Bill Nye is a Dangerous Companion for a 5 Year Old
I have a confession. I’m an evil scientist who gave up building a death-ray and went into liberal arts.
As a child I loved Bill Nye. I don’t mean that I appreciated him, or had a slight fascination for him, I was passionately and completely enamored by the thin lab-coat wearing maniac whose show ran at 6 am every Saturday.
SCIENCE RULES
Come on, you know the theme song, don’t pretend you don’t.
BILL NYE THE SCIENCE GUY (bill bill bill bill)
Dexter was my hero. Dr. Frankenstein my idol.
I loved science.
Science was a passion of mine. I knew all the planets’ names, understood rudimentary plate tectonics by the age of 4, and could explain the combustion of oxygen and hydrogen which powered the engines of an Apollo rocket by the age of 5. (today I struggle performing basic math)
I remember running all kinds of bizarre experiments, and I still run them today, but without as much obvious gusto. In fact I run them so often sometimes I forget to write them down. Actually, I never write them down. Okay, so maybe I’m not as much a scientist as a bored but curious lunatic. Most of these experiments are harmless, like sneaking a shot of bad vodka into my brother’s iced tea to see if he’ll notice, or watching people on the beach struggle to walk around a thirty foot wide sand castle, or cutting the break lines on a car and seeing if guardrails are up to snuff.
The thing about the scientific process is that it has no guidelines, no real rules, at least not to a 5 year old. Think about how compelling it is to a young mind.
Step 1.
Do a thing.
Step 2.
Observe consequences of thing.
Step 3.
Repeat thing slightly differently.
Step 4.
Discover new stuff about thing.
Step 5.
Try not to get caught.
It’s amazing what a kid can learn.
My mother believed I was a good person at one point in her life, but that point was singular, when I was between ages 1 and 5, and probably while I was sleeping.
She had invited her parents over for a visit while I was in the height of my young evil scientist career. While she had plenty of opportunity to understand I was not a person to which she should give sensitive information, somehow she failed on this occasion. She said to be careful around her dad, aka PopPop, because his right eye was bad. Now at this moment several thoughts shot through my head like bullets, splattering a blood spray of possibilities all over the wall behind me. “Is he blind? What does it look like? Is it like missing a rear view mirror? Is it contagious? Will I lose an eye? Does he look like a pirate?”
My mind raced with endless collations. Hours passed and I finally had settled on a plan to test the extent of his “bad eyeness”.
Phase one.
Poppop and Grammy enter the house. I greet them with the standard galactic salutation of “hello” and a hug. I then begin playing with a ball while they talk to my mother.
Phase two.
Mother inevitably invites them into the living room where they sit down for a nice quiet conversation. My plan begins to take shape. I was a crafty child so this next part was executed with the sly cunning of a fox.
Phase three.
So after careful deduction, a lot of plotting, a clever scheme, and an excellent throw (if I may be so immodest). I confirmed my mother’s diagnosis. He really couldn’t see with that eye.
I also failed the last step of the scientific process.
“Try not to get caught.”
