The girl scout troop group show.... it is always a source of entertainment. They usually are coming between school and soccer practice. The troop leaders have pumped them full of Thin Mints and Peanut Butter Patties, and have promised a trip to DQ on the way home. These kids are wound up tighter than harp strings.
But there's usually a laugh or two, and, at the very least, some Blog fodder.
The Girl Scouts that come to the Planetarium are usually smart, active, and outgoing. They are packets of energy with strong minds and bodies and a little bit of attitude. They wear me out every time, but I have to admit, they are pretty fun.
This time was no exception.
When I put on the video of the Mars Exploration Rover, they seemed pretty enthralled. They were quiet for a bit, and when the rocket launched, one girl started singing. Now that I have blown the speakers in the Planetarium, I can't turn the volume up very loud, so there is just a low rumble when the rocket heads out. Her lonely singing voice just started in with...
"I'm on a rocket to Mars.
I'm gonna float on off to Mars.
I'm on a rocket to Mars.
I'm gonna float on off to Mars."
It was kind of haunting and beautiful. The curve of the dome made her voice sound better than it ever could have. It fit in perfectly with what was happening, and filled the room with an atmosphere that has never been there before.
She started that refrain again, and a few of the girls joined in. It was like I was living a Broadway musical. It was all so strange. They sang that chorus the one girl made a couple times and then they got quiet again.
A few seconds later, a different girl sang, to the same tune...
"I'm on a rocket to Mars.
I really want to go to Mars..."
They all joined in!
"...I'm on a rocket to Mars.
I really want to go to Mars."
It was the craziest thing. It didn't stop there. The next girl modified the unmodified line in this version, and left the new line intact...
"I'm on my way to Mars, because
I really want to go to Mars..."
...all together now...
"....I'm on my way to Mars, because
I really want to go to Mars."
The song continued to evolve in this fashion through about 10 stanzas. Different girls would start each one, sing it once, and then all the girls would repeat it. It was as if they were a traveling theatre troupe who did this sort of thing all the time!
I was worried they weren't watching or paying attention, and devoting their mental energy to their musical creation, but it was a sort of soundtrack to the film -- their verses reflected the scenes being shown.
I won't recreate all of the rest of the verses (mainly because I can't remember them all!), but it ended with...
"We made it all the way to Mars.
The rocks are pretty on Mars.
We made it all the way to Mars.
The rocks are pretty on Mars."
Once the movie faded out, the song was over. I expected them to keep it going, because most 8 year olds can't let something go. But the video ended, and the song went with it. This song is now gone. I reproduced it slightly here, but you can't hear the tune. The girls probably forgot all about it -- their matter of fact tone, and synchronized performance made it seem pretty ordinary to them. I'm glad I got to be witness to that song, it was pretty nifty, and now it's over.
The end of the show had some normal questions, and then one girl asked about Neptune, and why is was such a beautiful blue color. I do think Neptune is a beautiful planet. It has so many shades of blue -- it truly does look like a vast beautiful ocean.
I explained to her that, "Neptune is made up of different chemicals and stuff that give it that color."
"What kind of stuff? Is it water? It looks like water." she replied.
"It's not water," I told her.
"So what is it?" She really needed to know.
Usually the kids just say "Oh" and move on. I really didn't want to talk about what gave Neptune it's blue color. It's methane. I figured I'd better tell her -- she did not seem willing to give it up.
"It's stuff called methane," I told her.
"Methane?" I had obviously spurred on her interest. "What's methane?"
"It's a kind of gas," I told her.
"What's it like?" she asked. The room was silent and rapt and ready for my answer,
"Well," I said slowly, "It's a stinky gas."
"Like a skunk?" a different girl asked.
"No, not really." *-gulp-* "It smells more like cow poop."
OK, I just expected vicious guffaws and squeals of laughter. Eight year olds revel in the concept of cow poop. Any time I have made the mistake of describing methane as 'cow poop' to any other 8 year old group, control is just completely lost. But not this time!
It was quiet. They were all looking at me in thought. They were processing the concept in a real, thoughtful way! Cow poop has a smell, they realized that. Sure, it's a bad smell, and anytime you say the word "poop" it's pretty funny. But they were cool and mature. They were all thinking about it for a bit. The girl who asked the original question nodded her head in understanding, and without a hint of humor told me:
"My brother smells like methane."
I have no idea how I did not roll around on the floor laughing hysterically. I just got a sort of shit-stuck smile on my face, filled with humor, confusion, and restraint, as I looked to the girl sitting next to her.
She assured me, "He really does."
Thursday, May 22, 2003
I did a program for a group of 20 adults from a variety of group homes in the area. They were in recovery from or treatment for a variety of ailments: drug addiction, mental disabilities, physical disabilities, etc. These are always among the most appreciative groups, but it's difficult to tell when you are getting through to them. The little kids will let you know -- the cheering and chatter gives you instant feedback. But with the adults, you really don't get that.
There was one fellow in the group, his name was Chris. He was a talker. He was very nice, and seemed to be very into astronomy. As he came in, he introduced himself...
"Hello, I am Chris."
I told him that my name was Chris, as well. He was thrilled...
He talked in quick syllables. He was easily understood, but he spoke each syllable as if it were independent - there was no less time spent between syllables than there was between words. Each syllable stood on its own. He told me, in a very smart sounding voice, "Well, we should be able to tell each other apart since you are the Chris that is you, and I am the Chris that is me. If not, however, you can call me 'Kit', which is sort of a quick way to say Chris. Or my sister used to call me 'Ris', so I would know that is me, also. Or you can call me 'topher', as in the second half of Christopher."
I know that some people have used the 'topher' nickname; usually it is pronounced with the accent on the first syllable: "TOE-pher". But he pronounced it as if someone had ripped the 'Chris' portion right off it: "tuh-FER".
Everyone went in and sat, and we got going. Doing a show for the adults, I am usually a little less keyed up -- the program is a little more lecturey and matter-of-facty than the kids shows. And the seats are comfy -- a show for adult groups always results in someone falling asleep. About 15 minutes into the program I heard someone snoring. I said, "Oop. Looks like we lost one already."
One of the counselors replied, "Actually, that's Andy. He snores when he's awake."
It was true! There was one point that a bright slide was on, so I could see their faces. Right in the middle of the front row was a guy, maybe 48 years old, snoring away. His eyes were wide open, looking at what I was discussing.
Then I ended, and asked if there were any questions. Chris raised his hand. He asked about a Mars video we saw. I told him that it was available online, and he got very excited. "I have a computer," he told me. "It has a modem that can connect to any Internet web site. The modem that it has is fifty-six-point-six-oh-oh." I told him that he might need to download the lower quality one, since the best quality is really made for high-speed Internet connections. He replied, "I do have a high-speed modem. It has fifty-six-point-six-oh-oh." I decided to agree that that was fast.
He then went on to tell me that: "Jupiter has an orbit of one-one-point-eight-six Earth years. And Jupiter has a day that is oh-point-four-one Earth days. And Neptune has an orbit of one-six-four-point-seven-nine Earth years. And Neptune has a day that is oh-point-six-seven Earth days. And Pluto has a year that is two-four-seven-point-nine-two Earth years..."
It was amazing. I jotted down all the numbers I could remember after he left, just to check. This guy was like an almanac! I'm not sure if he was truly what is referred to as an "idiot savant" (though that seems like a politically incorrect term), but that is how I imagine him. All the numbers I jotted down were right -- no mere mortal could remember that kind of detail. But it was strange because he just really knew knew them as strings of numbers. Jupiter's orbit is almost 12 Earth years. But he didn't say "eleven point eighty six", he said "one-one-point-eight-six." It was a little strange.
I'm still amazed. I want to do every show with him, because kids often ask for exact numbers for stuff. They ask about how long it takes Pluto to go around the sun, and I tell them "More than two-hundred and forty years." in a super-dramatic voice, expecting them to be impressed. They are usually utterly nonplussed, and generally then ask "How much more than 240 years?" Chris could have told them. I want him back, at least to deal with the questions.
There was one fellow in the group, his name was Chris. He was a talker. He was very nice, and seemed to be very into astronomy. As he came in, he introduced himself...
"Hello, I am Chris."
I told him that my name was Chris, as well. He was thrilled...
He talked in quick syllables. He was easily understood, but he spoke each syllable as if it were independent - there was no less time spent between syllables than there was between words. Each syllable stood on its own. He told me, in a very smart sounding voice, "Well, we should be able to tell each other apart since you are the Chris that is you, and I am the Chris that is me. If not, however, you can call me 'Kit', which is sort of a quick way to say Chris. Or my sister used to call me 'Ris', so I would know that is me, also. Or you can call me 'topher', as in the second half of Christopher."
I know that some people have used the 'topher' nickname; usually it is pronounced with the accent on the first syllable: "TOE-pher". But he pronounced it as if someone had ripped the 'Chris' portion right off it: "tuh-FER".
Everyone went in and sat, and we got going. Doing a show for the adults, I am usually a little less keyed up -- the program is a little more lecturey and matter-of-facty than the kids shows. And the seats are comfy -- a show for adult groups always results in someone falling asleep. About 15 minutes into the program I heard someone snoring. I said, "Oop. Looks like we lost one already."
One of the counselors replied, "Actually, that's Andy. He snores when he's awake."
It was true! There was one point that a bright slide was on, so I could see their faces. Right in the middle of the front row was a guy, maybe 48 years old, snoring away. His eyes were wide open, looking at what I was discussing.
Then I ended, and asked if there were any questions. Chris raised his hand. He asked about a Mars video we saw. I told him that it was available online, and he got very excited. "I have a computer," he told me. "It has a modem that can connect to any Internet web site. The modem that it has is fifty-six-point-six-oh-oh." I told him that he might need to download the lower quality one, since the best quality is really made for high-speed Internet connections. He replied, "I do have a high-speed modem. It has fifty-six-point-six-oh-oh." I decided to agree that that was fast.
He then went on to tell me that: "Jupiter has an orbit of one-one-point-eight-six Earth years. And Jupiter has a day that is oh-point-four-one Earth days. And Neptune has an orbit of one-six-four-point-seven-nine Earth years. And Neptune has a day that is oh-point-six-seven Earth days. And Pluto has a year that is two-four-seven-point-nine-two Earth years..."
It was amazing. I jotted down all the numbers I could remember after he left, just to check. This guy was like an almanac! I'm not sure if he was truly what is referred to as an "idiot savant" (though that seems like a politically incorrect term), but that is how I imagine him. All the numbers I jotted down were right -- no mere mortal could remember that kind of detail. But it was strange because he just really knew knew them as strings of numbers. Jupiter's orbit is almost 12 Earth years. But he didn't say "eleven point eighty six", he said "one-one-point-eight-six." It was a little strange.
I'm still amazed. I want to do every show with him, because kids often ask for exact numbers for stuff. They ask about how long it takes Pluto to go around the sun, and I tell them "More than two-hundred and forty years." in a super-dramatic voice, expecting them to be impressed. They are usually utterly nonplussed, and generally then ask "How much more than 240 years?" Chris could have told them. I want him back, at least to deal with the questions.
Another kindergarten group yesterday had some unusual things to say.
They were a pretty excited group, with a bunch or things they wanted to tell me as they came in. One kid said something about Mars, he basically just mentioned Mars, and the rest of the class would start chattering "Mars! Mars! Mars!" like baby birds. It was quite odd.
