Just as far in as I'll ever be out

I'm not sure that weeping is the appropriate response, since I'm the only one to blame if there's finger wagging to be done. Besides, I've had my reasons, oh yes. And they were all perfectly valid reasons at one time or another. Many of them still could be, arguably.

But I still might go have myself a little cry.

As I was saying...

Back on the 19th at around 5:30 in the morning, a large fireball was seen streaking over the skies from Washington to Montana, visible from as far away as Calgary, with various reports, particularly from Spokane, of a sonic boom or sound of explosions. It was even caught on video by a hospital security camera.

On the 17th, a small unknown asteroid disintegrated in the skies over Thule, Greenland, streaking across the sky in a fiery blaze and leaving a trail twisting in the currents of the upper atmosphere.

Just last night, the skies over Ithaca were lit up by a giant fireball the size of a quarter held at arm's length streaking overhead, causing alarm and numerous calls to 911.

As you can guess, it turns out that these things are a lot more common that you might think. After my recent musings, I dug up a little more information on the frequency of such bombardments...
According to calculations by NASA astronomer Bill Cooke, fireballs as bright as Venus appear somewhere over Earth more than 100 times a day. Fireballs as bright as the quarter Moon streak overhead roughly once every 10 days, and exploding asteroids as bright as a full Moon light up the skies about once every 5 months.

This doesn't get a whole lot of press because the vast majority of the things go unnoticed. Half of them occur during the day time and are nearly invisible in sunny skies. Because 70% of the planet is covered by uninhabited ocean, a corresponding 70% or so of the fireballs streak across empty expanses and go unseen. Cloud cover obscures some of the remaining ones. And most of the rest are missed simply because no one is looking up.

I remember seeing a giant green fireball blazing across the western Nebraska night sky spitting sparks as it went while looking out the car window as a kid, heading home from town.

More recently while sitting on the couch one evening just after sunset, I happened to look up to see something bright streaking across the sky and leaving a vapor trail glowing in the fading light of the upper atmosphere. I had the distinct impression it was getting larger and nearer and then with a faint foomp, it blinked out of existence. Turns out it was a missile launched from Vandenberg AFB as part of the interceptor missile defense program. But still, it got my heart pounding.

In any case, you may want to keep an eye to the heavens -- chances are actually pretty decent that you'll spot something bigger than dust streaking through the atmosphere.

For the record

Regarding my previous post:

They say your odds of getting struck by lightning are better than winning the lottery. So I'm not sure why I went on a lottery ticket buying binge after my little shock. I gave up when I realized that the odds of both getting stuck by lightning AND winning the lottery must be infinitesimal.

I didn't seek medical attention at the time. A few years later, I began having heart rhythm problems and it didn't immediately occur to me that the two could be related. I sheepishly mentioned the lightning to my doctor while being treated and he was all, um, hello? Duh.

As my hair thins, people often ask if I sunburned my scalp if they see the top of my head, when I definitely have not. Apparently my baldspot is pretty red -- right where I was zapped. I have no idea if the two are related.

I don't know the exact date it happened -- it seemed like the sort of thing I would never forget and I never wrote it down. 10 years on, all I know is it was in February.

I'm fairly certain that I did not experience the main lightning strike. Electrical current traveled through me, no doubt, but my guess is that the bolt either bounced off a nearby tree, or that I just got in the way of one of the little feeder bolts.

My former zeal for thunderstorms was somewhat diminished for a while. When visiting my Dad in Cheyenne in late spring and early summer, I'd sit tensely on the couch downstairs, my heart skipping a beat with each flash and clap of thunder, where before I'd have been standing under the eaves watching the show.

I don't tell the story much. The opportunity to talk about it doesn't arise frequently, and when it does, I can recognize that look of skepticism on people's faces.

I still have the umbrella.

I cannot bend spoons with my mind. I tried.

