Dragut Corsaro Di Barberia

Is this not the most sad and hapless looking gentleman you have ever seen? He looks like someone has just run over his dog, walked all over his favorite bed of geraniums, and told him that his turban looks stupid. If you actually did any of those things, though, you would likely end up as a fine mist of tiny, wet flesh-gobbets, because this man was Turgut Reis. One of the most feared Turkish corsairs of the 16th century, Turgut had a knack for projectiles and was trained from the age of 12 to be a cannoneer. Going to sea with Admiral Sinanüddin Yusuf Pasha, he quickly achieved his master's favor by being really good at hitting other ships with cannonballs-- an excellent skill for a buccaneer. So, the expression on his face is probably more like, "Aw, I'm sorry, man. You knew that if you trampled my flowers, I was going to have to blow you to smithereens. Why'd you have to go and make me do that?" The expression may also show his resigned incredulity at his own ironic death in 1565, which came on the swift wings of a lucky cannonball, fired all the way across the Great Harbor by Knights of Malta defending their island fortress from Ottoman invaders: "Dude, seriously? All the way across the harbor... I mean, what are the odds? Huh."

Just Because

[Via: Medgadget]

Competitively-Inhibited Synapse

From the Anchorage Daily News:

Top of the third paragraph:

"The biggest single chunk of stimulus money that Palin is turning down is $160 million for education."

Do I need to make a joke about this? Do I? I mean, I could, but... no, I think it speaks for itself.

Beannacht Lá Fhéile Pádraig

W.B. Yeats, from the preface to Gods and Fighting Men:

"Children play at being great and wonderful people, at the ambitions they will put away for one reason or another before they grow into ordinary men and women. Mankind as a whole had a like dream once; everybody and nobody built up the dream bit by bit, and the ancient story-tellers are there to make us remember what mankind would have been like, had not fear and the failing will and the laws of nature tripped up its heels."

The fantastic portrait of Cuchulain you see here (complete with his many-pupilled eyes!) was done by the inimitable Courtny Hopen of Storms, Saints, and Streetcars. This and more of her rather excellent art can be found at her website.

Motor Synapse

I've recently been giving a lot of thought to augmented humanity, and this short talk puts an interesting spin on it. Aimee Mullins discusses changing the dialogue on disability from one on compensation and disadvantage to one on enhancement and potential. It's really an intriguing talk that may make you prick up your ears, cock your head, raise an eyebrow, etc.

http://www.medgadget.com/archives/2009/03/how_my_legs_give_me_superpowers.html

Plus, if nothing else, this woman has got some awesome legs. I especially liked the hand-carved ash boot prosthetics:She talks about the importance of "combining cutting-edge technology... with the age-old poetry," and I couldn't agree more. It's that very impulse that draws a person to Victorian science, to dabble in steampunk, and even to illuminate their organic lab notebook. There is a sense that in the 19th century, science and art were more tightly intertwined, and that aesthetics were an important part of progress. William Whewell*-- demagogue, prophet, and hype-man** of the industrial revolution-- discussed at great length the marriage of art and science. He's one of my absolute favorite Victorians, but I think I'll blather about him in a future post. For now, do watch the video, and think about disability and enhancement.


*Pronounced "Hue-ull" not "Wee-well."
**Think of him like James Watt's Flavor Flav, with a giant pocketwatch around his neck and horns on his top hat.

[Edit: the link was working incorrectly, by which I actually mean not working at all. Apologies all around.]

Recession to the Mean

In these times of economic woe, the blogosphere is abuzz* with chatter of “Going Galt.” Much cyber-ink has been spilled over the issue already, and often by wiser heads than my own, so I will refrain from actually entering the fray. If you are seeking after erudite insight into the idiocy of Randian creative denialism, or you want to find some helpful tips for living free of those barnacles on the hull of society who are known more conventionally as “the poor,” I suggest you seek elsewhere. If, alternatively, you are happy to stand back from the mêlée,** keeping your frock coat clean from nasty stains and pondering matters more speculative in nature, I would be honored if you’d stay a while. One lump or two?

As is my wont, I’ve decided to put a somewhat historical cast on the whole hullabaloo, and I ask myself what, in their titanic wisdom, would the great scientists of yesteryear do? Though sundry historians may disagree, there is perhaps some merit in gleaning from history examples we may follow—from the past, lessons for the present. I am driven, half by intellectual curiosity and half by sheer perversity, to consider the merits of “Going Galton.”

As you may (but probably do not) know,*** Francis Galton was a cousin of Charles Darwin and one of the forebears of modern anthropology. He introduced the use of statistics into the field, developing the analytical technique of regression to the mean.**** Now, if you know any anthropologists (or, heaven forfend, are one yourself), you’ll know that anthropologists, as a rule, have enough chips on their shoulders to put Toll House out of business. Yes, I’ll be the first to admit that we folks who don’t spend our time compiling type indexes and acquiring cultural competency in the commodification of mimetic indigenous kin-group ritual/rite-patterns have some unsavory stereotypes of those who do.

