Well, here's to keeping promises. And punctuality. I mean, damn, I'm pretty punctual, what with this being the first post just a couple hours after I started this little project.
Just don't get used to it. It's still entirely possible I'm going to give up on this crazy idea and flee to a new life with the cunning yet gregarious sewer-folk of Ulan Bator. And by "crazy idea," I mean "medical school."
Anyway, what's say we get proud and prejudiced, eh? I'm going to needlessly gender this just for your especial delight. Yes, you know who you are, and yes, I'm doing this because it is ALL YOUR FAULT.
First impressions about the men:
Mr. Bennett - A splendid dude. Rarely have I wanted to say "Oh snap!" after every one of a character's lines, but Mr. Bennett is pretty darn sarcastic - by which I mean, awesome. Plus, always has his nose in a book, and I get that. I do feel genuinely sorry for him that he has to put up with Mrs. Bennett.
Mr. Bingley - I keep picturing him as Paul Bettany for some reason.
Mr. Darcy - Edward Cullen. If he's a brooding dick through this whole book, I'm gonna shove a Book of Mormon down my throat and hope I choke to death.
First impressions about the women:
Yeah, I haven't the foggiest. I know Lizzie is supposed to be the protagonist, but I don't know anything about her yet. Mrs. Bennett stopped being endearingly fussy around page 2 and is now just irritating. Again, I feel sorry for her husband.
Also, does anyone else think it's odd that the prettiest daughter's name is Jane? Y'know, just like the author? Just saying.
Friday, December 25, 2009
It is a truth universally acknowledged
All right you animals, congratulations. You picked #2. Well goddamn done.
A serial literary journal? I know that it was maybe a bit vague as descriptions go, but does that sound to you like the sort of thing that's going to be even remotely pleasant to read or write? Maybe if you're the kind of person who hammers tent spikes up his nose for fun and profit, or thinks pissing on the third rail sounds like a Sunday afternoon well spent. Not to imply that this will be thrilling or harrowing in any sense. Oh, no no no.
I suppose, in a cosmic sense, we've all gotten just what we deserve. Or, at least, we will once I start yammering incoherently about Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Yes, you read that right. I'm finally going to have to read Pride and Prejudice. Thanks so much. Assholes. As a reward for your kindness, I'm going to be blogging about it too. So tune in here each week to check on the progress of my brutish, flailing assault upon a Victorian literary masterpiece.
I'm going to try and approach this task with minimal (wait for it...) prejudice. My only point of contact with the work so far has been seeing the recent Keira Knightley vehicle, which I promptly expunged from my brain within five minutes of the credits rolling. So put away your pitchforks and your criterion-collection copies of that BBC behemoth I know is lurking out there in the subfuscous thickets of Taste and Culture. Here in my little glen of ignorance, I will approach the work as but a fawn new-begotten, the dew of parturition still damp upon my quavering legs, a momentary paragon of innocence, without preconception.
I can't believe you picked #2.
Granted, #4 would have been worse.
And as for those of you who chose #5 - which was many if not all of you - go fondle a badger.
A serial literary journal? I know that it was maybe a bit vague as descriptions go, but does that sound to you like the sort of thing that's going to be even remotely pleasant to read or write? Maybe if you're the kind of person who hammers tent spikes up his nose for fun and profit, or thinks pissing on the third rail sounds like a Sunday afternoon well spent. Not to imply that this will be thrilling or harrowing in any sense. Oh, no no no.
I suppose, in a cosmic sense, we've all gotten just what we deserve. Or, at least, we will once I start yammering incoherently about Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Yes, you read that right. I'm finally going to have to read Pride and Prejudice. Thanks so much. Assholes. As a reward for your kindness, I'm going to be blogging about it too. So tune in here each week to check on the progress of my brutish, flailing assault upon a Victorian literary masterpiece.
I'm going to try and approach this task with minimal (wait for it...) prejudice. My only point of contact with the work so far has been seeing the recent Keira Knightley vehicle, which I promptly expunged from my brain within five minutes of the credits rolling. So put away your pitchforks and your criterion-collection copies of that BBC behemoth I know is lurking out there in the subfuscous thickets of Taste and Culture. Here in my little glen of ignorance, I will approach the work as but a fawn new-begotten, the dew of parturition still damp upon my quavering legs, a momentary paragon of innocence, without preconception.
I can't believe you picked #2.
Granted, #4 would have been worse.
And as for those of you who chose #5 - which was many if not all of you - go fondle a badger.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Vote or die
I'm trying something experimental: blogging by democracy. You, fearless reader, get to have a hand in deciding what I'm going to write next. Just post a comment below with the number of your choice by Christmas Eve (December 24). I will tally the votes and then make a semi-arbitrary decision that may or may not correlate with your collective wishes. Think of me as the Electoral College.
Now, in keeping with the overarching character of this blog (i.e. the bland, lukewarm gruel of mediocrity), the candidates have been cast in particularly uninteresting terms. This is on purpose. Some of them may, in fact, turn out to be more savory than you imagine. Others may not. But just like electing officials based only on the strength in their hand-grip and their apparent ability to protect our realm from fen-stalking descendants of Cain (I can't possibly be the only one who does this, can I?), you may be surprised by the kind of politician they turn out to be.
Drum-roll, please:
This blog should next feature...
Nota bene: Anyone voting for Option #5 should be aware that this blog, unlike certain other democracies I could name, does not subscribe to such silly notions as habeas corpus. By voting, you hereby relinquish your right not to be tossed unceremoniously into the dank nethers of my island stronghold's deepest oubliette, where there are guaranteed to be no ancient, withered husks of men who know any forgotten secrets about any kind of fabulous treasure. There are spiders down there. Only spiders.
