Foam

I have two options: buying close cell, fire resistant, R-7 per inch, 3 lb density foam for $12 per cubic ft. OR buying open cell, fire resistant, R-3.7 per inch, 0.75 density foam for $6.80 per cubic ft.

SO, I would like your educated opinion on what should I buy. Thank you.

P.S. I’m using foam with combination with fiberglass, just what to seal all small gaps to air proof. I do understand difference between open and closed cell/

If you want to "seal all small gaps to air proof" then closed-cell is the only option. Open-cell foam is still permeable, so it will not seal as well as closed-cell.

I have two options: buying close cell, fire resistant, R-7 per inch, 3 lb density foam for $12 per cubic ft. OR buying open cell, fire resistant, R-3.7 per inch, 0.75 density foam for $6.80 per cubic ft.

SO, I would like your educated opinion on what should I buy. Thank you.

P.S. I’m using foam with combination with fiberglass, just what to seal all small gaps to air proof. I do understand difference between open and closed cell

Closed cell foam is air tight. Imagine thousands of little balls (each sealed with air inside) compressed together. Open cell foam is more porous. More like a sponge. I personally prefer closed cell foam.

These excerpts revolve around the detaining center and the abandoned house that the kids enter.

Excerpt: Nicholas Finch and the Burning Book (The scene where Nick meets Finny)
It all happened in a blur. He had never witnessed anything like it. Why did they take him? Was he alone? He wished there was someone to whisper something. He just wanted a soft word uttered from someone. He curled beside a dirty bed and lay on the cold floor, reminiscing on the good things that had happened before the kidnap. He winced at the cut on his arm from the dagger. He cried softly, looking out of the window high above his bed. He couldn’t sleep in here. How could he sleep in a place like this? Just then, he heard a noise.
"Hello?" said a voice, scared and young, "is someone there? I hear crying."
Nick’ heart skipped a beat. He was happy that someone was with him, but most of all, he was happy that it was a kid his age.
"Yes, I’m here, who are you? Where are you?" asked Nick.
"Cell number six-forty-two. The name is Phineas, but Finny is fine. Where is yours?" asked Finny. Nick said he didn’t know.
"Check the number over your bed." ordered Finny. Nick stood and looked at the number. It read: CELL NUMBER 643.
"Cell number six-forty-three." Nick answered.
"Okay. Why are we here?" asked Finny.
"I don’t know, but I want to get out so bad." Nick answered. Nick could hear Finny suck his teeth and hit the wall.
"Mom and Dad could’ve at least warned me about this." he said. "I know, this is a trick, and they wanna teach me a lesson. I bet when they let me out, they’ll say something like, ‘That’ll teach you to wreck the bottom half of the house.’ I forgot to ask. What’s your name?"
"Nicholas Finch, but Nick is fine." answered Nick.

(The scene where the kids come to The Wanting House.)
"Maybe this is a safe place." said Alexandra. She and Lacey stood close by each other, avoiding the boys. Something about them baffled Nick. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but ignored it when they came to the door of the house. Opening it, they entered. The inside looked brand new. The kitchen was in the style of an old English home. There were four bedrooms in the style of an average American family. Although they had just entered, the house smelled as if someone had baked cookies.Logan zoomed into the kitchen, placed a mitt on his hand, opened the oven, and pulled out a tray of chocolate chip cookies.
"Food!" yelled Chase, Sam, and Finny. They, along with Alex and Lacey and Nick, ran to the tray and ate the cookies until they were all gone.
"Who would leave a fresh batch of cookies in the oven?" inquired Logan. Lacey shrugged and grabbed another cookie, her black fingernails glistening in the light. Alex also grabbed another one, as if this were her first time eating them. Nick ate as much as he could until he was full. He and Finny sat at the dining room table. Finny called everyone else over.
"Okay, so maybe we need to figure something out." he said.
"You’re going to say something like, ‘Why did they kidnap us?’" said Chase.
"Exactly what I was going to say, thanks, once again," said Finny.
"Well," began Lacey, "maybe they kidnapped us because we could do something like this." She paused and lifted her finger toward a foam apple at the center of the table. The apple lifted and fell. "I still working on it, but yes, maybe it’s because of that. I don’t get it, though. How would they know who to come after? They could’ve targeted other kids like us."
"Maybe we’re the only ones in this city." thought Chase.
"That can’t be it, we can’t be the only ones."
"Well," began Nick, "all I know is that they kidnapped us for a certain reason, and I for one, am going to find out why."

