Neon Signs Research Articles

Forbidden Bread: A Memoir by Erica Johnson Debeljak

I, awake in their feverish, obsessive 1 delirium. , As translator, Daniel Shapiro 1 faced many challenges, including I abrupt shifts in formal and col 1 loquial diction as well as archaic I uses of Spanish that sent him look , ing to Shakespeare for some of the ' solutions in English. It is likely I that even many Chileans would 1 welcome Shapiro's unobtrusive, I comprehensive notes to these allu 1 sive poems. This book, in short, I has everything the reader needs ] to enter a world illuminated by ? "a forty-watt sun / wrapped in , red cellophane." Ci pango is coming 1 soon to a city near you, unless you I live there already. 1 Steven F,White I St. Lawrence University MISCELLANEOUS John D'Agata. About a Mountain. New York. W.W. Norton. 2010. 236 pages. $23.95. ?sbn978-0-393-06818-4 About a Mountain is about much more than the title suggests. It is about Las Vegas, suicide, the now-discontinued Yucca Moun tain nuclear waste storage facil ity, Edvard Munch, human understanding, and at least a half dozen other things. This book length essay is an idiosyncratically arranged mosaic of information, narrative, and reflection that com bines these seemingly disparate topics in a new and interesting way. The book is structured accord ing to the six w's of reporting: who, what, when, where, why, and how?in that order, fol lowed by a threefold repetition of "why." It begins with a recount ing of the author's participation in Las Vegas's centennial parade, and moves through a tour of the proposed nuclear waste facility, interviews with various scientists and intellectuals, and ends with Munch's The Scream and the events leading up to Levi Presley's fatal leap from theStratosphere Hotel. Throughout the course of the essay, the reader is given a thor ough history of theuse and misuse of science surrounding the Yucca Mountain nuclear waste reposi tory, a concise overview of the politics surrounding its specifica tions, and a chilling sense of the danger inherent in the project. D'Aga ta also shows us an idio syncratic, accurate, and unflatter ing portrait of Las Vegas through the lens of the Stratosphere Hotel, the city's ubiquitous neon signs, and its rarely-spoken-of suicide problem. These two major themes are used as points of entry to an extended reflection on the nature of knowledge and the limits of human understanding. D'Agata's treatment of these big questions is particularly suc cessful because of his strong writ ingand successful stylisticgambits. He shows a reporter's attention to details and numbers while effec tively using them in the service of vivid narratives. His description of theWorst Case Credible Nuclear Transportation Accident is eerily reminiscent of the Toxic Airborne Event inDon DeLillo's White Noise, And, although his splicing togeth er of disparate subjects with no narrative bridging can be jarring, it is usually successful. It slows the reader down and forces him or her to think about the comparison being made. Despite the unusual structure, the work retains a cer tain broad narrative arc that reach es its climax somewhere between D'Aga tawatching Trading Spaces: JOHN D'AGATA Boston while manning a suicide hotline and Munch's walk through Ekeberg Forest in 1883. About a Mountain is ambi tious but readable and difficultbut rewarding. The essay convincingly concludes that Yucca Mountain is not "a solution or a problem" but "where we have come to?a place we have studied more thoroughly at this point than any other par cel of land in theworld" yet one that "remains unknown, revealing only the fragilityof our capacity to know." Chris Dearner University ofOklahoma Erica Johnson Debeljak. Forbidden = Bread: A Memoir. Berkeley, California. = North Atlantic (Random House, distr.). E 2009. 288 pages. $15.95. isbn 978-1-| 55643-740-3| Edmund Wilson called F. Scott = Fitzgerald's first novel "a romance E and a reading list." Forbidden Bread E is a romance and a cultural history E inwhich Erica Debeljak works her E way, simultaneously, into a mar- E riage and a new country newly E I May-June 2010 i77 m > m ci Z m Ci...