The Lightning Incident

I imagine that there are a few moments in everyone's lives when something outrageously absurd or terrifying happens that momentarily cracks the shell of mundane reality enclosing our daily existence and allows us to catch a fleeting glimpse of the Truth flickering through from the vast beyond. For a brief instant, it's as if you suddenly get it, the blazing lightbulb of insight blinks on over your head and the great cosmic joke makes sense.

You are the punchline.

And just as you're grappling with the enormity of it all, the hot bulb burns itself out in a blinding flash, the fissures fuse and answers are again out of reach beyond the protective shell of comprehension's limit. You're left standing alone, unsure of your footing, your confidence that the world is unfolding as it should shattered. And in answer to all the questions now fumbling about in your mind, only the empty dark.

*-*-*-*

Today was a crazy weather day of scudding clouds, glints of sun, and sporadic downpours. Unsettled weather is not uncommon for February in San Francisco, and in truth, I look forward to these days for their atmospheric drama, which, as I've mentioned before, is usually in short supply here.

Not so ten years ago, as El Nino gripped the California coast and the headlines, unleashing the 2nd wettest rainfall season on record with 230% of the average precipitation, and a record 119 days of measurable rain. Records fell for daily rainfall, monthly rainfall, and even the number of broken records. Drama was played out daily in the sky, on the streets, in the news. Hillsides slid into the sea, dry creekbeds washed away homes, the Bay became muddy brown and was littered with debris and the contents of people's upstream homes.

Thus, on a fateful February day ten years ago, not unlike today, on the first weekend day in ages that sun gleamed between rolling cotton-topped clouds, I resolved to resume my long-dormant outdoor adventures. Knowing that my window of opportunity would be brief , I grabbed my roommate's large umbrella as insurance and set out on foot from my North Beach apartment, determined to walk all the way to Ft. Point at the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge and back.

By the time I'd crossed through the Marina, puffy black clouds had billowed before the sun and I heard the distant unfamiliar rumble of thunder from beyond the Golden Gate. Crissy Field in those days was still derelict runway and fenced-off landfill with a worn path just up from the surf, lined by a few tall palms. Just as the rain began, I took shelter beneath a small stand of cypress trees on the shore, Bridge in view. The shower was brief, as expected, and I set out again hoping to reach my destination before the next wave of dark clouds swept in. Another warning peal of thunder, closer now, echoed from just outside the Gate, but I paid no heed, lightning and thunder being so infrequent in the Bay Area that I felt only a slight thrill in its improbable presence.

As I passed the last palm tree, about a half mile from Ft. Point, it began spitting icy rain again and I opened the large umbrella swinging by my side, its taut yellow & black nylon vaulting overhead reassuringly substantial and defiant. I set out across the last bleak stretch of exposed weeds and sand, and laughed off the momentary thought that I shouldn't stray too far from where the trees were taller than I.

And at that exact instant, several things happened at once: a bright flash of blue-white light filled my vision, the air cracked and ripped overhead, cinematic blue electricity curled down the umbrella spring behind me reflected in my glasses, and a sharp shock of buzzing pain seared at the back of my head.

I knew immediately what had happened, threw the traitorous umbrella to the ground and reached up to where my scalp tingled. My head was tender but didn't seem burned; my hair, now wet, was all in place. I put my hand over my heart: it was still beating. My pulse was racing but strong. I had feeling in all my limbs. For some reason I checked my hiking boots too: still on my feet, soles intact.

I stood there agape for several moments, rain running into my wide eyes and soaking through my clothes while I tried to comprehend it. Looking around for witnesses, all I saw was an empty expanse of old asphalt and weeds up to the nearest row of buildings, and above that the ceaseless traffic of the Bridge approach. No one else was foolish enough to be out.

Unsure of what else to do, I resumed, trudging the remaining distance to the path leading up the wooded bluff towards the road deck and the tourist viewpoints above the Fort. Thoroughly soaked now, I stood for a time partway up the trail surrounded by lush calla lilies and nasturtiums whose blossoms impatiently awaited the waterlogged sun, staring blankly at the Bridge and moody hills beyond, having reached my destination but still baffled by the bolt from above.

