Call 9-1-1 for that ice cream headache

So, my good friend Steve Carr, a telecommunications consultant that does work for the state, put together a 5-year strategic plan for California’s 9-1-1 Emergency Service Program.

He was telling me that the widespread use of 9-1-1 for non-emergency calls in the state is somewhere between astounding and stupefying.  That's NON-emergency calls.

People call 9-1-1 and ask, “Was that an earthquake?” or, “That fool behind the counter at Burger King screwed up my order and won’t gimme my money back. Can you send a cop to arrest him?” or, “Can you send someone to help me find my cat?”

In fact, the 9-1-1 call centers in California get 24 MILLION non-emergency calls every year! I know, think about that.  That's more than 65 thousand NON-emergency 9-1-1 calls every day!  What the hell!

But I’ve always said we don’t use enough carrot and stick regarding 9-1-1 calling. We’ve had some pretty spectacularly failed attempts at educating the public about when and when not to call. The outreach has been a joke.

But, look at the policy for bringing liquids on board an aircraft: 3-1-1 (3 ounces, 1 quart bag, 1 bag). They’ve simplified the policy to a no-brainer and then just continually drum it into our brains at airports anyway.  It's virtually impossible to NOT know the rules.

If California's Emergency Services Program Office was really prepared to simplify an outreach program, for the long haul, and then follow it up with actual fines, they could change the whole dynamic inside of a year.

Fines could be assessed as a regular part of your phone bill like a tax for non-emergency calls.  It's not like they don't know who to fine.  They've got your phone number and address.

And they should add a motto like the airports' 3-1-1 program - just to make it stick.  I'm thinking, “Don’t call and whine, or we’ll drop a dime,” or “Before you dial, bleed awhile.”

Maybe even simpler would work best.  They could comprise a little diddy that everyone could sing so they remember what is actually an emergency.  Or like a cheerleader, “H - L - B - G, Hearts, Lungs, Brains and Guns.  Nothin’ else for the 911s.  Go Team!”

Whaddaya think?

The Biggest Baby Boom

How I survived one (comparatively) small explosion and became a Superhero.

The moral is generally relegated to the end of a story. I'm going to resist that temptation and state here upfront, "If something looks too good to be true, beating on it with a blunt object generally won't make it look any better - and could be detrimental to your health."

Our Superhero - that would be me - is a Baby Boomer. But, what I've recently discovered is that many non-Baby Boomers don't really know how we acquired the Baby Boomer moniker. So, before I begin the story of the Biggest Baby Boom, let me clear up a few things germane to the story.

At the end of World War II (that's right, kids - the Big One), all of the young men who fought in the war came home and knocked up their significant others. And then, just for drill, they did it again. Several times, as it happens. It's not that they were trying to knock a hole in the bottom of it or anything. It's just that if you run around Europe and Southeast Asia long enough with a bunch of numbskulls trying to shoot your gazpachos off, you're likely to get a little homesick for that sweet young thing you left behind.

So, the country had this wave of cuddly new arrivals from 1945 to 1965 in the form of one of the largest population booms in modern history. Hence, the Baby Boom. And hence-squared, my membership as a Baby Boomer. But this particular Baby shared in another Boom that was quite large as well.

Kids today tend to play... Well, kids today don't actually 'play' at all, as it turns out. They ‘compute.’ If you said to your 12 year old son, "Let's go out back and play catch," he would likely look at you as though you had a giant snot hanging out of your face and ask, "Catch what?"

But back before the beginning of time, before the iPod, Blackberry, XBox and computer terminal, we played. Outside. Superman was big back then. I distinctly remember many the metaphysical discussion as to whether Green Lantern could actually kick Superman's butt (no way, as it turns out). So, we played various superheroes. We also played war.

Seems strange today to say we played war. But, remember it wasn't that long after World War II and most of our fathers served in the armed forces. So, one beautiful summer Sunday afternoon we were playing war. "Gotcha with my machine gun!" "No, I got you first with a hand grenade!" Life was good - in a macabre sort of way.

On this particular afternoon I was in the front yard with my two younger brothers and a neighbor kid named Dana who lived two doors away. During one particularly heated discussion about who (shooter) had shot whom (shootee) first, and whether or not the shootee was too severely injured to get their own shot off afterward (usually as the shootee fell, grimacing and mortally wounded, onto the grass), Dana interrupts everyone and blurts out, "Hey, I got a bomb!"

The three of us stood there wide eyed, with our mouths open to the last word we were going to say in our heated discussion, looking at Dana in stunned and utter disbelief. A kid doesn't usually step up to the plate with this kind of announcement. It was somehow unreal. My younger brothers looked back and forth from me to Dana. Playing for time to reflect, I wiped my nose on my sleeve and sniffed.

I finally summed up the conventional wisdom on the subject by stating categorically, "Nuh uuhh." To wit, Dana responded, "I do! It's in the garage!"

Whoa! Whoa! Whoa, now! Things were definitely getting interesting. If a kid says, "I got a bomb," that's one thing. But, if he adds, "It's in the garage," that puts a whole new twist of legitimacy on the issue.

On the other hand, we couldn't just make the jump to ready belief on such flimsy evidence. So, I added, "Oh yeah? Well, go get it!" That should have shut him up.

Now, I should point out here that whereas we stood in stupefied disbelief that a 10 year old kid, through some magical quirk of fate, could possibly have a bomb and was running across the neighbor's lawn toward his garage, we didn't really hold out too much hope. My brother Mark finally asked, "You think he really has one?" I thought about it as he disappeared into his garage, and as much as I prayed he did, I said, "No way."

But, there were other factors and exigent circumstances to be considered, as it happened. Dana's father, Mr. Nordine, belonged to a Jeep club. A Jeep club was the pre-cursor to today's off-road 4-wheel-drive clubs. They went in for the same rock-climbing, trail-travelling, mud-busting, beer-belching activities. They just used surplus military Jeeps after the war instead of the now-common 4-wheel drive SUV with A/C, MP3, OnStar, GPS and DVR.

Mr. Nordine and his cronies would travel Southern California and Northern Mexico deserts on weekends. From Mexico, he would bring home some of the most awesome fireworks imaginable - including firecrackers. Powerful ones.

Now, we weren't exactly "certified" for firecrackers - parentally speaking. But, one doesn't let that exacerbate one's playful fun. Stick a No. 2 pencil into an apple and then shove a firecracker into the hole and you've got yourself a "hand grenade" that any 12-year old would be proud to have in his arsenal of military weapons.