Cipango by Tomás Harris, Daniel Shapiro

Cipango by Tomás Harris, Daniel Shapiro

Life at the Arcade

Life at the Arcade Roger Jones (bio) Ivory balls skitter all directions. The smoke floats low under a green light-shade brooding down on green felt. Two boys circle the table, take turns sending errant shots whumping off cushions on the table sides. A jukebox across the room bumps the air with palpable rhythm. Neon beer signs across the room spelling out icy rumors. They’re all blown about here like refuse pinned to a fence wire, their future plans no more than what they scrape up and make from what’s around— the colored and striped planets they send caroming about like random atoms, clicking about to a dead stop, in a room where breath hangs. [End Page 189] Roger Jones Roger Jones is author of three collections of poems. During the spring of 2009, he will begin serving as the poetry editor of the Texas Review. Copyright © 2009 Charles H. Rowell

Too Many Notes: Up and Down the Scales of Diabetes Therapy

I N T R O D U C T I O N The World Health Organization estimates that 194 million people worldwide have diabetes and that this number will grow to 333 million by the year 2025-a 72% increase in the next 2 decades. The greatest increase in diabetes is predicted for developing count r ies-whereas the diabetic population of North America is predicted to grow by 57%, this population is predicted to increase by 79% to 10g% in Southeast Asian and West Pacific nations. 1 In parallel with the increase in diabetes is the explosion in the incidence of obesity and the metabolic syndrome. In the United States alone, an estimated 40% of adults have the metabolic syndrome (defined as an increase in abdominal girth of >35 inches in females and 40 inches in males, combined with triglycerides >150 mg/dL, high-density lipoprotein cholesterol [HDL-C] 130/g5 mm Hg. 2 By the time the average American is 65 years of age, it is estimated that he or she has a 50% chance of developing the metabolic syndrome. Although some argue that there is no such disease, none would deny that the constellation of features that comprise the metabolic syndrome increases the relative risk of macrovascular events by 1.65 and of diabetes by 2.99. 3 What is driving this dual epidemic? Clearly, there are major issues with regard to lifestyle or the malnutrition of affluence, slothfulness, and gluttony. In the United States, 15% of our children are overweight, which translates to 6 million overweight kids! Type 2 diabetes mellitus (DM) now exceeds type 1 in children. Two of 3 children have one element of the metabolic syndrome and 10% have the syndrome in their teens. Of the children born today, 1 in 3 is destined to become diabetic and their life expectancy is <30 years; 47% of children with diabetes already have neuropathic complications. 4,5 The average American child watches television 4 hours per day, and while exercise has disappeared from the curriculum, McDonald's has opened stores in many schools, hospitals, and other public buildings. Food portions have been distorted by supersizing, a notion so successful that its popularity has led to the supersizing of the American population and, unfortunately, exporting this concept to the rest of the world. My son lives on a small island in the Pacific, which is reached by ferry from Hong Kong. At the dock of this little island, large neon signs light up the familiar names of McDonald's, Burger King, and 7-Eleven. There is no doubt that our newest weapons of mass destruction are spoons, forks, and knives-delivering bombs into the mouths of our children as well as to the rest of the world. The Diabetes Prevention Program (DPP) has taught us that with therapeutic lifestyle changes (TLC), we could reduce the conversion of impaired glucose tolerance (IGT) to diabetes by 58%, 6 and the Nurses' Health Study observed that over a lifetime, as little as a 3% increase in weight conferred a 21g% increase in the risk of developing diabetes. 7 Other authors have reported that for every kilogram gained over a lifetime, there is a doubling of the risk of developing diabetes, s Compounding the problem is a progressive reduction in physical activity, so that by 17 years of age, the average young black woman does no exercise at all. In the face of this deluge that is descending on us, what are we offering people with diabetes and those destined to develop it? Regretfully, we are failing miserably. The risk factors for developing diabetes are: (1) family history of diabetes (ie, parents or siblings with diabetes); (2) overweight; (3) habitual physical inac-

Luminous environment: light, architecture and decoration in modern Japan

From lantern to electric lighting, the motif of light has remained central to the Western visualization of Japan. Why has the motif of light been so crucial to the way in which Japan was perceived across the twentieth century? What role, if any, have Western stereotypes of Japan – seen as a mysterious world decorated by paper lights, and later as a vast urban terrain of flashing neon signs, light sculptures and illuminated billboards – played in the development of modern Japanese aesthetics and its lighting culture? Several key works drawn from literature and art may provide insight into the role that electric light plays in the move from traditional genres to the new genres of modern art: Tanizaki Jun'ichirō's ‘In praise of shadows’ (In'ei raisan 1933–4); Mishima Yukio's Temple of the Golden Pavilion (Kinkakuji 1956), as well as his ‘The idea of lighting – the birthplace of my literature’ (Dentō no aidia – waga bungaku no yōranki 1968); and Hiroshi Sugimoto's photographic installation In Praise of Shadows (1999). Crossing genres and media, these works respond in particular to the conception of Japanese illumination both from within and without Japan.