Okay, so maybe it’s not much, but for a small excerpt, how were they?

Reasonably well-written. You’re going to hate me for saying this, but it’s better than I was expecting, from the questions you’ve asked previously.

I think the first excerpt is better – more believable. The little details make the prison seem real. One thing – would the cells have numbers on the inside? The cells are numbered so that you can find the right one from the outside. Once you’re inside a particular cell, you wouldn’t need to be reminded which one it was.

The second excerpt isn’t written from any one character’s point of view. There isn’t anything particularly wrong with that, but the fashion these days is to pick one character and stick with him for the scene or the chapter, showing only his perceptions and feelings. (You can change to another character in the next scene or chapter if you want to or need to.)

The description of the house is rather flat. Show me what you mean by "an old English house" or "an average American family". A few well-chosen details are better for maintaining the reader’s interest than vague generalities.

The characters eat all the cookies, and then eat some more of them. Continuity error, or magic? If it’s magic, I’d expect someone to remark on it, and say they should stop eating and leave the house, because it’s probably a trap. If it’s a trap and they stay, they’re heading into what romance writers call "Too Stupid To Live" territory (TSTL). This is where the author makes the heroine (it’s usually the heroine) do something stupid and reckless so that the hero can then rush in and save her. Something like leaving the house on a cold night to investigate noises in the woods, without telling anyone where she’s going, without putting on any warm clothes (or even any shoes), without a torch and without anything she could use as a weapon. The reader is left wondering how she managed to stay alive this long – hence, "too stupid to live."

Horror movies have plenty of TSTL characters too, except there, the hero usually doesn’t rush in and save them.

I have. It was raining really hard one Saturday night…AND…my date pulled into my driveway and blew his car horn. He wouldn’t even get out of his car with an umbrella for me. I closed my front door. He went and found a pay-phone and called me to see why I was trippin’. All of this happened when I was a much younger woman…long before the days of the cell-phone. At any rate, the cussin’ he got that night was my legendary best!

o yea, every now and again you gotta do that. #$%^&&***&^%$()&!!!

PREFACE

I never said I wanted to be alone. I never said anything. I guess that was decided for me too. That sounds like me. Just floating through life waiting for the next monkey to jump on my back and take hold of the reigns. I never stood up for anyone…including me. I just didn’t have the back bone. Then she came. She turned my life around and tore down the walls so I could see. I didn’t want to see. I was perfectly fine blind and in the dark. Why did she have to come? I regret her; hate her. No. I never could bring myself to hate her. But why? Why did I have to be s pathetic and spineless? I’m getting a little too far ahead of myself. I guess my spiraling downfall and self destructive peaks appeared around the time she did. You see, in this little town of Genevieve, Illinois, not much is new. People are still boasting about their 1952 fords to those who own the earlier model. I can’t believe they still work. I should. I help fix them. Well. Anyway. I guess I’ll have to go back to…Mon—no. Sunday would be better.

