Tuesday, December 22, 2009

You made it to one, Ruby. Nice Job.


My very small knowledge of developmental psychology seems to taper off after one year old, unfortunately.  I need to remedy this situation in a hurry.  As predicted though, you have just about all of your cerebral cortex online, in one capacity or another, right now, and there is always a little person there...thoughts, opinions, expectations...strategies.  Dear viewer, if you think it was crazy of us to let a one year old eat this much refined sugar, you are absolutely right...she spent much of her birthday wired like a coke fiend in Miami, waiting for the 1980's to end.  Now, she is trying to walk, in short intervals, and with careful planning, so as not to fall and look foolish.  She demands to be bounced around to music, as always, but nowadays it is almost always her idea.  The little Nile-esque cookie monster growl has come back, for summoning metal to the cd player, or to indicate any situation where the baby is being watonly brutal, such as hurling stuffed toys onto the floor.  She seems much more concerned with having us name every object she can point to than she does with saying the words herself, as if to satify her curisity that previous humans have named everything first.  Sorry..we have, or we can invent them fast.  "That block is a donut shape...a torus....it is red...."  "Donut, umm, that one is octagonal, there are no donuts that shape.  I know, you are finding all the toruses....and stacking them, by round vs. not round..."  Note to self, "Is there such a thing as an octagonal torus?"
Happy birthday, Ruby.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

A letter from Federal Prison from Psycho Butcher, our Restaurant Critic

Dear Readers,
I have been incarcerated, unjustly, for the last few months, pending charges of arson. I should not comment on an investigation in progress, but the act was real, performed by yours truly, for very good reasons I am sure you can guess. But that is not why I am posting today. I write to once again comment on the loveliness of brunch.
Brunch is a magnificent ritual. Perhaps just as mighty as the feeling of setting torch one's enemies is the process of, having woken up from sparse hours of slumber, drunken hours after the act spent in a sonambulic playground of hard drugs and illegal sex acts, is the loveliness of stumbling into seat and ordering flapjacks the next day. This I write from prison, of course, not an omlet in sight.
So, lacking in actual pleasures, let me share my fantasies about the red velvet pancakes at the Bongo Room. They are lovely; just the right consistency, exceeding any reasonable person's idea of the appropriate portion size (this is mandatory for pancakes, because let face it dear readers, no matter how much red food coloring they felt fit to enrich the lovely mixture with, pancake fixings are inexpensive and it is appropriate to overserve guests at brunch, a nod to the begotten days of a hearty breakfast before getting behind a plow or other such rustic instrument), and topped with appropriate creaminess. The ancient bullwark of brunch in this town had not lost its heavenly status on the day prior to my incarceration, and since it was a weekday morning, I was able to walk in and sit down at a table without having to wait outside on Milwaukee Avenue, corpse paint running from an evening of smoke and sin.
Nightwood, in Pilsen, serves a fine brunch as well. Disappointing was the Eggs Benedict, actually, but impressive was the hamburger, not a brunch item at all, but ordered nonetheless by the drummer from a rival Black Metal band, a Phillistine, who had the sense to smell cooking meat from the street outside and follow his animal instincts. Both places have appropriately exquisite coffee, which is mandatory for such occasions as well.
Now that I am reporting to you, dear readers, the breakfast biscuit, or whatever it is they call the McMuffin. sendup at Hot Chocolate, has slid a bit, not from lack of love but from rushed execution, but their Hot Chocolate is something to dream about. Alone, in this dark cell, I ruminate on the Cthonian world of their Black and Tan, counting the bricks and lamenting the likelihood of lunchmeat on white bread, meal after meal, until my motives are understood and i am vindicated.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Die, Corky, Die

Corky the Gnome,
I am not saying I put my goblin friends up to causing that workplace accident in Whole Foods that nearly took your life, but if I did, it would have been justified. All those cases of wine falling on a helpless little gnome, as he reclines on a wheel of cheese, smoking a pipe, in the back room. Poor, cute little gnome.
Goblins do things like that Corky, they hate gnomes. If I put them up to it, it would have been justified by all the times you came by my house, sprinkling gnome dust everywhere to give my living room that "enchanted" feeling, and starting shit between me and my wife. Everyone hates it when a little shit-disturber comes around his house and starts talking crap to his wife about how the presence of hobgoblins living in the basement might be "dangerous" to the baby, or how the man of the house might be "gnomist" for having a -no pointy hats- rule. Truth of the matter is that I hate pointy red hats, and I hate gnome antics.
I noticed, for instance, that you secretly inspected, and organized all the closets. I messed them up again. I noticed that you and your buddies made liberal use of the garden all summer, standin perfectly still, like ornaments. Invisible to everybody but me.
If Blodgett and Hookie the goblins abducted you after the workplace fall and drug you off to a secret goblin "maze of torment", maybe they were trying to help you somehow. Too bad you had to chew your own leg off to escape and all. The peg leg looks nice.
I have two hobgoblins guarding the house now. Stay the hell away.
Stupid gnome.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Dear Ruby,



Yes, Ruby, of course I am an extremely proud father that you now have a low, "cookie monster" growl to voice fits of metal pleasure, such as trying to kick your rubber duckie out of the bathtub, and bouncing around in my arms to Iron Maiden, SkeletonWitch, and Arsis, complete with tiny fist in the air.  Just as pleased, I am, that you seem to have discovered the secret magic to books, and laugh at a drawing of a baby gorilla crawling into bed with the zookeeper and his wife.  You have never seen a gorilla, yet this is somehow funny to you already, at just short of a year old.  Your endless experiments with the Fisher Price ball popper, your conviction that merely hiding your face with a cake pan constitutes the ultimate in crypsis and hilarity, and a thousand other things convince me that you, the real you, are finally here.  Welcome to Earth Ruby, and happy birthday.  This time, last year, we were taking bets that you would arrive amid whatever Thanksgiving meal we saw fit to make, deciding what to pack for the hospital visit, as if we did not live a block away, and airing our confessions that, indeed, it would be fun to dress a little baby and that is part of the excitement, however indulgent.  You look great today.  Love.  Dad.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Are We Evolving?

In the future, will the human race evolve giant, watermelon-sized brains, the huge crania barely supported by pasty-white and frail bodies? Or, like the tyrant overlords in Madeline L'Engel's A Wrinkle in Time, might we progress to the status of brains floating in nutrient solution? Alternatively, might we evolve a caste system, with future humans partitioned like termites into worker, soldier, and thinking classes? Or perhaps we will regress both physically and mentally, as Aldous Huxley's Ape and Essence, degenerating into a senseless species of cripples, gibbering like idiots.

Perhaps our organic evolution is irrelevant at this late date, since the eventual replacement of organic Homo sapiens by intelligent thinking machines made in our image, is just around the corner. As more and more people opt to upload their thoughts and memories into cybernetic immortality, will our species leave this planet behind for an existence in some cybernetic realm?

