In Praise of the Tase

Last night, Steve Consalvi, a 17-year-old from Gilbertsville, Pennsylvania, ran onto the field as the Philadelphia Phillies hosted the St. Louis Cardinals. After evading the grounds crew, Consalvi was finally subdued when a security guard Tased him. Now that Tasers have been drawn at Citizens Bank Park, why stop at a 17-year-old punk who didn't get enough attention from Daddy? Start Tasing the fans who yell practically in your ear all game long. Tase those who knock you down to get a worthless foul ball. Tase those who don't sit in their assigned seat, and Tase those who use abusive language regardless of the presence of children.

But don't stop there. Equip movie ushers with Tasers so they can shoot-to-shock the boors who talk during a film. Tase those who don't use turn signals. Tase those who hold up traffic by taking their time crossing the street, and Tase those who leave empty bottles on the sidewalk even though a garbage can stands ten feet away.

Tase the jerk who plays his music loud late at night. And Tase the dope who pays for an 89-cent candy bar with a debit card. Tase those who don't park between the lines, and Tase those who take up two spots on the street. Tase those who text while driving, and Tase those who root for the New York Rangers.

Tase 'em all and let the judge sort 'em out.


(Photos copyright Associated Press.)

Valleys of Neptune Not in Tune With the Times

Released last week, Valleys of Neptune contains twelve previously unreleased tracks by Jimi Hendrix. This is just another example of popular music promoting bad science. Regardless of the fact that the album title is taken from the song of the same name, Legacy Records should know better: Neptune is an "ice giant" and thus has no valleys because it is composed of gases thousands of miles thick, with no solid surface. Hendrix, who wrote the song in 1969—twenty years before the Voyager 2 fly-by—probably possessed little knowledge of Neptune's internal structure. But by the album's release last week, the planet's composition had long been commonly known, and one would think that Legacy Records should have an astrophysicist on staff to prevent such egregious errors. Unfortunately, a new generation now being introduced to Jimi Hendrix's music is liable to believe that Neptune is a terrestrial body, misleading countless young minds. Such a cavalier attitude toward scientific fact might have been "rock & roll" in 1969...but it's no more "hip" now than patchouli oil and moon landings.

Such scientific liberties have long posed a problem in the music world. For instance: Bonnie Tyler's 1983 hit, "Total Eclipse of the Heart"—the heart never undergoes and eclipse because nothing revolves around it. Alright, for the sake of argument, let's postulate that a cholesterol blob is circulating around the pericardial sac. This blob would be so small compared to the heart that it would constitute not an eclipse, but rather a transit, such as when Mercury transits the sun or one of the Galilean moons transits Jupiter (seen above). Ms. Tyler scored her biggest hit with the song, but "Total Eclipse of the Heart" was an affront to the field of astronomy.

Likewise for Peter Frampton's "I Wanna Go to the Sun." Sure, Peter, you do that. But I sure hope I don't feel like you do as you're being fatally irradiated long before you approach the sun, your last words agonizingly whimpered with a voice that now sounds the same as through that talk box that once made you famous.

And the same goes for Pink Floyd's "Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun." Which one's Pink? They'll all be pink—and juicy—before they even get inside Mercury's orbit, let alone anywhere near the sun.*

* Actually, the above is not Pink Floyd's only scientific slip-up. In "Cirrus Minor," David Gilmour sings the couplet: "On a trip to Cirrus Minor/Saw a crater in the sun." Of course, the sun has no craters—it's an incendiary ball of gas with no solid surface to be cratered. As the chief proponents of "space rock," such factual sloppiness on the Floyd's part is puzzling, to say the least, and clearly what kept the More soundtrack album from spending longer on the Billboard 200 chart than The Dark Side of the Moon's 741 consecutive weeks.

Even a stylish and ostensibly less rebellious crooner such as Stevie Wonder got into the misinformation act, singing "My cherie amour/Distant as the Milky Way." A beautiful sentiment sung to a gorgeous melody. Problem is, Stevie's in the Milky Way. He hardly can sing with any accuracy of something distant while physically occupying that very object—at least not without specifying how distant his cherie amour is.

Now, what Stevie should have sung was, "My cherie amour/Distant as the fuzzy arms of the Milky Way which are visible only under extremely dark skies and most easily during the summer and winter months"—and damn the problematic meter and rhyme scheme!

In more empirical terms, don't think The Who are any more scientifically reliable. Roger Daltrey sings that he "can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles..." Given that each miles represents a minimum of two miles to justify its plural form, multiplied by the 5 miles sung in the aforementioned line, Daltrey's claiming to see for at least 10 miles.