CH.1
“Ugh. What the fuck?” I yanked the shouting alarm clock from the wall and tossed it on the floor with little to no effort. It bounced once then the face popped off and the plastic contraption was disemboweled. It wasn’t supposed to go off. It was the weekend. I had deserved a day off of failure. I turned over in my bed, shivering. I tore the pillow case of the tattered pillow and stretched the ends over my curled up body. Why did I give Terrence my sheets? Oh, yeah. He asked me.
“Get up shithead!” Terrence shouted through the door. “You got work to do!”
Yeah. I got work to do. His. Ugh. I peeked over the edge of my bare mattress at the clock. Fuck. I threw it. Damn it! It should really have a warning label on it.
Do Not Throw Across Room
I could sue for that. I rolled out of bed. Literally. I couldn’t move my abs muscles; I couldn’t move anything without pain. Why was I sore? Oh yeah. I pushed a 1958 Buick convertible at least six blocks because Terrence hurt his arm plating football. I shoved my feet into holes in denim. Were they clean? Who cares. I yanked off my tank top and sniffed it. Shit. I spun around to my bed. Fuck it all! Smothered with oil and dirt. Nice Al. Real nice. I picked up an old rag, spit in it, and wiped my arms and stomach and face. I yanked the gray tank top hanging on my closet door and pulled it over my head. I fluffed my hair to rid of any debris that may have been lingering in there from cleaning up after Terrence.
My legs didn’t work right. Cramped and screaming. I stumbled over to the coffee and poured the rest in a dirty coffee mug. Only half. Shit. I need more than that to wake up. Giggling. I think it was. Who was here? I guzzled the cold coffee black. No time for sugar or cream. I stuck my head around the corner peering into the living room. Jenifer. Oh no. Not—
“Allyson! You look so…Hi.” Jennifer was Terrence’s new girlfriend. Prep. Anorexic. Cheerleader. What could I say? I hated her. I rolled my eyes, held my breath, and plastered a fake grin across my face and walked into her out stretched arms. She kept me at arms length. Thank you God for making her preppy. She was borderline grimacing and air kissed my cheeks.
“I’m about to go to work. Would you be a dear and—“
“Soy latte. No cream. Extra foam. No prob.”
“Oh. You are a babe Allyson. Bye hon.” She pranced over to Terrence who was to preoccupied with his Xbox to care. She pecked his cheek and flew out the door. The closing door sent a whiff of her nauseating perfume I managed to stay away from when hugging her. The thought made my skin crawl.
“I wish you would hurry up and cheat on her. God she annoys me.”
He grunted in recognition, or because f gas. I didn’t care. I had work. Ugh. At least I was paid. I picked up the stack of paper next to the phone. Holy shit! There had to be more arrons here than there were yesterday. At least fifty.
“Hey, uh…Terr. Do you think you could take care of some of these. This is just…Fuck. I need to finish–”
“Yeah. Stop whining I’ll do some.”
I filtered through the requests. Twenty were for cars. A few for plumbing problem. One for a lost pet. The rest for deliveries. I grabbed the deliveries and ran out the door pulling out my cell that should have died months ago. I punched the missed call list. Fuck my mother! I jumped into the truck and turned over the engine, pealing out of the drive way.
Too early to call anyone. The dashboard clock beamed a harsh crimson 6:30 at me. I cranked up the radio to get my mind off killing the next person that asks me for a “favor”. Country. I hate country. I jammed a CD into the slot and turned the volume up even more. I couldn’t scare a pigeon with the volume on this busted pickup. One of the speakers was blown and the other was only a temporary hook up. Ahhh. Mudvayne. That is much better. Let’s see. First stop. Deli.

DOES IT SUCK??? I WAS BORED. THERE IS NO ONE TO GIVE ME FEED BACK. SO MUCH THN
ﻼﻼﻼﻼ

“Hello? Anyone home?”
“Oh. Thank heavens.” Ms. Balucini. In the pit of desperation no doubt…as always. “I really can’t leave the store. The truck just dropped off another shipment. I—Can you—I mean.”
“I’m here. Miz B. What do you need? I got all day.” Hurry the hell up. I aint got all day. I had 17 missed fucking calls. Likely more deliveries. “Who am I going to and what am I bringing?”
“It’s not a delivery Al. It’s more of a—a pick up I guess.” What? There’s something wrong. She turned around and grabbed her gray roots and groaned out of frustration.
“Just tell me Miz B. Is it your dog? Do you need…Sara or something?”
“No. My—my niece is coming down. You see her parents were—they…There has been. Well.”
“Look Miz B. I don’t need an explanation. Jut the package and destination.” Ugh. The corniest slogan ever. Oh well. It seemed to work.
“I need you to pick up my niece from the airport.” She spun around quickly. Her eyes begging. I know what I was.
Aside from being a schmuck. I was a last resort.
“But…But there isn’t an airport in Genevieve. Is there?”
“No…Not exactly. It’s in Mendota. A couple miles north of here.”
“I—I don’t know Miz B. I mean I got all these deliveries and…”
“Fifty!” She shouted unexpectedly. “Al. I have to tend the store. You can run errands with her. She is about your age. In fact, she is in the same grade.” I could feel my eyes grow wide with her panic. Was she really paying me that? That was a whole days worth if I was lucky.
“A hundred! Please Al. I need this.”
I couldn’t speak. Down here, you think everyone was dirt poor when you are running a business, yet their yard is filled with frivolous decorations and they have classic cars. Five hours work and I get a hamburger and a ten.
“One fifty!”
“Whoa. Mi—Miz B. You don’t have to. I mean…” Something crashed in the kitchen followed by a cursed. She shouted back in Italian I guess.
She shoved a wad of cash in my hand and pulled out a wooden spoon raising it over her head as she run for the kitchen. Whoa. They put the fun in dysfunctional for sure. Am I really holding $150? No fucking way. I love you Miz B. Mixed in with the bills were a printed out e-mail stating time and destination of arrival. Mendota was an hour away and the plane landed at eight. Better go.
I grabbed a piece of home made fudge from the counter and ran out the door. Ok. Next stop. Mendota.