The literature of science fiction is rich with fantastic speculation about our evolutionary destiny. In Nat Schacher's "Past Present and Future", a hundred thousand years of evolution create a future human race composed of worker, technician, and oligarch castes, all teeming like ants within a subterranean hive. H. G. Wells' extrapolations of human evolution are legendary, with a nocturnal, carnivorous human species preying upon their dim witted and gentle sister species. This vision of future humanity in The Time Machine was presaged in Wells' When the Sleeper Wakes, where he shows the huge hive cities and the class distinctions that might ultimately lead our social classes to follow separate evolutionary paths. In A. E. Von Vogt's Slan, the superior species resulted from some sort of major mutation, with multiple types of mutants living as persecuted minorities. Olaf Stapledon's visionary The First and the Last Men postulates not just a single evolutionary descendent of Homo sapiens, but a series of 16 future humans. These include seal men, winged men, a race of malevolent intelligent monkeys, and the benevolent and doomed last men of Neptune, possessed with vast intellect and forethought.

And yet, as humans, we seem to have insulated ourselves from nature "red in tooth and claw". From the viewpoint of an easy chair, it is not clear that some traits confer a reproductive advantage and others do not. Are we evolving?

The answer is yes. All species evolve, though the rate of evolutionary change can vary tremendously among species, and for any given species, can vary from one span of time to the next. In the last fifty years, we have seen astonishingly rapid evolution of pesticide resistance in insects and antibiotic resistance in pathogens. Artificial selection via domestication has brought monstrous new creatures into existence from sensible and innocuous wild ancestors. Maize, for instance, evolved from a weedy Mexican upland grass resembling the weed teosite, into the tall, large-seeded and distinctive plant that occupies so much of the world today. Tomatoes, bananas, and other plants, have underwent similar transformations. Some species seem not to evolve at all for vast spans of time. The horseshoe crab, Limulus sp., is very difficult to distinguish from reconstructions of fossil ancestors that crawled the seas 200 million years ago, and the giant sequoia tree Sequoiadendron giganteum could be transplanted to a Cretaceous period forest and not seem out of place. These species have evolved, nonetheless, in thousands of subtle aspects associated with tracking the ecological niche that allows them to survive as they do. For them, the game is stabilizing selection, rather than directional selection…natural selection weeds out the individuals that depart too much from the configuration that has worked so well for these millions of years.

What about humans? Will we continue the rapid evolutionary change of the last 5 million years? Or sink into a pattern of evolutionary stasis like horseshoe crabs?

Our species yields tantalizing clues for speculation. It is a rule that large, widely-distributed species living in large populations mixed by the movement of individuals, frequently remain unchanged for vast amounts of time. It is the small, fractured populations that show rapid evolution, generally, and have the most opportunities to give rise to new species as well. Interestingly, however, a large number of widely-distributed species have exhibited dramatic evolutionary change recently, both in terms of their behavior and their appearance-most of them being species that interact regularly with humans; our domesticated weeds, our pests, and our pets. It has even been postulated, as John Livingston suggested in his book Rogue Primate, that our species has domesticated itself.

Possibly, one of the biggest stories in our recent evolutionary history is allele flow, that erasure of thousands of ethnic and regional differences in gene pools as individuals from one part of the world invade, migrate, settle, conquer, and interbreed. So strong has it been that there are few Native Americans that can trace pure ancestry back to the men and women who crossed Beringia. In other places, Europe and Asia, it has erased a thousand subtle regional differences.

It is essential to dismiss the misconception that evolution is teleological or goal directed. Evolution is usually gradual change brought about in a species by a statistical bias toward certain individuals more likely to survive and make a greater number of copies of themselves, as well as other random factors that create genetic variation and cause random change over time. It is punctuated by the process of speciation, another random process, that splits evolutionary lineages by creating reproductive isolation between populations. None of these processes has a conscience, a memory, or a plan. Thus, evolution does not proceed from start to finish, but rather, continuously shapes a species by a variety of factors. It is the rule, rather than the exception, for a species to evolve in one direction for a while, and then evolve in retrograde for a while, as conditions favor the types of individuals that were more common to begin with. At any given time, the effects of each evolutionary mechanism depend greatly upon the physical environment.

With a change in the environment, evolution can reverse itself or go in directions completely different from earlier trends. Thus, our evolutionary past does not predict our future. Between 1.5 million years ago, and 25,000 years ago, our lineage underwent a rapid increase in brain size. This trend continued from Homo erectus into early Homo sapiens, yet this trend need not continue. In fact, it has stopped. The best fossil evidence we have suggests that, for the last 30,000 years, our brains have gotten slightly smaller. Some of this, of course, is associated with a general decline in body size associated with the shift to farming, and away from hunting mammoths.

IQ, whatever crude measure of intellect it is, is not positively correlated with fitness, by the way, nor is it negatively correlated. Evidence suggests that the highest reproductive prowess is centered in the middle of the IQ curve. There is some positive assortative mating for IQ though, which increases the spread a bit, producing a few more IQ geniuses (as opposed to the real kind, who can compose symphonies or interpret the red shifts of quasars), than we would see otherwise. This is not to say that our brains are not evolving rapidly. Nine percent of the genes we share with chimps are still evolving quickly, some of them associated with brain development. Others are involved in perception, sperm production, and immunity.

Likely, one of the biggest agents of natural selection operating today is infectious disease. The parasites we take for granted, things like colds, the flu, chicken pox, are relative newcomers, just jumped in from the species we have domesticated. The arrival of each was probably heralded by a huge plague. My guess is that each of the great ancient plagues has its origin in the arrival of one of these, now-mundane parasites. They have evolved decreasing virulence. Whatever organism caused the Plague of Athens burned through its hosts too quickly and died out, but it probably came back, with a more patient set of genes less likely to kill the host. Along the way, it must have imposed some selection on its host as well.

In some ways, our domesticated species have domesticated us. Many of us carry the genes for lactose tolerance, and for forms of alcohol dehydrogenase that allow for a good buzz, both of which we owe to our domesticated creatures, cows and yeast respectively.

Negative selection..the directional selection against mutations that cause congenital illness, continues today, despite our couches, our store-bought food and our doctors. It is open to debate whether years of eyeglasses have caused human vision to degenerate, removing the weed-out process for bad eyesight (possibly, several world wars and an army obsessed with sending good genes into battle to be exterminated from the population, leaving the bad ones at home might have helped myopia spread, though I doubt the selective pressure has been pervasive enough for that), but things like Usher syndrome and muscular dystrophy still feel the weight of selection, pressing them like a vice, to small frequencies.

Concerning the morphological traits more familiar to us, they seem to follow a pattern similar to that of IQ. Stabilizing selection, the tendency of those in the middle of the curve to be most fit, has long been documented for birth weight. This is probably true of human body size. Very tall and very short individuals have reduced survivorship, as well as the hyper-skinny and the obese. Recent research suggests that, among women at least, those individuals that are just slightly heavier than the average have the highest fitness. Similarly, those individuals that are just slightly shorter than the average have the highest fitness. Favored also, however, are women who are able to start reproducing early, and keep going until later in life. This is all very fluid, a snapshot from one place in New England, and evolutionary trends in Botswana may very well be different.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Dear Dr. Sagan