Back to the Jeep club. On one fateful trip, it turns out, the Jeep club was travelling through a former military practice bombing range in the desert north of Barstow, CA. After the war, the military had combed the area, looking for unexploded ordnance, before turning it over to the U.S. Bureau of Land Management for public use.

But - and here's where things get interesting - they missed one. Even on the Bureau of Land Management's website it states, "More than 5 million acres of BLM-managed land that is open to public access may contain munitions or explosives of concern." Ouch!

Enjoying about the same amount of common sense as any red-blooded American 4-wheel drive aficionado, Mr. Nordine opted to bring it home and use it as a doorstop in the living room. I mean, what else? Right?

Although I haven't actually read the BLM's handbook, "Unexploded Ordnance: Safety is Your First Priority," I'm fairly certain that "doorstop" is pretty far down on the "suitable uses" list.

It was a real conversation starter. It was about 30 inches tall, dull army-green in color, about 6 inches in diameter at the mid-point, and had three fins encased in a thin metal cylinder. As you can see, it was your standard issue military bomb. The markings were in white stencil and included a serial number, part number and "25 lb Navy Practice Bomb" among other notations.

It also made a superior doorstop since you could stand it on end on the fins. The historical references get a little fuzzy at this point, but that scenario seems to have lasted for about three days until the novelty wore off and Mrs. Nordine said, "Get that ugly thing out of my living room," whereupon it was duly relegated to Mr. Nordine's garage for a number of years.

Back to our superheroes. My two brothers and I were discussing the pros and cons of a tee shirt versus a hand towel tied around, or safety-pinned to, one's neck as a Superman cape, when we looked up and - to our utter disbelief and astonishment - saw Dana dragging a bomb across the grass toward us. He said, "I had trouble getting it off the shelf." No doubt. It was a bomb. A big one. He couldn't lift it. However, being two years older, much wiser, and considerably stronger, I could lift it.

As you can imagine, we were elated! I mean, how often do you suppose a bunch of knucklehead kids who are used to piddly little firecrackers stuck in a Macintosh Apple, get their grubby little hands on a real military bomb? It was almost more than we could fathom! We were giddy with excitement!

Now, I have to make one final sidetrack to the story. My dad worked on Navy bombers during the war. He worked on the electrical systems of the planes. So, you can imagine that he'd seen his fare share of bombs in and around those planes. So, when I led a parade of kids into the house carrying our new prize, you can perhaps imagine the scene.

My dad was sitting at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. (Apparently an expertise he had also picked up in the Navy.) When he looked up, he saw me holding this "apparatus." I will remember to the day I die the look on his face. The wheels were spinning, smoke was coming out of his ears, and the clockworks were just about to come apart at the seams.

He finally said, "Where in the hell did you get that thing!?" I was so proud I could hardly contain myself, "It's Mr. Nordine's! We're playing with it!" He eyed it for another 20 seconds or so before finally saying, "Well, get it out of here before you drop it on the wood floor." With that, we exited stage right.

I don't know for sure, but I would guess he nicked his finger on the next potato while thinking, "It couldn't be real. Could it?"

Back in the yard we propped it up on the fins and took a good long look at our new prize possession. Someone finally said to me, "What should we do with it?" Well, I don’t want to sound smug here, but I was 12 years old. Of course I would know what we should do with it. It's a bomb. You drop it. I mean, duuhh!

I ran into our garage and got a long rope, brought it out and told Dana (he was the smallest and most agile) to climb the tree in the yard and run the rope over the highest big branch. While he was climbing, I tied the other end of the rope to the narrow part of the bomb above the fins. My brothers and I then carried it over to the base of the tree. When Dana came down with the other end of the rope, the four of us hoisted it high up into the tree.

With grins from ear to ear, we shouted "Bombs away!" and let go of the rope. It was a beautiful sight coming down through the branches. Four pairs of eyes watched with satisfaction as it sailed down through the tree limbs and thudded into the yard.

When a 25 pound bomb is dropped from about 40 feet onto a soft surface, it tends to "stick" the landing. That is, it stuck upright by sinking a hole about 4 inches deep into the wet earth under the grass. We thought this was the coolest part of the whole enchilada. Like something you would see in a cartoon. It was exciting and we treated it like your standard issue shampoo instructions: hoist, drop, repeat.

Being slightly smarter than your average domesticated animal, we discovered that if we had Dana climb up the tree and grab the rope at the limb, we could hoist the bomb up much easier while dragging Dana back down to the ground.

This went on for a number of bombing runs until my mom happened to glance out the front window and said, "Daddy, what are those honyoks doing out there?" But, before dad could explain that we were simply engaged in your standard bombing run, mom witnessed an impact and the bomb sticking into the yard; whereupon she yelled out the window, "You kids stop that before I come out there and scald all of you! You're ruining the grass!" Leave it to mom.

Scalding was apparently de rigueur corporal punishment for her parents' generation. And although we were never actually subjected to the treatment, the prospect of it generally gave us pause. Just when you thought that life couldn't get any better, moms will invariably throw a spanner in the works every last time.

We unplugged the bomb from the ground, disengaged the rope, turned it over and balanced it on the fins. After some reflection, someone asked, "What do we do now?"

Well, it was obvious to me, "If we can't drop it... we'll take it apart."

We knelt down around the bomb and gave it a good once-over in order to gauge our options. There didn't seem to be a readily available section that could be disassembled.

The nose at the top, however, was promising. It was a hole about an inch and a half in diameter, with the green sides of the unit coming up and rolling over or folding into this hole. The depth of the hole itself couldn't be ascertained right away as it was compacted tightly with hard sand, right up to the top. I went into the garage to get a tool.

I was 12 years old. The concept of "the right tool for the job" was one in which I would not be enlightened for another quarter century or so. So, I grabbed the first tool I saw on my dad's workbench; a humongous screwdriver with a hard yellow plastic handle. (Note to reader: The hard yellow plastic handle figures importantly into the story at a later date.)

I started digging the packed sand out of the nose cone with the screwdriver. Once in awhile, we would tip the bomb over and dump out the loose sand. We finally uncovered the entire hole down to a depth of about 2 inches. In the bottom of this 2 inch shaft was a little tin cup with quarter inch high sides that fit perfectly into the hole and had a small screw in its center. Now we were getting somewhere - something we could take apart.