Edward II, and: Measure for Measure (review)

Reviewed by: Edward II, and: Measure for Measure Justin Shaltz Edward II Presented by the Stratford Festival of Canada at the Studio Theatre, Stratford, Ontario. August 4–September 24, 2005. Directed by Richard Monette. Set by Michael Gianfrancesco. Lights by Kevin Fraser. Compositions by Paul Shilton. Sound by Todd Charlton. With David Snelgrove (King Edward II), Michelle Giroux (Queen Isabella), Jamie Robinson (Gaveston), Nicolas Van Burek (Spencer), Scott Wentworth (Mortimer), James Blendick (Warwick, Lightborn), Walter Borden (Lancaster), and others. Measure for Measure Presented by the Stratford Festival of Canada at the Tom Patterson Theatre, Stratford, Ontario. August 5–September 24, 2005. Directed by Leon Rubin. Set by John Pennoyer. Lights by Michael Vieira. Sound by Jim Neil. With Thom Marriott (Duke), Robert King (Escalus), Jonathan Goad (Angelo), Don Carrier (Lucio), Diane D'Aquila (Mistress Overdone), Andrew Massingham (Pompey), Jeffrey Wetsch (Claudio), Dana Green (Isabella), Shane Carty (Elbow), Sarah Wilson (Mariana), and others. Artistic Director Richard Monette designed Stratford Festival of Canada's 2005 season with a "Saints and Sinners" theme, and two late-season productions provided insights into the connections between sex and violence. Monette himself directed Christopher Marlowe's Edward II in the Festival's stripped-down Studio Theatre and Leon Rubin directed a modernized Measure for Measure—all urban degradation in neon and cold steel—in the black-box Tom Patterson Theatre, twice the size of the Studio but still intimate with seats surrounding on three sides the narrow runway of a stage. Monette's vision of Edward II featured standard period costuming—medieval 14th century warriors with a touch of Elizabethan doublet and hose—with the exception of the King's beloved, Piers Gaveston. The shirtless Gaveston strutted across the stage clad in black leather, a medallion around his neck, as if he had emerged from a modern gay dance club. His hair a sloppy afro, he addressed the audience then rushed into the seats to deliver sarcastic asides. His interaction with King Edward was all physical lust: they knelt together and kissed several times before Edward wrapped Gaveston in his kingly robes and mounted him in feigned sodomy. Monette's blocking tended to position the nobles against the King like a firing squad, sometimes half-encircling him, at other times turning their backs on him in disgust. When Isabella confronted Edward, Gaveston sat at the King's side in her place, and they kissed while Edward pawed at Gaveston's crotch. When the two lovers stood to confront their accusers, they faced upstage so the audience was aware of Gaveston's constant caress of the royal behind. In an incisive counterpoint, the mortified nobles again turned away when, moments later, Isabella lustily embraced Mortimer. There was no pretense of deep feelings between Edward and Gaveston. Their relationship was entirely carnal. Early on, while the nobles signed their rebellious allegiance in downstage lamplight, the King, Gaveston and a group of nearly naked young men cavorted in the small upper-balcony space: undulating, swigging from liquor bottles, and pantomiming sex acts. After Gaveston was captured and executed, Edward mourned briefly, quick to replace his sexual favorite with the eager Spencer. Edward [End Page 92] donned the crown and retrieved his fallen sword, then kissed Spencer passionately on the mouth. Spencer giggled, seized a herald by the neck and snapped a banner pole in two. Like Edward II's sexually deviant court, the modern Vienna of Measure for Measure was a sordid milieu, filled with bored prostitutes and seedy customers. Neon signs surrounded the stage—blue "Vanity," orange "Sin Tax," red "Hottie"—and amid pulsating lights and throbbing club music, garishly made-up strippers in leather and lace gyrated along poles, within cages and from a hanging trapeze bar; two of them pantomimed sex inside a large metal hoop suspended over the stage. Stage fog swirled, liquor was served from an upstage bar, and young clubbers worked the front row of the audience, chatting with patrons as the Duke watched from a private table. A group of outraged nuns appeared upstage but pulled off their habits to reveal themselves as lithe young strippers, and they gyrated and thrashed to wild applause. The crowd's roar extended to a...