When a show begins, I introduce the laser pointer so that they can watch it for a bit. For some reason kids enjoy watching it. They're like cats -- I could get them to chase it around the room. Usually I dance the red light around the dome and they giggle and squeal with delight. When I first started moving the laser pointer around on the dome, one of the kids yelled out "Yoinks!"
And then the rest of them were all doing it: "Yoinks! Yoinks! Yoinks!". It wasn't in unison at all, they all just chattered it randomly. Above I said they were like baby birds, and that's just perfect.
I put up some pictures, and when the Big Dipper appeared, one of them yelled out "Holy shrimp!" At first I thought that he imagined that it looked like a shrimp. Then I realized that probably, at some point an adult had used a similar sounding phrase, and then told him it was "Holy shrimp." But now, of course, I have a horde of 5 year olds all screaming "Holy shrimp! Holy shrimp! Holy shrimp!" It was cracking me up. I think I'm going to start using that phrase all the time now.
When the rocket to Mars video showed the rocket actually blasting off, the comment was "Holy Jenkins!"
Holy Jenkins?
So then they were all spouting "Holy Jenkins! Holy Jenkins! Holy Jenkins!" It was terribly, terribly odd. But, another good phrase I may use on occasion!
As usual, at the very end of the program, they asked the same questions over and over again. I wasn't surprised, this group was like a batch of automatons.
Overall not a bad group, but it just twisted my brain around a little bit. And I have ten kindergarten and pre-k groups this week! Holy shrimp!
They were a pretty excited group, with a bunch or things they wanted to tell me as they came in. One kid said something about Mars, he basically just mentioned Mars, and the rest of the class would start chattering "Mars! Mars! Mars!" like baby birds. It was quite odd.
When a show begins, I introduce the laser pointer so that they can watch it for a bit. For some reason kids enjoy watching it. They're like cats -- I could get them to chase it around the room. Usually I dance the red light around the dome and they giggle and squeal with delight. When I first started moving the laser pointer around on the dome, one of the kids yelled out "Yoinks!"
And then the rest of them were all doing it: "Yoinks! Yoinks! Yoinks!". It wasn't in unison at all, they all just chattered it randomly. Above I said they were like baby birds, and that's just perfect.
I put up some pictures, and when the Big Dipper appeared, one of them yelled out "Holy shrimp!" At first I thought that he imagined that it looked like a shrimp. Then I realized that probably, at some point an adult had used a similar sounding phrase, and then told him it was "Holy shrimp." But now, of course, I have a horde of 5 year olds all screaming "Holy shrimp! Holy shrimp! Holy shrimp!" It was cracking me up. I think I'm going to start using that phrase all the time now.
When the rocket to Mars video showed the rocket actually blasting off, the comment was "Holy Jenkins!"
Holy Jenkins?
So then they were all spouting "Holy Jenkins! Holy Jenkins! Holy Jenkins!" It was terribly, terribly odd. But, another good phrase I may use on occasion!
As usual, at the very end of the program, they asked the same questions over and over again. I wasn't surprised, this group was like a batch of automatons.
Overall not a bad group, but it just twisted my brain around a little bit. And I have ten kindergarten and pre-k groups this week! Holy shrimp!
Monday, May 19, 2003
The final Saturday birthday party had its own quirks. It was not as insane as the one described below, but still had an annoying moment or two.
I had high hopes for this bunch. First, there was a LOT less people -- there was only 10 or 11 kids and 5 or 6 adults. Second, the kids seemed pretty dedicated to a Planetarium show; they all seemed quite excited at the prospect. It turns out it was because just about all of them had been there at least 2 times before. The birthday kid himself had been there for 2 other parties, and I had one kid who had been there five times before. School, scouts, and three other parties, one of which was actually for him. The point: most of my exciting lead-ins to topics were ruined. Anything resembling a joke, they already knew the punch line. This was my third show of the day! I was too worn out to try to be clever in an original way!
Well, I muddled through. Everytime I got near one of the stock jokes or comments that I usually make about a constellation, star, or planet, they would yell it out long before I would get to it. I talk about Mercury, and how it is unbelievably hot on one side, and tremendously cold on the other. As soon as I put up Mercury, three of them yelled out, "You burn your face off and freeze your butt off, at the same time!"
Hey. That's my line.
They stole all of my lines.
Next time one of them come to the Planetarium, I'm going to make him do the program. They certainly could. Hey! I just thought of something: at least they're remembering the things I tell them. That's a chalk mark in the win column.
One of the things I get slightly tired of, is the same old comments (I very occasionally get an original one -- see the "Wafflepot" story a few Blogs down...). It's kind of odd, too. When I put up Mars, invariably some kid (usually many) shouts, "It looks like an egg!" Why Mars? ALL the planets look like eggs, in their own way. Especially Uranus (stop giggling!) -- it's smooth and blue; it looks just like a robin's egg. When I put up Mercury, they all shout, "That's the moon!" When I put up the picture I have of Venus, they all shout, "It looks like fire!"
I was overjoyed when I didn't get that same answer. I put up Venus, and a kid said, "It looks like a monster!"
Everyone got quiet. "A monster?" I asked, just happy to hear a different comment.
"Yeah. See it? It's got three eyes, a big nose, a mouth slightly curved to the side, and crazy skin."
No, I couldn't see that at all. But I was too happy to hear a different comment, so I just told him, "Yeah. There it is. Very cool."
Right then a cell phone went off. I'm not a big fan of cells phones in the most considerate of locations, I don't even own one myself. But during one of my shows, while I am talking, it just digs into me like 3 inch splinter. This cell phone belonged to one of the kids. He could not have been more than 9, and his phone is twittering away. He, of course, answered it.
"I'm in the Planetarium," he said, after an appropriate greeting. I have a theory: at least 73 percent of all cell phone conversations, since they were invented has been simply a description of the wheareabouts of the callers.
I don't know much about cell phones. I think his was a Kyocera phone, just becasue it's the brand name that my sister has, and I had just seen hers about a week ago. The blue color of the light-up parts kind of stuck with me. And that is the color that filled the dome as he answered the phone. As he is talking, it is like standing outside of a Hollywood movie premiere, the blue beam of light drowning out all hope of anyone seeing anything in the dark for at least two minutes.
He finished up quickly, but a few minutes later it rang again. Before he could answer it, I yanked the blue monster out of his hand, and told him I would give it to him at the end of the show.
But at this point I kind of lost them. They were in cell-phone ringing, monster seeing, late Saturday afternoon, 8-year-old party mode. They were just moving from seat to seat whenever it got dark enough to not notice. The birthday kid told me how much he likes rockets, and I have a DVD with a bunch of rocket launches, and just finished up by showing about four rocket launches in a row. I think, sometime in the middle of the second one, their musical chairs activity turned into a full-fledged game of hide and seek. I was so numb from the rest of the day that I didn't even care.
We finished up, sent them of to the cafetaria, where pizza was waiting. (This group just had a couple pizzas and a cake. THAT'S pretty reasonable.) They offered me some, and I figured that with the grief I had just gotten, I would at least get something out of it. Three pieces later I was on my way.
I repeat the sentiment of the previous Blog: No more birthday parties.
I had high hopes for this bunch. First, there was a LOT less people -- there was only 10 or 11 kids and 5 or 6 adults. Second, the kids seemed pretty dedicated to a Planetarium show; they all seemed quite excited at the prospect. It turns out it was because just about all of them had been there at least 2 times before. The birthday kid himself had been there for 2 other parties, and I had one kid who had been there five times before. School, scouts, and three other parties, one of which was actually for him. The point: most of my exciting lead-ins to topics were ruined. Anything resembling a joke, they already knew the punch line. This was my third show of the day! I was too worn out to try to be clever in an original way!
Well, I muddled through. Everytime I got near one of the stock jokes or comments that I usually make about a constellation, star, or planet, they would yell it out long before I would get to it. I talk about Mercury, and how it is unbelievably hot on one side, and tremendously cold on the other. As soon as I put up Mercury, three of them yelled out, "You burn your face off and freeze your butt off, at the same time!"
Hey. That's my line.
They stole all of my lines.
Next time one of them come to the Planetarium, I'm going to make him do the program. They certainly could. Hey! I just thought of something: at least they're remembering the things I tell them. That's a chalk mark in the win column.
One of the things I get slightly tired of, is the same old comments (I very occasionally get an original one -- see the "Wafflepot" story a few Blogs down...). It's kind of odd, too. When I put up Mars, invariably some kid (usually many) shouts, "It looks like an egg!" Why Mars? ALL the planets look like eggs, in their own way. Especially Uranus (stop giggling!) -- it's smooth and blue; it looks just like a robin's egg. When I put up Mercury, they all shout, "That's the moon!" When I put up the picture I have of Venus, they all shout, "It looks like fire!"
I was overjoyed when I didn't get that same answer. I put up Venus, and a kid said, "It looks like a monster!"
Everyone got quiet. "A monster?" I asked, just happy to hear a different comment.
"Yeah. See it? It's got three eyes, a big nose, a mouth slightly curved to the side, and crazy skin."
No, I couldn't see that at all. But I was too happy to hear a different comment, so I just told him, "Yeah. There it is. Very cool."
Right then a cell phone went off. I'm not a big fan of cells phones in the most considerate of locations, I don't even own one myself. But during one of my shows, while I am talking, it just digs into me like 3 inch splinter. This cell phone belonged to one of the kids. He could not have been more than 9, and his phone is twittering away. He, of course, answered it.
"I'm in the Planetarium," he said, after an appropriate greeting. I have a theory: at least 73 percent of all cell phone conversations, since they were invented has been simply a description of the wheareabouts of the callers.
I don't know much about cell phones. I think his was a Kyocera phone, just becasue it's the brand name that my sister has, and I had just seen hers about a week ago. The blue color of the light-up parts kind of stuck with me. And that is the color that filled the dome as he answered the phone. As he is talking, it is like standing outside of a Hollywood movie premiere, the blue beam of light drowning out all hope of anyone seeing anything in the dark for at least two minutes.
He finished up quickly, but a few minutes later it rang again. Before he could answer it, I yanked the blue monster out of his hand, and told him I would give it to him at the end of the show.
But at this point I kind of lost them. They were in cell-phone ringing, monster seeing, late Saturday afternoon, 8-year-old party mode. They were just moving from seat to seat whenever it got dark enough to not notice. The birthday kid told me how much he likes rockets, and I have a DVD with a bunch of rocket launches, and just finished up by showing about four rocket launches in a row. I think, sometime in the middle of the second one, their musical chairs activity turned into a full-fledged game of hide and seek. I was so numb from the rest of the day that I didn't even care.
We finished up, sent them of to the cafetaria, where pizza was waiting. (This group just had a couple pizzas and a cake. THAT'S pretty reasonable.) They offered me some, and I figured that with the grief I had just gotten, I would at least get something out of it. Three pieces later I was on my way.
I repeat the sentiment of the previous Blog: No more birthday parties.
Sunday, May 18, 2003
That's it. NO MORE BIRTHDAY PARTIES. I can't do it anymore. I give up. Seriously. The camel-back-breaking straw was today.
About 35 minutes before the program is supposed to begin, I wander out of my office into the hall, and see two adults and a child wandering in from the outside.
"Are you here for the birthday party?" I ask.
They tell me that they are, indeed, here for that occasion, and that it is the birthday boy and his parents. We are introduced all around, and the father, shifting his eyes around asks, "What's the best way to get the cars down here?"