However, upon attempting to unscrew the little screw, two things happened. First, the screwdriver was just too large and stripped the top of the screw. And second, we noticed in the process that the little tin cup twisted slightly when we tried the screw. The cup was slightly loose.

I stuck the screwdriver in to the edge of the cup on an angle and tried to pry it up. It came up about an eighth of an inch. Hmm. Not bad. I tried again and it came up another eighth. It was sliding up the shaft and we could hear the grind of sand between the cup and the shaft as it moved. But, we were making significant progress.

I continued this effort until the cup was about three-eighths of an inch from the top. On my next attempt, the cup came up all the way to the top so that the rim of the cup was level with the rim of the shaft - and in do so, it made a loud "Click."

Unbeknownst to the hair-brains operating on said bomb, we had just managed to arm it. Apparently, we were to find out from the Marines much later, a plunger device was used to suck that little tin cup up to the top of the shaft in order to arm the bomb prior to loading it in the plane's bomb bay. This particular specimen missed the arming step, and was dropped in the desert with a noticeable thud, sans explosion. We had simply completed the arming step - somewhat later in the process.

You can imagine our disappointment. As hard as we tried, that tin cup wouldn't budge - up or down. On the other hand, it was a thin piece of tin. How hard could it be to just puncture it and pry it out of there?

You know how little kids will sit on the ground on their bottom with their knees out front and their feet tucked back to the sides? That's how Dana and my brothers were arranged around the bomb. So the top of the bomb, at about 30 inches, was at or above their eye-level. I, on the other hand, was kneeling upright and held the big screwdriver by the hard plastic handle. I was stabbing at the tin cup as hard as I could.

This was no Norman Rockwell painting. Not even a Currier & Ives. But, you could not have produced a more thought-provoking Kodak Moment if you had all of the National Geographic photographers from all time stuffed in a broom closet. We didn't have a copy of "Bomb Disassembly for Dummies." Just four kids huddled around an obvious military bomb with one of them hammering on the nose cone. You couldn’t make this stuff up!

I only hit the cup about once every four stabs. But when I did, the screwdriver did some damage. The tin started to fold and bend inward. I remember thinking at the time that with one or two more well-placed stabs of the screwdriver, either the tin would be punctured or it would fold down into the shaft in a manner that would allow me to pry the cup out. Just one more stab and...

It detonated...

I don't actually remember it exploding. The next thing I remember is opening my eyes, laying on my face looking across the top of the grass sideways and down the street. Thick black smoke would obscure my line of sight now and then. I had this large red "flash" imprinted across my vision that I couldn't seem to see past. And, although I saw people running every which direction, my hearing consisted of nothing but a loud ringing sensation. As I pushed myself up to a sitting position, I heard my oldest brother somewhere in the far distance yell, "Get back! It could blow again!" Well, that's all the information I needed at the time.

I made a dash for the side of the house, through the gate and into the back yard. I remember as I was making my exit, seeing my dad in the driveway grabbing any kid he could get his hands on and checking them for wounds. When I got to the backyard, I fully expected to hear another explosion and see wood two-by-fours come flying over the house. Why 'two-by-fours' I couldn't say. It was the only thing that came to mind at the time. But, I couldn't hold still either. My eyes were stinging badly.

About two cups of sand, and one nasty piece of metal, had hit me squarely in the face. I had been kind of bent over to get the most thrust into my screwdriver stab. So, when the bomb exploded I was - mostly - out of the way.

These practice bombs were designed as a bombardier's visual aid. They were filled mostly with sand but had a spotting charge that could be seen from a very high altitude: a large (red) flash and a huge amount of (black) smoke. “Spotting charge” maybe, but it was a goodly blast nonetheless - even for someone used to firecrackers from Mexico. And latent sand in the top of the bomb had been blown into our faces and eyes. As the top of the bomb came apart, it also provided two other accoutrements.

Aside from the thousands of sand pebbles, a piece of brass shrapnel hit me squarely in the cornea and sank deep into my eye. And the blast ripped the hard yellow plastic handle off the screwdriver - also ripping up the side of my hand and little finger. Back to the backyard.

Both my eyes and my hand were stinging terribly. I danced around for awhile, still waiting for the two-by-fours. In the interim, I shook my hand and rubbed my eyes with both hands. Not realizing my hand was bleeding profusely, I managed to cover most of my clothes and my entire face in blood.

When I finally determined that a secondary blast was somewhat unlikely, I headed around the side of the house, through the gate and into the driveway. My dad was still checking kids and had narrowed his catch and retain down to my two younger brothers, both still crying uncontrollably. Dana had sprinted home to see if he could somehow get out ahead of the parental fire-storm that was likely to be brewing.

When my mom got a look at me coming into the drive, she said, "Oh my gaw..." and phoomp. She dropped like a 50-pound sack of Idaho potatoes. My oldest brother (kind of) caught her, so my dad made a dash over to me, grabbed my shoulders and began with the 20-questions. "What happened!? Where are you hurt!? Are you cut somewhere!? What hurts!?" I said, "My eyes hurt."

My dad threw me in the truck and, while starting it and backing out of the drive, instructed my oldest sister to call ahead to our doctor, tell the answering service it was an emergency and that dad would meet the doctor at his office.

And the doctor was there. On a Sunday afternoon he had actually beaten us to his office. He was not only there, he was pragmatic.

As dad was giving him the 25-cent version of events, the doctor noticed that I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. They felt like they were full of sand and, well, they were in fact full of sand.

The doctor grabbed a towel, wrapped it around my hand and said to my dad, "Frank, he can lose his hand. We can't afford for him to lose his eyesight. Go over to [Dr.] Adrain's office. I'll get a hold of him in the meantime and have him meet you there. We'll worry about his hand later."

As my dad shoved me toward the door, I remember thinking, "He can lose his hand?" I didn’t like the sound of that.

I spent the next untold number of hours with my chin on one of those eye microscopes with Dr. Adrain telling me, "Let me know if you need to blink. I don't want to poke your eye out."

Give me a break. I'm 12 years old, my eyes are impacted with sand, and he wants me to plan my blinks while he picks sand pebbles out of my eyes with a needle. He finally gave up.

"There's just too many. I took out about 200 from each eye but there are thousands of them. I'm going to use a solution that will act like a reverse sandpaper and take the top lining off the eyeballs. That'll get most of them. But, I'm guessing those sand pebbles will be working their way to the surface for the rest of his life. That piece of brass, though, that's too deep. We're going to have to get that one in surgery."