But listen up, filthy acolytes of Malinowski: you should count your lucky shamanistic fetishes that the best we can come up with is the fact that your work is entirely without merit.***** Just be glad that Galton didn’t leave an even bigger, creepier stain on your discipline’s bed sheets. This man's many hobbies include using anthropometrics to explain why the white race was superior to all others and creating a "beauty map" of England, showing where there were statistically significant concentrations of foxy ladies.****** I kid you not.


So what might it mean to Go Galton in this recession? The ultimate goal, of course, would to make some sort of statement about President Obama’s economic policy and even legislative change. Ideally, that statement should be as obstreperous as possible and wreak a degree of havoc on the hearts and minds of the hogs who cluster greedily around the trunk of your intellectual tree, growing fat off of your creative windfall. So, we ask again the question, asked by the most discerning of racist bigot douchebags for generations: What Would Galton Do?

Galton's travels in Africa can give us some insight into how the great Asshole of Anthropometrics would proceed. As M.G. Bulmer writes in a curiously laudatory biography:

“One problem had to be resolved before Galton could travel north into the land of the Damaras. The local Hottentot tribes under the above-mentioned Jonker were in constant conflict with the Damaras and wanted to prevent white men from traveling into Damaraland. Galton tried to negotiate with Jonker with little success and finally decided to intimidate him. He rode into Jonker’s village, dressed in hunting pink (red hunting-coat, jackboots, and hunting cap) and mounted on his favorite ox, Ceylon (the horses had all died of distemper), leaped a brook, trotted into Jonker’s hut, and berated him. Jonker was suitably impressed, and he and the other chiefs later agreed to make peace with the Damaras so that it would be safe for white men to pass through their territory. They also agreed to abide by a simple code of law drawn up by Galton.”*******

Wow. Not only did he intimidate the chief into granting him safe-passage by charging a pack-animal into his living room and manage to negotiate a peace treaty between the two perpetually-warring tribes, but this Moses of the Muskox also brought enlightened European law to the benighted savages? Why hasn't anyone tried this yet? It would certainly be much more effective than impotently threatening to withdraw your creative efforts from society because you're being punished for being successful.

(Oh, and if you're worried about any racist undertones associated with comparing Obama to an African chieftain, just remember: it's mostly Republicans who are into this whole Galt thing. Do you think that the party of "Barack The Magic Negro" and "Obama Bucks" is really going to have a problem with that?)

To close, here is a sketch of Ceylon in Galton's own hand:
The caption states, as best as I can tell, "Ceylon ---- the best back in Africa." I'm probably just not racist enough to understand what must have been some kind of hilarious bon mot to Galton & Co. But, to be fair, I'm sure Ceylon did have a very strong back. After all, it must be hard work bearing the white man and his burden.





Footnotes
*Only two sorts of things may be properly “abuzz:” a hive of bees and the blogosphere. Perhaps it has something to do with the senseless repetition of inanity by hordes of mindless drones. This naturally raises comparisons between hyperlinks and the waggle dance, which subsequently evokes the image of a crowd gathered around Warren Ellis shaking his derriere and dancing in a figure-eight to demonstrate exactly how far and in which direction one must fly in order to find a picture of a man with his penis in a vice.

**Avec la circonflexe et l’aigu, bien sur. In the Francophone world, “mêlée” denotes both hand-to-hand and ranged combat, as, in a pinch, the accents may be used as a boomerang and a dart, respectively. Once used, however, the fight devolves into the much more English melee, which just involves lots of punching and the occasional broken bottle.

***Look, no offense. It’s just that in all likelihood, you have never heard of this guy. If you have, I probably know what you look like when you sleep. Yes, even you. Especially you.

****Yeah, I don’t know what that shit means either. I may be pre-med, but I’m a recidivist humanist, not a fallen mathematician. It’s a miracle I can even type the words “regression to the mean” without foaming at the mouth and falling into a brief catatonia.

*****Lucky you! You don’t have to go anywhere to Go Galt—you’re already there, you majestic Randian übermensch, you!

******He was also known to measure the proportions of women he found attractive from afar, using a sextant, presumably sighting off of Polaris and their cleavage.

*******Bulmer, M. G. Francis Galton: pioneer of heredity and biometry. 2003. Johns Hopkins University Press.

Hippocampus Synapse

So, I was searching the web for retrofuturist images to put in my latest physics lab report, and I stumbled on this:



I felt compelled to share. You can read more about it at Kilmer House, a blog that is apparently about the early days of Johnson & Johnson. It looks fascinating, but I have not explored it yet. If anyone else does, please tell me about it.

Vanitas vanitatum omnia vanitas

Thanks to Warren Ellis' blog for this: A dozen bizarre devices from medicine's dark past

The above piece is a wax vanitas, a sculpture created just to remind you that you're going to die one day, probably soon, so don't forget to get ready for that. Oh, and bugs will eat your face. So... er, have a nice day, eh?

Also be sure to check out the anti-masturbation devices and the fan made from a human stomach.

Apologies

I have not posted in a mickle great while for I am sore burdened with school-work. Do not lose heart: the fun will resume soon.

For the nonce, enjoy this awesome video: