The OUT Campaign

I'm a long-time supporter of Richard Dawkins' OUT Campaign, and was an out-of-the-closet atheist and sceptic long before I realised that there was any reason to be in the closet. In fact, when I became aware of just how insane religious the greater part of the population of the United States was, I couldn't believe it. This was in the run-up to the 2005 Kitzmiller v. Dover case, however, so I think that I was entitled to my incredulity.

I grew up in urban Canada (Ontario and Manitoba), and most of my friends were atheists (although most by default rather than design; unless you live in Alberta, religion really isn't a big deal up here). That isn't to say that we don't have our fair share of kooks—it all just seems a little muted, compared to our neighbours below the forty-ninth.

I've never been uncomfortable discussing any issue openly and honestly, and it has irked me that, since the beginning, my blog has not featured my name. For various reasons that probably wouldn't interest the average reader, I haven't wished to have my name associated with an Internet presence; it still may prove to complicate things, but I've always been in favour of complete transparency, (which is why I do not require registration to post comments, and will not censor any comment short of spam). I hope that any point that I make will stand or fall on its own merits, but it is a common tactic of trolls to take issue with posts made in anonymity—"Aren't you willing to stand by your words?" Although this is a form of ad hominem attack, one of the more common logical fallacies that one encounters on the Internet, the truth is that I am willing to stand by my words.

Today, I go public with my full name and an easily identifiable photograph of myself. Although, truth be told, I am loath to replace this beauty:

Believe it or not, I actually sewed most of that costume myself.

Ah, well.

Also, some may notice that I have a girl's name.

The Pleasure of Figuring Things Out

Not to be confused with The Pleasure of Finding Things Out, a (by all accounts excellent) book by Richard Feynman.

Caveat: This entry will be somewhat more self-indulgent than usual. You have been warned.

I recently bought some delightful new invisible bookshelves; they ingeniously wrought to create the illusion that the books are hanging unsupported in the air. I am thus far very pleased with them, and intend to buy several more.

After affixing them to the wall, yesterday, it occurred to me that many of the books that I intended to put on them were quite weighty, and might exceed their carrying capacity. I checked the packaging and, sure enough, nine kilograms (about twenty pounds, for you Americans) was the limit.

I spent a moment scratching my head, and decided to consult my bathroom scale. I wasn't sure if it was sensitive enough to discern such small masses with any accuracy, but I figured that if it came down to that I could always weigh myself while holding the books, and subtract my weight without them, the way one might weigh a cat, dog, snake, turtle, microraptor, or any other household pet. This was rendered moot, of course, when I stepped into the lavatory and discovered that I didn't own a bathroom scale.

Many people would have, at this point, run out to the store to buy the device; indeed, I briefly considered doing just that, as such things are useful to have on hand in case one has guests and a spontaneous weight-loss competition happens to arise. But that would have been no fun, and besides, the missus was out with the truck, and I wasn't looking forward to the walking to the store when it was thirty below.

So I fetched a broom handle, some floorboards left over from when I laid down the hardwood last summer, a lightweight mop bucket, a measuring cup, and the stack of books in question. I had all the makings of a balance scale: just add water.

Using the measuring cup, I filled the mop bucket with nine litres of water (for those of you who recall highschool physics, the litre is a derived metric unit defined as the volume of one kilogram—or grave, if you want to be archaic—of water*), then took a little bit out to make up for the mass of the bucket—I didn't want to be too precise. I used a measuring tape and pencil to mark the midpoint of the floorboards' length, set them across the broom handle at this point, and set the bucket of water on one end. Ensuring that the midpoint of the boards remained over the broom handle, I set the stack of books on the other end.

If the books lifted the bucket, then they were too heavy. Simple.

My cat, Spot, is puzzled by the contraption.

Science!

*Or rather, it used to be.

Nanopharmacology

 From that bastion of sanity and good sense, the Huffington Post:

When skeptics say that there is nothing but water in homeopathic medicine, they are proving their ignorance, despite the incredible arrogance in which they make these assertions.

Apparently actually doing some math is arrogant. It was probably liberal, elitist math, to boot.

Via Pharyngula, where you can also see a hilarious webcomic!

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