Machines

It won't come as much surprise to anyone who reads this blog from time to time that my six-year-old likes to take things apart — or rather, he likes to watch me take things apart when something needs repair. (He'll also ask me to take things apart that don't need repair, so he can look inside.) He peers over my shoulder and asks questions about all the parts that had previously been hidden from view. What do they do? How do they work?

Have you ever seen The Secret Life of Machines? It's a charming and amusing series that explores the inner workings and history behind common household appliances and office equipment. (You can watch the entire series here.) I'm thinking of putting a few episodes on my son's iPod — he's still a bit too young for an entire show to hold his interest (it moves along at a relaxed, leisurely pace) but I know he'll be captivated by the sight of machines taken apart to demonstrate how they work (to say nothing of the offbeat gadgets built by Tim Hunkin and Rex Garrod, the two series presenters).

Some people want to keep scissors out of their children's reach — I need to keep the screwdrivers hidden.

Architect

I'm beginning to think my son might be Howard Roark when he grows up.

Toothpaste

My six-year-old's visit to the dentist has revealed a few small cavities. They're very, very small, in the spaces between teeth that are difficult to reach, and they're not in his permanent teeth, but they'll still need to be filled. I feel awful about this. It's not anyone's fault, really ― his diet is good, and his teeth are brushed thoroughly and regularly. But he hasn't been using a toothpaste with fluoride, which might have helped.

When he was younger, we avoided that because of his tendency to swallow toothpaste while brushing. (We used what's referred to as "training toothpaste," instead.) He's old enough now to use a fluoride toothpaste, but my wife has been putting this off, out of a misguided concern that it might somehow be ― dangerous!

After all, fluoride is (according to one source) "a chemical byproduct of aluminum, steel, cement, phosphate, and nuclear weapons manufacturing," not to mention "the active toxin in rat poisons and cockroach powder." It's also used "to refine high octane gasoline, to make fluorocarbons and chlorofluorocarbons for freezers and air conditioners, and to manufacture computer screens, fluorescent light bulbs, semiconductors, plastics and herbicides." It's "a toxic byproduct in the manufacturing process of man made chemicals." And did you know? These industries have created and encouraged the use of fluoride as an additive to avoid having to pay to dispose of it as toxic waste!

I'd heard through the years that water fluoridation was being used for mind control ― you didn't know? ― but I really had no idea that so much effort was being put into convincing people that fluoridated water and fluoride toothpaste are (assuming you believe any of this) so very harmful to the well-being of our children.

And not only that ― scientific evidence to the contrary has been suppressed by the Government!

(I find conspiracy theories endlessly amusing. They're the perfect answer to virtually any argument, with a built-in explanation for the lack of any tangible evidence. Of course there's nothing but speculation to support your suspicions ― the facts have been suppressed, because "they" don't want you to know the truth!)

Unfortunately, my wife seems easily persuaded by such overwrought histrionics. I should argue the point, I know ― she is aware that I don't agree with her on this, and I could set her in the direction of more sensible reading material, and try to reassure her that The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention considers water fluoridation to be "one of the greatest achievements in public health in the 20th century." But we've had these discussions before, and when all is said and done, I don't have any specialized knowledge she doesn't have ― just a sort of instinctual skepticism that this fear of fluoride is based more on ideology than reason. And that never seems to be enough to convince her.

I think I'll let the dentist be the one to try to do that, instead.

Orange Juice

You may have noticed, assuming you buy orange juice and pay attention to such matters, that Tropicana has adopted a new package design. It was introduced this past October (though it began appearing on store shelves only at the beginning of this year), and it almost immediately drew the ire of, well, of people who pay attention to such matters.

(I work in Graphic Design, so of course this is of interest to me — I can't speak for anyone else.)

In most cases, a controversy of this sort might begin and end within that small community of people who pay attention to such matters, and that would be that. (It's a great big, cluttered world of substandard design out there, yet life somehow goes on, despite all.) But Tropicana has received so much criticism of the new package design that they've decided to abandon it, and go back to using the previous version.

I thought the new package design was just fine (though some of that criticism was warranted), and the decision to abandon it so quickly seems premature to me, an overreaction. But what strikes me as most fascinating about this is that people are complaining about the packaging — not the product, or the way it tastes, or what it contains, or how it's difficult to use, but just the appearance of the container the product is sold in. I can't recall that ever having happened before in mass consumer culture.

I wonder — did this become a cause célèbre among people who wouldn't ordinarily pay attention to package design? Or was it just one of those occasions where an Internet meme burned bright enough and hot enough to attract notice?