They reverse sandpapered my eyes, patched them over with gauze, sewed up my hand and finger, and sent me packing with instructions to "Duck next time." I didn't see the humor.

As I was getting eye plucked, the Sheriff's Department rolled up to our house and said, "Whoa. Out of our league. Call the Marines."

A bomb squad from El Toro Marine Base came out and said, "Whoa. Where'd you get that?" Mr. Nordine said, "I didn't know it was loaded!" Mrs. Nordine, seeing an opening, said, "He had it in my living room! For three days!" She then eye plucked Mr. Nordine.

I had eye surgery to remove the brass shrapnel, threw up on the night nurse, and went back to school a Superhero the following week.

It's not every kid that can claim to have detonated a real bomb in his own front yard. I got some mileage out of that story. Still do...

Let me know about your "war stories" at syegge@gmail.com

Costco Fan

"Are you in this line? Or that one?"

I wanted to give some insights into the customer experience at my local Costco Store in Northern California, and to provide an example of the type of attitude that exemplifies the Costco employee.

As you know, Costco uses a complex algorithm to close enough check stands in order to maintain what I call the “Costco Fan.” (Hence, the title of this diddy.) That is, the checkout lines fan out from the check stands bending to the north toward electronics and to the south toward the pharmacy.

The idea is to have the lines just long enough so as to avoid hindering sales in electronics and prescriptions, and just short enough so that the customers don’t machine gun each other in line.

This is a delicate balance and can only be validated by watching and listening to the end-of-line customers. One will invariably turn to another and say, “Are you in this line or that one?” The response is usually a quivering lip and a simple look of utter despair. When this occurs, the algorithm is running like a top.

I was working my way toward the front of the store with enough supplies in my cart to support a third world country until the next millennium. My cart looked like a float in the Mardi Gras parade.

I had just hove into the front of the store when something miraculous happened. There was an open checkout lane! A light shone down from above and I honestly believe that I heard choirs of angels singing.

There was one customer just finishing up paying and no one waiting. I glanced left and right, and realized this event had not been noticed by the north and south “fans.” I made my move.

My heart leapt as I brought 'er around 12 degrees and adjusted my sights on the check stand. But, just as I began to roll, I looked over and noticed the floor manager standing by the merchandise pick-up area. She had seen the situation as well. We stared at each other for a moment and I heard spaghetti western music playing in the background.

I had the distance advantage, being only perhaps a quarter of the distance that she was from the register. She, however, had the weight advantage. Whereas, I was pushing a small planet, she was only carrying a clipboard, a pencil on her ear, and a radio on her hip. We both bolted for the register.

I have to admit I was feeling pretty smug throughout the foot race. I thought for sure that I would win. But at the last moment, in a move that was reminiscent of Michael Jordan launching himself from the top of the key, she lunged.

She laid out flat, about four feet off the floor, grabbed a handy “This Lane Closed” sign on her way, slapped the sign on the end of the check stand, rocketed past the front of my cart, tucked and rolled once, coming up to a full standing position like an Olympic gymnast. She hadn’t even lost the pencil on her ear!

I was stunned. Worse, I had forgotten my speed. I threw it into full reverse, released the drone chute, fired the retro-rockets, locked up the binders and dug my feet into the concrete floor.

Unfortunately, instead of my Keds, I was wearing a cheap pair of flip-flops and they burned off my feet instantly in a thick cloud of white smoke. My cart slammed into the check stand like a Seattle ferry into the Orcas Island dock. Heads were turning as far away as four lanes to the north and south, and I knocked the “This Lane Closed” sign to the floor.

With the flair of a seasoned Costco employee, the floor manager casually picked up the sign, replaced it on the check stand, gave me a smile and a wink, and strolled away with more than a little swagger in her walk.

After a quick damage assessment, I believe the only thing I lost (my self-respect notwithstanding), was a two-year supply of allergy medication that was crushed by a 55 gallon drum of cocktail sauce that shifted forward in my cart.

Defeated, I made my way to the electronics department. I remember at the time asking someone, “Are you in this line or that one?”

I didn’t catch the floor manager’s name as she bolted by me, but it was the Folsom, CA store if they wish to present her with a pallet of sliced green beans or something…

Let me know about your Costco stories at syegge@gmail.com

by S. Arthur Yegge, Philosopher

All Hat, No Cattle...

First in a series of articles on the state of gravitational wave theory, Pahd-nuh.

by S. Arthur Yegge

When we last left our hero – that would be me, as it turns out – I had just ascended The Chair of the newly-founded “Society for the Average Joe (and Joline)”. The stated objective of said society is to poke fun at scientists who can’t make a freethrow or throw a football, whilst concurrently providing (much needed) Public Review of their scientific projects.

That is, in the otherwise closed environment of scientific research, our loose-knit organization of wing nuts and drop outs will hash through a bunch of crackpot theories and harebrained ideas to provide some inciteful – as opposed to “insightful” – commentary on current scientific research projects. To put it in scientific terms, while not wishing to sound too technical, we will be the Pokers; the scientists will be the Pokees. Having laid the foundation, let us commence to begin, uh huh, uh huh.

I've been watching for years, with nothing less than fascination, the developments and evolution of the LIGO project. LIGO is an acronym for the “Laser Interferometer Gravitational Observatory”, and is a joint effort of the California Institute of Technology and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (smart guys; trust me on this).

The whole conflagration is funded by the National Science Foundation. Their stated objective is to detect and measure gravitational waves. Sounds easy. But, alas, no better men and women have been stumped by this one. LIGO has been beating around the gravitational wave bushes with a zeal and gusto not often seen in the past. The team is hyped. They’ve hyped the media. They’ve hyped the scientific world. But, it’s as though they are standing on the rug, whilst attempting to pull it out from under themselves. They could see the darned forest – if someone would just get those pesky trees out of the way. And, I say that with love in my heart.

‘Interferometer’ is a twenty-five cent word for a contraption which jiggles when you touch it – however lightly, if you'll pardon the pun. Picture a pair of long (and I mean miles long) giant tubes at right angles to each other that are connected at one end. Now shine a flashlight into a prism or something at the apex of the tunnels, which splits the beam of light; one half of the beam heading down each tunnel. Bounce the beams of light off the ends of the tunnel. Bring them back to the source and merge them together into one beam again. Now, don't move. Hold that flashlight very, very still.