However, the accepted limit of human visibility, as determined in nautical miles—because, of course, the ocean will afford an unobscured horizon, unlike London and New York, where the song was recorded—is calculated (according to multiple nautical sources) as:

Visible distance (in nmi) = 1.17 × the square root of the eye's height (in feet)

Thus, [the square root of Roger Daltrey's height (5'7", or 5.583 feet) = 2.363] × 1.17 = 2.765 miles.

So Roger Daltrey actually can only see 2.765 miles, or just over one "lyrical" mile. This hardly even constitutes the song's title, let alone "I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles..."*

*Even if we base the calculations on the 6'0" Pete Townshend, who wrote the song, this still only comes out to a paltry 2.866 miles.

For anyone in The Who to have seen for "miles and miles and miles and miles and miles," he would have had to been recording the song at a height of at least 73 feet—something not even the loony Keith Moon would have attempted.

Frankly, I think Daltrey was probably just high on beans...

* * *





For an example of popular music that promotes good science, see the Mount Drinkmore entry, "They're Special, So Special, Alright..." of July 23, 2009, via the blog archive or keyword science.

(Transit of Io courtesy of NASA/JPL/University of Arizona.)

Jeff Bridges the Gap Between the Big and Little Screens

This coming Sunday, the 82nd Academy Awards will be presented. Jeff Bridges is the sentimental favorite for Best Actor, for his role as has-been country singer "Bad Blake" in Crazy Heart. Hollywood scuttlebutt indicates that Bridges is finally going to take home Oscar (Bridges has been nominated for an Academy Award four times previously but has always come up empty). Perhaps Bridges is the most deserving nominee—I don't know; I haven't yet seen the film—or perhaps he'll win because his impressive and unrewarded body of work will push him over the top.

But even if Jeff Bridges walks away empty once again, as he did for The Last Picture Show, Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, Starman, and The Contender, Bridges should receive a Special Oscar for Best Celebrity Spokesperson. In recent years, he's become the ubiquitous television voice for Hyundai, Duracell, Ameriquest Mortgage Company, and Baptist Memorial Hospitals in Memphis, among other corporations. His rich, friendly, easily identifiable tone soothes the viewer while evoking images of "The Dude," Preston Tucker, and the befuddled Starman...and soon, the viewer finds himself daydreaming of sipping White Russians, driving some super-car of the future, and making out with Karen Allen. By then, the viewer is ready to buy whatever Bridges is hawking—which makes him the perfect pitch man.

Perhaps no other film actor has parlayed his or her film resumé into such a successful voiceover career...unless you count Jenna Jameson's work in Family Guy and Grand Theft Auto: Vice City.

And if that's not enough to send Jeff Bridges home with a golden statuette, then the Academy should toss him one for playing a character named "Jack" no less than eight times in his career:

• Jack McKee (Rancho Deluxe)
• Jack Prescott (King Kong)
• Jack Forrester (Jagged Edge)
• Jack Baker (The Fabulous Baker Boys)
• Jack Lucas (The Fisher King)
• Jack Kelson (American Heart)
• Jack Warrick (The Muse)
• President Jackson Evans (The Contender)

...certainly a cinematic achievement never to be equaled, unless Dustin Hoffman quickly makes a Rocky-esque franchise out of Little Big Man...

The Scourge of Rock

Unless you're a hardcore Billy Joel fan, you might not know that before he began his career as a highly successful solo artist, Joel was one half of the heavy-metal outfit, Attila. This forgotten band put out its only album in 1970, the cover featuring Joel and partner Jonathan Small as unconvincing Huns amid racks of freshly butchered meat. Joel has described the album as "psychedelic bullshit." Although I've never heard the album, I find it difficult to believe the author of such great rock/pop classics as "Piano Man," "New York State of Mind," "Just the Way You Are," and "Honesty" capable of creating an album's worth of "bullshit." I mean, as you can see below, the two-part "Amplifier Fire" seems to chronicle not only Attila's ferocious campaign through Gaul in 451, but cleverly juxtaposes the Hunnic marauder against perhaps his closest 20th-century counterpart, Godzilla, who sacked much of Japan before being stopped by the Pope and the Japanese army at the Battle of Tokyo Bay. The "Godzilla" segment of "Amplifier Fire" both predates Blue Oyster Cult's "Godzilla" by seven years and made Joel the first rock songwriter to liken a late-antiquity historical figure to a Japanese science-fiction monster—an accomplishment curiously unmentioned by Rolling Stone, Billboard, or any major music medium. Godzilla and Attila even met similar deaths: the giant reptile at the hands of the "oxygen destroyer" that suffocated him and Attila from a severe nasal hemorrhage that caused asphyxiation, and each while asleep.