The Rise and Fall of the News Theatres

On 5 March 1930 a columnist in The Bioscope, reflecting on the impact of talking pictures, expressed the opinion that 90 minutes of solid, uninterrupted dialogue was too much for most people. The writer argued for variety in programmes, since audiences became restless with long features, and suggested this was the right moment to open a specialised cinema in London catering for those who shared his opinion. A programme made up entirely of short two-reel comedies would be just the ticket, and even more successful would be a News Reel Theatre: this would make someone a small fortune, the correspondent suggested (The Bioscope 1930; 21). No doubt the Bioscope man had read of innovations in the United States where, from the beginning of sound on film, William Randolph Hearst’s Metrotone newsreel and the rival Fox Movietone News played at customised theatres. Neon signs on marquees, advertising ‘news and shorts’ at 25 cents admission, competed with news flashes on electric billboards to define the urban landscape. It was not only trade journals that were monitoring the situation. Ordinary people in Britain would have seen occasional newspaper and magazine articles on this new kind of entertainment, like the one from The Spectator of 22 February 1930 about the Embassy in New York, which described how ‘the theatre is crowded from early morning until midnight’ and expressed no surprise at this phenomenon, since ‘many of us prefer to see “actualite ” films rather than films of escape’ (Simpson 1930: 268, 269). Such was the public demand for topicality, important events were often filmed in the morning, processed and edited around lunchtime, and screened that evening. The arrival of the ‘news and interest’ or ‘specialised’ cinema theatre from the USA was inevitable, and the Bioscope columnist had not long to wait.1 On Monday 18 August 1930, British Movietone screened London’s

My Soldier

The first time I tried to kill a man, I was thirteen years old. I was a seventh grader at Oxford High School; he was a soldier, probably around nineteen or twenty, from nearby Fort McClellan. I don't remember his name now, though he must have told it to me. I remember little of what he looked like or the things he said to me. Mostly I remember how much I wanted him to die. In 1985 in Oxford, Alabama, there wasn't much for kids to do. At night they'd drive around, looping up and down the highway between the mall and the Sonic, stopping for fries or burgers or to make out on Thrill Hill. They'd drink and smoke pot. Soldiers from the fort, making their own loops among the pawn shops and movie theaters and bars, would often intersect with the high school students and try to hook up. I suppose they were sometimes successful, though most of the kids I knew regarded guys from the fort as trashy, foreign, and dangerous. At thirteen, I was too young and too straitlaced for this social scene. I spent my nights with homework and Stephen King novels, waiting for puberty (long overdue, by my estimation) and adulthood. I'd had a few crushes, but by and large, boys were still strange and often malicious creatures best avoided. As for the soldiers, I never gave them a thought when I noticed them at matinees or in the malls on weekends. They were simply another fixture of the landscape, like the red clay soil or Snow Creek or the World's Largest Office Chair next to the defunct furniture store downtown—something I noted as I passed by. So this man, the one I tried to kill, I ordinarily would have passed by if he hadn't introduced himself. It must have been a Sunday afternoon, when the Sunshine Skate Center in town had a special rate and parents dropped off their kids for hours at a time. I had never really liked roller skating because I was tall and gangly and graceless even in tennis shoes, and the [End Page 99] additional element of wheels seemed to invite disaster and disgrace. I was there to chaperone my younger sister as she giddily circled the rink over and over and over. I was sitting on one of the carpet-covered benches, unlacing my rented skates and considering another game of Space Invaders, when he walked up. He was taller than I was, but probably shorter than I am now, only about five-foot-seven or so. His build was slight but wiry, and he looked vaguely uncomfortable in his jeans and T-shirt. His hair had the standard military buzz, and he sported a thin, sandy mustache on his lip. He said he and his friend had been watching me skate, and pointed to the wall, where another buzz-cut stood smirking. "I told him I was going to come and say hey to you," he said. I have no idea what, if anything, I said in reply. My ears rang with blood; I must've been blushing like a neon sign. He looked over at his friend, back at me, and asked to sit. I must've nodded because he sat close beside me on the bench. He smelled like cheap snack bar pizza and cigarettes. He asked me my name, how old I was, and I told him. This is when he must've introduced himself, though I cannot recall that information, only what he said next. "You're pretty," he said. Are there any words a girl more desperately wants to hear, yet fears hearing? I was tall, skinny, and freckled, with lank brown hair and crooked teeth still years away from braces. I was also smart and shy and was used to being teased by the boys in my school. This felt like a setup. Probably I said nothing and looked...

