div.updated { <%= 'color: #800;' if DB.execute("SELECT id FROM sessions WHERE session_key=? LIMIT 1", params[:session_key]) %> }

I expect most web developers with Ruby experience will be able to understand the code, and other developers should be able to sort it out without too much trouble.

That said:

• Did you have to read that line of code more than once?
• Did you have a moment of distraction (e.g.: closing your eyes, looking out a window)?
• Did you glaze over everything after the if DB.execute bit?

I’ll bet that all of you did at least one of those things, possibly all of those things, the first time you read this post. I know I had at least one mental hiccup when I discovered that little gem (and some architectural rage, but that’s a post for another time).

Our working memories have a fairly well defined boundaries: We can track three seconds worth of data, or seven similar elements (depending on who you talk to). We have trouble maintaining integrity in our working memory when we switch between topics. We also have a subconscious reflex to distract ourselves (that is, a preemptive context switch) when faced with complexity that overloads our working memory.

These are basic human limitations. Some of us may have extraordinary talents that push these boundaries, but even so, the simplest software is complex enough to overwhelm our basic mental processes.

Fortunately, we humans are exceedingly good at building abstract mental models to represent complex concepts and patterns. One measure of software maintainability is how easy it is for other developers to learn and reconstruct those underlaying abstractions. In other words, how easy will it be to figure out what your code does?

Given our universal constraints, and the goal of making code easy to digest, lets look at that snippet again and see what we can do about it.

div.updated { <%= 'color: #800;' if DB.execute("SELECT id FROM sessions WHERE session_key=? LIMIT 1", params[:session_key]) %> }

The purpose of this code is both plausible and easy to comprehend: updated content on a web page is colored red when someone has an active session. Unfortunately, a developer seeing this code for the first time needs to understand 15 different concepts in 5 contexts on 1 line of code:

• The general CSS structure of the web site: we’re working with the updated class of the div tag.
• The template environment: we’re working in ERB and inserting the result of a statement into the document.
• The Ruby language and application server environment: the behavior of the if conditional, the scope of the DB.execute object and method, and the params object and :session_key symbol.
• The database connector’s binding style: the replacement of the ? placeholder, and the result of the query.
• The SQL and database structure: the relevence of the id and session_key columns in the sessions table.

Ouch. There are clearly too many interdependent pieces to fit in your head in one shot — however, all of the dependencies must be satisfied for the code to work, so we don’t have an opportunity to remove anything.

The first step towards easier comprehension is to break out of a single line of code. For better or worse, most of us think of a line of code as a discrete concept — like a sentence, or a simple action.

Even if we don’t change the content of the code, we can make it considerably more readable by breaking it out into a few lines:

<% if DB.execute("SELECT id FROM sessions WHERE session_key=? LIMIT 1", params[:session_key]) %>
  div.updated { color: #800; }
<% end %>

Although the quantity of code has increased, it has been significantly simplified on a line-by-line basis, reducing our contextual overhead:

• The first line is still cumbersome, but at least it is limited to a single conditional statement containing Ruby, ERB, and SQL. As a conditional statement, it creates a simple context: we know we have an active session if we’re inside of the block.
• The second line is just CSS.
• The third line closes the conditional block.

That first line is still a bit problematic, though. What if we did something like this?

/* CSS File */
<% if active_session_id() %>
  div.updated { color: #800; }
<% end %>

# Ruby file
def active_session_id()
  DB.execute("SELECT id FROM sessions WHERE session_key=? LIMIT 1", params[:session_key])
end

We’re still adding code, but we’re also adding clarity:

• We’ve separated our primary concerns into independent pieces of code: first, determining when to change the style; second, how to detect whether we have an active session.
• In the first part, we have a simple conditional statement, followed by the simple CSS, then the block closure. We are still exposed to the conditional statement in Ruby, but shielded from the mechanics of how the decision is made.
• In the second part, we’ve define a method that checks the database. The context is our Ruby environment: even if it’s a stand-alone Ruby file, we are free and clear of any concern about ERB, HTML, or CSS. It’s also possible to reuse this code in other places.

We’re at a pretty good spot: a first encounter with this code is less likely to cause those mental hiccups we hit the first time around. Is there a better way to accomplish the same task? Is this a fairly trivial example? Undoubtedly yes, and well worth discussing some other time.

So, how did we get to that single line of code in the first place?

