WORMHOLES
I feel like this is a bigger deal than just some Collgehumor video.
Electronic Tattoo Display runs on Blood
Remember getting your mind really blown by new technology?
Clive Thompson on Science Fiction
"If you want to read books that tackle profound philosophical questions, then the best — and perhaps only — place to turn these days is sci-fi. Science fiction is the last great literature of ideas."
Have you ever wondered what space smells like? Yeah, me neither.
NASA beams the Beatles into space
NASA broadcast "Across The Universe" into outer space using the Deep Space Network. Asked to comment, Paul McCartney wisely noted, "Amazing! Well done, NASA! Send my love to the aliens."
The Environmentally Non-Disturbing Under-ice Robotic Antarctic Explorer (ENDURANCE) is a $2.3 million project funded by NASA's Astrobiology Science and Technology for Exploring Planets Program. It's autonomous underwater vehicle designed to swim untethered under ice, creating three-dimensional maps of underwater environments, and ostensibly is a test for exploring Europa, the icy Jovian moon that just might harbor life.
The Archive of Scientists' Transcendent Experiences: as amazing as it sounds.
Literally!
I love it when the New York Times gets all tripped out on science stuff.
Hugest Black Hole Ever Discovered
18 billion times the size of our sun!
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June 2006 Archives
Space Semaphores
Archived From June 19, 2006 (2) Comments
The NASA logo dates from 1959 and is commonly referred to as the "meatball" logo. The sphere represents a planet, the stars represent space, the red chevron is a wing representing "aeronautics," which was the latest design craze at the time of the logo's invention. The orbiting spacecraft going around the wing represents orbiting spacecraft. Iconic and simple: the opposite of NASA's bureaucracy!
When the insignia is used in conjunction with other text (as in letterheads, business cars, or for agency or center identification), the font used is always Helvetica Medium or Light, upper and lowercase, flush left and ragged right. Incidentally, does anyone want to buy me this shirt?
The "worm" logo was designed in the mid 70's and was used until 1992. It's been since retired, I guess because it's aged much worse than the "meatball" has, and is now only used on merchandising. It is never used in conjunction with the "meatball." All of the NASA insignia are classified as public domain except the meatball, worm, and official seal. Here is a really great compilation of mission insignia patches. The NASA/Mir 1997 patch is particularly noteworthy, as is the following smattering:
The Space Station Mir insignia is a good example of the Russian Federal Space Agency's (commonly referred to as Roskosmos) staggeringly cryptic designs. Maybe these slashes represent "aeronautics" as the red swoosh in the NASA logo does. Maybe they do not! All of the Russian insignia, especially from the Soviet era, are really great. The US insignia are, on the other hand, so littered with weird pseudo-symbolic bullshit that they are also notable. "This rocket represents a rocket, and these stars represent stars!" Cool, NASA. It's like that story about the US government spending billions on the Fisher Space Pen that writes upside-down, while the Russians just used pencils.
OK, well, the pen cost $2 million, has been around since 1967, and the Russians don't actually use pencils, but whatever.
The International Space Station actually has a series of really good and twee patches, most of which include a Russian flag sort of rainbow-morphing into the US flag set against a backdrop of barren starry sky. I trip out about that kind of design because of its earnest desire to emphasize completely arbitrary notions of country and nationality, which of course mean nothing in space. I wonder how ISS astronauts handle how much the Station stresses its "international" nature, when all their countries look like green blobs from 250 miles away, anyway. This insignia is good, though, because it's so literal. The Russian one is even more amazingly straightforward, as it is just an outline of the ISS on a blue background and has some guys' last names on it.
The classic Apollo Program insignia. The inclusion of a golden idol of Apollo hybridized with the moon gives the whole program a mythic appeal. The implication is that NASA is sending rockets towards the Classical ideal of space exploration, a kind of Platonic form of the moon. Something else I find terrifying about this design is the fact that it bucks our left-to-right notion of linear progression -- the Moonpollo is to the left of the Earth, implying that the movement from Earth to the Moon is a right-to-left one, which is counterintuitive for a society that reads from left-to-right. Does this mean that the Apollo missions are inherently regressive? Maybe it's because Apollo himself is a figure of the distant past to whom we must return in order to progress. Any insight would be appreciated.
Apollo 11. This insignia is pretty epic; the eagle landing on the moon is a nice synthesis of the literal and symbolic as well as a throwback to Neil Armstrong's famous statement "the Eagle has landed," made when the Eagle lunar module first landed on the moon in 1969. Interesting aside: Wally Schirr, commander of the Apollo 7, refused for a moon to be included in his mission's insignia. "Save that for the guys who are going there," he was quoted as saying.