I stood there trying to read meaning into the improbable, wondering why me; wondering how this could happen here, in San Francisco where lightning is seen only once every few years, instead of my Front-Range home that is one of the most lightning-riddled places in the country; wondering if anyone would believe the absurdity of my story or would simply assume I was making the whole ridiculous thing up; trying to decide if I was incredibly lucky to be unhurt or terribly unlucky to have been singled out at all; going over it again and again in my head.

Finally, as the pelting rain gave way to another patch of sun, the unfazed vermilion Bridge arching gracefully across the steely grey waters into the indifferent purple distance, I picked my way back down the slope and worked my way back the way I had come, stopping to pluck my umbrella out of the puddle in which it lay. My apartment, when I finally returned, was empty and suddenly lonely -- the roommates having gone to Tahoe for the weekend -- and not knowing what else to do, I called home.

"Mom? I just got struck by lightning. No, no, I'm fine, really I think I'm ok..."

Cake and Glory

Last night was San Francisco's Chinese New Year Parade, one of the biggest celebrations of its kind outside of Asia, and an event that has been taking place since just after the Gold Rush. Tens of thousands of people generally crowd Union Sq and Chinatown to watch the floats and dragon dancers wind through the streets, culminating two weeks of firecrackers, carnivals, and other festivities.

Another of the great San Francisco events takes place during this parade: the annual Chinese New Year Treasure Hunt. I'd heard of this for several years but somehow always missed it, until I finally got my act together in 2004 and organized a team to join the Hunt. It's put on by a former P.I. and San Francisco lover who also happens to be a big film noir buff. You're provided with a map of the city, a street index, and a cluesheet with 15-20 clues that, when solved correctly, lead you all over the Financial District, North Beach and Chinatown, seeking random signs, obscure plaques, and interesting architectural details in the backalleys and hidden sidestreets of The City.

It's always a great time and the rules state that your team has to stay together and track down all the answers on foot, returning the answer sheets by 9pm. The clues are never easy, and navigating the streets and alleys can be challenging in the dark, especially if you must cross paths with the parade and accompanying crowds. I've put together a team for each of the past 4 years at the Beginners level, but never came in higher than 12th place (out of more than 100 teams). The prize for winning is merely a cake, some champagne, and the glory of bragging rights -- proceeds go to local charities, and the fun is in the pursuit.

So I rounded up another ragtag team of people this year, but bumped us up to the Regular level of difficulty. The weather forecasts predicted torrential rains and gale force winds. Fortunately, aside from an occasional downpour, the weather wasn't too miserable and everyone braved the elements to huddle over the cluesheets, map out our route, and strike out into the night armed with headlamps and flashlights.

And guess what? We came in 2nd place!! Having answered all of our clues correctly, we arrived a full 20 minutes ahead of the next placed team.

It might not seem like much, but believe me when I tell you it's a big deal (to me). We took our cake and bottle of champagne and shared the sweet wet glory of victory behind the Ferry Building, the glimmering lights of the Bay Bridge arching into the distance.

Hooray Rat Bastards*! You guys** are the best.

Gung Hay Fat Choy!

* It's the year of the Rat. Team names are traditionally related to the appropriate lunar zodiac animal.

** Nichole, Dustin, Seth, Josh, Beth & Adam

More space junk

As one might expect, I was pretty stoked for tonight's big lunar eclipse. These things may be more common than solar eclipses, but they still don't roll around all that often. The next one, in fact, isn't until 2010. But I was still a little flabbergasted by a couple people at the office who apparently had never even thought about the workings of the solar system or ever bothered to look up and were just clueless. One person in particular managed to mix up the eclipse with the moon phases, not understanding that the moon must be full in order for it to be anywhere near Earth's shadow, and this person also asked me if it would be safe to look at, somehow confusing staring at the shaded moon with looking into the sun.