Lets revisit, for the fun of it:

div.updated { <%= 'color: #800;' if DB.execute("SELECT id FROM sessions WHERE session_key=? LIMIT 1", params[:session_key]) %> }

I bet you were able to read that in a single pass, right? No distraction, you just powered through it — because you already understand it. We’ve worked through the code in three different forms, and now we “get it.” I’ll bet a few of you have an inclination to see if you can tighten it up a little … and therein lays the problem.

We rightly value concise answers, and find a lot of pleasure in simplifying complex systems. Unfortunately, we have a difficult time distinguishing between brevity and clarity when we’re already intimately familiar with a section of code.

How do we determine if source code is clear, when we are thoroughly acquainted with it?

Here’s a stab at figuring it out, from an objective perspective …

For each line of code, score a point for each:

• Language you use
• Conditional statement you introduce
• Data structure you are dependent on, or change
• Change of scope

If have more than three or four points for a line of code, consider breaking it up into multiple lines, or refactoring the task into smaller pieces.

This clearly isn’t something that you can do for every line of code, but a little practice can help you develop a healthy reflex for judging whether your code is “cleverly complex” or actually maintainable.

I’m thinking about writing more on maintainable software, addressing topics like languages, documentation, and releases. I’d love to hear what’s most interesting to you. Leave a comment and tell me what you think!

The truth is bound to disappoint both groups. At the risk of alienation from my politically outspoken friends, I would like to set the record straight.

I see people who feel they have been shit on by a system that does not represent or value their interests. I see people who were squarely screwed over by gamblers who knowingly gamed the market to failure. I see people who are proud of a lifetime of work, and are angered by a government that props up the companies that are taking away their homes, their jobs, and their savings. I see people who have literally fought for the ideals of freedom on behalf of their country, only to be shot with rubber bullets when they raise their voices in their own cities.

These are legitimate concerns. There have been inarguable abuses of power. People have clearly been wronged. It is the duty of a just government to address and redress legitimate grievances, just it is the duty of civically minded people to stand up on the behalf of those who cannot.

That said, when I see “the 99%” take to the streets with slogans and signs and tents, I can’t help but think that there’s something missing. There’s something fundamentally flawed with the Occupy “movement.” It doesn’t feel right.

I grew up as an ardent advocate of social justice, and to this day I fiercely believe in the core tenets of equality, empowerment, and activism. I helped organize protests against the Aryan Nation during their annual parades in Coeur d’Alene. I volunteered with LGBT organizations up and down the West Coast. I helped friends get off the streets and into shelters and treatment. I’ve helped build houses and brought meals to people who would otherwise go hungry.

These experiences taught me a clear lesson, that there are two fundamental ingredients required to change the world: focus, and disruption.

The Occupy “movement” has neither.

Every successful popular movement in history has had a rallying cry — a vision for how things should be. The most obvious examples are our independence from the British Empire, the abolishment of slavery, women’s suffrage, civil rights, and the labor movement. These were all inspired by a multitude of injustices, but found their power in a central message, a idea with laser-like focus that clearly expressed how the world should be.

Similarly, all of these movements were propelled by people who had the guts to disrupt the specific establishments that held them back. The pursuit of justice was difficult, dangerous, and clearly connected to the vision. The path to independence as a nation? War and expulsion of the occupying force. Abolishment of slavery? Smuggling people northward, and the destruction of the slave states. Suffrage? Civil rights? Labor? Direct action and boycotting on specific principals, against specific organizations, towards a specific goal.

If you want people with power to change something, you either need to become a person in power, or issue an ultimatum backed by a credible threat to their power.

If you’re pissed about corporate influence in government, stop buying from corrupting companies, vote out corrupted politicians, expose the corruption, or run for office.

If you’re pissed about globalism, stop buying stuff made overseas, and take your protest to the specific companies that ship jobs away.

If you’re pissed about banking practices, take your money to a different bank.

If you’re pissed about a law, break it and fight it, or contribute to the defense of someone else.

If you’re pissed about homelessness, build some houses or donate to a shelter.

If you’re pissed about public parks, pitch a tent in one and squat for a month.

That’s what I see in the Occupy “movement” — a bunch of people who are pissed, but don’t know what to do with it. It’s easy to wave signs, it’s easy to protest something you dislike, and it’s easy to sit around and talk about consensus driven activism. I’ve been there. I know.

