HIGH SCHOOL PHYSICS

HIGH SCHOOL PHYSICS

Several weeks ago in a post on my high school physics class I mentioned my teacher Mr. Taylor; an interesting guy Mr. Taylor.

http://joeh-crankyoldman.blogspot.com/2014/08/pssc-physics.html

His full name was Noel Taylor.  Behind his back we called him Leon Rolyat. Weren’t we clever?

Mark Taylor, Mr. Taylor’s son was in my class…smart MF’er. He got no special attention from Mr. Taylor.

I think Mr. Taylor was once a very good baseball player, and might have been the school coach at one time.  As I recall Mark was also a pretty good ball player.

Anyway, the Mr. Taylor I knew had issues speaking, never mind playing baseball.  I think he had at sometime suffered a mild stroke.  He sounded like a phone call with a bad connection. If I make fun of his speech, keep in mind we all loved this guy.  He was strict, he never laughed, he was all business, but he had a twinkle in his eye that let you know he was a good dude.

I was not a good student, certainly not in any science related study, but I was a pretty good wise ass.  Mr. Taylor had the perfect demeanor for my wise-assiness.

On our very first class, Mr. T explained the difference between a ruler and a meter stick.

“Ow listen up oo guys.  This is a etterick. It is not an ard ick, it is a eterick.  It is ot a uler, it is a etterick.  So ets call it orectly o k.”

It was not long after that speech that I had a need for a meter stick.

“Excuse me Mr. Taylor, can I borrow one of those big rulers?”

“Agy, oo umb b’ unny.  It’s not a uler, it’s a etterick!”

Another time Mr. Taylor was giving a lecture on the battery.

“N eeon ow wot is a attery?”

Realizing that Mr. Taylor was a baseball fan, I decided to give him a wise guy answer using the baseball term for a battery, which refers to the pitcher and the catcher.  In my haste to get this bad joke out I responded,

“It’s the kitcher and the petcher…the petcher and the kitcher…oh hell I screwed that one up.”

Mr. Taylor did not miss a beat,

“Actually Mr. Agy, umb b’unny that he is ot the ight nswer.”

He then went on to explain how a battery pitches and catches electrons or some such stuff.

Mr. Taylor did not write much better on the chalk board than he was able to speak.

As he mumbled he wrote and there with a constant clack clack and flying chalk dust as he rambled on,

“all oo ave to oo is easure the istance eetween the ulcrum and ee nybathm to et the ite ansr.”

“Bird” who sat behind me, I don’t remember his real name but he was tall with a big Adam’s apple and resembled a cartoon buzzard, tapped me on the shoulder and asked,

“What is he writing?”

“What, you can’t read that, it is as clear as a bell…it says, ‘all oo ave to oo is easure the istance eetween the ulcrum and ee nybathm to et the ite ansr.’”

“Agy, oo umb b’unny, ots so ogon unny?”

I hated Physics, but I liked Mr. Taylor a lot!

You Can’t See It…IT’s ELECTRIC!

You Can’t See It…IT’s ELECTRIC!

 So the other day I go to take my car out of the garage.  I punch in the code for the door and nothing.  WTF, did I forget the code?  Mrs. C informs me,

“Oh, the light in our bathroom is also out, must be a circuit breaker went off.”

I check the circuit box and everything is on. 

“Oh, the bathroom light is connected to the circuit with the GFCI outlet in the guest bathroom.”

I push that little button on the GFCI switch in the guest bathroom and get a spark and a flash. 

“Hmmm, that can’t be good.”

I don’t know who wired this townhouse, but one GFCI outlet knocks out every outlet in all the bathrooms, plus the outlet in the garage.

“It must be a bad GFCI outlet, I can change that.”

“No you don’t, you’ll kill yourself.”

“Nonsense, I just kill the circuit breaker that feeds the outlet, and install a new outlet.  There can only be a few wires.  What could go wrong?”

“You will get electrocuted, and I don’t want to have to clean up that mess.”

“Bologna! Let me check the circuit box.”

We have 22 circuit breakers in this tiny townhouse.  They are all labeled.  Ten are labeled “lighting.”  What the hell kind of label is that?

Now I don’t know how to switch off the circuit with the bad GFCI outlet, because the bad GFCI outlet is already killing the current, so I don’t know how to check which outlet is on what circuit breaker.

“I’ll just turn off all the circuits, and install the new outlet with you holding a flashlight.”

“No you won’t, I’m calling Frank from “Rent-a-son.”

I wanted to object vehemently because I have changed outlets in the dark before, but Mrs. C insisted and I kinda was afraid I’d kill myself.  I have the utmost respect for electricity.

Frank sent over Rick, his electricity guy.  Rick figured out the correct circuit breaker with a doodad that has two pointy things and a small light.  He changed out the bad outlet and VOILA! NOTHING.  

DAMN, this meant there was another problem along the line.  Rick was stumped.  He checked several outlets and they all seemed connected correctly.  Then he checked the downstairs bathroom which had a night light plugged into the outlet. Mrs. C had plugged that in to see if the outlet was on the bad circuit. 