END OIF CH.1

Your Answer:
This has to be the most concise piece of writing I’ve read on answers in a long time. It was funny and left just enough information out so that the reader is engaged in hanging around to get filled in on the details. It could use a basic clean-up and some basic cliches could be dumped and you’d still have a nice start. I’m not sure where the story is going but as a reader I like when a writer can keep me interested by their style. Your style of letting the reader in as the character moves about the pages is exciting. Even the process of her getting dressed is dynamic versus static. You are showing not telling and everything is in present tense so that we are living it as the main character is.
Again some slight clean up such as filling us in on how the ’soy latte’ is going to get to Terrence’s new girlfriend if she left. I’m cloudy on that one. Don’t know what type of business they have if sometimes they’re fixing cars and sometimes it’s all about deliveries but I like that from day to day it could change for the reader if not for the character. I’m also not clear on what age we are talking about and that’s something I like to know in order to offer better advice on characters and even setting. Who is older Alyson or Terrence? Which might explain why she gave up her sheets to her younger brother and why she’s always allowing him to walk all over her which then leads to her allowing everyone to walk all over her.
No matter what I really enjoyed the story. I could do without the preface, for me it didn’t add anything to the story. I’m fine with picking up one morning and I’ll find out about ‘whoever’ this other person is as the story unfolds. It’s part of the charm of stories. I love the clock thing. I do that myself in stories sometimes although the spit shower was nasty I suppose that’s just a preference thing. I like the casual style of writing it’s very conversational and again brings me the reader right into the story. It makes it up close and personal for me and already I’m feeling Al’s annoyances and aggravations but more than anything her complacency. Like the radio, so it’s busted at least I’ve got a good CD. Truck is crap but it’s my crap and it runs.