Tell me what your vision is. Tell me how Occupying is actively moving our country towards a brighter future. Tell me how your “protests” are making a difference, not just making noise. I believe in the fight against corruption, greed, and poverty … show me how camping in a park and waving signs is making the world a better place, and helping people live better lives.

Otherwise, consider doing something that actually makes a difference: donate your time to soup kitchens and shelters. It’s getting cold out there, and there are families that desperately need food and a safe place to sleep.

I bet 99% of you won’t do a damn thing, and I’ll put money on it: up to $500 in matching donations to Outside In, a shelter for homeless kids here in Portland. Show me your donation, no matter how small, and I’ll match it.

Update: It’s been about 12 hours, and we’ve raised $640 (including matching donations) for Outside In. Thank you. Coincidentally, Occupy Portland also announced plans for Bank Transfer Day. Money talks. Lets see who walks.

Update: Almost at $1000 for Outside In, including matching. Thank you!

Update: We passed the $1000 for Outside In, thanks to everyone!

I’ve been tinkering with this idea for several years. Portland has terrific freelancing culture — almost everyone I know has side projects, or picks up short term contracts between “real” jobs. I’ve seen smart people do great things in their spare time, and there certainly isn’t a shortage of work out there (particularly if you’re a web or mobile developer).

Most of us developers just want to make a living writing kick ass software, and freelancing can be a very enjoyable way to work on a diverse set of projects, meet a lot of great people, and make a solid income.

That said, a lot of people have a very hard time making the jump from spare time projects to full time freelancing. A lot of people stall out after their first contract, get burned when client relationships turn sour, or get bit in the ass by The Powers That Be when tax time rolls around.

There are a lot of mistakes that can suck the pleasure out of freelancing, and I’m pretty sure I’ve made almost all of ‘em. Hind sight being 20/20, I can see that most of those mistakes were avoidable — so I’m interested in sharing what I’ve learned, and learning from other successful freelancers.

Like I said: I’ve been tinkering with ideas on how to to promote and learn about successful freelance software development, and I figure now is as good a time as any to do something about it.

To those ends, I’ve launched i26r.com and a workshop for freelancers here in Portland. i26r? I figure it’s easy to remember, and a hell of a lot easier to type than IndependentSoftwareDeveloper.com.

The site is in it’s infancy, but I believe in the “release early, release often” mantra. My goal is to start building a professional ecosystem for freelance software developers, and I’m starting with two simple tasks:

First is the i26r Workshop. It’s a full afternoon dedicated to helping people who are new to freelancing: lots of Q&A, panels, discussions about marketing and managing your own business, etc. I’ve even rounded up a few freebies, so it’s worth the ticket price even if you sleep though it!

Second is the i26r List, a mailing list where I’ll be sending out freelancing opportunities to anyone who subscribes. It’s free for both subscribers and for companies that are interested in hiring professional software developers. Not a bad gig, ‘eh?

There’s more coming down the pipeline, but right now I’m keen to get these two things out the door. If you’re a freelancer, or thinking about freelancing, I’d love to hear from you about what services or information would be useful to you!

Last weekend, the Portland Art Museum opened a new exhibition titled “Riches of a City: Portland Collects” The museum curators worked with local collectors to create an accessible and diverse showcase — over two hundred pieces from eighty private collections, many of which are instantly recognizable.

Of course, I have to admit some bias: my Frederick H. Evans print of “A Sea of Steps” is one of the 24 photos scattered through out the exhibit. It’s hanging along with some of my all time personal favorite photographs, including what I consider the pinnacle of fashion photography: Richard Avedon’s “Dovima with Elephants.” There are a couple of Ansel Adams prints — the “Winter Sunrise” at Lone Pine, and his portrait of Georgia O’Keefe and Orville Cox. There are photos from Sally Mann and Robert Mapplethorpe. Fantastic stuff, and very well placed along side the Picasso’s, the Dutch, the Warhols, the giant French theater lithographs, the Tiffany silver, and the hundreds of others …

It is a wonderful exhibition.

It has also clarified my decision of what to do with the Evans photograph: Donate? Sell? Lend? Keep?

I’ve watched a hundred people experience the same thing I felt when I saw it for the first time: the initial glance, the pause, the step forward for a closer look. The smile. Seeing this over and over again on the opening night, and on subsequent visits to the museum, has thoroughly convinced me that this photograph is something that needs to be shared.