Portland at a Crossroads: Sustaining the Livable City

Portland at a Crossroads:Sustaining the Livable City Judy Walton I'm honored to be asked to speak in this Presidential Plenary on Portland with such well-known local historians as Carl Abbott and Chet Orloff. When first invited, I wondered how I might contribute as both an urban geographer and a relative newcomer to the city. I figured Chet and Carl would cover the past, so I could talk about the city's present and future (one assumes historians are not likely to go there). Imagine my surprise then, when a couple of weeks ago I discovered an article titled "A Brief History of Our Future: An Historian Imagines Portland in 2033" by Carl Abbott! (2003). Way to go, Carl! Why confine history to the past? In his article, Carl projects a rather rosy future for the Rose City based on the continuation of past traditions and current trends. In this talk, however, I'd like to point to a few challenges in getting to that future. And, playing the devil's advocate, I'd like to ask: Are Portlanders living off their legacy? Are they, as a prominent local planner asserts, living off the principal and not the interest? (Toulan 2003, p. 25). I know this is heretical thinking in certain groups. After all, Portland is a model of planning and livability held up to the rest of the nation: "We planned—it worked" is the famous slogan. So why worry that the future won't bring more of the same? Before I get labeled "the Cassandra of Portland," I'd like to disclose my positionality in this matter. Positionality is a term much in vogue in geography today; it's the notion of revealing where you're coming from with respect to who or what you're studying because, in the final analysis, we've concluded there's really no such thing as "biases aside." So let me come clear with my position on Portland: frankly, I'm passionate about the place. I'm convinced that it's the best place to live in the United States. My husband and I moved here even in spite of having no jobs, and soon found ourselves among legions of others who had done the same! Of course, most are 20-somethings for whom living in poverty is still an adventure. [End Page 128] Nevertheless, as I tell all my friends, I've found "urban nirvana" right here in America's best little European city. Click for larger view View full resolution Figure 1 Portland's downtown skyline from across the Willamette River. (Photograph by author.) Before addressing the challenges ahead, I want to briefly show you what's luring people like me to Portland, job or no job. It's not just the attractive downtown skyline (Figure 1) or the enticing 40 inches of rain each year. But as T. S. Eliot said, "Oh, do not ask 'what is it?'...let us go and make a visit." First, Portland is bike-friendly (and I'm an avid bike commuter). In fact, it's one of the "bike-friendliest" cities in the country, ranked number one by Bicycle Magazine. Portland even closes two freeway bridge decks to cars once a year for the popular Bridge Pedal, which takes cyclists across eight bridges spanning the Willamette. Bike lanes, bike paths, bike routes, bike signs, and bike racks are everywhere. And if you're bike-challenged, Portland is skate-friendly too, with "skate route" signs to help you navigate downtown. Second, Portland is one of the only cities in the West where you can give up your car entirely, as there are so many other ways of getting around. Alternatives to the car are actively promoted, from bikes and buses to streetcars, light rail, and foot. Neon signs on buildings encourage one to "Go by Train" or "Go by Streetcar" (Figure 2). Portland State students using the supposedly touristy streetcar to commute to school have boosted ridership far beyond expectations. The streetcar tracks can present new challenges to bicyclists (tires tend to get stuck in the sunken grooves), but bright yellow signs do give fair warning. Portland also has one of the...