J…

I was six when I met him.
I was this pretentious little Upper East Sider that had been raised in a typical green awning-ed building by a nanny named Clara that wore white gloves and was from France. He was a shaggy-haired tiny rocker, already harboring a sort of rebel attitude along the lines of James Dean (circa Rebel without a Cause). He was from the West Village, a neighborhood my mother would never have set a Jimmy Choo-ed foot in. In her closed-conservative mind, it was almost as bad as Queens.
I was getting dropped off for my first day of Kindergarten at Cappaport Academy, the school at which my mother had applied me to the day I was born, by Clara. It was raining, hard, and Clara was holding a Burberry umbrella in her white-gloved hand as we went up the steps to the intimidating white stone building on Park. I was carrying a tiny Kate Spade coin purse, for buying lunch, of course. The already upwards of 40k a year cost of tuition school charged extra for their all-organic vegetarian lunches, and snacks of Perrier and sugar-free cupcakes from Rose Bakery next door were extra on top of that.
As Clara signed me in with the Chanel-wearing secretary and waited to get my schedule (yes, as a kindergartener, I had to get a schedule), a tall red haired woman wearing paint-splattered jeans and a Prada flower-print dress ran in, her demeanor in entire disarray. She was toting a little boy with messy auburn hair wearing khakis and a black cashmere tee-shirt, and she was yelling into her cell phone something about “going to Ivan’s art show in Brooklyn”. They looked like Park Avenue’s demented surprise babies, conceived by a clandestine affair with Alphabet City.
The secretary looked the woman and her son up and down before literally turning her nose up at them. She asked the mother’s name, and when it was given, immediately turned down her nose and ushered them through the huge oak doors leading to the elevators right behind us.
As we both stepped onto the elevators, Clara and the woman started the quintessential small talk essential to any New Yorker.
“Clara Maddeuax, I’m this Delilah Chase’s nanny,” She introduced herself. She always introduced me like that, as “this Delilah Chase”. With her French accent, most people interpreted it was “miss Delilah Chase”, which was probably for the best.
“Pleased to meet you, This Delilah Chase. I’m Rhea O’Neil, mother to This Sebastian Walker.”
So she had caught the “this.” But for a moment, I thought Clara had gone mute. She stopped fiddling with her gloves and looked up at the woman like she had just told her she was Jesus Christ’s daughter. After a long, awkward silence, she finally said,
“You-You’re Rhea O’Neil? My God, You’re my favorite artist of all time!” The woman just smiled and nodded, obviously used to this sort of reaction.
“I’m flattered, darling.” The woman-or, as we now know, Rhea O’Neil murmured politely, just as the elevator doors opened to the Kindergarten floor.
Classical music was playing from the ceiling, the smell of Chanel No. 5 wafted in the air, and the children in the room were all silent Ralph Lauren Child Fall Catalog look-alikes. It felt like I had stepped into the Church of Classic Wealth, worshipping Chanel, Park Avenue, and Mozart. Resale shops, fattening cakes, and bright colors were the Antichrists at Cappaport.
Clara leaned down, gave me two quick kisses on each cheek, and left, muttering a quick, “bonjour” to the teacher, who was standing by the door, watching over the terrified class of beautiful children like a hawk. Any tear that was shed was quickly wiped off with a glare from the teacher, whose title, I would learn later, was Madam Roguard.
Rhea O’Neil merely patted little Sebastian on the butt and nodded at Madam before lighting up a cigarette as she left. Madam’s mouth opened, most likely to bark at her about the strict no-smoking rule at Cappaport, but Rhea was already in the elevator, flicking ash onto the flawless white carpet.
Sebastian and I looked at each other with curious eyes. He was by far the child that fit in the least among the obscenely preppy crowd; even though his attire wasn’t too crazy, his manner was decidedly Greenwich, whereas the other children’s was definitely Upper East Side. I fit in easily, with my Ralph Lauren Annora Polo Dress in sea foam, my black curls held back by a J. Crew headband and my teeth already doctor-straightened and whitened. I had been brought up to be silent around adults, polite around children, intelligent around teachers.
But Sebastian…I already knew something was different about him, even then. He had this mop of messy auburn hair that fell into bright brown eyes, a lopsided grin that bore a huge gap between his front teeth, and such a sort of confidence exuded from him that you knew he wasn’t born and bred a few steps away from Central Park.
Hold on a second. This isn’t a love story, if that’s what you’re thinking. Not at all. So if that’s what you want, you better look elsewhere, because I’m about to tell a story with little to no romance in it whatsoever. I realize what I’ve said so far has conveyed severe Nicholas Sparks vibes, but that is about to end. Just to give you a heads up.
Alright. Now that that’s been straightened out…
Sebastian looked straight at me and said, with the oddest look of rebellion in his eye,
“Hi. Your hair is messed up. And your nanny is a piece of crap. Just thought I’d let you know that,” He stated before skipping over to talk to a Maddox Jolie-Pitt clone.
I remember being so caught off guard by his comments that I literally froze. My mouth dropped and I felt myself going numb. This was Cappaport Academy, supposed home of the most elite children in the city, and this was the first person I meet? A horridly rude little boy that had an artist, albeit an incredibly famous one, for a mother? Something in the world had gone horrendously wrong.
Thus was my first encounter with Sebastian Walker.