This one was for Space Shuttle Columbia, the first first STS ever launched, in 1981, and the second ever crashed, in 2003. NASA is now about to launch a shuttle for only the second time since the Columbia disaster. The last test flight was sort of dubious and experts have mixed opinions at best about whether the shuttles are still safe to fly. Floridians, keep your eyes peeled on July 1st!
This is kind of a teaser.
3:07 PM | Permalink | (2) Comments
Gravity's Rainbow
Archived From June 16, 2006 (2) Comments
There are, as far as the layman is concerned, two kinds of scientific truth. At one end of the spectrum -- the gamma ray end, if we use the electromagnetic spectrum as a model -- there are the kinds of concepts we associate with science's grand design, the truths which permeate the dark depths of the unknown universe. These are the terrifying, metaphysical truths: unifying cosmic theories, the afterlife, quantum mechanics. Entire disciplines orbit these, while the average person has only a nebulous idea of what they even represent. On the short-wave radio end, there are those forces governing the makeup of our life, things like the atmosphere of planet Earth or the basic laws of physics. A lot of people think they have a firm grip on these truths -- we learn them in grammar school via dinky experiments and chalkboard lectures.
These concepts comfort us, even if we don't particularly understand them. Take gravity, for example. Its effects are easily measured and simple to calculate, yet they are also endlessly convoluted and vague, to the point where gravity's practicality in the everyday almost seems a wondrous coincidence. We all know what gravity does: it keeps us together, keeps our planet in orbit, and keeps the proverbial apple falling onto Newton's head. However, not even the most Nobel-winning physicist could give a fully comprehensible explanation of just how it does all of those things. Albert Einstein pulled the most impressive coup in scientific history by postulating -- without any experimental evidence or theoretical precursors -- that gravity is the product of the warping of the space-time continuum by large objects. As planets and stars move through the cosmos, Einstein suggested, they ripple the very fabric of space, sending off waves of gravity -- much like a swimmer passing through a body of water leaves a wake of ripples.
Great, so gravity is a wave, not a force. Do we have any proof? Surprisingly, no -- for a force (err, wave) which literally permeates every dimension of our universe, gravity is hard to understand and even harder to detect. Gravitational ripples coursing through space are tremendously weak; even those emitted by the violent formation of supernovas are only tiny atom-sized wrinkles by the time they make it to Earth. Although secondary evidence abounds for the existence of these waves -- the shrinking orbits of some pairs of neutron stars can only be explained by a loss of energy through gravitational waves -- direct observation of this phenomenon has long been considered an impossibility. Not even Einstein (who was, to say the least, a dreamer) envisioned a detector which could parse the tiny effects of gravity waves from the other noises bombarding Earth. After all, how in the hell do you separate a microscopic pulse of gravity (one 10-15, to be exact, about the size of an atomic nucleus) from, say, a roar of seismic activity, the pounding of the ocean, or the movement of cars on a nearby freeway? I know that science is basically magic, but come on -- this is one is impossible. For decades, not even the most foolhardy of physicists even saw the point in trying.
That is, of course, until "dark matter" came along. Dark matter (along with dark energy, dark galaxies, and Los Angeles) is a completely mysterious substance now known to make up over 90% of the Universe, which leaves us and our high-falutin' observatories looking mighty stupid. Along with black holes and pretty much everything else that is deemed important in modern astronomy, dark matter cannot be seen with a telescope. The only reason we know it exists is due to a staggering discrepancy between how much the Universe weighs and how much we know it should weigh; the Universe is much, much heavier than the sum of everything we know to exist within it. Hence: something else, something invisible, is omnipresent. Dark matter.
Unless someone devises a way of detecting whatever dark matter emits, research in this all-important domain (one at the gamma ray end, if you will, of the spectrum of scientific truth) will come to a standstill. What astronomers desperately need is machinery that can feel outer space instead of seeing it. Something that could detect, for example, the gravitational ripples emitted by dark matter.
Enter LIGO: the Laser Interferometer Gravitational-Wave Observatory. The $300 million project, a product of National Science Foundation funding and over 25 years of construction and design, is the most sensitive American gravitational wave detector ever built -- nay, the only American gravitational wave detector ever built. It consists of an absurdist two-part compound, one half of which lies 200 miles from the Pacific in southeastern Washington (the other is in southern Louisiana). Each site is made up of two 2.4 mile-long perpendicular arms and a huge laser interferometer, which splits beams of light and sends them ricocheting back and forth until they lag in speed just enough to announce the presence of a nanoscale gravity beam. Measurements made at the Washington LIGO are cross-referenced with similar measurements taken at the Louisiana LIGO 2,000 miles away.