Dr. Sagan, I feel I should tell you this, years after your death, that you were singularly one of the biggest influences in my life.  This only comes up now, inconveniently postmortem on your part, because I am reviewing Cosmos, and in some ways, it reads as an archaeology of my mind, my views on things, my understanding of the world.  I am a big-picture thinker, so much so that I frequently wonder if I have a mental illness that I cannot name, a sort of anti-aspergers syndrome.  I do not care about punctuation.  Details, such as exact dates and even exact years, matter little to me.  I love people, especially the kind of people who notice spiderwebs, and though it is true that I might rather spend a day at the library than go to a party, the reverse might be true as well, depending upon the attendees.  It is much more relevant to me that every single attendee of the party is a eutherian mammal, even the cats and dogs that occasionally line the periphery of such events, and that reptilian guests to parties are restricted to circus and fetish folk, most often, and they make difficult party guests in any event, spending most of the event tied in pillow cases.  Your picture was, evidently, very large as well, given that you were the first man to consider pointing the camera of a spacecraft, at the edge of interstellar space, back at the Earth, to look for the intelligent life we knew to be there....a sort of ultimate perspective.
    You, on the other hand, were such a careful thinker, that decades after the fact, it is difficult to find scientific innacuracies in Cosoms, for the reason that, when it was called for, you always identified your hypothetical scenarios, your speculation, and the tentative conclusions of the science of the time, for exactly what they were.
     When I first viewed those episodes, so long ago that it was another lifetime, neurologically in the sense that by now, my dendrites have rebuilt themselves countless times, and in a very real aspect, I am not the same person I was back then.  You pissed me off when you spoke of nuclear war.  You pissed me off for the same reason that, what is now arguably my favorite movie, The Day The Earth Stood Still, pissed me off as well.  From the Hollywood, Clatu taught me that interstellar war is futile, pointless, and if there was anything to conquer, it would put a stop to our machinations before they started.  As it turns out from my later discoveries, impossible.  It would take so many resources to send a single paratrooper to Alpha Centauri, that we could build and rebuild every single thing we sought to conquer, on a lonely orb like Callisto, cheaper, and faster.  Advancing technology only helps the Callisto side of the equation.  Your line of argument concerning nuclear war was equally shattering to my world view at the time.  The fact of the matter is that the threat of nuclear armageddon, every second of the day, the drain of resources to build such devices, the time and expertise wasted perfecting them, was an almost-inconceivable folly....perhaps a product of our own evolution...but folly still.  You were right, of course, and though there are still ten thousand or more nuclear weapons on the planet, the Russians are shipping plutonium here for use in our reactors...nuclear armageddon has been replaced by nuclear proliferation among the small fry, the nation states so bent on preserving their power structures that they must blackmail the rest of the world into propping them up by providing a foil, a common enemy.  Ironic that the space race was brought about by the cold war, the moon race necessitated by it, but the manned exploration of space has been crippled by the debts we ran up in the process.  You straightened me out on where I stand as a human.  I am no longer a nationalist.
  You validated my nascent athiesm.  You were right that we do  not need god to explain our place in the universe, or our own existence here as well, and that, if we are courageous, we must ask "Who Created God?", and if we cannot answer this question, we might come to question his existence as well.  You taught me that the last librarian of Alexandria was killed by a Christian mob, but strangely, I missed your message that it was the librarian's own elitism that allowed that to happen.  It was this last point that, decades later, you made to me the other night.  I could stand to contemplate it.  
  Here I am, decades later, spending my life transmitting the findings of the academic heirarchs, a choice made of my own free will, though pushed by the necessity of earning a living, and my own failures navigating the political world of research science.  I speak to the masses who will listen, like you, but without the cool TV sets, the stodgy brown suit, the carnation, and with hundreds of viewers rather than millions.
  Your often-parodied goofiness, a notion I bought into at the time as well, is now easy to recognize as passion, pure and unadulterated.  I look at my own strengths as a lecturer, and it is passion of the same ilk, thought perhaps I flatter myself by making the comparison, which stands as a counterweight to my lack of punctuation.  I suppose, I am goofy too, in my own way.  Passion and curiosity can be taken that way, I suppose.
 
  

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

We All Grow Up So Damned Fast






Ruby was a bumblebee for Halloween this year, or something of that ilk.  She loved the short walk we took through Wicker Park, in a hunt for demon babies and Scare a Vacs.



Here she is at home foraging for pollen.
She pretty much likes the life of a circus baby, and prefers to be upside down.
God.  Halloween.  So many great ones recently..all so different.  Here you can see I removed my disguise and became the devil.  We all grow up so damned fast.

Monday, September 21, 2009

The Great Black Wasp


This is a photo of a great black wasp, Sphex pennsylvanicus, solarized of course, taken at the UIC greenhouse the other Friday. Incredible animals.

Friday, September 18, 2009

The End

I remember the moment I saw that issue of Astronomy Magazine in the drugstore.  The cover story read "Curtain Call".  It was a story about how the sun would heat up gradually over the course of its evolution to a red giant...the same way it has been heating up for the last 4.5 billion years.  In a mere 500 million years, maybe sooner, perhaps a bit later, the Earth will be such that no multicellular life can live here, a place of near-boiling oceans and thick cloud layers.  Clouds, on one hand, reflect light back into space, forestalling the inevitable.  On the other hand, water vapor is itself a greenhouse gas.  The Earth will play a strange game of back and forth for perhaps a few tens of million years before the balance finally tips to steam, the oceans will evaporate, and this globe will become truly hellish.  It is quite likely that, just like Mars, Venus had an ocean early in its history.  This ocean was likely very short-lived, vanishing in our Archaean or Hadean, but perhaps an abode for Venusian life.  The water vapor is almost all gone now, lost to photodissociation over the billions of years, the little that remains being cometary or volcanic in origin, and about to depart as sun's rays split the water molecules into component parts, the hydrogen ultimately escaping.

I was terribly depressed.  So much so that I did not even buy the magazine.  Most of what I just wrote I have pieced together since then.  Until that moment of lost innocence, I imagined that multicellular life on Earth had a languid summer vacation of five billion years to creep and crawl about this orb of ours, evolving into intelligent creatures perhaps once or twice more before the inevitable demise at the fate of our own sun, billowing into a red giant.  No more.  Now, we have but a fifth, or some miserable smaller fraction of that time.  What will we do with ourselves?  No time for snails to evolve great cities now, is there?  Perhaps the gastropoda were doomed never to develop big brains by their limited neurological development, perhaps the cephalopods are too ecologically limited and too lacking in exadaptation for land, too burdened by predation and semalparous reproduction to crawl out of the oceans to dominate the globe with iron tentacles.  Maybe, just maybe, the great armies of rodent species will crawl out of hiding, invade every empty terrestrial niche left by our great mass extinction, and evolve big brains themselves.  What matter of other things might transpire?  The globe might see another icehouse Earth before things are through, then a hothouse.  Maybe strange new invertebrates will crawl from the seas, a new flourishing of animal, plant, and fungi, and new things never imagined by me or anyone else.  There is still enough time for continents to drift into strange new configurations, at least one new supercontinent, maybe two, before the oceans boil to nothing and make continental drift impossible, because no seabed means our geology will become more like that of Venus, with periodic "Global Resurfacing" of belching volcanoes and temperatures hot enough to liquify the land.
 
When the sun turns red giant, such a brief but beautiful star it will be, will it be hot enough for a flowering of life on distant Titan?


