LIVE from New Mexico (Part 3)

Some of you may have noticed the subject of the New Mexico update series is a little different than usual i.e., "LIVE from New Mexico". Usually when I send out updates I am writing about events that have taken place in the past. The nature of the work I am doing right now places me in front of a computer while events are taking place, so with the exception of my sight-seeing tour on Monday, if something happens here I am able to begin writing about it in real-time, hence "LIVE from New Mexico".

Along those same lines, I've mentioned that there is quite a bit of downtime associated with my particular duties out here. Seeing as how I just floated into another waiting session, I'd like to pontificate a bit on this topic and introduce you to a couple more lessons I have learned this week.

Lesson #1: Nothing is Quick
I don't know if it's the nature of the experimental environment I'm in or just the fact that this is a government operation, but nothing here happens quickly. Some of it is process driven, a result of the data collection process. For example everything has to be photographed. New target? Photograph it. New projectile? Photograph it. New moon? Photograph it.

Not everything can be excused in the name of science though and many of our delays are the result of competency—or lack thereof. Today the first shift managed to squeeze off four rounds of tests; second shift barely managed two. We were all set to go for one of the tests when someone realized, did the photographer take the pictures yet? A minor detail and like I said, nothing happens quickly. In fact, I'd say everything here takes AT LEAST an hour. We forgot photography? There goes another hour, and since it's almost time for lunch, we'll resume after the break. There's another hour.

Lesson #2: Schedule? We don't need no stinking schedule!
One could postulate that one reason why things take so long around here is because of the schedule. Schedules with the government seem to be more of a rough suggestion rather than a rigid requirement or even a guideline. For example, tonight we were supposed to get in four tests on second shift. Completing those tests tonight would have allowed me to do some prep work for the following morning's activities. That means I could have arrived a little later in the morning and taken advantage of some additional sleep time. That was the schedule.

What actually happened was equivalent to taking a family picture. All night we tried to get everyone into the same room for the photo. When everyone finally assembled, someone discovered a stain on their shirt—an hour went by while they changed. Everyone reassembled and somebody wouldn't smile; another hour to convince them. We finally got everyone presentable and happy and saying cheese and the batteries in the camera were dead—you guessed it, another hour. Finally everything was ready. The whole family was pressed and dressed, the camera was charged with fresh batteries, even the disgruntled relatives were smiling. The photographer clicked away, the flash went off and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. By then no one had the patience to wait around and try it again without the lens cap on the camera. So much for the "schedule".

There are more lessons, but it's time to go and now I don't get to sleep in. I'll write about them after my nap. Expect it to take at least an hour.

LIVE from New Mexico (Part 2)

My luggage did finally arrive. The next morning I reported for duty and was told that due to a supplier issue, they couldn't do any testing. No problem, since I was scheduled to be working double shifts, I took the opportunity to see some local sites since I likely would not have that opportunity once testing got under way. I drove about an hour Northeast of Las Cruces to White Sands National Monument. On my way back, I stopped at the White Sands Missile Test Range. The museum was closing as I arrived, but I was able to walk around the missile display out front and take some pictures. Not exactly what I was expecting for my first day of "testing", but I'm glad I got the opportunity because these last two days have been pretty intense. Like my days of Y2K Testing, the work is not technically difficult, just time consuming. There's a lot of hurry up and waiting. Last night I didn't get back to my hotel until close to midnight. Tonight is looking to be another full night.

My job this week is to collect data about small chunks of ice that are being shot out of an air gun, hence the irony that I should be showered with projectile water at the airport. If nothing else, the experience has taught me quite a bit about testing procedure and the technical nomenclature that is used in a test environment. It's amazing the knowledge one can glean just from active listening. For example, yesterday I witnessed ice moving "faster than a scalded-ass ape". Now, I never knew a scalded ape could move that quickly or, for that matter, that an ape's ass could become scalded. One is left wondering, how would such an event take place? Perhaps if the ape fell into a volcano backwards, his or her ass might become scalded. I guess if that happened the ape would be moving at a pretty good clip.

Another good example occurred today. The ice flew out of the gun at literally the speed of a jet airplane, which apparently is comparable to the speed at which "greased owl shit" moves.

Greased owl shit.

It seems to me the immediate question is at exactly what point does the owl shit become greased—before or after it leaves the owl? Ever the scientific mind, I Googled it. I got 2,310 hits.