Friends on the short-wave end of the spectrum, don't worry: I do not understand it either. What is essentially happening at LIGO (where, incidentally, no gravitational waves have yet been detected) is that scientists are using one near-mythic unproven scientific idea to measure something equally fantastical and invisible. It's like using magic and dream-catchers to prove the existence of aliens and crystals, but then again, I'm just on the short-wave end of the spectrum.
12:00 AM | Permalink | (2) Comments
Brethren, to the tides
Archived From June 2, 2006 (4) Comments
I am not an accredited scientist.
In fact, I only just graduated from college. And although the pomp and circumstance has barely dissipated and I'm still getting checks in the mail, I'm already thinking of what the undergraduate experience has brought me: a tolerance for $2 wine, certainly, as well as a toolkit of $2 words. Mostly, however, these four years of liberal arts schooling have thoroughly complicated all of life's simple experiences. Things which once came easily to me -- a willingness to watch hours of television, for example -- are now so rife with "implications" and "problematics" that I can barely enjoy a half hour of Friends without feeling the compulsion to read four chapters of Foucault's The History of Sexuality afterwards. Tourism too has become impossible, since photography is now an act of "othering" and knick-knack shopping a frivolity. Shopping is repulsive. The political nature of junk food has made all dietary indulgences feel criminal. Going to the movies? Not unless I can stifle the chorus of furies whispering pull-quotes from Marxist media texts into my ears. Even the natural world has become tainted with the self conscious venom of the Academy.
I originally came to Los Angeles, my collegiate home for the last four years, because of its proximity to the Pacific Ocean. School is out, forever, and I still live an hour from the sea, from its sunlit waves and its great smog-torn sunsets. Yet, I feel that going out there to bid my adieu is completely pedestrian, irrevocably trite.
I may never manage to recover from this injection of awareness. The way things are looking, I might just be some vegetarian for the rest of my life. Of course, I'm being glib; being an educated citizen sounds alright to me. I am frustrated, though, really, with the impatience instilled in me by my education. I can't sit and look at the tides coming in without automatically getting anxious about the fact that I find them boring. It's impossible to fight. After two minutes, I'm already restless; an unfortunate side effect of my postmodern education is that I now find nature totally banal. What good is the pastoral, right? No way you can have an intelligent discussion with it.
I am aware of how insane it is to brush off 1,340 million cubic kilometers of water like this. It isn't right that 70 percent of the Earthern surface could be ruined by four years of colloquia, Derrida, et-cetera. The main thrust of my post-college summer, then, is going to be toward a great deprogramming of my own mind.
The clincher, though (and what will send me into a self-destructive postmodern frenzy), is that we all come from the sea. The incredibly unlikely development of life on this planet is the result of a fortunate jumbling together of key elements: liquid water, carbon, amino acids and time. Earth is just close enough to a burning star that its water remained consistently liquid long enough to form the primordial soup from whence we came. Although there is some postulation that life could derive from a different combination of substances (ammonia, for example, and silicon), water and carbon happen to be the simplest and most conducive to the great genealogy of planet Earth.
This is to say that all of the creatures on Earth were, at one point along the evolutionary line, aquatic. In a manner of speaking, so were humans. The first circulatory systems only pumped salt water through primitive veins; our own blood retains a percentage of salinity similar to that of the sea. Those organisms that still hang around in the ocean made an evolutionary choice (or whatever) to stay that way, while the rest of us loped onto land and developed esoteric physiology, like limbs and hair. Since the evolutionary track is long and vague, there were million-year periods during which creatures that would or could not hack it on dry land returned to the sea; whales, for instance, are evolved from hoofed land carnivores which readapted to marine life about 50 million years ago. Yet, somewhere along the line there was a cut-off. After millennia of evolutionary futzing around, a point was reached at which the division between the critters of land and sea became set in stone. The point, if you will, of no return. We Homo Sapiens renounced the sea 200,000 years ago and began our path toward stone tools, language, and, eventually, college. We can do pretty much anything now (read books, develop theories, build houses, and have governments) but we cannot comfortably live in the ocean. It was our choice, you know?
Perhaps it is this fact that introduces "problematics" into my appreciation of Mother Sea. The classically trite feeling of insignificance garnered by proximity to the ocean -- the very same feeling my college years have robbed from me -- is perhaps not a dorky appreciation of the natural world but rather a deep human resentment of some long lost evolutionary choice.
And if that is really the case, it looks like graduate school for me.
5:57 PM | Permalink | (4) Comments