Now, in keeping with the overarching character of this blog (i.e. the bland, lukewarm gruel of mediocrity), the candidates have been cast in particularly uninteresting terms. This is on purpose. Some of them may, in fact, turn out to be more savory than you imagine. Others may not. But just like electing officials based only on the strength in their hand-grip and their apparent ability to protect our realm from fen-stalking descendants of Cain (I can't possibly be the only one who does this, can I?), you may be surprised by the kind of politician they turn out to be.
Drum-roll, please:
This blog should next feature...
- A political statement, full of quasi-ignorant bombast
- A serial journal of literary exploration
- A not-very-stunning confession regarding the arts
- A work of unpolished creative writing
- Nothing. Your shitty blog should die, and you with it.
Nota bene: Anyone voting for Option #5 should be aware that this blog, unlike certain other democracies I could name, does not subscribe to such silly notions as habeas corpus. By voting, you hereby relinquish your right not to be tossed unceremoniously into the dank nethers of my island stronghold's deepest oubliette, where there are guaranteed to be no ancient, withered husks of men who know any forgotten secrets about any kind of fabulous treasure. There are spiders down there. Only spiders.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Why Bother?
"After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn't it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked — as I am surprisingly often — why I bother to get up in the mornings."
— Richard Dawkins
— Richard Dawkins
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
The Big 150
So, today - November 24 - is the 150th anniversary of the publication of "On the Origin of Species."
I could rhapsodize about the awesomeness of Darwin's book, but instead I'll just point you here, to give you a little sense of how important Darwinism is to modern biology. Whatever the haters* tell you, Darwin's theories continue to provide the foundation for our understanding of life on Earth. So thanks, Mr. Darwin. We owe you one.
Oh, and while we're on the subject, here's your daily dose of irreverent (Darwinist) humor:
(H/T Sam)
*Oh, and as for the other kind of haters - not the Bible-beaters but the Alfred Russell Wallace Fan Club who insist that Darwin was a plagiarist - I say unto thee, "Pffffbbbbtt."
I could rhapsodize about the awesomeness of Darwin's book, but instead I'll just point you here, to give you a little sense of how important Darwinism is to modern biology. Whatever the haters* tell you, Darwin's theories continue to provide the foundation for our understanding of life on Earth. So thanks, Mr. Darwin. We owe you one.
Oh, and while we're on the subject, here's your daily dose of irreverent (Darwinist) humor:
(H/T Sam)
*Oh, and as for the other kind of haters - not the Bible-beaters but the Alfred Russell Wallace Fan Club who insist that Darwin was a plagiarist - I say unto thee, "Pffffbbbbtt."
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
It appears to be Mahoney Time
This going to be a "cool things I learned in science class" post. You have been forewarned.
This morning in biochemistry class, our professor gave us the Willy Wonka factory tour of an enzyme known as ATP synthase*, which I will now recap even more briefly for your reading pleaure. Trust me, it will be quick and painless, and it's worth following the sci-talk to get to the coolness.
ATP synthase has two components, F1 and Fo.** F1 is a ring of three α-β subunit pairs, and the action happens right in between the two members of each couple. And what action is it? The conversion of ADP and free phosphate to ATP!
(If that doesn't mean anything to you, just think of it as the creation of high-energy fuel for the cell. Good news.)
Anyway, each α-β pair has three configurations - or moods, if you will: liking ADP, liking ATP, and liking nothing at all. They change mood based on the orientation of the γ stick. Don't worry about how it works. The γ stick spins around, pointing to each pair in turn, causing them to like ADP, then ATP, then nothing. This catalyzes the process of turning ADP to ATP and then letting it go.
But, in a Thomist vein (Lewis Thomas, that is, not Aquinas), we have to ask "What makes the γ stick spin?"
Well, that's where the Fo unit comes in. The Fo is a cylinder made up of α-helices, and the γ stick from the F1 sticks down into it like an axle into a gear. The actual dynamics of what happens were beyond the scope of our lecture, but suffice to say that there is a proton pump that that uses the proton gradient across the mitochondrial membrane to make the Fo unit spin. Think of it like a water wheel: because of pumps elsewhere in the membrane, there are a lot of protons outside, so when the Fo's channel opens, they all happily flow in. The Fo uses this current to power its spinning. As the Fo spins, it takes F1's γ crankshaft along with it, clacking the other end across the catalytic α-β pairs and driving the synthesis of ATP.
[/science]
If you don't see why this is cool at this point, I'm afraid you may not even see the coolness after I enthuse about it, but here goes:
ATP SYNTHASE IS LIKE A TINY MACHINE INSIDE YOUR CELLS!
Yes, an actual machine. With moving parts. How unbelievably cool is that? I'll tell you: it's very unbelievably cool.
As Julien Offray de La Mettrie wrote in his 1748 L'homme Machine, "The human body is a machine which winds its own springs." Though he was largely concerned with locating the soul in a mechanistic body, I think he would have been ecstatic to know about ATP synthase. Granted we would have had a lot of biology and chemistry to cover before he could even understand what was going on ("OK, so... humours? Right out. Now let's talk about cells...), but this little protein complex really is the perfect example of how mechanical our bodies really are. And because this is a machine involved in creating usable energy for the functioning of the rest of the cell, it's also a fantastic example of the body winding its own springs.
OK, that's enough swooning over science for now. The title of this post, in case you are wondering, is in tribute to the late Professor Mahoney of Princeton's history of science faculty. The man's enthusiasm for machines - and the reading thereof - left a fairly indelible mark on the minds of his pupils, and loomed large over all our explorations into the history of science.
Notes:
*"This is the machine that extracts the juice of the snozberries, and it's connected to the tubes full of luminiferous aether, but it's really rather complicated so don't worry about exactly how it all works. Just trust me, it works."
**That's "F one" and "F oh," not "F zero." The o stands for oligomycin, an antibiotic that poisons the Fo unit.
This morning in biochemistry class, our professor gave us the Willy Wonka factory tour of an enzyme known as ATP synthase*, which I will now recap even more briefly for your reading pleaure. Trust me, it will be quick and painless, and it's worth following the sci-talk to get to the coolness.