In any case, it was the first cloudless and rain-free day for several, so I had high hopes to get a good view of totality, with the moon hopefully a deep blood-red shade, lit only by the light of all the Earth's simultaneous sunsets and sunrises.

Alas, by the time I got home, the clouds had swept in to obscure the moonrise. Boooo! I spent an hour or so on the roof, with only an occasional glimpse through thin cloud cover. My camera was able to pick up more light than my eyes were, and with a long enough shutter speed even got Saturn and the star Regulus on either side of the moon through the orange clouds. Better than nothing I s'pose. Though I was pretty annoyed when the sky cleared completely after the moon emerged from shadow. Grr.

The clouds also prevented any sighting of possible debris reentry from the rogue US spy satellite that was shot down tonight by a navy missile 130 miles above the Pacific. Not that I know what the orbital track of said debris might have been, but you know, I guy can hope. I gotta say, I'm pretty impressed that the military can launch a missile that can, a mere 3 minutes later, intercept an object the size of a school bus traveling 17,000 mph.

Anyway, hope y'all had a better view of the moon than I did. And may your skies remain free of falling debris.

Teach a man to knit

I'm making progress whittling down the number of projects on the go. Zoe should be proud. It's been a year and a few months since she taught me the knitting basics (picture us sitting in the balmy breezeway of the Hilo airport, awaiting our flight to Honolulu, needles in hand and yarn in lap, knitting away), and I'm still at it. Not that I'm terribly good, nor particularly persistent, but I've certainly been practicing and learning new things.

Pictured is my most complicated project to date. Ok, fingerless mittens are not exactly gloves or a sweater, but hey, I said I wasn't that good. But there's a thumb gusset and braided cable knit, not to mention the color changes. I'm kind of proud of the outcome.

My friend Andrea was giving me a lot of good-natured shit about my knitting. She sits next to one of my more knitting-obsessed buddies at work, so every time I was over in her cube asking questions or showing off a project or ooh-ing over her latest yarn, Andrea would stand up and roll her eyes and point and laugh. So I made these for her to shut her up.

I wasn't so sure of the colors, but hilariously as I stepped into her cube I saw a pair of store-bought pink and brown striped fingerless gloves already sitting on her desk. Her girlfriend had bought them for her just yesterday. I didn't intend to upstage her girlfriend, but she likes my gift better. Heh. She can only wear them, however, on the condition that she quits with the pointing and laughing.

Just prisoners here, of our own device

Ahhh. The sky is clear and blue, the sun is shining brilliantly, the chill in the air is not of drafty winter but of breezy springtime. Somehow, despite the temperature being exactly the same as it was last month, a light jacket suffices today instead of layered sweaters and fleece and windstop nylon.

The sweetgum trees dividing Columbus Ave have just finally dropped the last of their fading crimson leaves, and already the twigs are bursting with little chartreuse glints, a sort of reverse origami unfolding into familiar star shapes. The puzzle-barked sycamores are also burgeoning with fuzzy fits of celadon on their extremities. And best of all, the cherry trees are in full bloom, filling the air with an amazing sweet smell and a confetti of pink petals.

It's February, people, and I must admit that I can barely remember the purpose or timing of Groundhog Day anymore when surrounded by things springing all around. I'm wearing shorts and filling my lungs with allergens and reaffirming my love for California.

I'm also going in to the office on a Saturday to do 5 hours of user testing on new ticket-tracking software. Which is somewhat less inspiring.
Poop.

How long will that last?

I'm remarkably bad at actively staying in touch with my friends, as basically everyone who reads this thing can attest. I don't know why that is exactly. I think a chunk of it is laziness or lethargy. Some of it is forgetfulness, distraction, and an insensibility to the warp-speed passage of time. A bit is also my introversion and insecurity, which is ridiculous I know, but true nonetheless. As much as I love and enjoy my friends, I'm no great lover of the phone or the thought of social settings, and while the actual call or night out is usually quite enjoyable, working up to it requires clambering over some deep inner obstacle that has always been there.

