civilisation hath struck itself fast unto my blessed abode !*

* That's what you get for reading Coleridge, but we'll get to that.

It's a Proctor Silex. Not sure what the name means, but I'll bet it involves an evil villain bent on gaining control of the Romulan Senate.

Acquiring the social security number was the easy part. Getting a bank account involved more of a culture clash. For instance, names. The Spanish naming convention is... odd. Something about their surname being their second to last name and having their mother's maiden name in there somewhere. All I know is that it took a rather long time to convince the bank lady that my middle names are only middle names, not my last name. Then I had to persuade her that when I said I wanted to cash a cheque, I did not mean I wanted it converted into cash on the spot (which is illegal).

As I mentioned I eventually ended up with two bank accounts. One of these is a checking account. It does not come with a cheque book and never will. The other is a savings account. It is instant access and has an interest rate of 0.3% per year, so how that helps anyone save money is beyond me. Just to add to the weirdness, the savings account comes with two cards - one I can use in ATM machines and at the store, the other is a Visa debit for buying stuff online, which is why I needed the second account. Buying stuff online is what the 21st century's all about... that and terrorism anyway.

Which, in the final assessment, meant I was at last able to cas... I mean, deposit... my accumulating pay cheques, watch Battlestar Galactica on blu-ray and have a nice cup of tea. And read The Independent on my Kindle. Although if I were in a normal, stable (we'll get to that too) job I'd infinitely prefer enough books to cause a massive disturbance in L-space, this is hardly practical here. Bookshops are few and remote, and the last book I bought on Amazon took 3 weeks to arrive by air mail. Presumably Amazon are now shipping via Zeppelin, or, possibly, carrier pigeon. Whereas on a Kindle books are delivered at relativistic speeds (in fact the proper arrival time is zero)  whilst still being on a printed page (it literally is electronic ink).

No wonder it took so long - there are no roads across the Atlantic.

As the diligent reader will have ascertained, there is much other news. Watch this space.

What the tourists don't see (II)

As promised here is my second exclusive, behind-the-scenes look at the NAIC. Previously I ventured into the control room and revealed that is NOT a supervillain's underground lair, much to everyone's disappointment. I also almost completely ignored the enormous dish that defines the whole place, so it's time to rectify that and also, unfortunately, end some more Bond myths.

However, I'm going to start on a much happier note by saying that Bond actually got something right ! Well, near enough anyway. OK, it isn't used to control an orbiting satellite that can electrify entire cities. But it is a bona fide death ray. Umm.... well, only if you're standing in just the right spot, which is about 30cm across and inside the dome, which is 120m up in the air, and only when the radar is working (which is not often) but that's not the point !

The sign is for show. Mostly.

Anyway, that's as close as the Goldeneye came to reality, which is not saying very much but never mind. Having finally had the time, inclination and most importantly camera about my person, it's time to share what's beyond the "no unauthorised personnel" signs once again. Unlike last time, there aren't even any lockless gates to open, because hurting a 300m diameter telescope is quite a difficult thing to do*.

* Although the anchor points from the towers are very well protect by with gates, barbed wire, security cameras and really steep hills.

First up is the ground screen. This is is a 15m high fence filled with a fine wire mesh (that doesn't photograph well) running around the full 1km circumference of the dish. The purpose of this circumfence is to make sure the instruments on the platform are never aimed at the ground itself, because trying to observe the ground won't work, otherwise no-one would have bothered building the dish. Having a giant fence means that even at their greatest elevation, the instruments are always pointed at nice shiny metal reflecting the cold sky rather than the hot ground.

There's nothing very interesting around the dish but numerous side-roads lead to all kinds of crazy places, like the deprecated helipad and the three support towers. From a distance these can look thin and spindly, but that's only because they're extremely tall. They're actually bloomin' massive.

 

I thought I'd long since explored all of the funny side-roads but it turns out I was wrong. I'd missed the one with the best view of all, from which nothing is visible except endless jungle with a river in it. Unfortunately no-one was around to sing the Jurassic Park theme with, which made the trek up in the baking heat a colossal waste of time.

Then of course there's today's main feature : underneath the dish, which is about as surreal and unique a place as it's possible to find anywhere. It's even less like the Bond movie than the control room. For starters, the telescope does not hide from passing spy satellites by submerging, which would be very difficult to do because it's not made of concrete and we couldn't afford the electric bills anyway. Nor are the three support towers retractable, which makes them less dramatic but slightly more practical. All the telescope does is sit there, like a big fact lemon. Occasionally, the platform rotates very slowly. And no, I haven't seen anyone from the British government come in all guns blazing in a desperate bid to shut us down (but probably they're all at the wedding anyway).

In fact the dish is made of many thousands of aluminium (no, NOT "aluminum", damn yanks) panels and weighs about 300 tonnes. These are a lot like the panels in a microwave oven - perforated by lots of little holes that are too small to let any important radiation through. So, although it looks perfectly solid from above, from below it's quite transparent.