ATP synthase has two components, F1 and Fo.** F1 is a ring of three α-β subunit pairs, and the action happens right in between the two members of each couple. And what action is it? The conversion of ADP and free phosphate to ATP!
(If that doesn't mean anything to you, just think of it as the creation of high-energy fuel for the cell. Good news.)
Anyway, each α-β pair has three configurations - or moods, if you will: liking ADP, liking ATP, and liking nothing at all. They change mood based on the orientation of the γ stick. Don't worry about how it works. The γ stick spins around, pointing to each pair in turn, causing them to like ADP, then ATP, then nothing. This catalyzes the process of turning ADP to ATP and then letting it go.
But, in a Thomist vein (Lewis Thomas, that is, not Aquinas), we have to ask "What makes the γ stick spin?"
Well, that's where the Fo unit comes in. The Fo is a cylinder made up of α-helices, and the γ stick from the F1 sticks down into it like an axle into a gear. The actual dynamics of what happens were beyond the scope of our lecture, but suffice to say that there is a proton pump that that uses the proton gradient across the mitochondrial membrane to make the Fo unit spin. Think of it like a water wheel: because of pumps elsewhere in the membrane, there are a lot of protons outside, so when the Fo's channel opens, they all happily flow in. The Fo uses this current to power its spinning. As the Fo spins, it takes F1's γ crankshaft along with it, clacking the other end across the catalytic α-β pairs and driving the synthesis of ATP.
[/science]
If you don't see why this is cool at this point, I'm afraid you may not even see the coolness after I enthuse about it, but here goes:
ATP SYNTHASE IS LIKE A TINY MACHINE INSIDE YOUR CELLS!
Yes, an actual machine. With moving parts. How unbelievably cool is that? I'll tell you: it's very unbelievably cool.
As Julien Offray de La Mettrie wrote in his 1748 L'homme Machine, "The human body is a machine which winds its own springs." Though he was largely concerned with locating the soul in a mechanistic body, I think he would have been ecstatic to know about ATP synthase. Granted we would have had a lot of biology and chemistry to cover before he could even understand what was going on ("OK, so... humours? Right out. Now let's talk about cells...), but this little protein complex really is the perfect example of how mechanical our bodies really are. And because this is a machine involved in creating usable energy for the functioning of the rest of the cell, it's also a fantastic example of the body winding its own springs.
OK, that's enough swooning over science for now. The title of this post, in case you are wondering, is in tribute to the late Professor Mahoney of Princeton's history of science faculty. The man's enthusiasm for machines - and the reading thereof - left a fairly indelible mark on the minds of his pupils, and loomed large over all our explorations into the history of science.
Notes:
*"This is the machine that extracts the juice of the snozberries, and it's connected to the tubes full of luminiferous aether, but it's really rather complicated so don't worry about exactly how it all works. Just trust me, it works."
**That's "F one" and "F oh," not "F zero." The o stands for oligomycin, an antibiotic that poisons the Fo unit.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
A still more glorious dawn awaits
The further beyond our senses we venture, the greater will be our incredulity. We cannot see the teeming cauldron of reactions boiling in each of our trillion cells, and we cannot resolve the titanic grandeur of the galaxies, full of stars. Not from where we stand. In the past, our human universe was limited by our complete inability to see beyond our own "macro" link in the Great Chain of Being, but men like Galileo and van Leeuwenhoek gave us mechanical appendages, allowing a select few initiates to peer beyond, into the micro and the mega.
But the large majority of people do not have access to such tools, and many who read Nature's parables do not know how to interpret them, for "...seeing they may see, and not perceive." We are not actors on the micro and mega stages in everyday life, and we cannot perceive them with our unaugmented senses, so our brains have not yet caught up with our science, and we have a hard time conceiving of both the vast and the infinitesimal.
Science asks us to contemplate the nearly infinite, and religion blinds the man who would look on the face of God. In religion's circumscribed crystalline sphere, we are held comfortable in amniotic embrace (this is my body...) and fed by umbilical vein (this is my blood...) - directly into the gut, bypassing the head entirely. We do not smell, do not taste, do not analyze spiritual nourishment, but imbibe it intravenously. Please don't chew on the body of Christ while He's transubstantiating.
Richard Dawkins' latest book, The Greatest Show on Earth, was written to make the case for evolution. Every previous book, he says, started from the presumption that evolution is fact; the latest, though, aims to present the evidence. I agree with this approach. I think the greatest buttress of prejudice is ignorance, and an anti-scientific viewpoint is rarely anything other than prejudgment.
Still, I don't know that a book will go far enough. I've bought into the scientific outlook to the greatest extent possible, and it is still incredibly difficult for me to wrap my head around things like the fact that the largest black holes in the galaxy could be the size of fifty billion suns. I don't even know how big a billion is, really, nor how big the sun is. How can I conceive of such a fact? I can't. This whole line of thought occurred to me in Biochemistry lecture because I made the mistake of thinking about how the glycolysis pathway we were studying is churning incessantly in my cells, and the minute concentrations of reactants and products and regulated by other pathways, and hormones, and gradients... and all in all, the whole system (which is, by definition, life itself) is far too complex to actually understand.
This is actually part of the reason I'm excited about augmented humanity, too. I think that if we can augment our senses, we'll be able to experience a larger slice of the universe's micro-macro-mega spectrum. With our everyday consciousness expanded, we'll be better equipped to confront a vast and complex reality that is daily growing in size and complexity. I guess I'm just saying that as we chew on tougher and more gristly questions, it wouldn't hurt to have sharper teeth and a detachable jaw.
Note: The post title is from that autotuned Carl Sagan music video I posted a little while ago. Really, do yourself a favor and check it out now if you didn't before. Or even if you did - it's worth a few viewings, at least.