OK, a little background for you people who don't know where I work. I am on a college campus, and the Planetarium is about a tenth of a mile from any parking lot, the closest one being a faculty lot, so visitors have a serious hike. It's the way it is. This fellow seemed very concerned about bringing the cars down. I told him that he couldn't bring the cars down, that people just have to walk down from the parking lot.
"You don't understand," he explained, "we have two cars full of food."
No, you don't understand, Smedley. When I said you could bring some cupcakes for after the show, I did not mean in addition to truckloads of food. I actually didn't use those exact words. I simply said, "Oh."
He looked at my glazed-over, horrified stare as I tried to digest what "two carloads of food" could be, and he just said, "How about this? I just pretend I didn't ask you anything, and I just drive the cars down across campus to the front doors." And he was off and doing just that.
This is not a good way to begin a Planetarium program.
He went up and fetched the mini caravan from the parking lot, driving on the grass, and almost taking out a light post as he backed the larger of the two cars up the the doors.
I will now give you a small cross-section of what he unloaded: 15 two-liter bottles of soda. Two giant bowls filled with tossed salad, and four varieties of dressing. Three heaping cheese platters. A multiple pound tub of hummus, with 3 boxes of club crackers for spreading upon. A big bin of tabouleh (I'm not sure if I spelled that right). A five-pound bag of navel oranges. A pasta salad in a 3 gallon casserole dish. An equal size dish of cole slaw. TEN pizzas. A platter of mini cheesecakes. A 5 pound tub of Double Bubble bubble gum. A huge platter of chocolate covered strawberries. And a five pound barrel of cheese balls.
When they brought out the Jimmy Neutron plates that came with 3-D GLASSES in order to make them pop out at the kids, I should have sent them on their way. But, no, I just stood by, mouth agape, as they unloaded the second car. There was equipment and objects which I could not begin to identify. I thought they were setting up for a Motley Crue concert.
Once they heaped 10 tables full of food, the mother of the birthday boy turned to me and said, "You're stopping by to eat, right? You're going to help us with this, right? I don't want to bring any of this home!" I could have come to the party, and brought 1200 of my closest Serbian refugee friends, and there would still be leftovers. Trust me, Birthday-Boy-Mom, you're bringing some stuff home.
So I went into the Planetarium to make sure all was well, and drifted back. By now it was 10 minutes past their scheduled start time, and she informed me that they were still "...just waiting for 18 more people." I told her that I had a program right after, and that the longer we wait to get started, the shorter the program would be. She told me to get going, then. I said that we couldn't let people in once the show began, so she had to be sure. She assured me that it was fine.
So I brought the thirty 7-10 year olds, who had been running and screaming for twenty minutes, into the room (most humans tire a bit after that amount of exercise, apparently the 7-10 age group just gets more riled up. We should try to figure out a way to harness this energy -- strapping them into giant hamster wheels comes to mind...), and tried to get them to sit. Eventually they realized the comfort that the slung-back chairs could provide, and they settled down.
As I was bringing the lights down, the kids chimed in with the usual realizations: "I cam see the moon!" "I can see a star!" "I can see a bunch of stars!" "I can see the big dipper!" (Usually they are wrong about that one.)
Then, one of the older kids chimed in with, "I can see my butt!"
Ahh. Whenever the shouted-out-comments turn to the buttocks, I know the show is going to be a pleasant one. (The previous sentence was riddled with sarcasm, in case you couldn't tell.) Especially when it occurs long before I even mention Uranus.
And then, one of the parents helped out. He shouted "At least we can't see your privates."
I would like to stop right now, and thank whoever did that. My sincerest wishes for happiness, health, and wealth forevermore go out to you, Mr. See Your Privates. (The written word really can not convey the level of sarcasm that is blasting forth from that sentence. Sorry.)
So now all the kids are shouting, "I can see your privates! I can see your privates!" Just yummy.
I muddled through the show, using a lot of pre-recorded material, so I didn't have to actually use my voice. Of course, people wandered in and out throughout the entire program. It gets dark in there. REALLY dark. Not movie theater dark. Not photo dark room dark. Dark. Black dark. Your-eyes-take-8-minutes-to-adjust dark. Blacker than night dark. So they all just stumbled in screaming about how they couldn't see and slamming into walls and other people. I told them not to come in, but I knew they wouldn't listen. I really would have been more surprised if that had not happened.
I finally finished up, and brought them back down to the cafeteria where the food was waiting for them. As I approached the room, I saw what appeared to be a new, blue wall, where there was none before. I was confused and scared. I got there and asked what the blue wall was. The parents explained that that was where the kids were going to "walk on the moon." It was a few sentences later that it actually sunk in... they had set up a blue screen, and a digital video camera with blue screen effects ability. They were going to film the kids jumping in front of a blue screen, while they real-time edited them onto a lunar landscape in slow motion to simulate a moon walk. They built a digital video studio in the cafeteria.
I just had to leave. So I went back to the Planetarium to clean up the mess and get ready for the next program (which was starting in less than 15 minutes), and tried to forget about the insanity that was going on back at the cafeteria. I went in, reset all my stuff, and went back into the cafeteria to see how things were going. As soon as I got in there, I noticed 3 kids standing on one of the tables. My Mr. Nice Guy persona flew right out the window as I screeched "Get off the tables!"
Silence. The whole place went dead silent. From the quiet a voice belonging to a parent of the birthday child said, "But that's part of the game."
Ready for this? They had set up a "Race Around the Moon" game, and one of the stations was on top of one of the cafetaria tables. This was designed and promoted by the adults. Let's see how much is wrong with this: (a) it's not your table, (b) it's not safe for the kids, (c) it's not good for the structure of the tables, and (d) they are tables in the cafeteria! People eat off those tables!!
The kids did get down, and I think that station of "Race Around the Moon" was modified so they could stay on the floor. But I am really not sure. To avoid any possible homicide on my part, I decided to leave.
When the next show got out, they had vacated and cleaned up everything. I assume there were no casualties or damages, but I really can't be sure.
About 35 minutes before the program is supposed to begin, I wander out of my office into the hall, and see two adults and a child wandering in from the outside.
"Are you here for the birthday party?" I ask.
They tell me that they are, indeed, here for that occasion, and that it is the birthday boy and his parents. We are introduced all around, and the father, shifting his eyes around asks, "What's the best way to get the cars down here?"
OK, a little background for you people who don't know where I work. I am on a college campus, and the Planetarium is about a tenth of a mile from any parking lot, the closest one being a faculty lot, so visitors have a serious hike. It's the way it is. This fellow seemed very concerned about bringing the cars down. I told him that he couldn't bring the cars down, that people just have to walk down from the parking lot.
"You don't understand," he explained, "we have two cars full of food."
No, you don't understand, Smedley. When I said you could bring some cupcakes for after the show, I did not mean in addition to truckloads of food. I actually didn't use those exact words. I simply said, "Oh."
He looked at my glazed-over, horrified stare as I tried to digest what "two carloads of food" could be, and he just said, "How about this? I just pretend I didn't ask you anything, and I just drive the cars down across campus to the front doors." And he was off and doing just that.
This is not a good way to begin a Planetarium program.
He went up and fetched the mini caravan from the parking lot, driving on the grass, and almost taking out a light post as he backed the larger of the two cars up the the doors.
I will now give you a small cross-section of what he unloaded: 15 two-liter bottles of soda. Two giant bowls filled with tossed salad, and four varieties of dressing. Three heaping cheese platters. A multiple pound tub of hummus, with 3 boxes of club crackers for spreading upon. A big bin of tabouleh (I'm not sure if I spelled that right). A five-pound bag of navel oranges. A pasta salad in a 3 gallon casserole dish. An equal size dish of cole slaw. TEN pizzas. A platter of mini cheesecakes. A 5 pound tub of Double Bubble bubble gum. A huge platter of chocolate covered strawberries. And a five pound barrel of cheese balls.
When they brought out the Jimmy Neutron plates that came with 3-D GLASSES in order to make them pop out at the kids, I should have sent them on their way. But, no, I just stood by, mouth agape, as they unloaded the second car. There was equipment and objects which I could not begin to identify. I thought they were setting up for a Motley Crue concert.
Once they heaped 10 tables full of food, the mother of the birthday boy turned to me and said, "You're stopping by to eat, right? You're going to help us with this, right? I don't want to bring any of this home!" I could have come to the party, and brought 1200 of my closest Serbian refugee friends, and there would still be leftovers. Trust me, Birthday-Boy-Mom, you're bringing some stuff home.
So I went into the Planetarium to make sure all was well, and drifted back. By now it was 10 minutes past their scheduled start time, and she informed me that they were still "...just waiting for 18 more people." I told her that I had a program right after, and that the longer we wait to get started, the shorter the program would be. She told me to get going, then. I said that we couldn't let people in once the show began, so she had to be sure. She assured me that it was fine.
So I brought the thirty 7-10 year olds, who had been running and screaming for twenty minutes, into the room (most humans tire a bit after that amount of exercise, apparently the 7-10 age group just gets more riled up. We should try to figure out a way to harness this energy -- strapping them into giant hamster wheels comes to mind...), and tried to get them to sit. Eventually they realized the comfort that the slung-back chairs could provide, and they settled down.
As I was bringing the lights down, the kids chimed in with the usual realizations: "I cam see the moon!" "I can see a star!" "I can see a bunch of stars!" "I can see the big dipper!" (Usually they are wrong about that one.)
Then, one of the older kids chimed in with, "I can see my butt!"
Ahh. Whenever the shouted-out-comments turn to the buttocks, I know the show is going to be a pleasant one. (The previous sentence was riddled with sarcasm, in case you couldn't tell.) Especially when it occurs long before I even mention Uranus.
And then, one of the parents helped out. He shouted "At least we can't see your privates."
I would like to stop right now, and thank whoever did that. My sincerest wishes for happiness, health, and wealth forevermore go out to you, Mr. See Your Privates. (The written word really can not convey the level of sarcasm that is blasting forth from that sentence. Sorry.)
So now all the kids are shouting, "I can see your privates! I can see your privates!" Just yummy.
I muddled through the show, using a lot of pre-recorded material, so I didn't have to actually use my voice. Of course, people wandered in and out throughout the entire program. It gets dark in there. REALLY dark. Not movie theater dark. Not photo dark room dark. Dark. Black dark. Your-eyes-take-8-minutes-to-adjust dark. Blacker than night dark. So they all just stumbled in screaming about how they couldn't see and slamming into walls and other people. I told them not to come in, but I knew they wouldn't listen. I really would have been more surprised if that had not happened.
I finally finished up, and brought them back down to the cafeteria where the food was waiting for them. As I approached the room, I saw what appeared to be a new, blue wall, where there was none before. I was confused and scared. I got there and asked what the blue wall was. The parents explained that that was where the kids were going to "walk on the moon." It was a few sentences later that it actually sunk in... they had set up a blue screen, and a digital video camera with blue screen effects ability. They were going to film the kids jumping in front of a blue screen, while they real-time edited them onto a lunar landscape in slow motion to simulate a moon walk. They built a digital video studio in the cafeteria.
I just had to leave. So I went back to the Planetarium to clean up the mess and get ready for the next program (which was starting in less than 15 minutes), and tried to forget about the insanity that was going on back at the cafeteria. I went in, reset all my stuff, and went back into the cafeteria to see how things were going. As soon as I got in there, I noticed 3 kids standing on one of the tables. My Mr. Nice Guy persona flew right out the window as I screeched "Get off the tables!"
Silence. The whole place went dead silent. From the quiet a voice belonging to a parent of the birthday child said, "But that's part of the game."