Thursday, September 17, 2009

autumn

autumn again, season of strange breezes that bring with them the promise of frost, of halloween nights, bedecked in makeup and sparkling with shiny moments of drug-fueled dancing, or cider fueled handing out of comic books and toothbrushes, autumn mornings are cold enough for sweaters here and autumn afternoons are warm enough for short sleeves and foraging butterflies.   They are here still, the cabbage whites making the best of catnip and overgrown kale, the forlorn bumblebee workers, born extra small because their queen is on the verge of giving up, their selfish sisters waiting it out in some mouse burrow hive waiting for frost and snow and tulips and finally summer again, their day to shine, and ours to reflect on those cold winter days when the egg of our own future fate could barely be transported in a carseat through the glacial frost, air so thin space come down and crush us under its weightlessness, and two pumpkins grow in the thick of all these promises, heavy and green and lewd in their own strange ways.  Is it time for cider yet?  Property taxes?  New friends at school?  Steamy windows in coffeehouses and over-thumbed paperback books?  Long black coats with pockets full of various useful supplies?  Not yet, but soon, and the axial tilt of the earth will ensure that it keeps happening long after the continent beneath me is worn to a nub.  Somehow, life will survive the mass extinction in front of it, these same ragweeds and earwigs will rise to repopulate the planet, and new creatures will greet the fall.

Earth In Midst Of Sixth Mass Extinction: 50% Of All Species Disappearing

Earth In Midst Of Sixth Mass Extinction: 50% Of All Species Disappearing

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Live Birth -- Key To Much Marine Life -- Depends Upon Evolution Of Chromosomal Sex Determination

Live Birth -- Key To Much Marine Life -- Depends Upon Evolution Of Chromosomal Sex Determination

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Wednesday, September 16, 2009

where devas dwell

if there is a cloud layer of beings above this world, invisible and perfect, because space is finite, non-euclidean, and homogeneous, a torus parallel to a sphere, a klein bottle intersecting itself, and if the beings there live 80,000 years, abstaining from meat, and sex, and all manner of the voluptuous, for how can such desires arise in the formless realms?,  it is probable that the beings there exist in a perpetual photosynthetic bliss, mitotic in their propagation and autotrophic in their abnegation, basking in the heavenly glow, devoid of desire because, spore of god and fruit of godhead, their mindful roots weave and unweave unearthly tactile patterns upon a dreamy skyscape.  daydream seems to be the only intersection with this etheral manifold, because night dreams are full of carnal lust and overworked concern, darkly lit and perhaps carrying the smell of old textbooks, worlds of buxom librarians and misparked cars.   

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Concerning Gnomes

I hate gnomes because they are full of "clever antics." I once new a gnome who liked to go invisible and start switching around the money in people's wallets, giving to the poor from the rich, and other such crap. Hippie. They impersonate garden statues. Fully half the time you walk by one of those charming garden gnomes, thinking it to be just a statue, it is a real gnome, with a glamour put on itself to resemble a statue...standing very still. They think this is clever. I find it to be banal. The Travelocity gnome is actually very rich, and very drunk, right now. I used to be friends with the guy...trust me, he drinks, he drinks a good deal. This whole business of mailing garden gnomes around the world and photographing them was a gnome plot for some free kicks. No harm done, except that gnomes bring their weird little games with them wherever they go. I knew this gnome that made mushrooms spring up wherever he went. Half the fungi were exotic, psychadelic, and obnoxiously cute. Amanita muscaria is a favorite gnome mushroom....the smaller gnome varieties shellac the fruiting bodies and live inside their tiny little houses, smoking little pipes, collecting pointy hats and such. As I mentioned earlier, gnomes hate Einstein's theory of relativity, because it contradicts the gnomic view of the universe, they also detest bacon, constrictor snakes (for obvious reasons), and of course, goblins. Gnomes hate goblins, and have a perverse antipathy for any person who does not also hate goblins, effectively dragging everyone else into their business. In the SouthWest, huge gangs of gnomes, on minature motorcycles, called "gnomercycle gangs" roam the backroads, pretending to be badasses. Mostly, they do this invisibly, leaving a trail of tiny beer cans along the road. They run like hell when goblins show up.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Pollination Networks Key To Ecosystem Sustainability

Pollination Networks Key To Ecosystem Sustainability

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Bee Species Outnumber Mammals And Birds Combined

Bee Species Outnumber Mammals And Birds Combined

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Dwarf Cloud Rat Rediscovered After 112 Years

Dwarf Cloud Rat Rediscovered After 112 Years

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Why We Rock

Yesterday, I was listening to Old Man's Child....it must have been the sixth or seventh play through Vermin in 24 hours.....lost in the dark melodies and blast beat drums.  Eeevvvvillll, except, I was installing a baby security gate.  Come to think of it, I put Ruby to sleep with Metallica's Death Magnetic last night, it replaced Kreator's Pleasure to Kill, which is too discodant for a lullaby. Eeeeevill.  Did I mention that I almost teared up to Rush's "Time Stand Still" in a Mc Donalds drive through line a few days ago?  I acutally hate that song, it is from what must be Rush's worst album.  Still, I knew all the lyrics from my dorky youth.  Laaammmme.  The ones that really get me come from out of nowhere.  It was Johnny Cash's "Solitary Man" once, and, notably, Scorpions "Winds of Change", in MN, turning the inition key to leave my grandmother's old neighborhood, now gentrified...This is why we rock.  This is why we rock.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Now

> Hello Dr. Molumby, > I attended your bio 101 class last year. I had a weird insight today > and I had no idea who to go to, I just want to know what you think of > it. I saw a squirrel on my front lawn and I realized that a lot of > small animals like squirrels and rabbits tend to make very quick, > jerky movements and they seem to react very quickly. Then, an image > popped into my mind of a large godzilla moving very slowly. > > Then I asked myself, how would godzilla perceive the way humans move? > Then another thought came up; Do different animals have a different > perceptions of time? Maybe to a squirrel, we humans look very slow and > cumbersome as we see godzilla, but I have no idea how anyone would be > able to see how other animals perceive time. Another strange > correlation I came up with (based on my general knowledge and > generally speaking) was that some quicker moving animals seem to have > a shorter lifespan than animals that move slower. This may be a very > loose correlation, but I thought of squirrels being the quickest, > humans in the middle and then land tortoises as the slowest/longest > living. I just find this interesting. If you know of any information > or have any opinions about this please let me know! I'd also like to > add that I enjoyed your teaching style as well as the content of the > class; fortunately i was in your rare discussion class due to > Veronica's schedule conflicts, I enjoyed that as well. > > Thanks for your time, > Steve....
hi, i think you are on to something in that large animals move slowly. plenty of physics in that.....muscles and bones do not scale evenly as an animal grows. it is energetically inexpensive for an elephant to move long distances, compared to a mouse, but accelerating and decelerating are very expensive. Godzilla cannot be made out of flesh and bone because even thick bones could not support a 600foot reptile, on land at least. Oddly enough, we suspect that there are differences in time perception as well, because the nerve impulses from my fingers take a fraction of a second to reach my brain, eye impulses less time, and the brain smoothes it all out to create the illusion of simultaneity......so maybe an instant is shorter to a shrew than to a leopard, yes. as for lifespan....on one hand, all animals share a similar superchiasmatic nucleus, a brain-timekeeper, so all animals perceive time, in some sense, but long term perceptions of time must also depend upon memory, which varies. Tortoises have incredible memories for some things, yes, but I doubt that they construct a narrative of the past like we do. My money is on Elephants, for having the longest view of now, and gobies, shrews, or finches for the shortest. Not sure if now exists at all for an insect. great question...keep em coming. (Will post question and response on my blog if you do not mind, will remove yr name...) a

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Dear Ruby

I am very proud of you for being able to stand up today, Ruby. You try so hard.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Snowball Earth