But the large majority of people do not have access to such tools, and many who read Nature's parables do not know how to interpret them, for "...seeing they may see, and not perceive." We are not actors on the micro and mega stages in everyday life, and we cannot perceive them with our unaugmented senses, so our brains have not yet caught up with our science, and we have a hard time conceiving of both the vast and the infinitesimal.
Science asks us to contemplate the nearly infinite, and religion blinds the man who would look on the face of God. In religion's circumscribed crystalline sphere, we are held comfortable in amniotic embrace (this is my body...) and fed by umbilical vein (this is my blood...) - directly into the gut, bypassing the head entirely. We do not smell, do not taste, do not analyze spiritual nourishment, but imbibe it intravenously. Please don't chew on the body of Christ while He's transubstantiating.
Richard Dawkins' latest book, The Greatest Show on Earth, was written to make the case for evolution. Every previous book, he says, started from the presumption that evolution is fact; the latest, though, aims to present the evidence. I agree with this approach. I think the greatest buttress of prejudice is ignorance, and an anti-scientific viewpoint is rarely anything other than prejudgment.
Still, I don't know that a book will go far enough. I've bought into the scientific outlook to the greatest extent possible, and it is still incredibly difficult for me to wrap my head around things like the fact that the largest black holes in the galaxy could be the size of fifty billion suns. I don't even know how big a billion is, really, nor how big the sun is. How can I conceive of such a fact? I can't. This whole line of thought occurred to me in Biochemistry lecture because I made the mistake of thinking about how the glycolysis pathway we were studying is churning incessantly in my cells, and the minute concentrations of reactants and products and regulated by other pathways, and hormones, and gradients... and all in all, the whole system (which is, by definition, life itself) is far too complex to actually understand.
This is actually part of the reason I'm excited about augmented humanity, too. I think that if we can augment our senses, we'll be able to experience a larger slice of the universe's micro-macro-mega spectrum. With our everyday consciousness expanded, we'll be better equipped to confront a vast and complex reality that is daily growing in size and complexity. I guess I'm just saying that as we chew on tougher and more gristly questions, it wouldn't hurt to have sharper teeth and a detachable jaw.
Note: The post title is from that autotuned Carl Sagan music video I posted a little while ago. Really, do yourself a favor and check it out now if you didn't before. Or even if you did - it's worth a few viewings, at least.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Three-score and beyond
The postbaccalaureate students for whom I am the TA are currently working on a particularly grueling organic chemistry lab. The resolution of enantiomers lasts three long lab sessions and is fairly unforgiving in terms of technique. I see the hollowness in their weary eyes and remember what it was like, almost exactly one year ago, as I slogged through the same drudgery.
It was, in some ways, the last straw for my already tottering sanity - the Amadis de Gaul to my Alonso Quixano - and it drove me to the excesses with which you, my faithful readers, are perhaps already acquainted. Unlike a Lovecraftian unfortunate, my madness did not mark the end of the tale but its commencement, and it was this brain-sick humour that pervaded the remainder of my postbaccalaureate endeavors.
The first fruit of my strange affliction still savored of the soil from which the mad tree had sprung, and so was directly concerned with the resolution of enantiomers. It only loses luster the more I describe it, and with so little merit at the outset (Einhard, Einhard, Einhard...), it cannot afford much tarnish.
The following appeared in my laboratory notebook, under the heading "VII. Resolution," without explanation:
Ένάντιος means “opposite” in old Hellenic speech
So ’twixt two twinned enantiomers, they’re mirrored, each in each
But do not be so hasty as to hastily suppose
That these two twinned enantiomers you can superimpose
The truth is made quite tangible by basic polarimetry
Whereby the matched-up molecules reveal their true asymmetry
When two enantiomers are present in the same proportion
The light that’s been plane-polarized will suffer no distortion
But when the brew’s scalemic, and there’s excess of one strain,
The light that’s been plane-polarized is twisted ’twixt the twain
To disconnect the duo, purge from each its pal’s pollution,
The chymist breaks the brace and pares the pair by resolution.
It is a daunting prospect, this most subtle separation
The chymist must use all his cunning in the distillation
And ne’er be shy to use his whole experimental coterie:
Extraction, crystallizing, and evaporation rotary.
Into an Erlenmeyer weigh the acid of the Khan
(Six grams in honor of the Russian princes feasted on)
Then methanol is added, eighty cubic c’s complete,
And to dissolve the acid, we apply judicious heat
Five mils methylbenzylamine, but of the alpha kind,
Are added once the brew is hot, and swirling they’re combined.
A scattering of prism seeds are subsequently sown
Then for a week you’d better leave them bloody well alone
For in the flask the seeds will grow, and if you don’t harass it,
The dragon’s teeth will spawn a host with orthorhombic facets
Wait half a fortnight’s passing, and recommence no quicker,
But once a week’s gone by you may decant the mother liquor
The crystals are collected by a plain vacuum filtration,
Then dried and weighed and subject to percent-yield calculation
Take half the mother liquor and decant it, without spilling,
Into a rounded flask, and simply start simply distilling.
Once thirty milliliters have been carefully collected
Pour all the liquor left into the flask that you selected
Watch carefully the level of the distillate distilled
For once you’ve sixty mils, the quota has been quite fulfilled.
Distilling takes a while but stay busy while you’re waitin’
There still is much to do and idle hands are tools of Satan!
While distillate is dripping you’ll begin another task
Put all the crystals in a fifty milliliter flask
We add three-molar natrium hydroxide to the mix
To form an amine with C4H12N2O6
The free amine sits in a less-dense layer up above
And in a sep the aqueous may then be drained thereof
Anhydrous sulfate sodium add to the ether extract
For it will bind to any excess water it can contact
By now your distillation should be totally complete
But if the flask cools down the crystals may become discrete
So quickly pour the last remains of liquor most maternal
While yet the liquid temperature’s still gen’rally infernal
And when this Erlenmeyer becomes cool enough to hold
Immerse it in an icy bath and crystals will unfold!