Ready for this? They had set up a "Race Around the Moon" game, and one of the stations was on top of one of the cafetaria tables. This was designed and promoted by the adults. Let's see how much is wrong with this: (a) it's not your table, (b) it's not safe for the kids, (c) it's not good for the structure of the tables, and (d) they are tables in the cafeteria! People eat off those tables!!
The kids did get down, and I think that station of "Race Around the Moon" was modified so they could stay on the floor. But I am really not sure. To avoid any possible homicide on my part, I decided to leave.
When the next show got out, they had vacated and cleaned up everything. I assume there were no casualties or damages, but I really can't be sure.
Saturday, May 17, 2003
If you've been keeping up with the Blog, you know that I do a bunch of programs for pre-school kids -- 4 and 5 years old is not uncommon. For some reason, this month has been exceptional for groups of this age. The youngest are always the most surreal. It's really quite strange, sometimes.
I had a group a couple days back that came out with some odd things.
During the beginning of the program, when I am discussing the constellations, I show the Little Dipper. I commonly encourage them to see whatever they want to see. I tell them that other kids have told me theat it looks like a kite (true!) or a vacuum cleaner (I made that one up, but it works once they see it). Then I move onto other constellations. They regularly have gotten the clue from my ideas that they should come up with their own. After the Little Dipper, I move on to the Big Dipper, and they often have their own ideas, some are creative. I had a kid once tell me the Big Dipper looked like a seahorse. It's a little difficult to describe the idea behind that here, but, trust me, it was a decent idea. The little kids tend to come up with their own constellations and they often have clever suggestions.
For this group, I put on the Big Dipper, and one kid shouted out, "It looks like a wafflepot."
"Say what?" I asked. Yes, I actually was so flabbergasted that I used the phrase, 'Say what?'
"That thing looks like a wafflepot, " he reiterated.
"A wafflepot?" I asked.
"Yeah, a wafflepot," he told me again, with a tone of indignance. It sounded like he had a very good idea of what a wafflepot was, and that, if I was unfamiliar with the wafflepot concept, that it made me a lower class citizen. I knew from the way he said it that it would be unwise for me to ask what a wafflepot was. So I did not.
Wafflepot. Though I have no idea of what such a thing could be, it is a great word. I think, if I ever form another band, I will be sure that we are called Wafflepot.
But wait, there's more....
At the end of that show, when I do my question and answer period (always good Blog fodder), after answering a couple questions, and simply nodding to a couple of statements (five year olds like to tell you stuff more often than ask you things), one girl raised her hand. I acknowledged her hand, and she said:
"I wish I could kiss myself."
How do you respond to a five-year-old kid who says such a thing? This was not in the user manual, I am quite certain. My eyes just got real wide, and I just turned to the nearest teacher and said, "Did she just say what I think...?"
The teacher was just nodding her head and rolling her eyes. I'm not sure if the expression was directed at the girl, specifically (as in "She always asks stuff like that."), or the entire age group (as in, "They always ask stuff like that.").
My response: "Wow."
I said, "Wow." to a five year old who told me that her wish was to be able to kiss herself. I couldn't think of anything else. There was only three letters running through my head. A "w", an "o", and another "w". There was nothing else I could come up with. And even those letters went away when she followed up with:
"...Like my brother. He can kiss his own toes."
There is no appropriate response to that in the entire English language, I am quite certain.
I had a group a couple days back that came out with some odd things.
During the beginning of the program, when I am discussing the constellations, I show the Little Dipper. I commonly encourage them to see whatever they want to see. I tell them that other kids have told me theat it looks like a kite (true!) or a vacuum cleaner (I made that one up, but it works once they see it). Then I move onto other constellations. They regularly have gotten the clue from my ideas that they should come up with their own. After the Little Dipper, I move on to the Big Dipper, and they often have their own ideas, some are creative. I had a kid once tell me the Big Dipper looked like a seahorse. It's a little difficult to describe the idea behind that here, but, trust me, it was a decent idea. The little kids tend to come up with their own constellations and they often have clever suggestions.
For this group, I put on the Big Dipper, and one kid shouted out, "It looks like a wafflepot."
"Say what?" I asked. Yes, I actually was so flabbergasted that I used the phrase, 'Say what?'
"That thing looks like a wafflepot, " he reiterated.
"A wafflepot?" I asked.
"Yeah, a wafflepot," he told me again, with a tone of indignance. It sounded like he had a very good idea of what a wafflepot was, and that, if I was unfamiliar with the wafflepot concept, that it made me a lower class citizen. I knew from the way he said it that it would be unwise for me to ask what a wafflepot was. So I did not.
Wafflepot. Though I have no idea of what such a thing could be, it is a great word. I think, if I ever form another band, I will be sure that we are called Wafflepot.
But wait, there's more....
At the end of that show, when I do my question and answer period (always good Blog fodder), after answering a couple questions, and simply nodding to a couple of statements (five year olds like to tell you stuff more often than ask you things), one girl raised her hand. I acknowledged her hand, and she said:
"I wish I could kiss myself."
How do you respond to a five-year-old kid who says such a thing? This was not in the user manual, I am quite certain. My eyes just got real wide, and I just turned to the nearest teacher and said, "Did she just say what I think...?"
The teacher was just nodding her head and rolling her eyes. I'm not sure if the expression was directed at the girl, specifically (as in "She always asks stuff like that."), or the entire age group (as in, "They always ask stuff like that.").
My response: "Wow."
I said, "Wow." to a five year old who told me that her wish was to be able to kiss herself. I couldn't think of anything else. There was only three letters running through my head. A "w", an "o", and another "w". There was nothing else I could come up with. And even those letters went away when she followed up with:
"...Like my brother. He can kiss his own toes."
There is no appropriate response to that in the entire English language, I am quite certain.
Thursday, May 15, 2003
Yesterday, I had the most appreciative group ever. It was a little annoying, but a little uplifting. I will try to explain.
When a show begins, as the lights come down, the first thing they notice is the moon. The stars are flickering into visibility, but the moon is apparent long before that. I start talking about the moon, and bring the lights down in the background. They sort of notice it happening, but it's subtle. Then, I phase the moon from full to new as I bring the lights completely off. At this point it almost appears as if the ceiling has fallen away and you can see a true night sky. It's breathtaking. I see it happen at least 3 times a day, and I am still not sick of it.
So, when a group of small kids see that for the first time, especially when they are used to a Northeast United States sky (we're less than 40 miles from NYC), there is usually at least a gasp. Generally it's a loud "WOW!". Occasionally they burst out into applause. The first grade group I had yesterday, which filled the Planetarium, burst into the loudest applause and cheers I had ever heard. When the din subsided, I mentioned to them that they were likely the most excited group I ever had. Well, they thought that was great, and they erupted into another screaming ovation. When that calmed down, we moved on.
I started talking about the North Star -- the star that is located right over the North Pole. I told them that if they were at the North Pole that the North Star would be right at the top of the sky. To show them where the zenith point is, the imaginary spot at the top of the sky, I flipped the switch that puts a little "X" at the top of the sky. It's a tiny little "X", simply marking the spot. I said "This is where the North Star would be if you were at the North Pole." Thunderous applause. Thunderous applause for a projector the size of my pinky projecting a 6 inch "X" on the ceiling. Hmmm.
I turned it off, and there was a feeling of genuine disappointment. It was as if everyone had stopped breathing at once. Just to see, I said, "Yes, the North Star would be right here," and turned the zenith marker on again. It was like I had rescued them from certain death. The applause was amazing. And that was for an "X".
I mentioned that the North Star was at the end of the Little Dipper. I traced it out with the laser pointer, and then put on the picture. I thought the end of the world was thundering down around me as they howled with delight and applause. The picture I have of the Little Dipper is of a dented camp spoon with which you might cook soup over an open fire. I put that cruddy old picture up (the slide was probably created in 1977) and it was like I had carved Mount Rushmore right in front of their eyes.
It went like that for the whole program. My picture of the BIg Dipper is a big gold spoon with jewels. You would have thought it was the Taj Mahal. The cheered like crazy. Scorpio got the applause of a their favorite Nickelodeon actor. When I put on pictures of the planets, it was almost as if I actually had moved the planets into the room.
Every slide, I mean every slide, that was projected up there got a round of applause. I probably only did about two-thirds of a show I normally did as I waited for the cacophony of clapping to die down at least 40 times. It was crazy. The show went a little long, but I just didn't want to stop. It was a kind of high. They were eating this stuff up. They loved it.
OK, I know by about 1/2 way through they were really just applauding for their own joy of making noise, but I didn't care. I've had programs that I've pumped every ounce of my energy into it, and hardly got a peep. These kids were giving back more than any other show. I was like a sports star. I was like a rock star. If someone had suggested it, I'm sure I could have been carried out at the end of the show on the shoulders of a horde of cheering 6 and 7 year olds.
Of course, all good things come to an end. I'm bringing up the lights to an audible "Awwww..." as the kids are realizing the show is over. As the lights are coming up slow, I am reviewing stuff with more enthusiasm and zeal than I ever have. I don't want the excitement to be over! "Remember the moon? And the mares and craters? Remember the ice on Mars? Remember the Mars Exploration Rover? Wasn't that rocket launch cool?" I'm hopping and leaping like a Harlem Globetrotter, keeping the entertainment going.
But the magic had, indeed, ceased. Once the lights came up, the link was broken. A couple kids nodded as I asked the questions, but there was no cheers. No applause. They did their part. They knew they had gone above and beyond the call of duty, and their part was over.
I stood at the exit door thanking them for a great show -- I was still hopped up on the adrenaline rush. They were not. I was giving high fives, and a few of them were accepting them. But I could see the look in their eyes. It told me that the show was over. The glory was strong, but short-lived. Most of the high-fives I got were pity ones.
I think it was kind of a Wizard of Oz effect. Once the guy comes out from behind the curtain, it's not so impressive anymore.
I asked one of the last kids what his favorite part was, just trying to establish what was the most exciting. Maybe I could rekindle it again...
"The clapping and yelling was great," he told me.
When a show begins, as the lights come down, the first thing they notice is the moon. The stars are flickering into visibility, but the moon is apparent long before that. I start talking about the moon, and bring the lights down in the background. They sort of notice it happening, but it's subtle. Then, I phase the moon from full to new as I bring the lights completely off. At this point it almost appears as if the ceiling has fallen away and you can see a true night sky. It's breathtaking. I see it happen at least 3 times a day, and I am still not sick of it.
So, when a group of small kids see that for the first time, especially when they are used to a Northeast United States sky (we're less than 40 miles from NYC), there is usually at least a gasp. Generally it's a loud "WOW!". Occasionally they burst out into applause. The first grade group I had yesterday, which filled the Planetarium, burst into the loudest applause and cheers I had ever heard. When the din subsided, I mentioned to them that they were likely the most excited group I ever had. Well, they thought that was great, and they erupted into another screaming ovation. When that calmed down, we moved on.
I started talking about the North Star -- the star that is located right over the North Pole. I told them that if they were at the North Pole that the North Star would be right at the top of the sky. To show them where the zenith point is, the imaginary spot at the top of the sky, I flipped the switch that puts a little "X" at the top of the sky. It's a tiny little "X", simply marking the spot. I said "This is where the North Star would be if you were at the North Pole." Thunderous applause. Thunderous applause for a projector the size of my pinky projecting a 6 inch "X" on the ceiling. Hmmm.