Evidence is fairly strong that, at various times from 600 million years ago to one billion years ago, the Earth underwent several glaciations that enveloped the entire planet.  Think about it the next time it snows.  Ice and snow are reflective, casting much more light back into space than seawater or forest.  One of the reasons the Arctic is melting so quickly today is because the feedback loop goes in the opposite direction now...more dry land begets higher temperatures, melting more ice.  I observe the same phenomenon in miniature every warm summer day in Chicago...it only gets "nice" here during the winter when the snow cover is gone.  Chicago winters arc ice ages in miniature, including the threat that, someday, spring, or an interglacial, will never come again.  It is not increasing snowfall that promotes glaciation, it is those patches of snow that never melt in spring.  Each is potentially the nucleus of a glacier.
     It turns out that, when the ice sheets combine with sea ice to cover latitudes lower 
than 30 degrees, nothing can stop them.  They rush to the poles and lock the world in ice.  The Marinoan glaciation might have been such an event, lasting for a million years or longer.  The Sturian was probably a series of lesser events, all severe enough to lock the ancient supercontinent of Rodinia in ice, maybe, we do not know for sure about any of this.  There are, however, eerie dropstones from sea ice carrying wedges of rock, broken off terrestrial cliffs and then moved to sea by glaciers, at latitudes very close to the equator during this time.
    From an evolutionary point of view, the mass extinctions inevitably brought by this make a certain amount of sense....there is a strange lack of transitional biota between the old, hydrothermal vent and anoxia remnants of the archaean, and this brave new world of multicellular life that came about in the wake of Icehouse Earth.  In fact, repeated glaciations, and crazy-hot interglacials that followed, as CO2 from volcanos brought about an end to the icehouse, may have reorganized the biosphere to favor increasingly complex protists, multicellular life, and us.  
  This round of glaciers is every bit as extreme, or more so, than the ones of the Permian, Devonian, Cambrian.  A million years from now, an icebox episode could happen again.
 
Snowball Period
(millions of years ago)

A recent estimate of the timing and duration of Proterozoic glacial periods. Note that great uncertainty surrounds the dating of pre-Gaskiers glaciations. The status of the Kaigas is not clear; its dating is very insecure and many workers do not recognise it as a glaciation. From Smith (in press).[66]

Tips for Urban Living

I wrote this shortly after I returned to Chicago in 1999.  I think much of it still applies, but I have noted certain things that have changed since then.


Tips For Urban Living

     First and foremost, avoid being stabbed.  Being shot is usually worse than being stabbed, of course, but there is an inevitable element to a bullet wound.  They seem to be preselected for us, like phone numbers.  Stab wounds, however, are imminently avoidable.  A stabbing is an intimate dance in which both parties participate.  There two types of people, those who have a propensity to get stabbed, and those who do not.  I belong to the former category, personally, though I have avoided the fate so far.  Most people do not know their status concerning this issue, despite two useful predictors 1) if you are a stabber, sooner or later you will be a stabbee, 2) if anyone has ever threatened you with a knife for any reason, you belong among the potential stab victims as well.  Owning knives seems to have nothing to do with it, the problem seems to be the act of thinking about the act of stabbing.
     Second, don't do crack.  Crack leads to stabbing, and to various manifestations of toothlessness.
      Third, don't do meth.  As above, but faster and more inevitable in consequences.  It was not necessary to write this in 1999,  because meth was formerly restricted to hillbillies.  The club kids have brought it downtown since then.
      Don't, drink bleach either.  Not for any reason.
      When you go to the ER, because you've been shot, or stabbed, or are flipped out on crack, tell the story right.  Emergency rooms are not the place for spin doctoring.  Don't say "I wasn't drinking at all, I just stopped in a corner liquor store for a bag of chips....".  Everyone else in the ER was doing something equally stupid (these are tips for urban living, make note).  Tell your friends and loved ones to tell the story right as well.  We all know the truth.  Lying about it informs us of the inevitability that a permutation of the same event will happen again soon.
     Late summer and early fall are the killing season in Chicago, as are the first warm days of spring.  People dish out a lot of stray phone numbers those times.  These random numerals fall in a hazy cloud around certain vehicles and addresses.  Avoid Monte Carlos and Olds Cutlasses during killing season (that was 1999, in 2009, avoid men in white T shirts).  Having anything to do with people who routinely stand on the street for no apparent reason, all day long, will cause the phone numbers to follow you in a wispy stream.  Don't park near them.  Avoid knowing their names.
     It never hurts to seem a little crazy, in a halfway-house kind of way.  Develop a nervous tic.
     One other thing-rats are harmless, perhaps even allies.  I prefer to think of them as "mobile rent control technicians".  This also applies to cockroaches, although I know few people who can stomach a different rent control arthropod swimming in their coffee every five minutes.  Neither species carries any important pathogen that is not also streaming from a five-year-old's fingers.
     Speaking of that, avoid hospitals.  That is where the really scary microbes hang.  Refer to tip number one.  Make that hospitals and IV drug users, which reminds me, don't shoot up.  If you are so concerned about wasting a drug that you cannot simply smoke it, then you already have a serious drug problem.
     That said, there is ALWAYS enough money for a 40 ouncer.  It is the unstoppable calculus of urban life that any substance that falls into the food and entertainment budgets simultaneously is imminently affordable if it comes in a 40 ounce container and gets you fucked up.  Each brand is a different sensory adventure.  I strongly recommend a couple of hits of marijuana, an UP-Time, and a 40 ouncer of St Ides.  This high costs six dollars, and , when combined with the Beastie Boys "Check Your Head" is better than a hundred dollars worth of cocaine off some asshole's table.
     "Why do drugs at all?" you ask.  Read no farther, you are not living an urban adventure, you are wasting your life.
     Speaking of the above, pick a transient hotel.  Find out how much it costs to stay there, and if there is a deposit.  Even if you never spend a night there, it helps to know where to go if you become down and out, probably because you broke rule number three or four.  In Chicago, the Ascot on Belmont, the Mark Twain on Division, and the Diplomat on Sheffield are three fine choices.  You can probably do better.  (Since 1999, the SROs have perished.  The  new alternative seems to be the friend's couch.  There seem to be more couches here nowadays).
     It goes without saying that you should avoid cops.  The act of disliking them, however, seems to draw them to a person.  They can smell contempt.  If you encounter cops, make good eye contact and speak in full sentences, this will convince them you can hire a lawyer if you need to (Never say lawyer in their presence unless they are arresting you, or it will anger them.  Not wearing a shirt also attracts police.
     One other thing, you don't have any change.  Read it aloud I DON'T HAVE ANY CHANGE, SORRY MAN.  You can't break a 10 either.  In fact, you can't count and are suspicious of strangers.  Anyone who asks you to break a bill has pegged you for a fool.  People who actually need to make change walk into an Amoco station and buy a pack of gum, or better yet, a 40m ouncer.
     One other thing.  If anyone approaches you, and is stuck, their family member in the car, needing to get to the hospital, but out of gas, you only speak Czech.  Or Tongan.  Maybe Afrikaans.  This person is a con artist and there is no reasoning with them.  Do not make any attempt to help them because the help they need is to be truly in the same plight and to discover that their behavior has created a world where nobody can risk helping anyone else.  Anyone who needs train fare to get out of the city to some clinic or shelter, same thing.  They never know the actual fare, test this if you wish.  They rarely know which train they need to take to get there either.  There is some sport in fucking with these people, but that puts you inevitably into the category of people likely to get stabbed.
     The human drama of urban existence is absolutely free for the taking.  Comcast will not charge you for it.  I recommend spending time in any district where pushcart vendors routinely roam, especially if the signs are not in English (Daley has eliminated most of these, like the rats, since 1999.  Douchebag.)  Wear sunglasses, so that the woman with the infant over her shoulder band the cases of beer in her stroller does not notice you watching as she jaywalks across 4 lanes of heavy traffic.  (Note to readers, except for gender, the stroller, and the jaywalking, I am now this person.)  
   This all brings me to the subject of diners.  Diners are magical places.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

7--11 Diary

I wrote this over ten years ago. I intended to write a much longer memoir, but things happen. This, I think, is worth reposting from the molumbia.com site....