Furthermore, considering Billy Joel's penchant for realistic, blue-collar vignettes of everyday life, "Tear This Castle Down," likely serves as a poignant first-person account by one of Attila's countless victims during the Huns' rampage along the Rhine, rather than merely as a half-assed, sophomoric dirge about high school girls. I'd wager that the protagonist, about to meet his fate at the hand of the "Scourge of God," sardonically bewails Attila's barbarity as Joel wistfully interplays Hammond organ runs.

And the album's finale, "Brain Invasion," surely must be a cerebral critique of Attila's ill-fated invasion of Italy in 452—Italy still the nerve center of western Europe at the time.

After the album flopped, Attila split and Small formed Alaric. They did a tour of southern Spain but were eventually overrun and slaughtered by members of The Moors, a North African Doors tribute band.

Now Attila is a Hun and a friend of mine
He gets me my spears for free
And he’s quick with a sword or a barbarian horde
But there's someplace that he’d rather be

He says, Bill, I believe I should be killing people
As the smile ran away from his face
Well I'm sure that I could conquer Constantinople
If I could just get past Thrace

Sing us a song, you're a ruthless barbarian
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for rivers of blood
And you've got us kneelin' at your sight

La la la, di da dah...

Russell's Muscle Could Provide Miracle on Broad Street

The inevitable happened in South Philadelphia last Friday as Flyers head coach John Stevens got the axe. At 13-11-1, the Chris Pronger–led Flyers—expected to make a serious run at the Stanley Cup this season—had plummeted through the Eastern Division standings, losing eight of their last nine games before Stevens' firing. Replacing him is former Carolina Hurricanes coach Peter Laviolette, who led the Canes to a Cup victory in 2006. But the maddeningly inconsistent and perenially underachieving Flyers promptly got blown out in their first game under Laviolette, surrendering eight goals at home to a Washington Capitals squad playing without Alexander Ovechkin. Now a bewildering 2-5 since the coaching change, the wheels have completely come off this Flyers team, and it needs nothing short of a miracle to turn its fortunes around.

So I can't understand why Flyers brass didn't just replace John Stevens with Kurt Russell instead of Laviolette. Yes, Laviolette has solid credentials, but the Flyers clearly aren't responding to his direction and have proved themselves overmatched in nearly every game over the last month. Kurt Russell, however, worked a genuine hockey miracle in getting a down-and-out, listless long-shot to win Olympic gold. Who cares that he did it in a movie and likely knows nothing about actual hockey strategy? The Flyers would probably skate their butts off for a Hollywood celebrity—certainly more than they're currently doing for a legitimate head coach. Kurt Russell not only brings both star power and the inspirational aura of the late Herb Brooks to the Philadelphia bench—he also brings the survivability of R.J. MacReady, the machismo of Snake Plissken, the ruthlessness of Todd 3465, the courage of Bull McCaffrey, the persuasiveness of Rudy Russo, and the leadership of Captain Ron.

Once a proud and feared franchise, the Flyers, both this season and over this decade, have become an object of derision and predictable failure. But Kurt Russell could reverse all that by utilizing his rugged on-screen personas to lead this reeling squad to a surprise Stanley Cup victory. Not to mention—considering the long line of unimpressive, and sometimes absent, coiffures of such former Flyers coaches as Mike Keenan, Bob McCammon, Wayne Cashman, and Craig Ramsay—Kurt Russell would provide the franchise with, unquestionably, the greatest head of hair ever seen behind its bench, especially if he grows it back to Escape From New York length. Sure, Peter Laviolette possesses an admirable hairdo, but we're talking about the most lustrous mane in Hollywood. Let's face it: a coach with great hair is going to inspire confidence in his players—and the rudderless Flyers are playing right now like they're led by Colonel Kurtz.

And, as Hollywood's foremost eye-patch actor—he's worn an eye patch for two separate roles in three different films—Russell with one eye behind black vinyl would be the most intimidating head coach in hockey. No Flyer would dare take a lazy shift with a maniacal-looking coach prowling the bench as if it were the deck of a man-of-war, and all other coaches throughout the league would shudder impotently in his presence.



For good measure, Russell could even hire long-time squeeze Goldie Hawn as assistant coach. Not just nepotism—Hawn proved herself able coaching material in Wildcats and knows how to reach testosterone-laden jocks.

All a wild-haired, eye-patched Kurt Russell need do to lead the Philadelphia Flyers to the Cup is to look good, act mean, and reprise his words as Big Trouble in Little China's Jack Burton: "[I] feel pretty good. I'm not...uh...I'm not scared at all. I just feel kind of...feel kind of invincible," and they'd follow him through the depths of hell.

It ain't Fred Shero's "Win now and we walk together forever"...but the Flyers need a miracle-worker.

(Photo of Kurt Russell in Miracle copyright Buena Vista Pictures.)