I turned it off, and there was a feeling of genuine disappointment. It was as if everyone had stopped breathing at once. Just to see, I said, "Yes, the North Star would be right here," and turned the zenith marker on again. It was like I had rescued them from certain death. The applause was amazing. And that was for an "X".
I mentioned that the North Star was at the end of the Little Dipper. I traced it out with the laser pointer, and then put on the picture. I thought the end of the world was thundering down around me as they howled with delight and applause. The picture I have of the Little Dipper is of a dented camp spoon with which you might cook soup over an open fire. I put that cruddy old picture up (the slide was probably created in 1977) and it was like I had carved Mount Rushmore right in front of their eyes.
It went like that for the whole program. My picture of the BIg Dipper is a big gold spoon with jewels. You would have thought it was the Taj Mahal. The cheered like crazy. Scorpio got the applause of a their favorite Nickelodeon actor. When I put on pictures of the planets, it was almost as if I actually had moved the planets into the room.
Every slide, I mean every slide, that was projected up there got a round of applause. I probably only did about two-thirds of a show I normally did as I waited for the cacophony of clapping to die down at least 40 times. It was crazy. The show went a little long, but I just didn't want to stop. It was a kind of high. They were eating this stuff up. They loved it.
OK, I know by about 1/2 way through they were really just applauding for their own joy of making noise, but I didn't care. I've had programs that I've pumped every ounce of my energy into it, and hardly got a peep. These kids were giving back more than any other show. I was like a sports star. I was like a rock star. If someone had suggested it, I'm sure I could have been carried out at the end of the show on the shoulders of a horde of cheering 6 and 7 year olds.
Of course, all good things come to an end. I'm bringing up the lights to an audible "Awwww..." as the kids are realizing the show is over. As the lights are coming up slow, I am reviewing stuff with more enthusiasm and zeal than I ever have. I don't want the excitement to be over! "Remember the moon? And the mares and craters? Remember the ice on Mars? Remember the Mars Exploration Rover? Wasn't that rocket launch cool?" I'm hopping and leaping like a Harlem Globetrotter, keeping the entertainment going.
But the magic had, indeed, ceased. Once the lights came up, the link was broken. A couple kids nodded as I asked the questions, but there was no cheers. No applause. They did their part. They knew they had gone above and beyond the call of duty, and their part was over.
I stood at the exit door thanking them for a great show -- I was still hopped up on the adrenaline rush. They were not. I was giving high fives, and a few of them were accepting them. But I could see the look in their eyes. It told me that the show was over. The glory was strong, but short-lived. Most of the high-fives I got were pity ones.
I think it was kind of a Wizard of Oz effect. Once the guy comes out from behind the curtain, it's not so impressive anymore.
I asked one of the last kids what his favorite part was, just trying to establish what was the most exciting. Maybe I could rekindle it again...
"The clapping and yelling was great," he told me.
After I do a presentation, I drift around doing a quick clean up of the room. I've found quite a collection of stuff in there. I have a box of stuff; I call it the "Lost and Not Found". No one ever comes back for this stuff, and some of it is pretty nice.
Here are some things in the "Lost and Not Found": A Yankees wool hat, a plastic bookmark shaped like a bear, a black bandana, a Chuck E Cheese token, a white scarf, a pair of earmuffs, a collection of lanyards, a sweatshirt, a ring with a daisy-shaped design on it, two rewritable CD-Roms, and an endless supply of scrunchies. I could start a thrift store with the collection I have.
These are the things I keep. There are also things I do NOT keep. The least disgusting of them are candy wrappers and sunflower seed shells. I also do get to pick up already-been-chewed gum, tissues used well beyond their design specifications, band-aids that have fallen off (one of my personal favorites), and I have even had to pick up a maxi pad. Relax, it was unused. Unwrapped, but unused.
But yesterday I got to pick up one of the oddest things ever.
I had a group of first grade kids. It was a huge group -- turned out to be 81 all together. I'm not sure what part of "Maximum Attendance Allowed: 80" the school groups do not quite understand, but occasionally they decide to bring more. 81 isn't too bad, it actually is still legal according to the fire codes, but just barely.
Anyway, there was one girl who was wearing glasses, and over one eye she had a patch. It was really just a big round band-aid covering her eye. I noticed it and wondered what happened to her, but I didn't ask -- possibly it was a permanent condition, or possibly something sensitive; I didn't want to make her uncomfortable. The oddest thing about it: it had signatures, I imagine from her friends, all around the outside edge. Her patch had been signed, much like kids might sign a cast. I wondered if it was actually on her face when they did it, and couldn't help but think that it couldn't be helping her eye's recovery to have first graders probing it with writing utensils.
The kids came in, we had a nice show, and I sent them all on their way. As I was doing my patrol of the floor, I noticed what looked like a huge bandaid on the floor. It was the eye patch! On the floor!
There are only a few possibilities of what could have happened:
None of those possibilities sound very plausable to me. Whichever it turns out to be (and, obviously, I will never know the actual reason), an adhesive eye patch is now winning for the freakiest thing I've found on the floor.
Here are some things in the "Lost and Not Found": A Yankees wool hat, a plastic bookmark shaped like a bear, a black bandana, a Chuck E Cheese token, a white scarf, a pair of earmuffs, a collection of lanyards, a sweatshirt, a ring with a daisy-shaped design on it, two rewritable CD-Roms, and an endless supply of scrunchies. I could start a thrift store with the collection I have.
These are the things I keep. There are also things I do NOT keep. The least disgusting of them are candy wrappers and sunflower seed shells. I also do get to pick up already-been-chewed gum, tissues used well beyond their design specifications, band-aids that have fallen off (one of my personal favorites), and I have even had to pick up a maxi pad. Relax, it was unused. Unwrapped, but unused.
But yesterday I got to pick up one of the oddest things ever.
I had a group of first grade kids. It was a huge group -- turned out to be 81 all together. I'm not sure what part of "Maximum Attendance Allowed: 80" the school groups do not quite understand, but occasionally they decide to bring more. 81 isn't too bad, it actually is still legal according to the fire codes, but just barely.
Anyway, there was one girl who was wearing glasses, and over one eye she had a patch. It was really just a big round band-aid covering her eye. I noticed it and wondered what happened to her, but I didn't ask -- possibly it was a permanent condition, or possibly something sensitive; I didn't want to make her uncomfortable. The oddest thing about it: it had signatures, I imagine from her friends, all around the outside edge. Her patch had been signed, much like kids might sign a cast. I wondered if it was actually on her face when they did it, and couldn't help but think that it couldn't be helping her eye's recovery to have first graders probing it with writing utensils.
The kids came in, we had a nice show, and I sent them all on their way. As I was doing my patrol of the floor, I noticed what looked like a huge bandaid on the floor. It was the eye patch! On the floor!
There are only a few possibilities of what could have happened:
- her eye just spontaneously got better during the program.
- there was nothing wrong with her eye to begin with, she was just wearing the eye patch for fun, or possibly pity.
- the eye patch actually fell off without her knowing it.
None of those possibilities sound very plausable to me. Whichever it turns out to be (and, obviously, I will never know the actual reason), an adhesive eye patch is now winning for the freakiest thing I've found on the floor.
Tuesday, May 13, 2003
The third and final program of the day was some second graders. It is currently in contention for one of the worst programs ever, behavior-wise.
First of all, the group was there at least twenty-five minutes early.
I need to go off on an aside here for a moment. Why is it that 98 percent of the groups cannot get there at the right time? Their reservation form has the time of the show clearly marked, and the instructions to "Please show up for seating at 10 minutes before your show time." So, it's quiz time, dear readers: If your show time is at 12:30, when should you arrive? Time's up! That's right, 12:20. OK, bonus question: if your show time is 11:00, when should you arrive? Time's up! That's right, 10:50.
Wait a minute? Does that mean that it is not appropriate for a 9:30 group to show up at 9:57? And it is equally inappropriate for a 12:30 group to show up at 12:02? My gracious!
I don't want to make a generalization, but everyone who comes to a show comes at an inappropriate time. It's gotten so that, on those 2 percent of the times that a group shows up at the right time, I am so flabbergasted that I can't even imagine that it is really them. I assume a group approaching the Planetarium at 10:50 is there for the 9:30 or 12:30 program. When the teacher confirms that they are there for the 11:00, I blather thanks like an idiot and hug the teacher's leg.
Anyway, back to the demon group. They were there at least 25 minutes early; that's when I heard the ruckus in the hall from within the soundproofed Planetarium. The previous group had just vacated, and I was preparing for the group in the hall, when I heard the muffled noises of what sounded like a herd of thousands of sheep being chased by a train. I swiftly put the constellations back in place, and restarted the video player, and ran off to the door to see what was making the noise. It turned out to be 72 second graders pounding on the walls and floor. They had apparently already been reprimanded by the office across the hall, as there was testing going on (it's finals week at the school). It also apparently did no good. I tried to sweep them from the hall as quickly as possible.
One of the teachers leaned over to me in the middle of the din to let me know that "They are all very excited."
EXCITED?! It seemed to me that they had pumped the kids up with some Caramel Macchiatos with extra espresso from Starbucks, and stopped off on the street corner for a dose of crack to give them that extra pep. They were crazy. They flooded into the Planetarium like animals fleeing a forest fire, and filled in all but 3 of the seats. With chaperones, there were 77 people.
I tried to begin, but they were just not having it. They all had a bunch to say, at once, and little of it was related to space. The noise was incredible. It would have been silly of me to try to yell over them; my voice was already weakened from 2 full programs. The third of the day is always a challenge. I finally got the eye of one of the teachers (they were engaged in the conversation, too), and they started the sustained "SSSSSSsssshhhhh" that eventually got everyone quiet.
They were pretty uncoopertive throughout, occasionally erupting into spontaneous discussions at odd times. Just to give you an idea of what I was up against, there was one kid with light up shoes. I hate light up shoes. They are the worst invention on the planet. I want to kill the person who invented light up shoes. A couple years ago, light up shoes just had little red lights. They were OK; still shed some light, but it was dim, and of all the colors to be blinking a little in the dark, red does the least damage to your night vision. Now they make shoes with multicolored lights on them, the brightest of which being a blue which is nearly white. When a kid with those shoes kicks the floor, it's like a disco in there.
The kid with the shoes in this show was not satisfied to ruin the program by stomping on the floor. He realized that he could do more damage if the shoes were higher up. So he turned himself completely upside down in the chair, head dangling upside down, feet up by where his head should be. Then, he started stomping on the head of the chair. The light was incredible. It was like a fashion photographer was there snapping rapid photos in the dark.
The kids all arose a big "WHOA!" from the frightening light. I kept talking about the topic at hand as I went out from around the control panel. I grabbed his ankles with one hand, now holding him like a baby who had just had a diaper removed, and was about to get wiped down. The other hand swiftly removed both shoes in a single fluid motion, as I finished a sentence about the night sky for the audience. Then, quietly, through clenched teeth, I hissed at him, "You'll get these back at the end." I swear I was growling at the same time.
The teacher sitting behind him leaned forward and said, "Ha ha. He took your shoes."
First of all, the group was there at least twenty-five minutes early.
I need to go off on an aside here for a moment. Why is it that 98 percent of the groups cannot get there at the right time? Their reservation form has the time of the show clearly marked, and the instructions to "Please show up for seating at 10 minutes before your show time." So, it's quiz time, dear readers: If your show time is at 12:30, when should you arrive? Time's up! That's right, 12:20. OK, bonus question: if your show time is 11:00, when should you arrive? Time's up! That's right, 10:50.