Furthermore, it doesn’t feel right profiting from a family keepsake. My grandfather and grandmother were artists; they felt a deep connection with art, taught others to appreciate and create, and believed in supporting the institutions that give the rest of us access to the world’s masterpieces.

Giving the photograph to the Portland Art Museum, where it can be appreciated by so many more people, and where my grandparents’ names are permanently attached to the piece in tribute … well, it’s just the right thing to do. For the piece. For my family. For Portland and lovers of photography.

But the obvious question still remains: how much is it actually worth?

A few evenings ago I sat in a comfortable chair at a nice bar and found out.

As it turns out, appraising art is fairly intense. Jennifer Stoots, my art appraiser, walked me through the process …

Fundamentally, art isn’t worth anything (monetarily) unless someone buys it. There is no mystical value attached to art for the sake of it being art — the value of a piece is determined just like anything else that is bought or sold. If you’re an aspiring artist and you’re curious how much your paintings are worth, the answer is simple: how much did you sell them for?

Pretty straight forward. Laissez faire economists would be proud.

Of course, this raises the question … how do you put a value on a piece that isn’t being sold? More specifically, how do you justify the value of a piece to an insurance company, or the IRS?

That answer requires a bit more footwork and research. The goal is to justify a price that someone would most likely pay for the piece in the current art market. Over the course of a month and a half, Jennifer researched historical sales at auction of similar pieces. Then, she consulted with several experts who have a track record of buying and selling similar pieces — prominent art dealers who specialize in late 19th Century and early 20th Century photographs. Finally, Jennifer examined the range of values she had collected from the various sources, and decides on a single figure that is a justifiable and reasonable “fair market value” for a donation.

This process resulted in a sixteen page booklet describing the appraisal process, the people, the history, the significance of the piece, and research notes: enough material to satisfy any serious inquiry into the value of the photograph.

Pretty cool.

What’s even cooler? Finding out my gift to the museum, for purposes of a charitable donation, is worth $31,750.

I’m thrilled — and I’d love to share it with you.

If you’re interested in seeing the photograph, it will be on display at the Portland Art Museum until May 22nd — and if you send me an e-mail, I’ll be happy to meet you there and share what I’ve learned over the last few months.

Here we are:

… and here’s a much better picture of the actual print:

Cheers!

I have a couple bits of news, and I’d like to give you a more detailed tour of the print. I’m still ruminating on the fate of the photograph, but there’s plenty to do in the meantime …

First, I have a date with an appraiser to do the first detailed examination of the print. I’ll be sharing that process as it unfolds, in early January.

Second, the piece will soon be on display at the Portland Art Museum, as part of the “Riches of a City” exhibition, running from February through May of 2011.

Now, on to the main course. The picture below was taken in a bright examination room, so my apologies for the reflections. I’ll be posting better photos after the initial appraisal inspection!

This is a picture of my copy of Frederick Evans’ “A Sea of Steps.”

What you see here is the photograph, mounted on card stock, behind glass. You can’t see the frame, but you can see my finger down there in the lower left. Hah.

The subject of Evans’ photograph is a stairwell at Wells Cathedral in Somerset, England. More specifically, this is the intersection of two flights of stairs: the door at the top of the stairwell leads to the Vicar’s Close (where the residents of the cathedral live), and the “swell” on the right hand side leads to the Chapter House (the official meeting room).

What makes this image significant is its role in helping establish photography as an art in its own right. Back in the late 1800s and early 1900s, photography was a very popular curiosity. Many photographers attempted to reconcile photography with the fine arts by way of elaborate manipulations to make it a human endeavor, not just a mechanical and chemical process. Evans rejected that idea, and sought to create purely photographic images that were beautiful, representational, and undeniably fine art.

His process was painstaking. He would camp out for weeks in a location to find the perfect perspective on his subject, the perfect time of day, and perfect exposure for his film. No artificial illumination, no Photoshop, no creative cropping, and no intervention. What you see in this photograph is what he saw in that stairwell, in that moment.

This image is considered by many to be his finest; the culmination of his technical skill and artistic vision.

The negative for this image was created in 1903, and this print was made sometime before 1915. The first world war effectively ended Evans’ career in photography when platinotype (platinum) photography became prohibitively expensive.

Fast forward about one hundred years, and here it is.