Television

My six-year-old built a television yesterday morning, on his own. It wasn't a real television, of course ― just a selection of Tinkertoy parts, with a small magnifying glass suspended with a string in front of a flashing light to project the glow on to a shallow translucent plastic container. (And a piece of paper on the back with a drawing of the various parts where you plug in the cables to connect a DVD player.) But it was accompanied by a detailed explanation of how he thought a television might work (drawn in part from my explanation), and anyway, it looks much more impressive than it sounds.

I wasn't sure what to make of this. It was all I could manage to quietly marvel at his accomplishment.

My son builds and draws and imagines and dreams, and I imagine with excitement where these interests might take him. I (quietly) hope he'll be more successful at whatever path he chooses to follow than I've been ― but all I really wish for him is happiness.

Change

I'm so very tempted to get this on a t-shirt for my son! But by the time he's old enough to appreciate it, the humor will have long since been forgotten...

The Atlantic

I've started reading The Atlantic again, after many years. I'm not sure if I picked up a copy in a Doctor's office, or my wife brought home one left on the train, but it has piqued my interest enough to persuade me to subscribe. (My wife reads it, too — she gets irritated with me if I start reading an issue but put it aside, where it might sit for weeks.) I rarely read it from cover to cover, but there's always something of interest.

I think the tipping point might have been the smart redesign the magazine recently unveiled, including the an updated version of a version of the logo that dates back to the 1930s (the idea of which appeals to my anachronistic instincts). The covers haven't been particularly inspired (too much stock photography, not enough imagination), but this type-driven one was an exception. It was one of those rare occasions when I saw a piece of design work and thought "you know, that's just how I would have done that."

Second Street

I remember, from time to time, someone who has always remained very dear to me. I loved her with a joy and abandon that can only be experienced just once, briefly, somewhere between naivety and heartache.

We lived together for a time, in a very small studio apartment across the street from a park, a walk away from the school she was attending. (The neighborhood has scarcely changed in the years since. I once tried to find the building where we lived, but I'd long since forgotten the address, and all of the buildings on the street seem interchangeable.) She wrote poetry — I can still picture her handwriting. (I've had my heart broken far too often by girls who write poetry.) I had just taken my first job in Graphic Design. We lived there for quite some time, yet for some reason, whenever I think of that apartment it's always late in October.

When the relationship dissolved there were tears and pain, of course — but I can't seem to recall any acrimony or bitterness (though she left me just before my birthday). We would always remain close, though at a distance. I remember she used to cut my hair.

Some time after, when she was living in Vermont (though I've forgotten the reasons why) I almost went to join here there. I was at a loose end — that's as much as I remember — and the thought of settling in among a quiet, small town and finding a new life seemed appealing, somehow. (It still does.)

It would be several years, and several changes of address, before we found each other again. Both of our lives had recently become unsettled — she had recently married, or separated (or both) and now had a ten-month-old daughter. It was only with the benefit of experience that I came to realize that I couldn't begin to understand what she must have been going through as a new parent.

That was almost twenty years ago — it seems almost unbelievable that so much time could have passed. By now, her daughter must be almost the age she and I were when we first met.

I've thought of contacting her, again (and again). I can't imagine I have a current address, but I'm reasonably certain a letter could find it's way to her. Part of me would prefer to leave those pleasant memories undisturbed — yet another part is overwhelmed by curiosity.

I tend to walk on, to allow people to pass from my life, never forgotten, but constant in memory.

Door

Have you ever had an experience where a peek through the door, just to satisfy an idle moment's curiosity, leaves you with nothing so much as the wish that it had remained closed?

Snapple

Back in the day, back when I was working at a real job, I'm sure I used to drink three or four bottles of Snapple Tea every day. There may have been brief dalliances with different beverages, but they would never last, and they've long since been forgotten. You never really forget your first love. (I still drink it from time to time, just not on a daily basis.)

I'd heard that Snapple was redesigning it's packaging (see above), and according to this piece in the New York Times, they're making changes inside and out, replacing corn syrup with real sugar as a sweetener. I wonder if I'll notice the difference?

I've somehow missed completely the news that Mint Snapple Iced Tea has been quietly discontinued — perhaps that's why I missed it — which is a big disappointment. That stuff was great.

In Box

In an effort to reduce the clutter, my son now has his very own "In Box" in my office — for his various signs, drawings, diagrams, and miscellaneous Post-It™ notes. ("Fix This Please" he'll write on a note, in handwriting as neat as he can manage, then attach it to whatever object is in need of repair.) He may only be six years old, but I promise you, he somehow generates more paper in a given week than many writers I know.

I haven't decided what I'll do with all of this stuff. I'm not yet ready to buy him his own filing cabinet.