Rick unplugged the night light, plugged it in again, and everything came on.

“What the hell Rick, why did that work?”

“I couldn’t tell you…it’s electric.  Just don’t touch anything.”

“Maybe the new outlet just had to warm up.”

“Yeah, sure, let’s go with that.”

That was last week.  The power is still on, my garage door opens, I did not fry.  All is right in Crankyland.

It’s electric!

HITCHHIKING

HITCHHIKING

I haven't seen an actual hitchhiker for years.  Back in the day it was fairly common.  This is an excerpt from "I Used TO Be Stupid"  which recently sold a milestone 11th copy.
 

Back in the day, I used to hitchhike.  Apparently that was a dangerous thing to do. I did not know.

I used to do lots of dangerous things:

I rode my bike without a helmet. 

I rode double on the handlebars of my friend’s bike, also without a helmet. 

When it snowed my friends and I would wait by a stop sign and grab a ride off passing car’s bumpers (bumper hitching). Most of the drivers would give us a thumbs up and even go faster as we hung on and skied the snow packed road. (They seldom sanded or salted anything but hills in the olden days.

 

I went trick or treating without adult supervision, and when I came home I would eat the apples without fear of poison or razor blades.

I let my children sleep on their stomachs as babies.

 

I drove without a seatbelt.

 

My children never used car seats. 

I used to be stupid.

Of course I was not foolish about all things. 

I would never swim without waiting at least an hour after eating. 

I would not watch TV up close. 

I would not make a face for fear of the look becoming permanent. 

I always kept my elbows off the table, and because of the poor starving children in China I always ate everything on my plate.

I did hitchhike.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen a hitchhiker.  It used to be quite common.  When I was only thirteen, my friends and I would hitch to school in the morning if we missed the bus, and hitch home after school when activities kept us past the bus schedule. This may sound risky by today’s standards, but almost all the rides we picked up were from neighbors or family members who were on their way to or from the train station.

In College I used to hitch from Westfield, N.J. to Easton, Pa. (a 60 minute trip) at least once a month.  Sometimes I hitched alone, sometimes with Frog.   Someone, usually Mrs. Frog or my Mom, would drop us off on Rt. 22 and we would hold up a sign for Lafayette College.  Invariably another student or an alumnus would see the sign pick us up, and we would get a lift to campus or to the hill in Easton just below campus.

Hitching a ride home from Easton with a Westfield sign did not always result in a student or alumnus stopping to give us a lift.  Drivers who picked you up on the trip from Easton were a more eclectic bunch, and it often took several pickups to get home.  The rides home were always interesting.  We always met interesting people and had interesting conversations.  Except once, which was my last hitchhiking trip.

Frog and I were on Rt. 22, that afternoon looking for a ride home for the thanksgiving break.  A Lincoln Continental pulled over and the driver who looked a bit like the fat Elvis yelled out, “youse boish looking for a ride?”

We hopped in eagerly and did not immediately notice the odor of bourbon which was wafting through the car.  Fat Elvis did not say much, he was going as far as Union which would take us all the way to our Westfield exit and that was all we needed to know.

 

Frog and I were a little concerned as our driver seemed to occasionally swerve inappropriately and did not seem the least bit concerned with the 60 mph speed limit.  We gave each other a nervous glance, Elvis obviously had been drinking, but we thought what the hell, a ride is a ride, and besides what were we to do?

“Excuse me sir but you seem a little toasted, could you just pull over here?” Hmmm it just might be a bad idea to piss off the drunk. 

We said nothing.  Sitting tight might not have been the smart thing to do under the circumstances, but we used to be stupid and the next event proved it.

About half way to Westfield, fat Elvis pulled over to the White Horse Bar and Grill.  “You guysh sit tight, I won’t be but a minute”, he said as he staggered toward the entrance.  This was our chance to slip out of the car, go to the highway and try to secure a safer ride home.  Who drives drunk in the afternoon, and pulls over to a bar to drink even more?

 

Frog and I remained seated.  Were we afraid to insult the drunk? Were we that desperate for a ride?  Did we think he’s just going in for a sandwich and coffee to try and sober up a bit?  I don’t really know.

I guess we just, you know, USED TO BE STUPID!

Fat Elvis returned twenty five minutes (three stiff ones) later.  He slid into his seat and turned to ask, “Yoush guysh shtill growin to Westerfield?”

“Ah…. yeah,  I guess”

“Well then lesh get motererin…ing.”

The next twenty minutes were the among the scariest minutes of my life.  We made it to our exit, somehow, and except for needing a change of underwear we were both OK.

That would be my last time hitchhiking, (I also swore off roller coasters).

Frog and I both stooped to begging for parental chauffeuring rather than risk accepting rides with strangers.  The next year I was allowed to bring my Dad’s 1959 Ford Galaxy on campus and thumbing for a ride became a distant memory.

Kids, don’t try hitchhiking, but if you do, wear a helmet!