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."