Crows

We had an errand to run at Teatown this morning, so my son and I snuck out to feed the crows just as the snow began to fall. They enjoyed the almonds, but wanted nothing to do with raspberries. (If I had only known this, I would not now have a jacket pocket with a squished raspberry.)

Flat

I need to find a more comfortable chair for my office — particularly for those days when I'm sitting in it for ten hours at a stretch.

Notes

A few interesting (and very much related) items that have attracted my attention over the past week or so...

An investigation by The Times of London has revealed evidence that Andrew Wakefield, the doctor who initially raised concerns over the safety of the MMR vaccine for children, misreported the results of his research, creating the appearance of a possible link with autism. (Wakefield had filed for a patent on what he believed to be a more safe method of inoculation, but made no mention of this conflict of interest when his research was published.)

Following the publication of those results, rates of inoculation in the UK fell from 92% to below 80%. Official figures show that 1,348 confirmed cases of measles were reported there in 2008, compared with 56 only ten years earlier. Two children have died as a result of contracting the disease.

Also this week, according to an article in the Washington Post, "A special federal court [has ruled] that vaccines do not cause autism and that thousands of families with autistic children are not entitled to compensation, delivering a major blow to an international movement that has tried for years to link childhood immunizations with the devastating disorder."

According to the U.S. Court of Federal Claims, the National Childhood Vaccine Injury Act of 1986 established this venue for those “allegedly suffering injury or death as a result of the administration of certain compulsory childhood vaccines may petition the federal government for monetary damages.” What I found particularly interesting is that the nature of this special court did not require the plaintiffs to prove their cases with scientific certainty — only to demonstrate a preponderance of the evidence (or "50 percent and a hair"). That they failed to do even that much, given the amount of research that was reviewed in the course of the hearings, seems especially revealing.

And last month, Alison Singer resigned as the Executive Vice President of Communications and Awareness for Autism Speaks, one of the nation's leading autism advocacy groups, citing a difference of opinion over the organization's policy on vaccine research. Singer has an 11-year-old daughter with autism, and joined the organization when it launched in 2005.

In an interview with Newsweek, she said:

"In general, I disagree with a policy that says, 'Despite what this study shows, more studies should be done.' At some point, you have to say, 'This question has been asked and answered and it’s time to move on.' We need to be able to say, 'Yes, we are now satisfied that the earth is round.'"

I wonder — where does this leave an organization like Autism Speaks? Will they continue to be bound to this specific agenda, in accordance with the beliefs of the constituency that supports them? Or will they invest resources in other areas of research that may prove more useful?

Believe me, I have a great deal of sympathy for parents of children on the Autism spectrum — I'm one of them. The experience of having a young child seems to introduce a sort of irrational insecurity that every decision you make is somehow wrong, and will result in disastrous consequences. It's easy to be terrified by statistics, to be motivated by fear, and to cling to what seems like the most obvious explanation in the face of something you don't understand. But that cannot be used as an excuse not to try to understand.

It frustrates me that, even in the face of considerable scientific evidence to the contrary, the belief persists among many that vaccination is harmful. People are too quick to discount legitimate science when it doesn't tell them what they want to hear, even creating outlandish conspiracy theories to explain away the discrepancy.

With the benefit of routine vaccination, diseases have disappeared — we've grown up without an understanding of the illness and death that they once caused. I'll bet most people of our age aren't aware that there were an average of 16,000 cases of paralytic polio in the United States each year before a polio vaccine became available in the 1950s. Or that there were an average of 450 deaths each year from Measles in the decade before a vaccine (now a part of the MMR inoculation) was introduced.

Saturday

This has been such a busy, exhausting week that I'm finding it difficult to get myself organized to start on the project I'd hope to work on today.

I don't have anything worth noting, really — I'm just procrastinating.

Tonight

All here is peaceful and quiet.

I learned long ago the folly of chasing after the elusive shadow of something that might have been, of injudicious endeavors to calm the emptiness that persists with hollow substitutes.

I am content.

True Story

A valuable lesson, learned from a book I'm currently working on:

Never bring a cake to the home of the person you're having an affair with. It's bound to arouse suspicion.

Darwin

Perhaps you've heard — today is the 200th anniversary of the birth of Charles Darwin.

Not everyone celebrates Darwin's achievements — there are those who misunderstand Darwin's theories on evolution, and those who disagree with his conclusions completely (how much they understand of his work is another discussion entirely), but I had no idea that anyone sought to demonize him. Then again, I'd never heard of Islamic creationist Adnan Oktar — according to Oktar, "Darwinism is essential for materialist philosophy and without materialism there can be no communism, fascism, imperialism, savage capitalism, nor immorality nor terror."