Two-Fisted Consumer Commando,

Sheikh of the Liquored Night,

Zip Gun Target,

My Life as a 7-11 Clerk

I first called the 7-11 jobline the day after a job interview in Chicago. That interview had gone reasonably well, so the prospect of doing a stint as a two-fisted consumer commando seemed strangely appealing to me. A hellish future as a career convenience store clerk was only a whiff of a possibility, rather than a black dog breathing down my neck. Besides, I have always loved convenience store clerks. They are like gods, those nameless disgruntled convenience store clerks under the weird florescent light at 3 am. They are usually from exotic lands like Sri Lanka, Jordan, Kenya, and South Korea. What a strange, dark fairyland of crackheaded shoplifters, and drunk rentacops must they navigate every night? I was not to be disappointed.

I was living in Denver, CO at the time. The city had such a strong economy in the summer of 1998 that low-end employers were scrambling to hire up every able-bodied looser and addled loner who registered a pulse, no matter what else was wrong with them. 7-11 job adds decked every bus stop bench and newspaper. As the Southland Corporation lost its best underpaid working stiffs to restaurant management, air conditioner repair, and construction, they dug deeper and deeper into the weird collective of lost souls that muddled aimlessly along Colfax avenue, promising seven bucks an hour for what seemed to be easy work.

My job interview was by telephone. 1-800-711-JOBS put me right through to an automated job interview system. I felt a brief flash of futureshock as I entered my social security number, years of education, and desired salary into the machine. I was briefly put on hold as its automated decision making process considered my qualifications. Hire an eccentric, out of work PhD, evolutionary biologist, with no obvious criminal record? By all means, yes. We'll make a man out of him. I was hired.

My first training session was about 20 miles south of where I lived, in a forlorn, White-Trash neighborhood at the Denver City Limits. I remember counting a dozen different 7-11's along the way.

The Southland Corporation liked to train in certain, "model stores" which were in particularly good shape. These places would get their pick of the new employees and, of course, remain model stores. That location was indeed stocked with the cream of the 7-11 crop. Clean-cut young people with nothing in particular to do with their lives, they worked 7--11 more out of ennui then anything else. All of them lived at home, I was to discover. These were next year's air conditioner repairmen and cellular phone representatives, but for now, they kept the cups stocked and the driveway immaculate.

I was entitled to free coffee and soda, I discovered, and immediately indulged in a 7-11 French Roast with hazelnut creamers. I sat under the pay phone and stared at the used car lot across the street. It specialized in vintage classics, and sported a 57 Chevy, and Edsel, a 62 Caddy, and of course, a '72 Charger. What might it be like to work the desk here for long enough to buy one of those cars? How many biweekly 350 dollar checks would it take? 40? My classmates started showing up ten minutes later. We were exactly the weird lot you might expect of a 7-11 training crew. There was a distracted young woman with bleached blond hair, a tough looking moustached man with leathery skin, an alert looking young man who could have been a boy scout, a young mexican woman with a smattering of gang tattoos, a pimply kid who rode up on a motorcycle, and myself, in a yellow bowling shirt and stubble. The eager young man and I set up a few long tables in the storeroom. It was just barely big enough to squeeze 7 places to sit, and even then, a person had the side of their head mashed into a box of cheetos or a case of toilet paper. The eager young man proffered a hand. His name was Damien. He had a firm handshake and was entirely too happy to be in a storeroom of a 7-11 at 9am on a Thursday morning.

Forty-five minutes later, we were shifting uncomfortably in uncomfortable folding metal chairs. Our trainer was the sort of woman who should be performing a child's puppet show for right wing single moms who want their children to love Jesus. I would spend the next three days trying to visualize how she looked topless.

There was a Byzantine amount of paperwork to be dealt with. Within a half hour, I had assumed liability for any conceivable civil suit, denied that I had a drug problem, agreed to let them fire me for any reason, on a moment's notice, and signed a document that seemed to permit them to implant a microchip into my head. To this day, I am probably on a watchlist for potential drug rehab clients. Halfway into the paperwork, the leather-armed man squinted and joked "so when do we piss into a cup?" We were cautiously informed that 7-11 does not drug test. Instead, there is a phone number to call if we need help.

We were not drug tested.

This came as an enormous relief to every person sitting at the tables. The question asked and answered, our shoulders loosened, and some people began to look relaxed. As a long-term and enthusiastic dope fiend, I was as happy as everyone else, though I had been abstaining from the cannabis simply for economic reasons. Too bad, Denver was a great town for cannabis.

Five minutes later, at our first break, I was to earn just how far people will go to avoid giving up drugs long enough to pass a drug test. Several people had come to the training session with small bottles of other people's urine, which they discarded gleefully in an overfull dumpster just outside the store. Others had dipped their fingers in bleach before arriving, counting on the remaining residue to foil the chemical assay. The Native American woman was a bleach dipper. She had once eaten Draino to foil a drug test. She seemed to think the technique was effective, but also confessed to spending three days in the hospital later, an event that seemed curiously uncorrelated in her mind. Someone lit a joint, and there outside the training session, we passed it around and confessed to a few of our vices. We all smoked pot. Without potheads, 7-11 would have to close its doors worldwide-end of story. Three of the seven were regular meth smokers, two smoked crack every now and then, "but never with the kids in the car". All of us drank pretty regularly. Damien and I were the only 2 who were not basically functioning alcoholics. I was later to learn that Damien had just gone off about six types of medication, including thorazine.

The rest of the training was three straight days of exquisite, pedantic, uncontrollable boredom. Sitting on those folding metal chairs, pressed up against a long table with a peeling faux-woodgrain finish, time passed more slowly than any other syllable of recorded history. Staring at one idiotic instructional videotape after another, I was reminded of Albert Camus' advice concerning "how not to waste time"

"Stand in long lines at the bank, take the slowest bus across town, wait for water to boil.." anything to slow one's perception of time massing to a bug crawl. Convenience store clerks waste less time than any other people on earth.

The training consisted primarily of telling us not do things that might get the Southland corporation in a lawsuit, and having us sign forms that would put all responsibility on us. We went over armed robbery scenarios, learned how not to sell beer to a minor or a person with slurred speech, and that the convenience store world was one big happy interracial family. This was all fine with us, because at the first sign of trouble, most of us intended to slip out the back door with a case of Milky Way bars and never come back.

I know this because, during cigarette breaks, I was indoctrinated into the seedy underworld of the retail underclass. The fresh-faced blonde woman with two children and a Meth habit had felt compelled to let her old boss feel her up every now and then. I tried to hide my enthusiasm as I imagined myself "supervising her", unzipping her green and black frock and sliding my fingers under her lacy black undergarments, all in the name of checking for shoplifted cigarettes and gum. She left her last job at circle K after her supervisor became possessive, imagining that perhaps the customers occasionally had easy pickings to the merchandise. She just walked out-with a case of 3:2 beer, and drank it in her car on the way home.