Mastering the 'Visual Groove'

Mastering the 'Visual Groove'

Better Homes and Gardens

The boy decided he was in a time warp. No computers, no AC, no FM radio, no security cameras. High tech for the motel was the neon sign outside blinking VACANCY, and the last guest had signed the motel clerk's ledger two weeks ago. The clerk's name was Ramirez, and the boy could swear he saw a fine blanket of cobwebs tying him to his chair. As Ramirez copied the information from the boy's driver's license into his ledger, he made no secret of the fact that he found the boy and the girl Avoiding the clerk's glances, the boy studied the walls of the office, which looked like they had been painted with a toothbrush. The most remarkable thing about the walls were the black-and-white pictures hanging on them. Even though he was squinting, the boy couldn't make out the details of the pictures. What are those of? The moon? Looks like it, don't it? Ramirez smiled eagerly. my hobby. I like finding places that look like they don't belong here. On Earth, I mean. That's a dry lake bed; those are sand dunes; that's a piece of petrified wood, up close. Oh. Yeah, I'm a photographer. From under the counter, the clerk pulled out a battle-scarred 35 mm Leica. My next series is The people who pass through this motel. That can't be a lot of people. The girl was leaning against the counter next to the boy, hiding behind her sunglasses. With her eyes hidden, the girl was not just pretty but beautiful, in an affordable way. But that's what makes it interesting. Ramirez pounded on the counter with his fist. Who the hell stops here? That's what I want to know. Makes two of us. The girl wandered to the window, her jackboots clicking on the tile floor. The sun was setting. Sunset, the boy thought, must be nature's way of having mercy on the landscape. It was an ashen, exhausted place, useful only for testing nuclear bombs and burying murder victims. A lot of them look like they don't belong nowhere. Ramirez's voice

ネオンサインの表現方法

ネオンサインの表現方法

ネオンサインの発光原理と器具材料

ネオンサインの発光原理と器具材料

ネオンサインの工事資格と関連法規

ネオンサインの工事資格と関連法規

Making the Invisible Visible: Röntgen's Mysterious X Rays

Amateur scientists who traveled from town to town in the mid-nineteenth century delighted audiences by showing them the ancestor of the neon sign: the air was pumped out of a glass tube with platinum wires embedded in opposite ends, and the interior was made to glow in lively patterns when a high voltage was run across the wires. Transfixed by the fluorescence, the lecturers had however absolutely no idea what caused the electrical excitation in the vacuum tube.

Between Fascism and the American Dream

Whoever arrives inNewYork and walks up “Old Broadway” will immediately find himself blinded by the royal splendour of an endless row of neon signs that silently speak of an infinity of products: from gramophones to silk stockings, from show polish to the latest theatre show. If later, before going to sleep, he decides to browse through an illustrated magazine, he will marvel at the beauty of its illustrations, at the influence that advertising has on its content; at the riches, the abundance, the importance that advertising possesses in this curious and fascinating country.