(I'm sure many of those same people don't believe in the theory of plate tectonics, either — they just don't know of anyone to blame for it.)

I've been trying to explain to my six-year-old why Darwin's work was so important — I told a tale that involved chipmunks and sneakers, and I think he got the idea. (It's a start.) Then I thought of a wonderful animated short film from the National Film Board of Canada, Evolution, that I once saw in school, ages ago. I doubt it's seen in schools too often these days, which is a pity — it's completely innocuous, the concepts demonstrated through humor and without words, but I can imagine the outrage that the mere mention of the title might inspire.

Paper

My son and I made Valentine's Day cards for his teachers and classmates yesterday afternoon. We decorated several large sheets of paper with paints and glitter glue, which were cut up to make the individual cards. (Much as I enjoyed doing this, it was motivated partly by necessity — why has it been so difficult to find a box of simple Valentine's Day cards this year?)

My son has come to appreciate the endless possibilities of a blank piece of paper as much as I do. He has a standing invitation to use the Mr. Sketch markers in my office closet and the paper in the Laser Printer (I just wish he'd remember to close the tray when he's done) and he often draws elaborate diagrams of things he has built, or only imagined.

I didn't have glitter glue when I was growing up — I think part of my enthusiasm is in making up for that lost time. It takes forever and a day to dry — particularly when used in large glops, as my son prefers to do — but I like the texture it adds. (We put the sheets of paper in a warm oven to nudge the drying process along.) The package I bought yesterday even had glue that was pearlescent, which I don't think I've ever seen before.

I want to paint again. I've been meaning to get back to that, I just haven't been able to find the time.

I'm wondering — do they make glitter glue in an acrylic paint?

Time Travel

My son built his very own time machine this morning. He travelled back in time, to see the dinosaurs; then he went forward to a time when he might die, to see what that was like. (Not to worry — he's curious about such things right now. It's just a phase.) In the future, he found a skull — which was, I've been told, mine.

They say travel broadens the mind.

Kindle

A new version of Amazon.com's Kindle (the company likes to refer to it as a "Wireless Reading Device") is expected to be introduced on Monday. Have you ever seen one of these? They're a bit smaller than a hardcover book, though a good deal more thin, with a display about the size of your hand.

I tend to be, I will admit, what is often referred to as an "early adopter," someone eager to embrace just about any new technology. In my case, however, that's just about anything except electronic books. I read a great deal of material on my iPhone (before that, when I travelled a long commute by train, I relied on my Newton MessagePad), but it's inevitably short form — blog posts, newspaper and magazine articles, that sort of thing. I've never been the least bit interested in reading books in any form but, well, a book.

As much as I love to read, I love books — the physical embodiment of the book, and what it represents. And I like to see my shelves labor under the weight of books, both read and unread. I like to go to the bookstore, to wander and browse, pick up and leaf through the books I might want to buy. Even more than that, I adore old books. If it were possible, I'd have every book I bought printed on somewhat aged, slightly-yellowed paper, bound in cloth that carried the faint odor of thirty or forty years on a shelf.

I understand how such a device could prove very useful, believe me, I do — but in this instance, I think I shall continue to quietly ignore common sense.

Delirium

I was lying on a flat surface, balanced on top of a sphere. If I remained calm, I could adjust my position, just slightly, to stay comfortable — but if I moved too far in any one direction, I would cause myself to topple over.

Nausea-induced delirium and parenting are not a good combination.

Pockets

It was an especially fine night for dreaming. I'm not sure why (though it might have had something to do with the raw cookie dough I had eaten), but if I closed my eyes for just a moment I would drift away, even without falling asleep. I remember I was looking through some old clothes I no longer wear, finding reminders of experiences I'd never had in the pockets, though they seemed so familiar.

Home Sick

My six-year-old is home sick from school today — not having the sniffles and feeling achy sort of sick, but having a stomach ache and throwing up every hour or so sick, which is miserable and unpleasant. It's most likely a virus, and the effects shouldn't last too long, but he's been left so exhausted he'll be home tomorrow, as well.

It's days like this I'm thankful to have had the time to care for with him as he grows up — I know it won't last forever, but nothing and no one can ever take it away from me.

Prognostication

I don't put a great deal of stock in Groundhog Day (though the groundhog may indeed be a wise and sensible animal), but I'm hoping that the remaining six weeks of winter brings at least one more substantial snowfall. Or better yet, more than one.

(I probably ought to replace the canvas shoes I'm still wearing, though — my traditional winter shoes have inexplicably disappeared.)