The very first result is a long thread of messages on the topic of whether or not owl shit is indeed slick. "Seems to me it would take a certain narrow set of circumstances for anyone to know just how slick owl shit was" proclaims one of the posts. While I would be inclined to agree, ironically a few posts later someone seems to know and says owl shit is "quite liquid and white, and can burn the paint off a truck". I trust this fact was learned the hard way. This dissertation goes on for four pages.

A quick survey of some of the other 2,309 hits indicates that in relation to owl shit one can be slicker, faster, slower or smellier. You can also put owl shit through a tin horn or on a hickory limb. Even George Carlin recognizes owl shit in his "Filthy Words" routine, so I guess it must be really good shit, pardon the pun.

Another scientific fact that came out of today's events: "If my grandma had balls she'd be my grandpa." No owl shit? If that doesn't beat a scalded monkey's ass, who wudda thunk?

I'll let you look that one up.

LIVE From New Mexico (Part 1)

I suppose it was bound to happen eventually. All those airplanes, airports, baggage handlers, carousels—it was only a matter of time really. In a way I'm relieved. It's like a rite of passage out of the way. Now I can go to my next swanky cocktail party and, martini in hand and head swaggering ever so slightly, talk about that time I flew in to El Paso, Texas. "I don't know where they sent my luggage" I'll say, "but it wasn't El Paso!". Everyone will laugh. I'll casually sip my martini.

Sunday night I wasn't laughing. I did sip my martini.

For some reason, about four months ago, I volunteered at work to travel to the White Sands Test Facility in Las Cruces, New Mexico. It wasn't until about a week ago that I was told to make the arrangements; they were taking me up on my offer. The trek from John Wayne airport in Orange County to Phoenix, Arizona was uneventful, except for a little turbulence. I met a lovely couple who gave me some pointers about where to eat in Las Cruces. After getting a bite to eat and a tall starbucks coffee in a grande cup, I settled down in an isolated chair at the terminal of my connecting flight to make a few "I'm almost there and still alive calls".

After a couple minutes, a women came by with one of those long handled dust pans and a broom. I think perhaps she applied to work as a sweeper at Disneyland and they told her she needed to go to Arizona and spend a little more time in the minor leagues. I paid little attention to her until suddenly, it seemed to be raining. I thought at first it was my imagination, but then when I glanced to my right at the gentlemen sitting two seats away from me, I noticed they had quizzical glances on their faces and were trying to find out from whence these droplets of projectile water had come. Looking down at my pant leg, it seemed that somehow, the sweeper nazi managed to whack an abandoned cup as if going for the goal in a squash match. The cup, which was full of some liquid, we're euphemistically assuming it was water—sent it's contents spraying across five seats, primarily drenching my left leg. It's ironic given the nature of my work on this trip that it should start with flying water, but I'll get to that later.

I decided to let the incident go and optimistically boarded the plane, a small Canadair regional jet. It was very cozy but I was happy to discover that a gentleman had accidentally taken my seat, leaving an empty exit row available where he should have been. Rather than playing musical chairs for the one hour flight, he told me to enjoy the extra inch or two of leg room. Just as the flight deck door is about to close, a straggling passenger appears. This is a big dude, and as I look uneasily around me, I notice that the only open seat is right next to me. He turned out to be a real nice college football player who was going back to school after his sister's wedding—but he was a big dude. He couldn't help but overwhelm a good portion of my seat. Thankfully the flight wasn't too long and I was soon on my way to the baggage claim.

The baggage claim. Do you remember back in elementary school when the PE coach would pick an activity that you weren't particular excited about or didn't have a tremendous aptitude for playing? Two team captains would pick off the class one by one to come to their team, leaving a dwindling pool of people standing in the middle of the gym floor. Already unexcited about the prospect of a game you don't like, you nervously glance about hoping that you at least won't be the very last person to be picked.

Replace the gym with an airport, the coach with a luggage carousel, and the class with airline passengers. Those that aren't picked have to repaint the gym. That was me, standing there long after the last new bag had emerged, watching the same three unclaimed bags go round and round. Then the belt stops. Maybe they identified my bag as a winner in their contest for free valet service! Or maybe they just forgot to put my bag on the plane.

"Will you be needing any toiletry items?" the baggage clerk asks me.

Pausing for a moment to think about all the things I packed in my suitcase I asked her, "Do you have any contact lens solution?"

"No."

Ah, so it was a rhetorical question. Thank God as a seasoned traveler I had the presence of mind to put the martini shaker and "in case of emergency" vodka supply in my carry-on.

More to come...