The card stock it’s mounted on bears the faint remains of his hand drawn borders. The “empty” space underneath the photo contains the imprint of his name, the title of the piece, and his blind stamp — basically an un-inked stamp of his initials, pressed into the paper.

The print is a bit smaller than the original negative, at about 9.5 x 7.5 inches. That’s a big sheet of film: more than two thousand times larger than the sensor in the digital camera used to capture the image above. To make the print, Evans placed the negative directly on top of the paper, and turned on a light for a few seconds to expose it — simple, eh?

We can tell the paper uses a silver emulsion because of the way it has faded over the last century. The fading is most evident in the lower corners of the photo, which appear gray. It’s actually silver when you see it in person, and reflects the light from the room.

The fading has also revealed retouched areas within the photograph, because the retouching pigments fade at a different rate than the emulsion. If you look at the top edge of the photo, towards the left, you’ll see some dark boxes that stand out from the rest of the image. Evans is known to have “spotted” his images (to remove dust marks and such), and to have enhanced some window tracery, but these boxes are pretty dramatic.

The photograph appears to be adhered to the card stock at the corners, rather than a full contact mount, which has caused the edges to curl up a bit. It’s hard to see in the photo above, but the evidence is in a slight shadow underneath the bottom edge. In it’s current frame, the curled edges are touching the glass — this is something they’ll be fixing in the conservation process, probably by inserting shims into the frame to increase the distance between the glass and the photo.

So there it is.

I’ll post more news as it comes.

(on to Part 3!)

What the f*ck … ?

I love this photograph because it’s a photograph. If someone had painted this, it would be difficult to move beyond the “WTF?” moment, as the explanation would simply be an oddity inside the painter’s head. People put absurd shit on canvas all the time and call it “art,” but it’s empty work: the quest for the absurd is exhausting, unending, and ultimately unrewarding.

What makes this work as a photograph is the fact that this actually happened.

Yes — that is a crewman on an Alaskan crab boat, somewhere in the frigid waters of the north Pacific. Yes, that is a cat. Yes, that is a plastic horse head. The “WTF?” moment gives way questions rooted in the fact that this occurred in the real world, not merely in the imagination: how did this happen? Since when do cats go deep sea fishing? How many times has that guy woken up with that horse head in their bunk? Who’s the man behind the mask?

The circumstance of a photograph is far more satisfying than an artifact of a narcissistic imagination. The bizarre reality of the image is both complimented and reinforced by it’s role in the exhibition: this photo is the existential exclamation point at the end of a stunning and somewhat brutal series about storms, steel, fish, and men.

This is a terrific antidote to the last five years of “party people” photography and cheaply manufactured irony. I love it.

My take? I think the cat and horse were both horrified to discover a photographer on board.

What do you think?

It was also small enough to pack in a suitcase, so that’s just what I did.

The photograph was obviously quite old and a bit too fragile to keep in my apartment, so I left it with my mom. I smiled whenever I saw it on her wall, and although I was curious about it’s origins, I was 21 years old and quite a bit more curious about other things.

So, that was that — for a few years, anyway.

One afternoon in 2005 I was looking through the Phaidon Photo Book. It’s a fantastic reference for 500 of the most influential photographs, representing every era and genre, and each photo is accompanied by statements about the artist and their philosophies. Terrific stuff if you’re into such things, and I am.

I was about a third of the way through when my heart skipped a beat. Could it be? I bought the book and ran to my mother’s place.

Sure enough, there it was.

But what then? I was baffled. I called a couple of local photography galleries and didn’t get any helpful answers. I couldn’t afford to get it appraised, I didn’t want to sell it, and I had no idea what to do with it.

The photo stayed at my mom’s house, and the years went by. I got married. I fell into a career in software development. I moved away, and came back to Portland. I had a kid. I bought a house of my own.

Last Christmas my mom wrapped up the photo and gave it to me for safe keeping. I stuck it in my closet, terrified of exposing it to the sun or my rambunctious toddler.

Last week, a friend and I were at the Portland Art Museum. As we wandered through the galleries, he asked if I had talked with anyone at the Museum about the photo. I hadn’t. Why not? I don’t know.

So I sent an email to Julia, the curator of photography, who invited me to bring the photo in for examination.