In any case, I just had a lovely evening with a couple old friends, one of whom I haven't seen in far too long, despite her regular visits to the City for work. My buddy Jeff has been crashing at my place for a week every month in his commute to work from Spokane, and his former roommate Colleen happened to have the night off from her job, so we all went out for drinks and dinner at the little Italian Trattoria up the street.

I won't bother going into all the history and crazy stories the three of us could tell -- many of which we retold ourselves over wine and tortellini. But it highlighted the importance of friendships, especially in the absence of family -- that crazy bond born of shared experience, be it good or bad, so rich and necessary. I'm vowing to make an effort to improve my friendship maintenance, lest my emotional well-being completely yellow, wither, curl and die like the neglected plant in the dark corner.

Little Chicken

Um... Yikes.
You're probably sick of me talking about stuff in the sky, but it's a long-standing fascination of mine, so you'll just have to cope. Or skip ahead.

The more stuff they look for out in the cold dark vastness beyond our paper-thin atmosphere, the more stuff they're finding. No secret there. And they're up to 927 known Potentially Hazardous Asteroids that they're tracking and which can come closer to Earth than 0.05 AU (Astronomical Units - the distance between Earth & the Sun), or roughly 20 times the distance between the Earth & Moon (LD). Which is admittedly still a long distance, except in the context of the vastness of the solar system.

In just the last 6 days, no fewer than 12 of these things have whizzed past the planet, all of them discovered only in the last month. Just yesterday, in fact, a new one, 2008CT1, was discovered... but only after it went sailing by, narrowly missing Earth by a mere 72,000 miles. That's less that a third of the distance to the Moon, people.

I find this alarming.

Now, I recognize that this particular close call was a relatively tiny object the size of a school bus or two, so it's understandable it wasn't seen sooner. And had it actually slammed into the planet, it likely would have exploded in the atmosphere in a fireball and littered a little patch of ocean with a few tiny fragments at worst. And I understand that the overall odds of anything big striking us are pretty miniscule. And there are lots of eyes and bits of software looking for these things.

But it's also been a long time since something hit us. Not that records are terribly good when it comes to this, since impact frequency is so low, the planet is mostly unpopulated, and written history so short. Barringer Crater in AZ is roughly 50,000 years old and is the largest recent crater by far. Henbury and Kaali crater fields in Autralia and Estonia are both around 5,000 years old. The Wabar craters of Saudi Arabia are perhaps only 150 years old and were created by an explosion equivalent to the bomb that leveled Hiroshima. The Tunguska Event in 1908, on the other hand, left no crater but instead flattened 830 square miles of forest as an object perhaps 60 meters across detonated in the atmosphere 3-6 miles above the Siberian taiga.

Guesses about how often these sorts of things occur vary widely. Which is why folks are scouting the skies, hoping for some advanced warning. It seems to me they've got some work to do yet.

Although, given that there's not much we could probably do about it were we to discover something coming at us at 50 miles per second, maybe it's better to not see the thing coming and remain in the dark...

A Super Tuesday

Change is in the air.

The atmosphere today was so clear it was almost as if there was none. The buildings of downtown stood crisp and vivid against the cerulean deep as candescent-rimmed silver halide clouds rolled across the middle distance. Every shadow was a razor's edge of contrast making the world look simultaneously both cutout and multidimensional.

The air made itself known, however, by the sharp scent of ozone and leftover rain, mingling with loamy spice of wet bark and earth. Half a block from my apartment stand two Victorian Box trees in perpetual blossom, whose riotous florid branches fill the air with a sublimely sweet honey orange perfume.

The world seems to be throwing off the chill winter dark and emerging into a brightly lit season of renewal, fresh hope and promise.

The perfect day, in fact, for an election.