These needles of ammonium tartarate (double plus)
Should form along the bottom of the flask without a fuss
But this takes time as well so while your crystals are complying
Go back and find that flask where your amine solution’s drying
Decant the ether off the salt where it was left to bask
Into a dry, weighed, fifty cubic c round-bottom flask
Then clip it to the Rotovap, release the vacuum vent,
And spin that little bugger until all the solvent’s spent
With all the liquid gone and only amine still remaining
The new weight of the flask is what you need to be obtaining
Now all that’s left is just to find the optical rotation
A measurement of passing light’s compuls’ry aberration
Inside the polarimeter, light waves are polarized
And when you see a dark spot your rotation’s realized
You’re not done yet, though sun may set, and certain it’s quite late
Go back to your old crystals of ammonium (plus, plus) tartarate
In your Buchner place the rocks and drain the methanol off
And store them in a place that’s dry so liquid levels fall off
One week to wait, but what’s another week? You’ve waited three
Then find their optical rotation, right down to a degree
And now you’re done, and you have seen events that were quite nice occur:
Successfully you’ve isolated isomer from isomer!
© D.S.E. 2008
It was, in some ways, the last straw for my already tottering sanity - the Amadis de Gaul to my Alonso Quixano - and it drove me to the excesses with which you, my faithful readers, are perhaps already acquainted. Unlike a Lovecraftian unfortunate, my madness did not mark the end of the tale but its commencement, and it was this brain-sick humour that pervaded the remainder of my postbaccalaureate endeavors.
The first fruit of my strange affliction still savored of the soil from which the mad tree had sprung, and so was directly concerned with the resolution of enantiomers. It only loses luster the more I describe it, and with so little merit at the outset (Einhard, Einhard, Einhard...), it cannot afford much tarnish.
The following appeared in my laboratory notebook, under the heading "VII. Resolution," without explanation:
Ένάντιος means “opposite” in old Hellenic speech
So ’twixt two twinned enantiomers, they’re mirrored, each in each
But do not be so hasty as to hastily suppose
That these two twinned enantiomers you can superimpose
The truth is made quite tangible by basic polarimetry
Whereby the matched-up molecules reveal their true asymmetry
When two enantiomers are present in the same proportion
The light that’s been plane-polarized will suffer no distortion
But when the brew’s scalemic, and there’s excess of one strain,
The light that’s been plane-polarized is twisted ’twixt the twain
To disconnect the duo, purge from each its pal’s pollution,
The chymist breaks the brace and pares the pair by resolution.
It is a daunting prospect, this most subtle separation
The chymist must use all his cunning in the distillation
And ne’er be shy to use his whole experimental coterie:
Extraction, crystallizing, and evaporation rotary.
Into an Erlenmeyer weigh the acid of the Khan
(Six grams in honor of the Russian princes feasted on)
Then methanol is added, eighty cubic c’s complete,
And to dissolve the acid, we apply judicious heat
Five mils methylbenzylamine, but of the alpha kind,
Are added once the brew is hot, and swirling they’re combined.
A scattering of prism seeds are subsequently sown
Then for a week you’d better leave them bloody well alone
For in the flask the seeds will grow, and if you don’t harass it,
The dragon’s teeth will spawn a host with orthorhombic facets
Wait half a fortnight’s passing, and recommence no quicker,
But once a week’s gone by you may decant the mother liquor
The crystals are collected by a plain vacuum filtration,
Then dried and weighed and subject to percent-yield calculation
Take half the mother liquor and decant it, without spilling,
Into a rounded flask, and simply start simply distilling.
Once thirty milliliters have been carefully collected
Pour all the liquor left into the flask that you selected
Watch carefully the level of the distillate distilled
For once you’ve sixty mils, the quota has been quite fulfilled.
Distilling takes a while but stay busy while you’re waitin’
There still is much to do and idle hands are tools of Satan!
While distillate is dripping you’ll begin another task
Put all the crystals in a fifty milliliter flask
We add three-molar natrium hydroxide to the mix
To form an amine with C4H12N2O6
The free amine sits in a less-dense layer up above
And in a sep the aqueous may then be drained thereof
Anhydrous sulfate sodium add to the ether extract
For it will bind to any excess water it can contact
By now your distillation should be totally complete
But if the flask cools down the crystals may become discrete
So quickly pour the last remains of liquor most maternal
While yet the liquid temperature’s still gen’rally infernal
And when this Erlenmeyer becomes cool enough to hold
Immerse it in an icy bath and crystals will unfold!
These needles of ammonium tartarate (double plus)
Should form along the bottom of the flask without a fuss
But this takes time as well so while your crystals are complying
Go back and find that flask where your amine solution’s drying
Decant the ether off the salt where it was left to bask
Into a dry, weighed, fifty cubic c round-bottom flask
Then clip it to the Rotovap, release the vacuum vent,
And spin that little bugger until all the solvent’s spent
With all the liquid gone and only amine still remaining
The new weight of the flask is what you need to be obtaining
Now all that’s left is just to find the optical rotation
A measurement of passing light’s compuls’ry aberration
Inside the polarimeter, light waves are polarized
And when you see a dark spot your rotation’s realized
You’re not done yet, though sun may set, and certain it’s quite late
Go back to your old crystals of ammonium (plus, plus) tartarate
In your Buchner place the rocks and drain the methanol off
And store them in a place that’s dry so liquid levels fall off
One week to wait, but what’s another week? You’ve waited three
Then find their optical rotation, right down to a degree
And now you’re done, and you have seen events that were quite nice occur:
Successfully you’ve isolated isomer from isomer!