When Ambition Meets Meat: There Will Be Gravy

I'm not sure what the story is behind this photo...but I'm fervently hoping that it's a promotional still for an upcoming sequel to 2007's fascinating drama, There Will Be Blood. Is that not Daniel Plainview (compare to below) ecstatically bathing himself in his latest gusher—a mushroom-gravy well? I can only imagine how There Will Be Gravy takes up the story...

...After beating Eli to death with a bowling pin, the unstable and reclusive Daniel Plainview craves a new endeavor to satisfy his greed. With the Roaring Twenties in full boom and the American standard of living higher than at any point in its history, Plainview realizes that people can afford to eat better than ever before. And eating better means eating wetter—why have turkey dry when they can afford succulent gravy? Why gag on leathery beef when they can soak it in broth?

As unscrupulous and relentless as ever, Plainview devises a piping system to siphon off gravy boats and corner the California gravy market. And now even the Golden State's richest families must come to him, lest they endure the unpalatability and indignity of dry meals.

"I drink your gravy. I drink it up!" he mocks a Los Angeles magnate before beating him to death with a drumstick.*

* This idea based loosely on Upton Sinclair's 1929 novel Gravy!

Let's hope that I'm right and that, just in time for Thanksgiving...There Will Be Gravy!

(Gravy photo copyright Picture It Now; photo of Daniel Plainview copyright Paramount Pictures.)

Come and Knock on Their Door—And Bring the SWAT Team!

Last night, The Discovery Channel aired a fascinating program called Jack the Ripper in America, in which a former police detective and "cold case" expert proferred strong evidence that the infamous serial killer continued his grisly spree in New York and other American cities in the 1890s. The program made a convincing argument that Jack the Ripper was, in fact, James Kelly, one of the original suspects in the case, whom the London police lost track of after the Ripper's last confirmed victim. Kelly, who had escaped Broadmoor Insane Asylum shortly prior to the first Ripper killing—incarcerated there for stabbing his wife to death in the neck—strangely showed up at the asylum forty years later and offered a detailed account of his whereabouts during the previous four decades. His travels took him to many cities and locales throughout America where various prostitutes had been horribly mutilated during the same time frames that Kelly documented. Additional forensic evidence makes for a strong case that James Kelly was indeed Jack the Ripper.

However, Ripper "experts" have never asked for my theory of Jack's true identity. And I believe I know whose it is.

Are you ready, Scotland Yard?

The real Jack the Ripper must be none other than...














People's Exhibit A: Jack Tripper → Jack Tripper → Jack T. Ripper → Jack the Ripper.

People's Exhibit B: Many of the females with whom Jack Tripper consorted vanished without a trace:

» Roommate Chrissy Snow
» Roommate Cindy Snow (Chrissy's cousin)
» Lana Shields, his flirtatious middle-aged neighbor
» Linda Page, Jack's one-time girlfriend
» Helen (and Stanley) Roper, his original landlords

People's Exhibit C: Jack Tripper achieved a degree in the culinary arts. As a chef, Jack Tripper was an expert with knives and had unlimited access to them.

People's Exhibit D: Posing for years as a gay man, Jack Tripper would not have been perceived by women as a misogynistic threat, some of his eventual victims possibly even befriending and confiding in him. Such an elaborate ruse would, in the eyes of many, remove Jack Tripper from the realm of suspects.

People's Exhibit E: Jack Tripper had a criminal record and spent an unknown amount of time in jail. Even though those bars look as flimsy as a garden lattice, the fact that Jack Tripper was previously incarcerated lends support to a tendency toward violence and a complete disregard for civil behavior. His argyle jumper further suggests that Jack Tripper may have visited Great Britain—and possibly even the Whitechapel district of London, where the murders occurred.

People's Exhibit F: Like the Ripper's fifth victim, Mary Kelly, roommate Chrissy Snow's face was horribly mutilated...albeit with pie ingredients, which caused no permanent injury or disfigurement.




People's Exhibit G: Jack Tripper frequented the Regal Beagle. The modern beagle is an English breed and was highly prized as a hunting dog in 19th-century England—note Darwin's HMS Beagle as an example of the breed's status. As a quintessentially English pub, the Regal Beagle surely was a hangout for expatriated Brits in Santa Monica, a gathering place where English gentlemen could enjoy a pint of bitters while discussing the latest cricket match or ghastly murder. That Jack Tripper spent much time at the Regal Beagle lends strong credence to his possible English heritage.

Now I'm not saying that I've made an airtight case and that the file on Jack the Ripper should once and for all be closed...but I am saying that Vanessa just walked by my office in a thigh-high skirt and black leather boots, so I'm going to have to end this entry to make low, groaning noises...