You would certainly notice if someone accidentally slammed a Kenworth haulin' hogs into the side of one of the tunnels. The reconstituted light beam would be somewhat distorted. Now, spend a little more time and money, do a bang up job on the project, and you've got yourself the whole tout ensemble.

The object is to capture and measure gravitational shockwaves from “cataclysmic interstellar events”: the scientific term for a star going postal. As an example, you may not be aware of the fact that stars eventually burn up their fuel supply. Don’t worry. Ours isn’t due for another five billion years: mid-August as I recall. The stars subsequently explode, blowing the outer layers into space, with the inner core collapsing under its own gravitational weight. The explosion purportedly causes a gravitational shockwave that eventually arrives here on terra con firm-ish.

Black holes will even 'capture' each other sometimes, locked in a cosmic spin-cycle, until they collapse into one huge black hole. The gravitational shock waves occasioned by these types of events tend to be slightly bigger than a breadbox and more powerful than a locomotive – although they lose a little steam before getting here to Earth. All hat, no cattle, so to speak.

But, LIGO's interferometers are designed to measure these gravitational wavettes of the smallitude size.

Each installation will be configured in an L-shape with 4 km (2.5 mile) long arms, enclosing along its entire length an ultra high vacuum stainless steel beam tube, approximately 1.2 m in diameter, and interconnecting chambers. The beam tube will provide a path for the propagation of laser beams between the chambers; that is, according to their techno-jive. LIGO will actually have two of these interferometer puppies: one at the Hanford Reservation in Washington, and the other at Livingston Parish, Louisiana. How they arrived at these two locations is anyone's best guess. Someone was apparently throwing darts at a map that day.

The interferometer in Washington will have two beam tubes, each two kilometers long. There will be a corner station at the intersection of the two tunnels, an end station on each tunnel, and two mid-stations in the tunnels. These stations will "...house and provide access to the vacuum system and interferometer components, vacuum equipment, and instruments." As you can see, it's basically your standard-issue interferometer.

The installation in Livingston, according to their website, will be similar to the one in Hanford except that it won't have the mini-me interferometers, no mid-stations, and the corner station will be smaller, yadda, yadda, yadda. I think you get the picture here: Livingston is getting shafted on this project. But, that giant sucking sound you hear isn’t the money spiraling into the LIGO project. It's the vacuum they pull on those four mile-long beam tubes containing the lasers and mirrors.

Tune In Again For The Next Action-Packed Episode!

Actually, my first question will be from a list of questions that I’ll be asking in the coming weeks and months. They are as follows:

1. Is the LIGO group adhering to their own Mission Statement?
2. Is the interferometer conducive to this type and level of measurement?
3. What of background – and foreground – noise?
4. If light is bent backwards, will the scientists see their own butts? and,
5. How do you suppose they get those sailing ships into those little bottles?

S. Arthur Yegge - Philosopher
(As well as the Newly Self-Anointed Chair of “The Society for the Average Joe (and Joline)”)

The World's First Trillionaire...

I’m trying to position myself to become the world’s first trillionaire. Somebody’s gotta be first. It might as well be me as the next guy. Right?

There were a few millionaires in the early 1900s, but only one billionaire – J.D. Rockefeller, a man after my own heart. Some said, “Capitalist;” others said, “Robber Baron.” I say, “You can’t make an omelette without breaking some kneecaps.” Or, something like that. If it wasn’t for some of those pesky allegations of questionable business practices, I’m sure the man would have been canonized a saint. True story.

Years later there was a bloom in the number of billionaires in the late 1900s. Today though, billionaires are a dime a dozen – so to speak. At last count, we were approaching a thousand of them in the world, spread out from Saskatchewan to Sydney. There doesn’t seem to be a country in the world that’s lacking a billionaire or two. But, we are tragically short of trillionaires and I resolve to correct that deficiency, forthwith. Fifthwith, at the latest.

After a significant amount of contemplation and soul-searching, I’ve decided the best way for me to become the world’s first trillionaire is to do what any red-blooded, hard-working, American TV evangelist would do: ask for donations. I’ll even attire myself in a $1,200 suit, some Bruno Magli shoes, and get a flopping pompadour hairstyle tinged with silver – if it will help the cause.

I first pictured a bank of operators – elderly ladies with blue hair waiting to take your call, bless you and collect your credit card information – with an 800 number crawling across the bottom of the screen. But, this is a computer; not a television. Anyway, we first need to determine who should donate and – of course – how much.

There are actually right at 890 billionaires in the world – even J.K. Rowling has her “bill” thanks to her Harry Potter books. I got to thinking that if each of the world’s billionaires donated a nice round sum to my cause, I could get through this whole unseemly process without a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth.

But after some ciphering, I realized that a “trillion” is slightly larger than a bread box. Each and every one of those 890 billionaires would actually have to donate a little more than a billion dollars – each! – for me to break a cool “trill.” Every one of them! And, I’d be asking the poorest 250 of them to donate their whole scratch! That’ll never do. We don’t need a bunch of poverty-stricken former billionaires roaming the streets of Beverly Hills washing windshields and begging gas money for their Bentleys. It’s just not right. “Could I get some Grey Poupon with that?” And, there’s really no information, anecdotal or otherwise, that would indicate those 250 of the 890 or so billionaires would willingly convert to destitution for the sole benefit of my endeavor – no matter how honorable it may be.

Having burned through the short con – using the world’s billionaires – I began philosophizing about the long con. With six and a half billion people in the world, I calculated that each one would have to pony up $153.85 for me to make my nut. On its surface, that seemed do-able. But, then I began to think it might be a little harsh, since a fairly large percentage of those six and a half billion people could live their entire life on $153.85. I mean, I’m not heartless. “You, you and you, bucks up and forget about living your miserable lives.” That level of ruthlessness wouldn’t necessarily endear me to Girl Scouts or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. So the question really became, “What level of ruthlessness can I get away with?”

I could have, say, the wealthiest two billion people in the world donate 500 bucks each. But, lining up two people, much less two billion people, to donate a lump sum of $500 could prove to be a daunting task. There is, however, a way through this untidy quandary, as it turns out.

I believe now that the way to handle this whole tout ensemble is to solicit donations on a Sliding Scale. That is, if you can only spare a few rupees, then donate a few rupees. But, if you’re like Bill Gates, sitting on a pile of cash the size of a small planet, you should be able to afford a donation about the size of Manhattan without too much consternation.