Wait a minute? Does that mean that it is not appropriate for a 9:30 group to show up at 9:57? And it is equally inappropriate for a 12:30 group to show up at 12:02? My gracious!
I don't want to make a generalization, but everyone who comes to a show comes at an inappropriate time. It's gotten so that, on those 2 percent of the times that a group shows up at the right time, I am so flabbergasted that I can't even imagine that it is really them. I assume a group approaching the Planetarium at 10:50 is there for the 9:30 or 12:30 program. When the teacher confirms that they are there for the 11:00, I blather thanks like an idiot and hug the teacher's leg.
Anyway, back to the demon group. They were there at least 25 minutes early; that's when I heard the ruckus in the hall from within the soundproofed Planetarium. The previous group had just vacated, and I was preparing for the group in the hall, when I heard the muffled noises of what sounded like a herd of thousands of sheep being chased by a train. I swiftly put the constellations back in place, and restarted the video player, and ran off to the door to see what was making the noise. It turned out to be 72 second graders pounding on the walls and floor. They had apparently already been reprimanded by the office across the hall, as there was testing going on (it's finals week at the school). It also apparently did no good. I tried to sweep them from the hall as quickly as possible.
One of the teachers leaned over to me in the middle of the din to let me know that "They are all very excited."
EXCITED?! It seemed to me that they had pumped the kids up with some Caramel Macchiatos with extra espresso from Starbucks, and stopped off on the street corner for a dose of crack to give them that extra pep. They were crazy. They flooded into the Planetarium like animals fleeing a forest fire, and filled in all but 3 of the seats. With chaperones, there were 77 people.
I tried to begin, but they were just not having it. They all had a bunch to say, at once, and little of it was related to space. The noise was incredible. It would have been silly of me to try to yell over them; my voice was already weakened from 2 full programs. The third of the day is always a challenge. I finally got the eye of one of the teachers (they were engaged in the conversation, too), and they started the sustained "SSSSSSsssshhhhh" that eventually got everyone quiet.
They were pretty uncoopertive throughout, occasionally erupting into spontaneous discussions at odd times. Just to give you an idea of what I was up against, there was one kid with light up shoes. I hate light up shoes. They are the worst invention on the planet. I want to kill the person who invented light up shoes. A couple years ago, light up shoes just had little red lights. They were OK; still shed some light, but it was dim, and of all the colors to be blinking a little in the dark, red does the least damage to your night vision. Now they make shoes with multicolored lights on them, the brightest of which being a blue which is nearly white. When a kid with those shoes kicks the floor, it's like a disco in there.
The kid with the shoes in this show was not satisfied to ruin the program by stomping on the floor. He realized that he could do more damage if the shoes were higher up. So he turned himself completely upside down in the chair, head dangling upside down, feet up by where his head should be. Then, he started stomping on the head of the chair. The light was incredible. It was like a fashion photographer was there snapping rapid photos in the dark.
The kids all arose a big "WHOA!" from the frightening light. I kept talking about the topic at hand as I went out from around the control panel. I grabbed his ankles with one hand, now holding him like a baby who had just had a diaper removed, and was about to get wiped down. The other hand swiftly removed both shoes in a single fluid motion, as I finished a sentence about the night sky for the audience. Then, quietly, through clenched teeth, I hissed at him, "You'll get these back at the end." I swear I was growling at the same time.
The teacher sitting behind him leaned forward and said, "Ha ha. He took your shoes."
Here's a short story from a pre-K group -- a couple odd things to come from the mouths of four-year-olds.
We were watching a DVD I got from the Jet Propulsion Labs. It is a computer generated video of what the Mars Exploration Rover mission will look like when it is launched in June. It's pretty nifty -- it shows the Delta rocket launch, the landing sequence, and some of the manuevers when it gets to Mars.
Kids this age love to see a rocket launch. (What am I saying? Kids of any age love a rocket launch -- I watch this video three times a day, and I'm still not sick of it.) The rocket launch is pretty impressive, and was even more so before I blew out the speakers in the Planetarium. There's still sound, but it's a little scratchy, and much quieter. I used to have it turned up quite loud. Now that I blew out the sound system, it is much more subdued -- so much so that I can hear talking throughout.
The rocket had just dropped the burniers off the sides, and the main engine had cut out, and the first real separation of the rocket happened. The kids always give a nice "Oooh!" when that occurs. It's pretty majestic, seeing the rocket detach as it majestically floats in space. It's eerie and powerful and just cool to see. One girl was so enthralled and awestruck by it she said, "I wish I was on that. I would just step outside that rocket and float and fly." Wow. Quite poetic and inspired for a pre-kindergarten child, I thought .
A boy next to her said, "What? You're going a thousand miles per hour!" (It's actually a bunch faster than that, but I was still impressed, because it doesn't appear that fast in the video.) "The only thing that would fly would be your arms and legs, as they flew off your body!" Wow. Quite insightful and quite gruesome for a pre-kindergarten child, I thought.
We were watching a DVD I got from the Jet Propulsion Labs. It is a computer generated video of what the Mars Exploration Rover mission will look like when it is launched in June. It's pretty nifty -- it shows the Delta rocket launch, the landing sequence, and some of the manuevers when it gets to Mars.
Kids this age love to see a rocket launch. (What am I saying? Kids of any age love a rocket launch -- I watch this video three times a day, and I'm still not sick of it.) The rocket launch is pretty impressive, and was even more so before I blew out the speakers in the Planetarium. There's still sound, but it's a little scratchy, and much quieter. I used to have it turned up quite loud. Now that I blew out the sound system, it is much more subdued -- so much so that I can hear talking throughout.
The rocket had just dropped the burniers off the sides, and the main engine had cut out, and the first real separation of the rocket happened. The kids always give a nice "Oooh!" when that occurs. It's pretty majestic, seeing the rocket detach as it majestically floats in space. It's eerie and powerful and just cool to see. One girl was so enthralled and awestruck by it she said, "I wish I was on that. I would just step outside that rocket and float and fly." Wow. Quite poetic and inspired for a pre-kindergarten child, I thought .
A boy next to her said, "What? You're going a thousand miles per hour!" (It's actually a bunch faster than that, but I was still impressed, because it doesn't appear that fast in the video.) "The only thing that would fly would be your arms and legs, as they flew off your body!" Wow. Quite insightful and quite gruesome for a pre-kindergarten child, I thought.
There was a group of kindergarten kids here today -- so, they were 5 and 6 years old. Pluto comes up a lot when talking to this age group (see the "I like Pluto" story, a few Blogs down). They also all like to ask the same question over and over (see the "I like Pluto" story, a few Blogs down.)
One of the kids asked about Pluto, and I forget exactly how the conversation drifted there, but I mentioned the New Horizons spacecraft, which has recently been approved for funding, and should launch for Pluto in 2006. I explained that it takes almost 10 years to get to Pluto because it is so far away.
"How old are you now?" I asked the boy.
"I'm five years old," he told me.
"Well," I told him with a twinkle of excitement, "if we packed you into a spacecraft and shipped you off to Pluto, you'd be fifteen by the time you got there. You'd be in high school!"
He thought that was pretty cool. And he wasn't the only one. Another hand went up --
"How old would I be," another boy asked.
"How old are you now?" I asked him.
"I'm five," he said.
"Well, then you would be fifteen, also." I pointed at the first kid, and waved my hand back towards him as I said it, trying to indicate that, being the same age now, they would be the same age then.
Another hand, of course.
"What about me?" Uh-oh.
"Well how old are you?"
"I am six," she told me.
Whew, at least a little different... "You would be sixteen."
Two more hands went up with the same question.
Finally I had a brainstorm. The next statement is probably the smartest thing I have EVER done in there in a similar situation...
"OK, hang on a sec," I told the group. "Raise your hand if you are five years old!"
About two-thirds of the hands went up.
"You would ALL be fifteen when you got there. Now raise your hand if you are six years old!"
The rest of the hands went up.
"OK, now the 5 year olds put your hands down." You have to be very specific with kindergarten kids -- it's like Simon Says in there.
"All of you would be sixteen years old. Everybody get it?" They all nodded. "OK, you can put your hands down." YAY! I had excaped the black hole of endless repetitive questions. "Any more questions?" I asked. There was one --
"My brother is in high school. How old would he be?" he asked me.
*-sigh-* A teacher rescued me: "We'll do this later, when we get back to school", she told them. "You have to ask a different question now."
Thank goodness. I told her that it sounded like a good worksheet... [current age] + 10 = [age when you get to Pluto]. Have 35 problems with different ages, and they would get the hang of adding ten. I thought it was a good astronomy/math integration topic. She just looked at me with a quizzical expression. Maybe it was because they don't do worksheets in kindergarten. Or maybe it was because I finished my description of the worksheet muttering, "Yeah. That'll teach 'em to repeat the same dang question over and over again."
One of the kids asked about Pluto, and I forget exactly how the conversation drifted there, but I mentioned the New Horizons spacecraft, which has recently been approved for funding, and should launch for Pluto in 2006. I explained that it takes almost 10 years to get to Pluto because it is so far away.
"How old are you now?" I asked the boy.
"I'm five years old," he told me.
"Well," I told him with a twinkle of excitement, "if we packed you into a spacecraft and shipped you off to Pluto, you'd be fifteen by the time you got there. You'd be in high school!"
He thought that was pretty cool. And he wasn't the only one. Another hand went up --
"How old would I be," another boy asked.
"How old are you now?" I asked him.
"I'm five," he said.
"Well, then you would be fifteen, also." I pointed at the first kid, and waved my hand back towards him as I said it, trying to indicate that, being the same age now, they would be the same age then.
Another hand, of course.
"What about me?" Uh-oh.
"Well how old are you?"
"I am six," she told me.
Whew, at least a little different... "You would be sixteen."
Two more hands went up with the same question.
Finally I had a brainstorm. The next statement is probably the smartest thing I have EVER done in there in a similar situation...
"OK, hang on a sec," I told the group. "Raise your hand if you are five years old!"
About two-thirds of the hands went up.
"You would ALL be fifteen when you got there. Now raise your hand if you are six years old!"
The rest of the hands went up.
"OK, now the 5 year olds put your hands down." You have to be very specific with kindergarten kids -- it's like Simon Says in there.
"All of you would be sixteen years old. Everybody get it?" They all nodded. "OK, you can put your hands down." YAY! I had excaped the black hole of endless repetitive questions. "Any more questions?" I asked. There was one --
"My brother is in high school. How old would he be?" he asked me.
*-sigh-* A teacher rescued me: "We'll do this later, when we get back to school", she told them. "You have to ask a different question now."
Thank goodness. I told her that it sounded like a good worksheet... [current age] + 10 = [age when you get to Pluto]. Have 35 problems with different ages, and they would get the hang of adding ten. I thought it was a good astronomy/math integration topic. She just looked at me with a quizzical expression. Maybe it was because they don't do worksheets in kindergarten. Or maybe it was because I finished my description of the worksheet muttering, "Yeah. That'll teach 'em to repeat the same dang question over and over again."
Friday, May 09, 2003
I had another group of 5 year olds today. They were likely the most excited group I've ever had. They just could not settle down at all. There was no quieting them down. They just wanted to chat.
