I bought a Sunday New York Times this morning. I dutifully picked through each section, scanning in vain for a story that could hold my interest beyond the first two paragraphs. Doesn’t the news ever change? The woe of the Iraqi civilian continues… Iran is flexing its muscle as a nuclear threat… gas prices are pinching the American consumer… inefficiencies abound in the health care industry… Donald Rumsfeld could give a crap about his disaffected denouncers… blah blah blah. Holding the stack of news in my ink-stained hand, I began to resent the condemnation to absorb enough information to justify my $4.50 splurge. Fed up with all these articles of gravity and consequence, I got on the Internet and stumbled across three stories of gravity and no consequence.
Eight feet high and falling: Keith Richards fell out of a tree. Ha. Richards and band mate Ron Wood were climbing a palm tree at a resort in Fiji when Richards slipped, resulting in mild concussion. Everyone wants to know: Why was 62- year old Keith Richards trying to climb a palm tree? For some reason, I am reminded of another venerable Englishman who suffered a head injury at the bottom of a tree: Why should that apple always descend perpendicularly to the ground? Why should it not go sideways or upwards, but constantly to the earth’s centre?
Muslims in Space: Malaysia is preparing to select its first two astronauts to accompany a Russian crew aboard a Soyuz space craft to the International Space Station in 2007, and at least one of the chosen will be a devout Muslim. The issue of how and when to pray 5 times day is a logistical nightmare, not unlike when NASA mulled over a urination strategy for female astronauts for reportedly several years. A Malaysian professor has written a computer program that calculates the times and in which direction the astronaut should face, but bigger issues (such as how to kneel in zero gravity) still loom.
Vitruvian Man: Dan Brown, author of The Da Vinci Code, revealed that his writing habits include hourly breaks for calisthenics and gravity boots, which he credits for helping him develop the plot. I hope those that take this slapdash tome of crackpot ideas seriously realize it was written by a man who was high on his own blood.