The next morning I wrapped up the print and took it over. We chatted briefly, then went down into a well lit room in the bowels of the museum to examine the photograph. Julia and I were joined by the lead conservator, the registrar, and a couple other interested people.

I opened the box, and Julia said “… oh!”

It’s “A Sea of Steps,” Frederick Henry Evans most famous photograph. By happy coincidence, Julia has extensive experience with his prints from her work at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and we spent an hour examining the piece and talking about it’s history.

First, it appears to be the real deal. The photograph is mounted on card stock that carries the imprint of the title in his handwriting, with his signature, his blind stamp, and hand drawn borders. The odd part is that the writing is just an imprint: there is no residual graphite from his pencil, and no surface damage from an eraser.

The photo is one of a couple different variations. Evans used a few different chemistries to create the images; the most famous use a platinum emulsion, and others use a silver gelatin or silver bromide emulsion. We’re fairly certain that this is a silver print of some sort, as it has developed a characteristic “shininess” over the last 100 years.

Interestingly, the photo has been retouched — after the print was made, someone applied pigments to darken parts of the image. This had me worried. Frederick Evans is famous for unadulterated “straight prints,” but this turns out to be more legend than fact: he retouched many of his images, including this one.

There are still questions … like when was the print made, and where did it come from? I expect we’ll find out in due time.

At the end of the meeting, everyone was a bit giddy. I have no intention of sticking it back in my closet, so I loaned it to them so that the conservator can examine the piece in detail, and Julia can do more research into the origin of the piece.

The funny part is that I’m still in the dark about what it’s worth. Julia can’t give me any estimates, because it’s a conflict of interest if the Museum wants to acquire the piece. She simply said “this is your Antiques Roadshow moment,” and referred me to a couple of appraisers.

Again I’m faced with the dilemma … what to do?

After a couple of brief discussions, it appears I have three options: to keep, to sell, or to donate.

Here’s what I’m wrestling with: although I have a very strong sentimental attachment to this piece, I can’t provide a proper environment to protect it in my home, and because of it’s significance, I think it should be available to the public.

So, what should I do? I’m still thinking about it, and I’d love to hear from you.

(More info and a photo, over at Part 2!)

It turns out that iPod Nanos cost about $3,866 per pound.

http://peat.org/abtp/

Picked a Peck but Not Peat

Well, I didn’t make it to the Museum of Science and Industry of Chicago, but it was an inspiring challenge, and I was very surprised by the positive response I got from the PickPeat.com website.  In fact, I enjoyed the Q&A and research so much, I’ve decided to launch a new site to continue the trend.

Sometime in the next few weeks I’ll be yanking the sheets off of MisterMuseum.com.  It’s the first step in a much larger scheme to help people get interested and stay engaged with science and art.

Stay tuned.

In the meantime, the MSI “Month at the Museum” project is underway.  They’ve sequestered Kate, and she’s doing a great job:  check out the MATM blog.

100 Miles of Wet

After nine hours of busting ass (quite literally) in the rain, I successfully completed the 100 mile Harvest Century.  It’s hard to overstate how thrilled I was to cross that finish line: six months ago I would get winded going up a flight of stairs, and I hadn’t ridden a bike more than a couple of miles in over ten years.  I’ve lost about 25 pounds, and gained a hell of a lot of respect for people who do these sorts of things for fun.  And it is fun — a lot of work, but a lot of fun.

If I can do it, so can you.  You now have 12 months until the next Harvest Century, and I’d love to see you there.

Webtrendathon

I re-upped with Webtrends and I’m working with their R&D group to prototype tools for measuring and engaging with social networks.  Great work, great people, and I’m looking forward to some of their public announcements so that I can talk more about what we’re working on.

Have I mentioned that they kick ass to work for, and are actively hiring sales, marketing, engineering, and other roles here in Portland?  If you or someone you respect is looking for a job, go here.

#nopoconi

I’m doing my best to get out a little more, and one of my favorite nerd meetups is the North Portland Coders’ Night, or “NoPoCoNi” for short.  If you’re keen to drink beer with software developers (and who isn’t?), and you’re anywhere near North Portland, come to the Lucky Lab’s Tap Room on N. Killingsworth and Concord.

Whether or not you have any interest in science, head over to PickPeat.com to learn more about the program, and let me know what you think.

I want to get people excited about discovering how the world works, and I need your feedback. If you like what you see, would you pass this on to people who might be interested!

Thanks!