There was one boy who just wanted to talk to me. I explain, at the beginning of each program, how hard it is for me to answer questions during the program, and that if they have any questions, or anything to tell me, that they just need to wait until the end. It is simply too hard to answer questions when it is dark -- I can't see hands up, and yelling out would just be crazy. If they just sit back and listen, they will learn a lot, and most of their questions will likely be answered during the program. [NOTE: The exact wording is adjusted to the level of the audience... the previous paragraph was not an exact quote.... five year olds usually can understand and wait, for the most part. This was an unusual group.]
But they were having NONE of that. I tried to get them to participate as it went along, to get them involved, appropriately, in the discussion. They did help me out as I went along, but they wouldn't stop.
"Right up near the top of the sky, right after the sun goes down, at this time of year, this year is Jupiter!" I display a big picture of Juipter. "What is it called...?"
"JUPITER!!" they all respond together. Most groups stop and listen at this point. Not this bunch. They just kept yelling things out...
"It looks like an Easter egg!" "It looks weird!" "It's crazy looking!" "My dad has a truck!" "I like these chairs!" "I'm thristy!" "Are we doing snack time today?" "What is that thing?" "I want to color!" "My side itches!" "I like Barbie!"
All of those were just shouted out at once.
Even when they calmed down a little, there was one boy, who just couldn't help himself. He was sort of polite, trying to get my attention by say "Excuse me." every few seconds. I tried to get him to hold on for a bit, but he was insatiable.
"This is a picture of Saturn,: I would explain. "It is another of the..."
"Excuse me."
"..giant planets. It is one the next-door neighbor planets..."
"Excuse me."
"...to Jupiter. It's not as big as Jupiter..."
"Excuse me."
"...is, since we already learned that Jupiter is the..."
"Excuse me."
"...biggest planet."
"Excuse me."
"Just hang on a sec," I told him, gently, "I'll get to questions in a little bit."
"OK." he told me.
"A lot of people know Saturn..."
"Excuse me."
"...because of those great..."
"Excuse me."
"...rings..."
"Excuse me."
"...going..."
"Excuse me."
"...around it."
"Excuse me."
"Can you hold onto that question for a few minutes?" I asked.
"OK," he said.
So I talked about the rings of Saturn a little, and he said "excuse me" a couple more times. I put on pictures of Saturn and Jupiter together, so we could review, and I moved away from the control panel to wander out into the middle of the Planetarium dome to talk about them. I wander a bit during a program -- it keeps me interested, and keeps the kids on their toes. They never know from which direction my voice will be coming.
I stepped out from the control panel, and stepped on something. It is dark in there -- VERY difficult to see. I know my way around in the dark, I've manuevered my way around enough to know every seat, every wall, and every edge of anything that should be there. This was a foreign object; it was not supposed to be there, and I stomped right on it. Hard. And it simply said, "Excuse me."
The kid had gotten up and walked around to the side of the control panel.
"Whassamatter?" I asked him quietly. I assumed he had to go to the bathroom, or he lost something he brought, or perhaps he was a little scared (it happens, though rarely -- seen the Blog entry below this one).
"Is this real?" he asked me.
This is a slightly more metaphysical question than I expect from five-year-olds. The rest of the room is still chatting away, not even noticing that I have stopped presenting, so I figured I'd deal with Excuse-Me-Boy for a bit.
"What do you mean?" I asked him.
"Is this real?" he asked me once again. I apaprently wasn't going to glean any new information from him. I thought about striking up a conversation with him regarding this. He seemed to be the only person in the room completely rapt with my discourse. I was going to ask him to consider what 'real' even meant. I thought we could talk about the difference between reality and perception, if there is one. I figured we could go back and forth debating over whether my reality and his reality were the same thing, and if they were diifferent, would we need to come up with a different, more acceptable understanding of reality? Or can we each have our own independent reality, without disrupt the notion of what is 'real'?
I actually decided to go a little simpler....
"Sure," I told him. "The room is real, and the lights are real. We are prentending it is a night sky, the 'stars' are just lights, but everything in here is real."
"Oh," he told me. "OK." And he went and sat back down.
I finished the program, and brought the lights back on. They had their usual question/comments at the end. I saw the kid who came up to me in the middle of the program turn to each of the kids next to him and explain, "That was real," to each of them. One responded with "I'm thirsty." The other told him "I want to color."
There was one boy who just wanted to talk to me. I explain, at the beginning of each program, how hard it is for me to answer questions during the program, and that if they have any questions, or anything to tell me, that they just need to wait until the end. It is simply too hard to answer questions when it is dark -- I can't see hands up, and yelling out would just be crazy. If they just sit back and listen, they will learn a lot, and most of their questions will likely be answered during the program. [NOTE: The exact wording is adjusted to the level of the audience... the previous paragraph was not an exact quote.... five year olds usually can understand and wait, for the most part. This was an unusual group.]
But they were having NONE of that. I tried to get them to participate as it went along, to get them involved, appropriately, in the discussion. They did help me out as I went along, but they wouldn't stop.
"Right up near the top of the sky, right after the sun goes down, at this time of year, this year is Jupiter!" I display a big picture of Juipter. "What is it called...?"
"JUPITER!!" they all respond together. Most groups stop and listen at this point. Not this bunch. They just kept yelling things out...
"It looks like an Easter egg!" "It looks weird!" "It's crazy looking!" "My dad has a truck!" "I like these chairs!" "I'm thristy!" "Are we doing snack time today?" "What is that thing?" "I want to color!" "My side itches!" "I like Barbie!"
All of those were just shouted out at once.
Even when they calmed down a little, there was one boy, who just couldn't help himself. He was sort of polite, trying to get my attention by say "Excuse me." every few seconds. I tried to get him to hold on for a bit, but he was insatiable.
"This is a picture of Saturn,: I would explain. "It is another of the..."
"Excuse me."
"..giant planets. It is one the next-door neighbor planets..."
"Excuse me."
"...to Jupiter. It's not as big as Jupiter..."
"Excuse me."
"...is, since we already learned that Jupiter is the..."
"Excuse me."
"...biggest planet."
"Excuse me."
"Just hang on a sec," I told him, gently, "I'll get to questions in a little bit."
"OK." he told me.
"A lot of people know Saturn..."
"Excuse me."
"...because of those great..."
"Excuse me."
"...rings..."
"Excuse me."
"...going..."
"Excuse me."
"...around it."
"Excuse me."
"Can you hold onto that question for a few minutes?" I asked.
"OK," he said.
So I talked about the rings of Saturn a little, and he said "excuse me" a couple more times. I put on pictures of Saturn and Jupiter together, so we could review, and I moved away from the control panel to wander out into the middle of the Planetarium dome to talk about them. I wander a bit during a program -- it keeps me interested, and keeps the kids on their toes. They never know from which direction my voice will be coming.
I stepped out from the control panel, and stepped on something. It is dark in there -- VERY difficult to see. I know my way around in the dark, I've manuevered my way around enough to know every seat, every wall, and every edge of anything that should be there. This was a foreign object; it was not supposed to be there, and I stomped right on it. Hard. And it simply said, "Excuse me."
The kid had gotten up and walked around to the side of the control panel.
"Whassamatter?" I asked him quietly. I assumed he had to go to the bathroom, or he lost something he brought, or perhaps he was a little scared (it happens, though rarely -- seen the Blog entry below this one).
"Is this real?" he asked me.
This is a slightly more metaphysical question than I expect from five-year-olds. The rest of the room is still chatting away, not even noticing that I have stopped presenting, so I figured I'd deal with Excuse-Me-Boy for a bit.
"What do you mean?" I asked him.
"Is this real?" he asked me once again. I apaprently wasn't going to glean any new information from him. I thought about striking up a conversation with him regarding this. He seemed to be the only person in the room completely rapt with my discourse. I was going to ask him to consider what 'real' even meant. I thought we could talk about the difference between reality and perception, if there is one. I figured we could go back and forth debating over whether my reality and his reality were the same thing, and if they were diifferent, would we need to come up with a different, more acceptable understanding of reality? Or can we each have our own independent reality, without disrupt the notion of what is 'real'?
I actually decided to go a little simpler....
"Sure," I told him. "The room is real, and the lights are real. We are prentending it is a night sky, the 'stars' are just lights, but everything in here is real."
"Oh," he told me. "OK." And he went and sat back down.
I finished the program, and brought the lights back on. They had their usual question/comments at the end. I saw the kid who came up to me in the middle of the program turn to each of the kids next to him and explain, "That was real," to each of them. One responded with "I'm thirsty." The other told him "I want to color."
Thursday, May 08, 2003
The power of suggestion is a horrible thing.
I had a group from a High School which has a "Teaching Young Children" program. It was actually kind of nifty to see each high school student come walking down the hill attached to a little kid. The little kids were in the 4-5 year old range.
One of the adult chaperones came up to me as they were going in and said to me, "Remember that they are small. They might get scared if it gets dark."
IF!?! IF it gets dark?! It's going to get dark. We're there to look at the NIGHT sky! It's DARK at NIGHT! That's just the way it is!
I simply told her, "Well, that's a problem, since it does get dark in there."
"Oh, I know," she says, nodding, eyes wide open as if she's the one scared of the dark, "I just wanted to let you know."
I do programs for children this age all the time. There have been occasions where a kid gets scared and has to leave. I think the oldest one to leave so far was actually 12 years old. It happens. But it is RARE. In the last year and a couple months, I've had over 14,000 people in there, mostly kids under 8. I am positive that less than 10 have had to leave because of fear of the dark.
The show gets going, and everyone's having a decent time. They are a little chatty, but 4 year olds always are. It wasn't their idea to come, they'd rather be out playing in that sand. You just have to deal with it, and usually, by a little ways into the program, they are getting into the big pretty pictures on the dome.
Well, about 25 minutes into the program, for no apparent reason, in the middle of me talking this chaperone calls out, "Is everybody OK? Is anybody scared?"
Holey moley, I was going to choke her. It's just like when a kid falls down a little. Usually he is fine, but if you get all "AAAaaaawww. Is everything OK?? Did you get a boo-boo?" that's when he gets teary on you.
So of course one of the kids says "Yes, I'm scared." So, she takes him out. Another one says it, too. In less than three minutes, 12 of the 25 kids had left.
Three minutes before, they were climbing all over the seats and their high school person and chatting and laughing... they didn't seem too scared to me.
Well, at least now I know how to clear the room, if I ever decide that the little ones aren't into the show, and I decide I want to stop... using the power of suggestion, I'll just scare them out.
I had a group from a High School which has a "Teaching Young Children" program. It was actually kind of nifty to see each high school student come walking down the hill attached to a little kid. The little kids were in the 4-5 year old range.
One of the adult chaperones came up to me as they were going in and said to me, "Remember that they are small. They might get scared if it gets dark."
IF!?! IF it gets dark?! It's going to get dark. We're there to look at the NIGHT sky! It's DARK at NIGHT! That's just the way it is!
I simply told her, "Well, that's a problem, since it does get dark in there."
"Oh, I know," she says, nodding, eyes wide open as if she's the one scared of the dark, "I just wanted to let you know."
I do programs for children this age all the time. There have been occasions where a kid gets scared and has to leave. I think the oldest one to leave so far was actually 12 years old. It happens. But it is RARE. In the last year and a couple months, I've had over 14,000 people in there, mostly kids under 8. I am positive that less than 10 have had to leave because of fear of the dark.
The show gets going, and everyone's having a decent time. They are a little chatty, but 4 year olds always are. It wasn't their idea to come, they'd rather be out playing in that sand. You just have to deal with it, and usually, by a little ways into the program, they are getting into the big pretty pictures on the dome.