Surprisingly, not only does the dish not double as a small water-sports center, but they don't even let you slide down it. I imagine that this is because there's nothing to stop you falling through the hole in the bottom, unlike in the Bond movie where there was a handy concrete lip that stopped our plucky protagonists from falling into an uncertain death. Certainly it cannot relate to such activities interfering with observations.

The underside of the dish is indeed an unworldly place. The structure of the dish is clearly visible thanks to the girders between each of the panels which trace neat, continuous arcs overhead. The dish is held under tension (it helps beat thermal expansion) by thousands of cables. It's also stained reddish-brown, so the whole place has a weird sense of industrial grace.

The cables are attached to large concrete cylinders. Surrounding the central flat area, which contains a few small engineering huts for maintenance, is a large drainage ditch into which run many artificial channels. There are also a few abandoned line feeds which used to hang up on the telescope. The place just screams Half-Life 2 mod.

Which brings me to the end of this second venture into the Forbidden Zones. The last picture shows the very center of the dish, which does indeed have a great big hole as in the Bond film, but this is only to allow stuff to be hoisted up to the platform. Sadly there is no great drain that would explain where the water could go if the telescope could submerge, and don't think I haven't looked. Goldeneye was simply not the insightful, intelligent documentary it claimed to be.

An Open Letter to the BBC

Dear Auntie,

Hi, how's it going ? I recently got myself a big ol' TV, and imagine my delight to find I can watch quite a lot of BBC programs on it despite being 4,000 miles from Britain. Since you have so helpfully blocked BBC iPlayer based on IP address, I'm not in any danger of accidentally downloading an episode of Strictly Come Antiques Roadshow on Ice, which might completely bring down the entire corporation due to copyright laws. No, everything I do hear is nice and legal, as far as I know.

I'm talking about, of course, about BBC America - and also programs you co-produce / sell to other networks, but be patient and we'll get to that in a minute. Firstly, I'd like to thank you for BBC World News, with its global weather forecasts done in 2 minutes or less. I'm not certain who these are aimed at, but I find them thoroughly entertaining, so thank you. However, I'd like to point out that this service was much easier to find via Google search than the Beeb's own website, so I thought you might want to look into that.

I would also like to mention that BBC America is a misnomer, since many of the shows are not made by the BBC at all. Primeval certainly wasn't (it was made by ITV), a fact that does your institution credit, and you should not sully your good name by featuring it on your channel. Nor was Battlestar Galactica, but I'll let that one go because it was good and makes up for Primeval. Unfortunately, Outcasts was a genuine BBC show, and it saddens me that the reputation of Great Britain will suffer as a result of showcasing this televisual excrement to the rest of the unfortunate world.

But I digress. For there is one area in which the global supremacy of the BBC reigns uncontested. While you may from time to time accidentally produce a quality drama, in terms of natural history documentaries good old Auntie can truly look down upon all other networks, confident in her God-given prowess that is nothing short of magisterial. Except, that is, outside of the British Isles themselves.

For it seems that dark and baffling forces are at work whenever you decide to export a show. To my everlasting horror did I learn that the American "version", if I might condescend to call it that, of Planet Earth was originally narrated not by one of the greatest living Britons, but by Sigourney Weaver. Now, this good lady may be a fine actress and even a capable narrator, with a rich and distinctive voice, but to suggest that she could possibly compete with a Knight of the Realm who has been presenting to the good British people for over 50 years truly beggars belief. I am afraid that "Get away from that whale you BITCH !" is simply not going to work, unless perhaps Greenpeace are involved.

However, I have learned of even worse atrocities so horrific that they would make Hitler quake in his boots if he was ever a fan of wildlife documentaries, which he probably wasn't. It seems that the equally well-made successor series, Life, was narrated not by Sir David but none other than Oprah Winfrey. This is so utterly shocking to me that I cannot quite comprehend it. I think my brain has a natural self-defence mechanism that prevents acts of supreme stupidity from registering correctly. All I can think is that you just couldn't afford Jerry Springer.

Unfortunately there is yet another disaster which my brain is forcing me to confront as I witnessed it myself this very evening. In the once excellent series Human Planet, you have chosen to replace none other than John Hurt with some utterly bland American. This I cannot tolerate. I'm going to make this very clear : IT'S JOHN HURT. A man famous for his distinctive voice that lends itself as naturally to narration as is humanly possible.

You have not shot yourselves in the foot on this one - you have had both feet carefully and surgically amputated and had them replaced with facsimiles made of soft rubbery cheese. For my part I cannot see how anyone can be capable of deciding to replace John Hurt, a phrase which should be an oxymoron on a par with replace David Attenborough but never mind, and yet still have sufficient mental capacity as to allow, for instance, breathing.

I am thinking whether I should submit this letter to Points of View, where someone might actually read it - even Graham Norton would do - but I'm hoping it is possible to nominate you instead for an Ig Nobel prize for communications.

Yours in a distant land,

Me.