© D.S.E. 2008
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
And there is much to be learned
This is the kind of thing that makes me very happy, so I have to share:
[From The Symphony of Science, via Gizmodo]
A modern popularizers of science music video! This is sort of the equivalent of Gilbert and Sullivan writing an educational musical about Pepper's Ghost*, in that it entails the use of a popular medium to propagate the ideas of popularizers to a wider audience. It is not, of course, any kind of substitute for their actual work - nor does it pretend to be - but it reminds us of something that science often forgets. Namely, that one of the discipline's most powerful tools in securing its own future is the inspiration of wonder and enthusiasm among the public. Sometimes, setting a spark to the tinder means using somewhat silly autotuned jams, or grand pageants of ghostly visitors, but what may be lost of the content is made up for in fascination.
There is also, I think , no concern that such offerings dim the public esteem of science, and that is for two reasons. Firstly, and primarily in this instance, the silliness is being propagated by an outsider, and not by Sagan & Co. themselves. But secondly, and more importantly, I think even if the esteemed scientists themselves had been responsible for the video, it would only have served to show that they have a sense of humor and creativity. Science does not anyone's help in being perceived as an ivory-tower enterprise. A little humanization can go a long way.
And, come on, don't those videos just make you smile?
*Note: This is the article that launched a thousand ships, so to speak, by introducing me to John Henry Pepper and his marvelous, patented ghost-machine. One thesis later, I shake my fist at J.A. Secord as I continue to be consumed by popularizers of science and Victorian magic. So enjoy it, but beware.
[From The Symphony of Science, via Gizmodo]
A modern popularizers of science music video! This is sort of the equivalent of Gilbert and Sullivan writing an educational musical about Pepper's Ghost*, in that it entails the use of a popular medium to propagate the ideas of popularizers to a wider audience. It is not, of course, any kind of substitute for their actual work - nor does it pretend to be - but it reminds us of something that science often forgets. Namely, that one of the discipline's most powerful tools in securing its own future is the inspiration of wonder and enthusiasm among the public. Sometimes, setting a spark to the tinder means using somewhat silly autotuned jams, or grand pageants of ghostly visitors, but what may be lost of the content is made up for in fascination.
There is also, I think , no concern that such offerings dim the public esteem of science, and that is for two reasons. Firstly, and primarily in this instance, the silliness is being propagated by an outsider, and not by Sagan & Co. themselves. But secondly, and more importantly, I think even if the esteemed scientists themselves had been responsible for the video, it would only have served to show that they have a sense of humor and creativity. Science does not anyone's help in being perceived as an ivory-tower enterprise. A little humanization can go a long way.
And, come on, don't those videos just make you smile?
*Note: This is the article that launched a thousand ships, so to speak, by introducing me to John Henry Pepper and his marvelous, patented ghost-machine. One thesis later, I shake my fist at J.A. Secord as I continue to be consumed by popularizers of science and Victorian magic. So enjoy it, but beware.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
"And ðærof gehergode eal þæt hē wolde."
As something of a follow-up to Sunday's blasphemies, I thought I'd throw a bone to any pious types who may be reading this blog. Yes, I know you're out there, and I know it's been rough. My writings are a spiritual minefield, rife with all manner of execration and godlessness, but just... so... tempting...
Well, I applaud your perseverance in this self-administered test of faith. I'm honored to be the wilderness to your Christ, the Bathsheba to your David, the absolute-shitstorm-of-disasters to your Lot, and the desire-to-avoid-filleting-your-firstborn to your Abraham. Your faith will be rewarded: not in the next life, but in this very post. As a kind of thank-you for wading through all the worldly muck, here's a more celestial post, for people like you, about people like you.
For though you may sometimes feel like a long-lost wayfarer in the firmament, drifting alone from star to cold star, suffocated in the spiritual vacuum but for the life-support system of Christ's love (this bread is my CO2 scrubber, this wine the urine recycled through the catheter of your exposure suit's integrated bioproducts/waste-reclamation system), know that you are not alone. The light of the Lord has penetrated even to the furthest reaches of galaxy! Set phasors to "save" and shout hallelujah, for the Klingons have found Jesus!
That's not just the unreasonable extension of my dumb astronaut metaphor - it's actually true [via TR].
Yes, I kid you not, Klingons for Christ Jesus is not the chromosomally-deficient brainchild of my gravid yet cyclophosphamide-swilling brain. These guys are for real. Well, OK, maybe "for real" is not the best way to put it, but they certainly exist and they seem to take themselves seriously.
Most of their creed seems to involve selectively reading the Bible with an eye toward the more bellicose verses (but hey, that's nothing new: Glenn Beck thinks that beating swords into plowshares is commie propaganda, and the geniuses at Conservapedia are basically doing the same thing, except in a much scarier way). You know, "Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight..." (Psalm 144) - that sort of thing.
But what I find really fascinating, actually, is their take on Jesus. Around the turn of the last millennium, Jesus was basically that hippie Reconstructionist rabbi who's always going on about finding God in the family love of appreciating the warmth of a spring day when life is renewed through the green fuses of the flowers that shine with the divine spark of love like a baby's eyes looking at its mother. OK, Klingons, deal with that.
And they do. I quote, altering neither the color of the text nor the abundance of punctuation marks:
Anyway, what I'm really getting at here is (surprise, surprise) something medieval. While we tend not to mention wrinkly-headed aliens in the same breath as William the Conqueror (Despite the physical resemblance. Oh snap! Alfred's thegns represent!), there are some striking parallels between the Savior of the Klingons and that of the Anglo-Saxons, at least as represented in Wulfstan's eleventh-century "Apostles' Creed."