The drawbacks to this approach are twofold. First, it relies on donations. And, as you are keenly aware, unless I threaten you with a visit from Guido, the likelihood of your taking the time to donate, hovers somewhere closer to none than slim. And secondly, it relies on you, the unwashed masses, to make the final determination as to how much you can “afford.”

So, let’s set up some ground rules and then try to make the process for donating simple, if not pleasurable. First, the rule of thumb for “Affordability.” Here’s the formula:

Take the amount of money you spend on coffee and deduct the amount you spend on travel to school, work and church. (Note: Use $0.54 per mile.)

How easy could it get!? That’s how much you can afford to donate each month. I say ‘each month’ since I’ve decided this will be a one year program. The objective will be to hit one trillion dollars in twelve months. Let’s take a look at an example or two.

I ran Bill Gates through the formula and his total stipend came to $8,100. (Note: I annualized his coffee purchases.) He probably doesn’t do a lot of driving to church or school. I think it’s safe to say that $8,100 a month is a very reasonable donation – for a freakin’ billionaire, fer cryin’ out loud!

On the other end of the economic scale, let’s suppose a person doesn’t patronize Starbucks and walks six blocks per week to and from church. Voila! That person would be off the hook completely. (I didn’t say you had to drive, bonehead.)

Let’s look at a real-life example. How about, me? I’m no Bill Gates, but with any luck at all I’ll be able to squash him like a bug on the windshield of extravagance in twelve months. I buy a bunch of coffee and I also drive to work and the occasional training program (let’s not discuss church). Run the numbers and my monthly donation would be $160. Voila, squared! I can afford 160 greenbacks a month!

It’s brilliant!! From each according to his ability, to each according to his need. Wait. I think Kark Marx said that. Or, Groucho. Anyway, I’m a freakin’ genius! But calm your flighty hearts, Campers. That’s only half the equation. We need to hammer out the donation process for you, the knuckleheads, requiring real simplicity.

So, I have a PayPal account. How easy can this get!? It requires three steps and takes every currency from the Norwegian Krone to the Polish Zloty. (Note: U.S. Dollars also welcome.) For those of you who can only handle two steps, send cash through the mail.

I’m serious. Go to http://www.paypal.com/, click on Send Money, type syegge@yahoo.com in the To: field, and feel your heart fly as your wallet lightens!

PayPal. I love it! I can hear the ‘ka-ching’ even as I’m typing this document and it’s giving me goose-bumps all over. Be the first on your block to help make a Trillionaire. And, be proud of it!

We’re even going to have a motto, and perhaps some big lapel buttons too. The motto will be “I Ka-Chinged The Doctor. Did You?” I would go so far as to recommend using it as a closing in your e-mails. Text it to your friends. Heck, text it to your enemies too. They’ve gotta be somebody’s friends!

“I Ka-Chinged The Doctor. Did You?”

We the People – Average Joes (and Jolines)

Caught in the headlights on the superhighway to the stars

We the People don't have a voice in the scientific community. Am I the only one that’s noticed this?

Conscientious corporations occasionally place a "Shareholders Advocate" on their Boards of Directors. State and local agencies will sometimes add local citizens to their commissions. School Boards will add a parent, or in some rare cases, even a student to their fold. The idea is get a fresh view: one from 'outside the beltway', so to speak.

But, within the scientific community, the public is considered persona non grata - or worse. Jennifer Kahn, in her Discover Magazine article, "Notes from a Parallel Universe" (Apr. 2002), indicates we the people are viewed as "maverick theorists" or simply "cranks." Those of us that quite often fund the research of the scientific community are viewed as cranks – and worse, cranks who couldn't understand a scientific concept if it was spelled out ‘fo-ne-tick-ly’.

Am I whining here? The fact is, for the most part, the scientific community is right. We the People are generally not the sharpest pencils in the drawer when it comes to hard science. Most of us will never be caught serving up the potato salad at a Mensa picnic.

In his Social Studies of Science article entitled "Harry Collins's [sic; no kidding!] Gravitational Wave Project" (Apr. 1999), Harry describes the “Consumers of Scientific Papers” with his own hand-drawn illustration. It’s a target-looking affair with the "core group of scientists working on a particular problem" in the middle of his target, and layers defined outward from this core group. Outside of the core group is what Harry calls "Scientifically Literate Commentators". That’s the twenty-five cent description of ‘peer reviewers’. The layer outside of this group he calls "Policy Makers"; i.e. politicians and funders of the scientific endeavors.

Collins studied the ebb and flow of information among the various layers of his science communications model and how that flow affected acceptance of certain theories: and even the scientists who proposed the theories. He goes to great lengths in describing the fluctuations in the boundaries among these groups. He describes the fact that a funding committee could be subjected to inner-circle or outer-circle science, even bad science, and subsequently be moved to be in favor of, or against, continued funding of a project.

"[P]oliticians, policy makers, and funders are exposed to every shade of opinion irrespective of whatever formal or informal digesting processes have taken place," Harry comments. He states that core group scientists can themselves be marginalized by competing theories which gain acceptance, along with a separate core constituency in the science community. Good ‘schtuff’.

But, it's the last layer – the outermost layer – in Collins’ diagram with which I am concerned here: The Public. "Outside the outer ring of the target are the general public and their representatives, but they do not concern us here." Ouch! And, kick me while I'm down too! We the People are considered nothing more than tedious background noise!

Are we really that bad? Is there no value whatsoever in all of ‘maverick theorism’ and crankdom? If there is anything at all history has taught us, it's to check our fly before public speaking and to look at the Big Picture. The question, when it comes to us quacks and con artists, is How? Let's look at a comparable problem first.

A fascinating article called “The Worldwide Computer” appeared in Scientific American (Mar. 2002) about super-computing on the cheap. It was based on the concept of using the interconnected computers of the Internet. The idea, as near as I could cipher it, was that a centralized operating system could mete out snippets of large computational problems to millions, or even tens of millions of otherwise idle computers connected via the Internet.

Problems that would normally require monstrous levels of processing power at enormous cost could be solved handily using just a smidgen of your computer and a smidgen of mine, and all of the others that might be made available. (Did I just plagiarize a few terms from the article? Oh well. What-ta-ya-gonna-do?)