Perspective: On Ova Commerce

Six years ago, while I was in graduate school, I began to notice signs in the hallways of the medical school where one of my classes was held. These signs indicated that the ova of healthy women--possibly my ova--were worth about $2,500. The numbers beamed at me like the neon signs of Miami beach. Two thousand and five hundred dollars, during those very lean graduate school years, would have solved an immediate cash flow problem. On first blush, the inconvenience of screening and the discomfort of the procedure seemed a reasonable trade for the benefits of a financially secure summer. Twice a week for four months I walked past those signs. And each time I found myself pressing questions that plumbed deeper in meaning than my initial utilitarian calculations. What did it mean to sell these of my body? Did it matter that these particular pieces could give rise to life? Would the life created be related in some significant way to me? Would this life be considered a sibling of mine, or even a child of mine? Would I some day in the future, pregnant with my own child, regret having made the decision to sell my eggs? I was struck by how seriously I was considering the value, symbolic and otherwise, of my eggs. Never before had I placed much value on my body's reproductive capacity. In fact, I had always viewed it with a sort of trepidation, a dangerous capacity to be kept in check and under my careful control. My monthly shedding of tissue--a cyclical reminder of my capacity to bear children--passed with little notice, occasionally begrudged, certainly never celebrated. So why not just go for the money? Why was it that I, who had never before expressed much sentimental attachment to these pesky ova, was unwilling to sell them? The answers that slowly surfaced over the months are not entirely satisfactory, lack syllogistic clarity, and remain somewhat meditative. I think that for the first time in my life I experienced the mysteriousness of reproduction. For the first time, I began to appreciate my body's monthly offering: twenty-three chromosomes, bound tightly and efficiently in a tiny fragile shell. That this fragile package when united with its gametic counterpart could survive a rigorous meiotic and gestational journey was, well, compelling. The biologic potential of this human material to throw into being another singular human, an entity that would transcend its material origins, began to give me pause. Complex and unique individuals were born out of this highly improbable, chance event, and this suggested to me that these precursors to life deserved my thoughtful stewardship. But did stewardship preclude selling? After all, people sell all sorts of things that are importantly a part of them. We are encouraged to develop and maintain personal and professional capacities and talents so we can do just that: market them. People cultivate and hone their analytic capacities, their athletic and musical talents, their entrepreneurial know-how, even their physical beauty, to earn a fee, make a living. Why not my eggs? My eggs seemed importantly different from any capacity, talent, or quality that I possessed or could cultivate. Ova, after all, came with my female package, the result of plain luck. By virtue of my being born as a female, with intact and functioning ovaries, I ovulate once a month. Aside from occasional cramps, no work, sweat, or toil was invested in this feature of my being. I did not earn them. They did not seem mine, in the sense of ownership. I own my car, a 1999 silver Beetle; I own my couch, a 1949 silk chartreuse number; I own my collection of no-longer-in-print Peanuts books. These things were available for purchase, which allowed me to attend to their quality, fabrication, design, and rarity. My payment for these things permits me to judge their functional, ornamental, and sentimental value. If I wish, I can reject them at any point for failing to meet my standards or replace them when newer, better models come along or when my tastes change. …

Comparison of dc and ac excitation of a sealed CO2 laser

We demonstrate a sealed CO2 laser excited by 60 Hz ac discharges using a high-leakage transformer typical of neon signs. The transformer is employed to limit a short circuit current into an energy-storage capacitor. The laser performance characteristics versus pressure and discharge current for pumping with a dc and 60 Hz ac discharge, are investigated. It is found that there is no difference in laser output power and system efficiency as functions of total input power between them. The maximum laser power of about 40 W is obtained at the condition of 18 Torr and 35 mA.

China's Big Mac Attack

Looming over Beijing's choking, bumper-to-bumper traffic, every tenth building seems to sport a giant neon sign advertising American wares: Xerox, Mobil, Kinko's, Northwest Airlines, ibm, Jeep, Gerber, even the Jolly Green Giant. American food chains and beverages are everywhere in central Beijing: Coca-Cola, Starbucks, Kentucky Fried Chicken, H?agen-Dazs, Dunkin' Donuts, Baskin-Robbins, Pepsi, TCBY, Pizza Hut, and of course McDonald's. As of June 1999, McDonald's had opened 235 restaurants in China. Hong Kong alone now boasts 158 McDonald's franchises, one for every 42,000 residents (compared to one for every 30,000 Americans). Fast food can even trump hard politics. After nato accidentally bombed the Chinese embassy in Belgrade during the war in Kosovo, Beijing students tried to organize a boycott of American companies in protest. Coca-Cola and McDonald's were at the top of their hit list, but the message seemed not to have reached Beijing's busy consumers: the three McDonald's I visited last July were packed with Chinese tourists, local yuppies, and grandparents treating their "little emperors and empresses" to Happy Meals. The only departure from the familiar American setting was the menu board (which was in Chinese, with English in smaller print) and the jarring sound of Mandarin shouted over cellular phones. People were downing burgers, fries, and Cokes. It was, as Yogi Berra said, d?j? vu all over again; I had seen this scene a hundred times

The neon sign

What are a crumpled 55-gallon steel barrel and a tavern-style neon sign doing in the hallway of the physics building at a renowned and revered educational institution? It’s attracting attention, stopping people in their tracks, and sending a message: physics is about size and color, motion and interaction; it’s fun and it’s interesting, something to experience for yourself.