Flandrau Science Center

In diameter-houses the 135-seat planetarium theater, home to evening and weekend shows for kids and adults on a variety of topics. They range from a discussion of the catastrophic explosions of stars to basic introductions to the night sky, and holiday shows examining things like the Star of Bethlehem - which might not have been a star at all, some say. It could've been a bright comet, as no one today can be certain what early chroniclers meant by stars. Using computer projections, the show discusses what comets were visible then, what stars became novas or supernovas-huge explosions that occur when a star can no longer sustain its energy, blowing itself apart-and it explains the impact astrologers had on how writers in Biblical times interpreted celestial events.

Other holiday shows broaden the approach, telling how Hanukkah, the ancient Roman Saturnalia and the traditions of the Vikings, among others, contributed to the mystique of the season.

But whatever the topic, fun happens. When kids attend daytime shows, the presenter introduces them to the massive projector sticking out of a circular pit in the center of the theater. He has them shout in unison, "Hello, Hector Vector Star Projector!" After that, the lights dim and the projector throws its beams onto the dome ceiling, creating a virtual copy of the night sky. At least one child, thinking he really was looking at the sky, later asks, "Hey, how'd you open that dome?"

When he's the presenter, Magee explains that the dome, in fact, remains closed throughout the show, and adds, "Now don't forget, it's daytime."

Mouths pop open. Faces blush. Especially among adults, who sometimes ask the same thing. In that case, in his most diplomatic tone, Magee says, "Remember, the stars are still there, but the sun makes the sky too bright to see them."

At that their eyes light up. Which is, if you think about it, what Flandrau does best. All of Mars and possibly its bedrock surface. Observatory Manager Demos Galanos excites and challenges guests by explaining that the 16inch-diameter mirror telescope actually takes them back in time. "Light from the moon takes 1.3 seconds to reach the Earth," says Galanos. "So when you look at the moon, you're seeing that object as it was, through a modest time distortion."

Visitors can find Flandrau at the east end of the University of Arizona Mall by watching for its trademark white domes. But before stepping inside and browsing the gift shop, check out the heliochronometer on the sidewalk outside. Helio... what? Here's a clue: You might see people standing around it checking their watches. It's a sundial, probably the most accurate one the average layman will ever see. Flandrau's larger dome-measuring 50 feet

THINGS TO DO NEAR FLANDRAU SCIENCE CENTER

Area codes are 520.

ARIZONA STATE MUSEUM The museum bills itself as "the oldest and largest anthropology museum in the Southwest." Founded in 1893, exhibits explore the cultures of prehistoric, historic and contemporary Indian tribes of Arizona; 621-6302.

UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA CENTER FOR CREATIVE PHOTOGRAPHY The center is a nationally recognized archive, research center and museum dedicated to photography as an art form. It hosts shows and exhibits honoring great photographers like Ansel Adams, and exploring themes such as Latino life in the United States; 621-7968.

UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA MUSEUM OF ART Housing a collection of more than 4,500 paintings, sculptures, prints and drawings, the museum presents art from around the world; 621-7567.

ARIZONA HISTORICAL SOCIETY Organized by the pioneers of Tucson, the society preserves and shares state history from ancient Indian villages to early statehood; 628-5774.

GENTLE BEN'S BREWING CO. A fixture for decades just west of the University of Arizona's main gate, this restaurant serves hamburgers, salads, pasta and a French dip sandwich made from roasted sirloin. Start with the spinach artichoke dip appetizer, the soup du jour and a tasty raspberry ale; 624-4177.

alongthe Way LOVEBIRDS Have Joined the Bird List in PHOENIX

ONE MORNING LAST FALL, AFTER THE monsoon storms had washed the Salt River Valley clean and the desert was warm and sweet, I sat in my garden procrastinating. I knew I should get out of the lawn chair, enter the house and write. But I couldn't budge. The air was perfumed with creosote. Mockingbirds sang in mesquite trees. A whiptail lizard sunned itself near a pot of purple petunias. Quail scavenged for leftovers beneath the bird feeder hanging from my grapefruit tree. Suddenly, a squawking flash of green streaked across the sky. The whiptail perked up, the mockingbirds were silent and the quail stood still. Slackjawed, I watched two small parrots dart around the sky and land on my bird feeder. Wild parrots in Phoenix?

Impossible. But I wasn't hallucinating. The noisy little gourmands were about 5 inches long, with curved bills, pinkishorange faces, dark green wings with black tips, breasts the color of a Mexican lime and patches of turquoise on their rumps that reminded me of Navajo Indian jewelry.

The next day, my visitors brought pals. Six parrots descended on the feeder. They did parrot things, like hanging upside down and waddling. And squawking and screeching and chattering.

I am no ornithologist, but I knew parrots weren't native to Arizona. I wondered how the birds could survive in the Phoenix heat. And if by chance such creatures could survive, would they displace any native species?

One phone call to the Arizona Game and Fish Department, which keeps track of “feral exotics” in the state, answered everything.

Here's what I learned: My visitors were peachfaced lovebirds, hardy small parrots that make good pets and have long been sold in Phoenix pet stores for living-room bird cages. Lovebirds are appropriately named because as couples they caress each other with their bills. And they don't stop at the caressing stage, if you catch my drift. Judging from what happened in Phoenix, they breed enthusiastically.

bills. And they don't stop at the caressing stage, if you catch my drift. Judging from what happened in Phoenix, they breed enthusiastically.

No one knows when, exactly, domesticated lovebirds escaped and turned wild and began breeding in the Phoenix area. We do know that by the mid-1990s, the Game and Fish Department began recording increased sightings of feral lovebirds in Phoenix, Scottsdale, Tempe, Apache Junction and Carefree. The birds have been sighted in flocks of six and 12. We don't know precisely how many feral lovebirds have made this valley their home. But it's safe to say a lot.

The reason: Lovebirds can take the heat. Lovebirds are native to dry, hot climes of southwestern Africa, so Phoenix summers are a snap. Figuring out where to nest might have been more challenging.

Lovebirds are smart creatures, and they discovered that the spaces beneath roof tiles make agreeable nesting areas. Some lovebirds set up housekeeping in the cavities of saguaro cacti, right alongside Gila woodpeckers. Fortunately, lovebirds and woodpeckers seem to have different ideas of what makes a good saguaro habitat. Lovebirds like small dwellings. Woodpeckers prefer larger, more expansive homes. All of this tells the Game and Fish Department scientists that lovebirds are not displacing saguaro-dwelling woodpeckers.

For a while, state scientists worried that lovebirds would venture out into the wild Sonoran Desert and raise ecological havoc with native species. But so far, the birds have preferred to remain city dwellers. Phoenix offers them everything they need - nesting areas, good climate, plenty of seeds and fruits to eat, as well as backyard feeders replenished daily by procrastinating writers. Since the first day I noticed them in early fall, the lovebirds have sated themselves at my feeder every day. After waddling around the potted petunias for a bit of post-repast exercise, they fly off somewhere. I think they live nearby. I've grown accustomed to their chatter in the mesquite trees and to the sight of them darting across the blue sky like a green ribbon in the wind.

Like so many of us who came to this desert from somewhere else, they have become part of the landscape.