Well, what if, in the same manner, we were able to harness the massive power in the tedious background noise of our own Illiterati – for the good of the Core Scientists? Individually, of course, we have nothing to add to the Core Competencies of the Core Scientists in the Core Group. But, are there diamonds in the rough somewhere out there – here – just the same? The idea, I believe, is to separate the wheat from the chaff.

We need a Voice for the Silent Public: someone who will speak up for us numbskulls and crackpots. Let me think for a moment... Hmmm... Maybe it could be... Well... How about Moi? I mean, hey, why not? Could be worse. Could be Geraldo!

I'll be the self-anointed Scribe for the Paltry Publicans, the Fiddle Music Aficionados and the Dirt Track Devoteés. I guarantee you will not find a more conscientious peer reviewer for the toothless goobers who submit cockamamie material proffered as 'science'. I will stand like a Rock amongst the detritus of pseudo-science, piling up chaff like a lumber mill kickin' up sawdust. (for a small administrative fee, of course). And, I will pass along what jewels I may find to the Layer 1 Core Group Scientists. Or, at least to the Layer 2 Scientifically Literate Peer Reviewers. Or, if they won't listen, to the Layer 3 Telemarketers, Politicians and Thugs (was that Layer 3?).

Hey, if push comes to shove, the tabloids will take this garbage. They'll take anything. And, in deference to Jennifer and Harry, I'll try to stay out of the realm of 'theory', and well within the bounds of 'observation'. I won't be using any highfalutin processes to gin up numbers or anything. In fact, this will be a fairly low faluting modus operandus: e.g. hit the Quick Pick button and run like hell to beat the Meter Maid.

With that behind us, and having ascended The Chair, I will work my way through the wheat and the chaff and take suggestions for our first order of business in the realm of “Science Commentary from the Average Joe (and Joline)”. I say "our" first order of business although I haven't actually received the first truckload of chaffed wheat at this point. If push comes to shove, I’ll grow my own, so to speak. But, we're on a roll, folks. So, let's not throw a spanner in the works. Get me some jive to work with here! Times a wastin’, mon ami!


S. Arthur Yegge - Philosopher
(As well as the Newly Self-Anointed Chair of “The Society for the Average Joe (and Joline)”)

My National Championship Assist...

I had the distinct honor of having assisted the Notre Dame Fighting Irish Football Team in their winning of the National Championship – sort of.

The game in question was an end-of-season match up with the highly touted Florida State University team, which was carrying a 16-game winning streak into this game with Notre Dame.

It should be no surprise, as every right-thinking person knows, Notre Dame stands for everything that is right and good in the world, whereas Florida State represents the Forces of Darkness. It can’t be helped. It’s just the way life is.

The year was 1993 and the game was hyped as the “Game of the Century” – among other “Games of the Century” before and since.

It started out as an exciting match-up and escalated into an all out conflagration. Florida scored on the opening drive and Notre Dame answered with 21 points of its own.

Things were dicey late into the 4th quarter. Notre Dame was ahead 31-24. But, with 3 seconds remaining in the game, Florida had the ball on the 14 yard line – close enough to smell the goal line.

My part in the story actually began 20 years earlier in 1973. Again, it was football season and I was watching a Sunday NFL match-up on TV. It was the playoffs, close to Christmas, and cold to the bone. It was cold everywhere: cold at the field on TV; cold at my home in Southern California (believe it or not), and it was cold in my living room. I was wearing a coat and gloves and had the heater cranked up to about 185 degrees trying to take the chill off.

It does, in fact, get cold in Southern California. It’s rare, but it does happen. Most years, 600 trillion people watch the Rose Parade and Rose Bowl Game on television January 1st and say, “Hey Martha, those nutcases in California are wearing tee-shirts, shorts and sandals. Put away your mukluks, we’re moving there. Right after the game.” But, it was cold this particular December. Very, very cold.

The game I had been watching was not terribly exciting. I remember trying to stay awake but nodding off occasionally. Between the heater bringing the room temperature up to about 90 degrees, and the Arctic parka I was wearing, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Then the doorbell rang and startled me awake.

When I opened the front door I was first taken aback by the blast of cold air that hit me in the face. It was a bone-chilling cold that almost made me take a step backward. The next thing I noticed was a thin young woman standing on the porch with some kind of a basket.

She was saying, “I’ve made these Christmas ornaments and if you like any of them, I sell them for one dollar each.”

They were okay. Nothing spectacular. Just cast ornaments painted by hand.

As I was saying, “No thanks,” the next thing I noticed was that she had on a thin cotton print dress and no coat. As I was closing the door I remember thinking, “She’s going to freeze!”

But, just before the door closed completely, I noticed something that truly horrified me: she had no shoes. She was walking door-to-door, selling these trinkets, without a coat, and she was barefoot! But, the door closed anyway. It was as though I couldn’t stop it. I had said, No thanks, and simply closed the door on her.

I sat back down in front of the TV, not at all sleepy anymore, and kept thinking, “She is barefoot. Barefoot. Barefoot. She is barefoot.” And then I honestly and truthfully thought, “I am going to hell. This was a test. And I am going to hell.” I had failed – miserably.

After about three or four minutes of distress, I got up and checked what money I had on me. Nada. I scrounged around in the bedroom and came up with three dollars and headed out the front door in search of L’il Miss Barefoot. I thought that maybe I could still save myself.

“Saving myself” was probably not the perfect attitude to have about the whole situation. “Helping another human being in need of assistance” might have been a little more appropriate. But, I was cold and wanted to get back to the game.

At any rate, I couldn’t see her. I stood on the sidewalk out front with my hands in my coat pockets and freezing my ears off. I watched up and down the street for her to emerge from one of the houses. Nothing.

Maybe someone invited her in to look more closely at her trinkets. Naw. They just weren’t that impressive. She had to be on the block somewhere. Maybe she was headed East and had slipped around the corner onto that side street.

I got out my keys and backed the car out of the driveway. After driving around the block and not finding her, I decided that she must have gone into someone’s home and that I had simply missed her when I was locating some cash or driving the wrong direction. The solution was to determine the maximum distance that she could likely travel on foot in any one direction and then set up a matrix over which I could drive until I found her. It was easy.

Forty-five minutes later I walked through the front door, tossed my keys on the table and sat down with a puckered brow and a bad attitude. You would think that if you were trying to help someone, they would have the courtesy to at least let you find them. But, no such luck.