The Creed was read as part of a short sermon entitled To Eallum Folke given by Wulfstan (bishop of Worcester, archbishop of York). Perhaps it's just my amateurish tendencies, but to me, the text reads quite a bit more rugged and manly than most Christian liturgy. Take a gander:
Yeah, that's right: this is not your Lamb of God. This Jesus is here to kick ass and heal lepers, and it looks like he's all out of lepers. Seriously, I'm not taking all that much poetic license with the language, either: "Hē to helle fērde and ðærof gehergode eal þæt hē wolde." According to Bosworth, "gehergode" means "to harry or ravage," or "to make predatory attacks upon." This is, in two words, Viking Jesus.
The awesomeness of Viking Jesus is apparent, and my guess is that the language used here is intentionally geared toward the warrior culture of the Anglo-Saxons to whom it was being preached. Like a teen pastor who uses Christian rock for his youth ministry, Wulfstan knew his audience and knew what they wanted. The pagan gods were paragons of strength and cunning, warrior gods who ate frost giants for breakfast. Why believe in some Mediterranean pansy who turned the other cheek instead of swinging a battle axe?
The answer is the same for both the grim men of yore and the pimply fanboys of today: in the right light, Jesus was a badass.
As a side note, this interpretation kind of explains Mark 16:8. It's different than the version of the story told in the other gospels, and it's given people some interpretive trouble. Some women come upon the newly-arisen Christ, "And they went out quickly, and fled from the sepulchre; for they trembled and were amazed: neither said they any thing to any man; for they were afraid" (KJV). Well, no kidding. Ever seen Serenity? You know the part where the blast doors open to reveal River standing on a pile of massacred Reavers? [1. Spoiler alert! 2. I can't find a version with the original soundtrack, so... buy the DVD]. Now imagine that she's a dude in a tunic who got crucified a couple days before. I know I'd run.
Now, here we could discuss the ways in which religion is multivalent, and its amorphous nature enables it to offer something to all who seek its wisdom. Just as Jesus plundered Hell and took thereof all that he would, so too can anyone plunder the Bible and take from it exactly what he wants. But instead of expostulating any more, I'm just going to revel some more in the idea of Jesus clawing his way out of Hell, punching through the boulder at the cave mouth, and climbing - climbing! - up to Heaven. Ka Plah, indeed, my friends. Ka Plah.
Well, I applaud your perseverance in this self-administered test of faith. I'm honored to be the wilderness to your Christ, the Bathsheba to your David, the absolute-shitstorm-of-disasters to your Lot, and the desire-to-avoid-filleting-your-firstborn to your Abraham. Your faith will be rewarded: not in the next life, but in this very post. As a kind of thank-you for wading through all the worldly muck, here's a more celestial post, for people like you, about people like you.
For though you may sometimes feel like a long-lost wayfarer in the firmament, drifting alone from star to cold star, suffocated in the spiritual vacuum but for the life-support system of Christ's love (this bread is my CO2 scrubber, this wine the urine recycled through the catheter of your exposure suit's integrated bioproducts/waste-reclamation system), know that you are not alone. The light of the Lord has penetrated even to the furthest reaches of galaxy! Set phasors to "save" and shout hallelujah, for the Klingons have found Jesus!
That's not just the unreasonable extension of my dumb astronaut metaphor - it's actually true [via TR].
Most of their creed seems to involve selectively reading the Bible with an eye toward the more bellicose verses (but hey, that's nothing new: Glenn Beck thinks that beating swords into plowshares is commie propaganda, and the geniuses at Conservapedia are basically doing the same thing, except in a much scarier way). You know, "Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight..." (Psalm 144) - that sort of thing.
But what I find really fascinating, actually, is their take on Jesus. Around the turn of the last millennium, Jesus was basically that hippie Reconstructionist rabbi who's always going on about finding God in the family love of appreciating the warmth of a spring day when life is renewed through the green fuses of the flowers that shine with the divine spark of love like a baby's eyes looking at its mother. OK, Klingons, deal with that.
And they do. I quote, altering neither the color of the text nor the abundance of punctuation marks:
"Indeed, Klingons accept the teachings of Christ as part of a warrior tradition. Christ brings not peace, but a sword. And this batlh'etlh is a sword of honor indeed!Well, I've been told. They also discuss his sufferings on the cross, comparing the unpleasant proceedings to something called the Klingon Rite of Ascension. Something tells me these guys really enjoyed The Passion of the Christ, but not for the reasons Mel Gibson was hoping.
Ka Plah!!!"
Anyway, what I'm really getting at here is (surprise, surprise) something medieval. While we tend not to mention wrinkly-headed aliens in the same breath as William the Conqueror (Despite the physical resemblance. Oh snap! Alfred's thegns represent!), there are some striking parallels between the Savior of the Klingons and that of the Anglo-Saxons, at least as represented in Wulfstan's eleventh-century "Apostles' Creed."
The Creed was read as part of a short sermon entitled To Eallum Folke given by Wulfstan (bishop of Worcester, archbishop of York). Perhaps it's just my amateurish tendencies, but to me, the text reads quite a bit more rugged and manly than most Christian liturgy. Take a gander:
We believe in one mighty God who shaped and worked all things.
And we believe, and earnestly know, that Christ Godson came to mankind in our need.
And we believe that he was born to a clean maiden, Holy Mary, who never had intercourse with men.
And we believe that he endured much, and fiercely suffered for our every need.
And we believe that man hung him from the cross, and forced him unto death, and he afterwards was buried in the earth.
And we believe that he journeyed to Hell and thereof plundered all that he would.
And we believe that afterwards he rose up from death.
And we believe that afterwards he climbed up to Heaven.
And we believe, and earnestly know, that he on Doom's Day to the great doom cometh.
And we believe that all the dead must then rise up from death and seek their great doom.
And we believe that the sinful must then immediately go to Hell, and there with devils dwell in burning fire and eternal ruin—no end will ever come, not for all time.
And we believe that good, full-Christians, who here in the world well-pleased God, must then immediately go into Heaven, and there afterwards have a dwelling with God Himself, and with his angels, always in eternity. Amen.