Well, about 25 minutes into the program, for no apparent reason, in the middle of me talking this chaperone calls out, "Is everybody OK? Is anybody scared?"
Holey moley, I was going to choke her. It's just like when a kid falls down a little. Usually he is fine, but if you get all "AAAaaaawww. Is everything OK?? Did you get a boo-boo?" that's when he gets teary on you.
So of course one of the kids says "Yes, I'm scared." So, she takes him out. Another one says it, too. In less than three minutes, 12 of the 25 kids had left.
Three minutes before, they were climbing all over the seats and their high school person and chatting and laughing... they didn't seem too scared to me.
Well, at least now I know how to clear the room, if I ever decide that the little ones aren't into the show, and I decide I want to stop... using the power of suggestion, I'll just scare them out.
Tuesday, May 06, 2003
And then they came! The group described in the Blog directly below this one arrived at the Planetarium today.
No, I did not find out what '...the class concentrates more on the functioning of the lights...' means. I chickened out asking. Sorry.
But they were all boys from a high school. It was kind of an inner-city bunch of .... well ... interesting chaps. I am quite certain that the program today had the most swearing in it of any of my programs. Not by me! By the attendees.
They started out pretty wound up. They had a lot to offer to me, and did so freely. It was another odd show, in that I don't know why I put up with all the things they were calling out. I responded to even the most inane. An example (and one I've used before):
One of them yelled, towards the beginning of the program: "Hey, are you gonna show us Uranus?"
I, of course, responded with "Only if you ask real nice."
There was a bunch of laughing, but it was an appropriate amount, and we got to move on. There were a few moments like that. They had rude, sometimes funny things to say, but they were quick, thoughtful, and oddly related, and we would move on. I actually had a lot of fun with them. They really got some good treatment for a group which came with no goals.
After I talked about the North Star, they asked about "The South Star". I explained that there is none, and even brought the Planetarium around to the southern hemisphere to prove it. When I suggested that I was going to change the sky to that part of the globe, one of them yelled out "You can't do that!" I just said, "Watch me," and cranked the latitude change on full blast. When it is full dark in there, you really get the sensation you are moving, especially when you change latitude. I heard one of the kids say "I feel like I'm at Six Flags!"
We moved on and talked about some stars and constellations and planets. This is an exciting time to be talking about Mars, and they had a lot of things to say about aliens. Someone, of course, asked me what I knew about aliens, and I suggested that we have no evidence yet, but we are constantly searching for alien life both within, and outside of, our solar system.
"But what about Area 51, man?!" one of them asked.
He didn't sound like he wanted to be argued with. "Well, there is that, I suppose," I told him.
"True," he responded, thoughtfully. He seemed quite satisfied. Thank goodness that was it for that conversation.
So I was talking about the Mars Exploration Rover mossion leaving at the beginning of next month, and we watched a short video about it. I explained that we were sending only unmanned, robotic spacecraft to Mars to study the surface. They liked the robot. They asked how much it cost, and I wasn't sure, but I thought they estimated cost for the two rovers was about $325 million. After a couple of very vocal expletives at that number, they were listening.
"But why ain't we sending people to Mars?" one of them asked.
"Well, we just saw the video, and it explained that it takes about seven months to send a spacecraft to Mars. We just don't have the technology to send keep a person alive for that long in space. We just can't pack that many sandwiches!" that's my usual 'joke' about sending someone in a spacecraft for a long time. "Plus, we would have to bring them back! We just can't send people to Mars at this time."
"So why don't we send monkeys?" he asked, totally serious.
I explained that the monkeys would not survive either, and if we're not sending people, that perhaps the robotic spacecraft that we control from Earth is the next best thing.
One of them suggested that he would be fine in a spacecraft for a seven month journey.
I said, "I don't care how many Playstation games you've got, you'd go crazy cooped up in a tiny little spacecraft for seven months."
"Phpsh," he responded, "I just bring my girl with me. It'd be eright. We'd be all set." None of the 50 high school boys laughed at that. A couple said "yeah," but most just nodded quietly.
I guess he's got a point. Perhaps NASA should rethink long space travel...
No, I did not find out what '...the class concentrates more on the functioning of the lights...' means. I chickened out asking. Sorry.
But they were all boys from a high school. It was kind of an inner-city bunch of .... well ... interesting chaps. I am quite certain that the program today had the most swearing in it of any of my programs. Not by me! By the attendees.
They started out pretty wound up. They had a lot to offer to me, and did so freely. It was another odd show, in that I don't know why I put up with all the things they were calling out. I responded to even the most inane. An example (and one I've used before):
One of them yelled, towards the beginning of the program: "Hey, are you gonna show us Uranus?"
I, of course, responded with "Only if you ask real nice."
There was a bunch of laughing, but it was an appropriate amount, and we got to move on. There were a few moments like that. They had rude, sometimes funny things to say, but they were quick, thoughtful, and oddly related, and we would move on. I actually had a lot of fun with them. They really got some good treatment for a group which came with no goals.
After I talked about the North Star, they asked about "The South Star". I explained that there is none, and even brought the Planetarium around to the southern hemisphere to prove it. When I suggested that I was going to change the sky to that part of the globe, one of them yelled out "You can't do that!" I just said, "Watch me," and cranked the latitude change on full blast. When it is full dark in there, you really get the sensation you are moving, especially when you change latitude. I heard one of the kids say "I feel like I'm at Six Flags!"
We moved on and talked about some stars and constellations and planets. This is an exciting time to be talking about Mars, and they had a lot of things to say about aliens. Someone, of course, asked me what I knew about aliens, and I suggested that we have no evidence yet, but we are constantly searching for alien life both within, and outside of, our solar system.
"But what about Area 51, man?!" one of them asked.
He didn't sound like he wanted to be argued with. "Well, there is that, I suppose," I told him.
"True," he responded, thoughtfully. He seemed quite satisfied. Thank goodness that was it for that conversation.
So I was talking about the Mars Exploration Rover mossion leaving at the beginning of next month, and we watched a short video about it. I explained that we were sending only unmanned, robotic spacecraft to Mars to study the surface. They liked the robot. They asked how much it cost, and I wasn't sure, but I thought they estimated cost for the two rovers was about $325 million. After a couple of very vocal expletives at that number, they were listening.
"But why ain't we sending people to Mars?" one of them asked.
"Well, we just saw the video, and it explained that it takes about seven months to send a spacecraft to Mars. We just don't have the technology to send keep a person alive for that long in space. We just can't pack that many sandwiches!" that's my usual 'joke' about sending someone in a spacecraft for a long time. "Plus, we would have to bring them back! We just can't send people to Mars at this time."
"So why don't we send monkeys?" he asked, totally serious.
I explained that the monkeys would not survive either, and if we're not sending people, that perhaps the robotic spacecraft that we control from Earth is the next best thing.
One of them suggested that he would be fine in a spacecraft for a seven month journey.
I said, "I don't care how many Playstation games you've got, you'd go crazy cooped up in a tiny little spacecraft for seven months."
"Phpsh," he responded, "I just bring my girl with me. It'd be eright. We'd be all set." None of the 50 high school boys laughed at that. A couple said "yeah," but most just nodded quietly.
I guess he's got a point. Perhaps NASA should rethink long space travel...
Monday, May 05, 2003
Since every show is tailored directly to the people attending, we send out a form asking the visitors to explain what info they would like me to present. I've had some odd ones before. I once had someone ask for a show about the Rainforests. Only the Rainforests. The species and diversity of life and the threat to the Rainforests.
THIS IS A PLANETARIUM! It has the the word PLANET right in it. We talk about stars and planets and things related to them. There are a lot of ways to integrate other topics (navigation, fiction/science fiction, even religion), but the Rainforest was a smidge out there.
Here is one of the latest requests for a Planetarium Program (yes, it is a quote):
"The class concentrates more on the functioning of the lights, we aren't an Astrology class. Any presentation will do."
I'm not even sure where to begin in discussing how much is wrong with that.
I guess we'll start at the beginning:
"The class concentrates more on the functioning of the lights."
It doesn't suggest they focus on the funtioning of light, it says they concentrate on the function of the lights. The lights! What does that even mean?! Is it the electricity they concentrate on? The incandescent nature of the filament? Or simply the fact that it is hard to read when they are not on? Do they study the light switch perhaps?
What do their tests look like?
(1) In a paragraph, describe a 'light switch'; it's usage, and effects.
(Extra Credit) Compare and contrast 'light switch' and 'dimmer'.
OK, let's move on...
"...we aren't an Astrology class."
That's a good thing since you will not be learning about ASTROLOGY! OK, maybe this is pedantic Astronomer going ape over a silly distinction, but I hear it all the time. When the class comes, I will not be going through whether or not you will find romance or win the lottery. I will not suggest that they find a new job, or that they should avoid turtles this month. I will not be discussing how the fact that Mercury is in retrograde will cause their painful itch to flare up. Astrology. Sheesh.
But wait, there's more...
"Any presentation will do."
Any presentation. Oh, goody. I get to do anything I want.
"Hi there! Welcome to the Planetarium. Today's topic: Thumb Twiddling, it's history and future."
...or maybe...
"Today we will be discussing the musical impact of Tiny Tim."
... or perhaps...
"Welcome, boys and girls, today we will be doing a chapter by chapter reenactment of the Kama Sutra."
I don't think ANY presentation will do.
Well, I better go. My horoscope told me not to spend too much time Blogging today. And that I should avoid turtles. And since Mercury has gone into retrograde, I've had this terrible itch...
THIS IS A PLANETARIUM! It has the the word PLANET right in it. We talk about stars and planets and things related to them. There are a lot of ways to integrate other topics (navigation, fiction/science fiction, even religion), but the Rainforest was a smidge out there.
Here is one of the latest requests for a Planetarium Program (yes, it is a quote):
"The class concentrates more on the functioning of the lights, we aren't an Astrology class. Any presentation will do."
I'm not even sure where to begin in discussing how much is wrong with that.
I guess we'll start at the beginning:
"The class concentrates more on the functioning of the lights."
It doesn't suggest they focus on the funtioning of light, it says they concentrate on the function of the lights. The lights! What does that even mean?! Is it the electricity they concentrate on? The incandescent nature of the filament? Or simply the fact that it is hard to read when they are not on? Do they study the light switch perhaps?
What do their tests look like?
(1) In a paragraph, describe a 'light switch'; it's usage, and effects.
(Extra Credit) Compare and contrast 'light switch' and 'dimmer'.
OK, let's move on...
"...we aren't an Astrology class."
That's a good thing since you will not be learning about ASTROLOGY! OK, maybe this is pedantic Astronomer going ape over a silly distinction, but I hear it all the time. When the class comes, I will not be going through whether or not you will find romance or win the lottery. I will not suggest that they find a new job, or that they should avoid turtles this month. I will not be discussing how the fact that Mercury is in retrograde will cause their painful itch to flare up. Astrology. Sheesh.
But wait, there's more...
"Any presentation will do."
Any presentation. Oh, goody. I get to do anything I want.
"Hi there! Welcome to the Planetarium. Today's topic: Thumb Twiddling, it's history and future."
...or maybe...
"Today we will be discussing the musical impact of Tiny Tim."
... or perhaps...
"Welcome, boys and girls, today we will be doing a chapter by chapter reenactment of the Kama Sutra."
I don't think ANY presentation will do.
Well, I better go. My horoscope told me not to spend too much time Blogging today. And that I should avoid turtles. And since Mercury has gone into retrograde, I've had this terrible itch...