As the days past, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had somehow missed my one and only opportunity to redeem myself and ultimately enjoy the hereafter at some point in the distant future. I had failed. Miserably. It was a sick feeling and it stayed with me for years.

In fact, at any time since then that I’m approached by a person seeking money, no matter the circumstances, I give them what money I have. And yet, each time I hand out the money I’m thinking, “This could be a thousand dollars and it won’t make up for my ignoring that barefoot girl.” It’s a sour feeling each time I give.

I don’t always have paper money in my wallet. So, I took to carrying coins. I would save my change and let it collect in my pocket. It served two purposes. First, I always had change – lots of it – for those in need on the street. Secondly, it reminded me of carrying marbles in my pockets when I was a kid.

I was a renowned marbler when I was a kid – known far and wide; clear into the next tract of homes, some said. It was fashionable (also mandatory) that we wear those salt and pepper corduroy pants to school. The legs flapped in the wind and they “zipped” when you walked. ZZZZ-zzzz, ZZZZ-zzzz, ZZZZ-zzzz.

But, the one advantage those pants had was huge pockets. I’d pick up a 100-bag at Well’s Market, break it open and store half in each pocket for the school day. Once I made the mistake of storing a whole 100-bag in each pocket. They fit – right up to the brim. But, when I sat down in class, about 30 marbles rolled out of each pocket and scattered around the room. Ms. Candice had everyone collect them for her. She stored contraband in a cigar box in her desk until the end of each semester. She had to get a second cigar box.

At any rate, the lose change reminded me of the marbles. Someone would start to say, “Do you have change for…” and I’d pull out a handful of coinage that was usually dripping more lose change on the floor than they were looking for in the first place. I could change a $50 some days – in nickels.

So, I doled out change by the tonnage over the years, and still suffered for my transgression against the Barefoot Contessa.

As it happened, my younger brother became a college football coach. He didn’t coach at the level of Notre Dame and Florida State. But, he was a good coach at a good college in Southern California. Because of his coaching, he had insights into the inner workings and strategies of football that we, the unwashed masses, didn’t have. It was interesting to listen to him whenever a game was being played.

So, it should be no surprise that my brother and I discussed the Notre Dame-Florida State game for days ahead of its kickoff. Unfortunately, we lived about 500 miles apart and would have to discuss the actual game on the phone during timeouts.

When game-day arrived we were ready. Each of us had a television, remote control and a telephone. At each time out, we would mute the commercials and call each other to strategize. It seemed at the time that our strategizing could make or break the game. Should Coach Holtz switch to his passing game? Should he have the offense go for it on 4th down? We were delirious.

We pick up our story again with Florida State 14 yards from a touchdown with 3 seconds remaining in the game. There was a timeout called and my brother and I strategized briefly. But, when play was just ready to resume, two things happened nearly simultaneously. The TV commercial break ended, and my doorbell rang.

Standing about five feet in front of the TV, I looked toward the front door about a dozen feet to my right. My wife was upstairs and likely didn’t hear it. It was probably a neighborhood kid for one of my sons. I glanced back at the TV. I had just enough time to take the four large steps to the front door, swing it open, direct the kid to the backyard, and make it back to the TV for the final play. I made my move.

Just as I started to open the door, I heard the crowd start to come alive. The game was about to resume. But, it wasn’t a kid at the door. It was a woman.

She was in her early 30s, dressed cleanly, but in clothes that were slightly dated. She was holding a clear plastic envelope with a document inside. She held it out and began to speak. She was very nervous. Her mouth was dry and she was shaking somewhat. I looked back at the side of the TV 12 feet away. The crowd got louder. She was making a pitch for a donation and I remember thinking, “If I just say, ‘Sorry’, I can close the door while I’m taking my first step. Then, with three more steps I can be in front of the television for that final play.”

But, something was playing in the back of my mind. The gears were turning for some reason. I wanted to close the door, but I had this uneasiness about doing so and I couldn't figure out why.

I didn’t recognize her, but I did recognize the letterhead and the name of the organization because the company I was working for had recently donated some much need services the organization required. Things happened very quickly after that.

Just as the crowd on the TV reached a crescendo of excitement, I remembered the barefoot trinket seller and my head snapped back to the woman at the door. I looked down quickly and realized with relief that this woman, at least, was wearing shoes.

The second thing that happened was that all of the Forces of Darkness that had been aligned with the Florida State offense trying to score a touchdown, were suddenly sidetracked, looked up at me and said, “Heh, I thought we buried that guy years ago!”

The roar of the crowd turned into white noise as I said, “This is another test isn’t it?” She looked puzzled and said, “I’m sorry?” I responded, “It doesn’t matter,” and I opened my wallet. The crowd on TV seemed to fade into background noise.

There was about $14 in my wallet and I chucked it all into her envelope. She was grateful. I then opened the “secret compartment” in my wallet with my mad money – another $70 – and I dropped that in her bag. She was delighted.

I stuck my hands deep in my pockets wanting to speak to her about her situation, but nothing came out. I couldn't think of anything. I jiggled some coins in my pocket and had another idea. I pulled out a massive handful of coins and looked at her questioningly.

She looked at the handful of coins, then at me, and shrugged with a smile. I opened the plastic bag further with my other hand, dropped in the scoopful of coins, and proceeded to bring out more scoopfuls. She was dumbfounded.

When I had cleaned out my pockets of coins down to the lint and paperclips, I looked again at her and shrugged. She was tearful when she said, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

I said, “No need,” and closed the door. The weight had been lifted. I felt like a new man.

I walked back to the living room and stared without interest at the pandemonium on the football field. The phone rang.

My brother shouted, “Did you see that!? Can you believe it!?”

I said, “I missed it. Who won?” There was a brief pause and then he broke out laughing and hung up while beginning to tell those at his house about my ‘joke’.

The football field was still in chaos and I couldn’t concentrate long enough on the happenings to determine who had won.

I called my brother, “I’m serious. I missed it. Who won?”

It was the newspaper the following day that finally gave me my answer. My brother doesn’t believe to this day that I missed the last play – Notre Dame batting away a touchdown pass in the end zone to win the game.

Notre Dame won the game, but not the National Championship that year. It went to – drum roll please – Florida State. Go figger.

But, I’m guessing that even the folks at Notre Dame are unaware of the fact that I was the driving force that assisted them in their defeat of the 1993 National Champion Florida State Seminoles.