Not once during the training did we learn anything of practical value. Never did we step behind a cash register or restock a shelf. 7-11 had paid serious money learn to implement three important policies; never keep more than $30 in the cash drawer, keep the stores enormously well lit, and spend 24 hours on each employee to cover their asses from liability suits.

Next..the time I was almost robbed.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Dear Ruby

I have just given you an iclicker to play with. There is a sharpie around here somewhere too. Perhaps your mother would rather you not play with that. You are underfoot in my office as I type, content to explore the pleasant shape of the clicker, and test its endurance by throwing it on the tile floor. I approve. This world here is like a run-down version of the cities I imagined to populate the moon, in distant 2009, as a boy, entranced by science fiction illustrations featuring rocket ships, fuel tanks bulbous and engines flaring. I warned you about the absence of Titanotheres earlier, but earlier in the day, I was able to show you fancy guppies and ball pythons, bichirs and society finches. I never got to go to the moon and visit those cities. It turns out that the resources necessary to colonize that airless orb would have demanded cooperation on a scale that our species is not capable of yet, Maybe your generation will get to that.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Regarding Metal

Regarding Metal


Metal is a genre of music characterized by extensive use of distorted electric guitars and basses, drums, and vocals which are vamped or stylized by screaming, growling, falsetto, or an over-the top operatic delivery.  Metal lyrics invoke dark subject mater, almost universally touching on aspects of power and powerlesness, often invoking moods of violence, agression, and supernatural evil.  Musical compositions in metal songs are intended to convey feelings of aggressiveness, rage, transcendent doom, or a desire to indulge in wanton acts of hedonism, womanizing, and drug use.  Classical minor scales and blues scales are often recognizable, but it is rare that a metal song is written in a particular key.  Rhythms can be textured and elaborate, with multiple changes in tempo within a song.  The above definition is far from comprehensive.  It is easy to find an excellent metal song that does not fit within the definition at all.  Opeth’s “Silhouette” comes to mind, as do Mayhem’s “Silvester Anfang” and Bathory’s “Ring of Gold”.


The genre is loosely split into many subgenres, mostly listener-defined and often very arbitrary in their usage.  Lyrics are various, but themes of supernatural evil predominate in some of its subgenres.  In others, feelings of isolation, anger, and nihilism are more typical.  In still others, fantastic battles, actual historical conflict, or scenarios intended to tell tales of womanizing and debauchery are the norm.  Some of its subgenres embrace extreme showmanship, including black and white “corpse paint”, studded and spiked costumes, fire, and fake blood.  Other subgenres adopt an almost obsessive minimalism in their stage attire, focusing upon performances rife with rage and angst.  I have never known fans to be strictly adherent to one subgenre or another.  In a typical night of listening, fans typically play whatever they want to hear, regardless of the label attached to it.


The term “metal” is a contentious one because its listeners, especially die-hard fans, are apt to reject musical techniques, styles, and elements that do not conform to their definition of what “metal” is, effectively policing the genre from adopting a sound that might have mainstream appeal.  This tendency has caused a recent movement in the metal scene to refer to all types of metal, and music that sounds like metal but is rejected by hardcore fans, as “heavy music”, to avoid these kinds of arguments.  


Labels divide.  Labels limit.  Labels also serve a purpose, arise spontaneously, and serve as guides to cognition.  Terms like “metal”, “grindcore”, and “new wave of British heavy metal” almost universally provoke contention, but they are also a fundamental consequence of the way humans categorize.  In visual art, literature, music, and other creative forms of thought, something called a genre tends to form spontaneously, whenever the limit of creative expression are such that artisans are free to craft music to their own liking, and yet, must operate within a set of parameters intentionally and unintentionally defined by the audience and artists alike.  Music, in particular, has had something akin to genres since its inception, the existence of multiple different Ancient Greek music scales, each attributed to a particular island or region, suggests that even at the beginning of what we might term Western Civilization, artists and listers have acted in concert to create distinct styles of music.  For music, especially, the effectiveness of the art form relies in the mind’s ability to predict musical patterns as they develop, and effective music both satisfies, and denies, these expectations, to create a combination of tension and resolution that most listners consider to be beautiful.  Other than its most fundamental unit, the octave, the existence of a music scale is a cultural construct,  Though the patterns of tones and semitones we associate with pitch have a neurological basis, the arrangement of tones in an interval, and exact combinations of steps and half steps included in a scale is determined by society.  Music is in the mind of the listener as well as the musician.  In his book “This is Your Brain on Music”, Dan Levitin devotes an entire chapter to musing on what is known, and unknown, regarding how the brain forms genre specific categories.  He suggests that human minds have an inherent tendency to recognize a genre by gestalt, from only a few examples, and that music listeners are surprisingly adept at recognizing examples of an art form that, while they fall within a genre, are not normative.  


As human societies have grown more complex, and the density of listeners has grown exponentially to an unprecedented scale, each group of listeners having the potential for worldwide, virtually instantaneous access to the newest music, there has been a proliferation of genres in music, and a fracturing of these genres into subgenres.


Metal eludes a strict definition because genres, in any field of artistic expression, lack strict definition.  Genres form spontaneously because the human mind constantly seeks to categorize.  A genre is an aggregate of similar objects or things that the humans in a culture find to be fundamentally similar.  For every genre, listeners, readers, or viewers, can point to examples that seem to be paradigmatic, central to, and typical of the genre, and other examples that seem to stray from the center or cross over into other genres.  It is this crossover that often produces the best music, art, and literature, thought it can only exist once genre boundaries are established.  In a culture of total innovation, each artist working from his or her own first principles, such genre crossovers, and the innovation they bring, is impossible.  The genre must exist in order to transcend it.  That said, each genre has certain cultural innovations, and attributes, which are either more common among the art or music that the genre encompasses, or employed in a way that is idiosyncratic or distinctive when they do appear.  New movements in any art form do not usually receive a name until much of the innovation that produced that art form has already occurred.  Once recognized, listeners often close ranks on new innovation, perhaps in a subconscious effort to restrict the evolution of an art form they have grown to appreciate.  The listener feeds back to the musician.  The reader influences the writer. 


Possibly, no form of popular music is more prone to factions, more able to split into subgenres, and more defensive of its own cohesiveness as a recognizable art form, than metal.  These properties result not from radical innovation, or the individualism that metalheads are sometimes known for, but from cultural conservatism.  Metalheads evaluate each new technique and trend, in conversations online, between cigarettes at band practice, and in line at shows, searching for consensus.  Even for rock bands, which are amazingly consistent compared to other forms of music in their arrangement of members and instruments, metal bands are almost hyperconsistent in their lineups.  Only certain arrangements are permissible.  The most acceptable arrangement, currently, includes a drummer, a bassist, one or two guitarists, and possibly a vocalist, though it is more in keeping with some genres of metal that one of the guitarists, or the bassist, also sing. There is no a priori reason for these members.  Other arrangements are certainly possible.  A metal band is limited, thus, to three to five members, except enormously successful acts which accumulate members as their ambitions grow.  Even in these acts, it is much more acceptable and common for a band, such as Sweeden’s In Flames, to sprout an extra guitarist, than to accumulate an extra drummer.  