It seems really good, though a little rough in spots. I like the conversational tone. But you might find an email heading towards you with suggestions. I have been dying for another editting job on someone elses’s work. And all you need is tweaking, really.

So, I know that title is fairly in-descriptive, so here it is. I need some type of COLORED 1/2" Foam Backer Rod! Grey is something I’m trying to avoid, and black may not suite the job. If its closed/opened cell, I’ll be happy either way. Thank!

Haven’t seen anything but grey, but you can call around to some concrete product companies…they may have something in colors.

Good luck…

http://www.drillspot.com/products/113450/Insul-Tube_67834_Closed_Cell_Pipe_Insulation

The material is foam, like the type in a cheap mattress.

The one in the link is too thick (almost 2 inches total — which is far too much).

I’d like material which maches the following.

1 inch thick (or even 3/4 inch, but no lower)
Any color.
Cylinder shape.
Preferably NOT hollow inside the middle of it (but ok if it is)

You may find something that will meet your needs by going into Google: foam tubes

http://images.google.com/images?sourceid=navclient&ie=UTF-8&rlz=1T4GGLJ_enUS302US302&q=foam%20tubes&um=1&sa=N&tab=wi

I get really really sweaty hands and feet whenever I workout (and even for no reason sometimes). I’ve tried using anti-perspirant pads on my hands and feet, but found it makes my skin too dry to the point my skin starts breaking.
So I was wondering if anyone with a similar problem who does yoga, or is a yoga expert, knows of any yoga mats/general mats that will allow me to maintain grip while doing yoga and not slip and slide.
I’ve already tried using the thick "puzzle" foam pads parents use in baby play areas, and a Nike closed-cell yoga mat (5 mm. thick), and both have not offer enough grip for my sweaty hands/feet.
I have the biggest problem when doing "downward dog" (as you can imagine), since you exert a lot of outward pressure on your hands, and without the grip, my hands slip off the mat and I fall out of position. And you can also imagine how much more difficult balance positions like "twisting" poses can be when my feet are sliding off the mat.
Any suggestions?
I forgot to add, I talked to my doctor already about my excessively sweaty hands/feet condition, and he’s hte one who prescribed the anti-perspirant pads.

Also, a sticky mat isn’t really issue (I’m pretty sure I didn’t imply sticky mat as a problem?)…it’s the fact that I have sweaty hands and feet, and thus can’t get a good grip on the mat, and instead slip and slide during yoga because of the sweatiness.

You can try using an ashtanga mat which is like a rug. You can use it alone or on top of a sticky mat. Here’s a link with a pic:

http://www.allmats.com/site/439205/page/144341

The other thing you can do is try yoga-paws. They will help you keep your grip even when sweating:

http://www.bookofjoe.com/2007/03/yoga_paws_wear_.html

The SAFER barrier consists of structural steel tubes welded together. Behind these tubes are bundles of closed-cell polystyrene foam, placed between the barrier and the concrete wall
The theory behind the design is that the barrier absorbs a portion of the kinetic energy released when a race car makes contact with the wall. This energy is dissipated along a longer portion of the wall, instead of propelling the car back into traffic on the track.

Could this be used in body armor to dissapitate the force of being hit with something like a bat?

The key element in your question is the dissipation of energy. The SAFER barrier takes the kinetic energy of the of the race car and spreads it over a larger area of the wall as you’ve stated. The wall is a rigid body, while the barrier a moving one.

For the body armor to work it would have to spread the energy over a large area of the body. Kevlar works at least partly due to this reason. However, the body is not a rigid body and likely still subject to some damage. Conceptually a SAFER body armor would somehow need to transfer the blow from a baseball bat to a larger area. This would decrease the localized impact, but could result in a wider injury. I think most people would take a larger bruise over broken bones or internal bleeding though!

As a final though, even in the Middle Ages, knights understood the need to prevent penetration of sharp objects into the skin. If you were to take a suit of armor that is stiff enough to withstand the impact, it would still hurt, but be much less of an injury than without.

Also, consider the equipment that the catcher and umpires use. The chest protector is flexible, but stiff enough and padded enough that it absorbs some of the impact and distributes the rest over a wider area. Actually that would be a SAFER barrier!