A “Front Man”, a dedicated vocalists that does not play an instrument, is permissible, but more welcome in some sugenres, than in others.


 vocal duties are typically split among the members of the band.  In the 1980’s, it was a major point of division among metalheads whether an electronic synthesizer was an appropriate instrument for a metal band.  It was not sufficient that some fans enjoyed them, and others did not, a consensus was necessary.  Now, synthesiers are employed freely, and expected, in some sugenres of music, but necessarily absent from others.  Consensus, but the splitting of subgenres.  Currently, in Chicago, metalheads are challenging the genre again by exploring the possibility of the drum machine as a metal innovation.  


All genres of music have such parameters.  Metal is only unusual, if it is unusual at all, in being slightly more restrictive than other forms of popular music, though much less restrictive than older, more traditional forms of music, such as Gamelan music or even classical chamber music.  These restrictions are products of cultural evolution.  They are analogous to the thought structures that must have existed in the minds of Ancient Greek and NeoTropical potters as they crafted pottery and emblazoned it with culture-specific patterns.  Indeed, it is possible to trace the extent of trade in ancient North America, and elsewhere, by the movement of pot shards.  These thought structures serve to limit permissible types of innovation in the musical genre.  They restrict inventiveness, but in doing so they funnel creativity in consistent directions.  The emphasis on guitar, bass, vocals, and drums, has created innovation in interplay of these instruments that would not exist if metal bands commonly incorporated saxophones, xylophones, or harps.  It has created special scenarios, such as the introductory passages to black metal songs, where such innovations are strongly called for.  Most importantly, it has created an audience of listeners who have trained themselves to distinguish certain sonic patterns of timbre, rhythm, melody and harmony, that seem like mere noise to uninitiated listeners, but are pleasing to the metalhead.


Analogous situations are present in other genres of music as well.  Experience listening to jazz, especially avante garde jazz, generally makes a better listener.


Other than a moderate degree of cultural conservatism, metal is somewhat distinctive in that it seeks to create a sound that the uninitiated often find unpleasant.  With the possible exceptions of experimental music, some forms of jazz, and possibly some forms of classical music, no other form of music such a polarizing effect on the listener.  Certainly, it seems that metal bands enjoy creating sounds that the uninitiated find to be ugly, dissonant, and unpleasant.  Though avante garde jazz has the same effect on listeners, generally, metalheads seem to take pride in this.  Uninitiated listeners often loathe metal, and would prefer to listen to silence.  Most metal artists never expect to be played on the radio.  Metal is rarely played at parties, almost never at weddings, and though appropriate, never at funerals.  Something that the uninitiated listener, the nonmetalhead, often fails to appreciate is the extent to which the initiated listener, the metalhead, actually enjoys the elements in music that nonmetalheads find discordant, ugly, and brutal.


The metal aesthetic is easy to recognize.  Battle axes are metal.  Mercedes convertibles are not.  Fire is metal.  Champagne is not metal.  A nude woman carrying a sword in one hand and a severed head in another is metal, the same woman in a bikini, leaned over a motorcycle, is not....not currently, at least.  In the 1980’s, having gained mainstream acceptance and mainstream radio play, images of postadolescent men having a good time were an accepted part of the aesthetic.  It has evolved and consolidated since then, however, as mainstream success has eluded most acts, and influences from science fiction, crime, religion, and horror have combined and recombined endlessly.  To me, one of the most metal images imaginable, and one of its most influential, is the image of the wraithlike “Eddie”, wielding an axe, some faceless victim vainly clutching the creature’s shirt as he or she slumps to the ground.  This was, of course, the image  on the cover of Iron Maiden’s “Killers” album, and it typifies the aesthetic perfectly.


Though permissible modes of subject matter for lyrics differ from one subgenre to the next, metal has always been focused on power, and its absence, darkness, and its consequences, and elements of mythology and storytelling that invoke the big questions of life and death, heaven and hell, war and peace, freedom and slavery.  It is both apolitical, in the sense that metal songs only rarely have explicitly political content, and intensely political, in that its listeners frequently form cohesive working-class bands of individuals who share a common identity and values at odds with the expectations of middle class family life and consumerism.  Metal is not punk, it does not seek to overthrow the government.  Metal both laments and celebrates the brutality of dictatorship, slavery, and torture, the same way the builders of the ancient pyramids both lamented and celebrated their conscription into a task so brutal, so epic, and so ultimately out of their power to control.


Metal is not alone in music, art, or any other form of human expression in seeking images of darkness and evil.  Its single-mindedness is unusual however.  In most forms of metal, songwriters are essentially forbidden to stray from images and situations of darkness and evil.  Among songwriters, and among subgenres, however, destinations differ.  Some metal explores darkness and evil for the purpose of escapism; by allowing the listener to enter a fantasy world of dragons and succubi, events of the real world melt away or become minor cogs in a much larger landscape of heaven and hell, freedom and slavery.  Other metal is antiauthoritairan, an influence borrowed from hardcore punk, and focused strongly on current political issues, but always from an individualistic perspective and virtually never calling upon its listeners to follow in any sort of movement.  Following directions, joining a movement, obeying authority, are not metal values.


Friday, August 28, 2009

Physoconops


The conopid flies are out. One landed on my tomato plant the other day. Ferocious and strange, these flies are among the most sinister and most impressive two-winged hunters. This group is distributed worldwide, and probably fairly old. The larvae are always parasites of aculeate hymenoptera-ants, bees, wasps, and the like. Adult female conopids aggressively intercept female bees and wasps in flight, and lay eggs on the underside of the host. The female conopid has a modified abdomen that can actually pry open the sternites on the underside of a bee, like a can opener, and lay the eggs right where they can hatch and crawl into the victim. The victim will continue to live for a while, as the larvae eat the internal organs and muscular tissues. The flies actually pupate inside the dead bees before they emerge. Apparently, the conopids have their own natural enemies. Parasitic chalcidoids can somehow hyperparasitize conopid larvae, and pupate within the pupae of the flies, which lie within the dead bee.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Extinct Sea Monsters

Mosasaurs were elongate, reptilian, aquatic predators that lurked in the vast epicontinental seas of the late Creatceous.  They were incredibly common creatures 70 million years ago.  By the end of the age of dinosaurs, they has invaded freshwater habitats and were at the peak of their diversity.  These were not dinosaurs.  Phylogenetically, they were lizards, and possessed many of the same adaptations as snakes (which are basically lizards as well), including a doubly hinged jaw for devouring big chunks of food.  In many ways, they replaced ichthiosaurs and plesiosaurs, the former being extinct by the time of mosasaur ascendance, the latter in decline.  They gave birth to live young, and probably undulated through the water the same way snakes swim.  
Their ancestors were reasonably abundant lizards resembling present-day monitor lizards,
 and I think the real lesson here is that, given the right warm climate, and 20 million years, a planet can bristle with marine reptiles.  These creatures may have even outcompeted certain sharks.  All it takes is a lizard. 
A much earlier beast was the placoderm, Dunkeleoseus.  These things haunted the oceans 360-380 million years ago, when life on land was mossy and reedy, with a small arthropod or two.  In the ocean, however, huge beasts like this 35 foot, 3 ton monster roamed.  Its skeletal features are so primitive and strange, a member of the extinct placoderms, it amazes me that oceanic food webs of the time could support such a beast.