(Translation mine)
(Emphasis on the sweet parts also mine)
(Emphasis on the sweet parts also mine)
Yeah, that's right: this is not your Lamb of God. This Jesus is here to kick ass and heal lepers, and it looks like he's all out of lepers. Seriously, I'm not taking all that much poetic license with the language, either: "Hē to helle fērde and ðærof gehergode eal þæt hē wolde." According to Bosworth, "gehergode" means "to harry or ravage," or "to make predatory attacks upon." This is, in two words, Viking Jesus.
The awesomeness of Viking Jesus is apparent, and my guess is that the language used here is intentionally geared toward the warrior culture of the Anglo-Saxons to whom it was being preached. Like a teen pastor who uses Christian rock for his youth ministry, Wulfstan knew his audience and knew what they wanted. The pagan gods were paragons of strength and cunning, warrior gods who ate frost giants for breakfast. Why believe in some Mediterranean pansy who turned the other cheek instead of swinging a battle axe?
The answer is the same for both the grim men of yore and the pimply fanboys of today: in the right light, Jesus was a badass.
As a side note, this interpretation kind of explains Mark 16:8. It's different than the version of the story told in the other gospels, and it's given people some interpretive trouble. Some women come upon the newly-arisen Christ, "And they went out quickly, and fled from the sepulchre; for they trembled and were amazed: neither said they any thing to any man; for they were afraid" (KJV). Well, no kidding. Ever seen Serenity? You know the part where the blast doors open to reveal River standing on a pile of massacred Reavers? [1. Spoiler alert! 2. I can't find a version with the original soundtrack, so... buy the DVD]. Now imagine that she's a dude in a tunic who got crucified a couple days before. I know I'd run.
Now, here we could discuss the ways in which religion is multivalent, and its amorphous nature enables it to offer something to all who seek its wisdom. Just as Jesus plundered Hell and took thereof all that he would, so too can anyone plunder the Bible and take from it exactly what he wants. But instead of expostulating any more, I'm just going to revel some more in the idea of Jesus clawing his way out of Hell, punching through the boulder at the cave mouth, and climbing - climbing! - up to Heaven. Ka Plah, indeed, my friends. Ka Plah.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Aye, Laddie
I know the big news of the day is the Nobel Peace Prize, followed by NASA's totally-completely-awesome LCROSS Moon Bomb (Awesome because, while blowing up other parts of the solar system is pretty much the opposite of a Nobel Peace Prize, it's hard to argue with the fact that it was a moon bomb. Moon. Bomb. Just let that roll around for a second, then say it out loud to yourself. Moon Bomb. Now, tell me it's not awesome. Can't do it, can you?).
But, thirdmost in today's newsroll, sneaking in there while nobody was looking, the IOC also decided to include rugby and golf in the Olympics.
From the BBC article: "IOC president Jacques Rogge told delegates: 'Time will show your decision was very wise.'" Rogge was reported to have then passed a pink post-it to the Scottish delegate which read "Do U like Me? Check one: Yes / No."
Honestly, I'm all for rugby and ambivalent about golf, so this is not at all a bad thing. It just means that NBC is going to have to push hammer throw out of the 2:30am slot so it can fit in more sports no one's going to care about. I hope it's golf that gets this treatment, as I'd much rather watch fourteen ravening madmen absolutely wreck each other than one staid gentleman take a leisurely walk in the park, but I don't have high hopes.
But, thirdmost in today's newsroll, sneaking in there while nobody was looking, the IOC also decided to include rugby and golf in the Olympics.
From the BBC article: "IOC president Jacques Rogge told delegates: 'Time will show your decision was very wise.'" Rogge was reported to have then passed a pink post-it to the Scottish delegate which read "Do U like Me? Check one: Yes / No."
Honestly, I'm all for rugby and ambivalent about golf, so this is not at all a bad thing. It just means that NBC is going to have to push hammer throw out of the 2:30am slot so it can fit in more sports no one's going to care about. I hope it's golf that gets this treatment, as I'd much rather watch fourteen ravening madmen absolutely wreck each other than one staid gentleman take a leisurely walk in the park, but I don't have high hopes.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
"There's a life about to start when tomorrow comes..."
This item [via The Daily Galaxy] makes my heart pound with excitement, because, in the future, that very phrase may become outmoded. That's right, if you've ever cried out in fear and alarm that science is intent on forging a race of heartless cyborgs... well, you're almost right. Meet Madam Salina Mohamed So'ot, the woman without a heartbeat. This 30-year-old administrative assistant (from Singapore, apparently) has a late-model artificial heart that pumps blood at one continuous flow rate and does not beat. Ergo, she has no pulse.
Now, it's not so much the notion of everyday flat-lining that sets my heart a flutter (but oh, dear lord, are we going to have to change our idioms if this becomes prevalent!), it's the notion that this heart is actually more efficient than the meatbag ticker we've evolved with. I'll grant you, the whole four-chamber, dual-circulation adaptation (pictured below)
was a pretty awesome improvement over the old brackish amphibian salad spinner that was popular for a while, but we can do it better now! Technology 1, Invisible Sky-Beard 0! Wait, what's that you say? How can we be more intelligent designers than the Intelligent Designer? I'm sorry, I just couldn't hear you over the sound of your worldview imploding (metaphorically pictured below).
The exciting possibilities for human-driven human augmentation are starting to be realized now, and I have renewed hope that cyborg technology will really take off within my lifetime (and how cool is it to be able to say that with a straight face?). Perhaps I'm alone in not feeling an undue attachment to the clay from which I was sculpted. The human body is a low-efficiency, poorly-(un)designed machine, perpetually degrading toward decrepitude and demise. Once we can cost-effectively replace parts as they fail, or, better, upgrade them to more durable models, we can transcend our fleshy prisons in a way that would make a Cathar swoon. (Note to self: Second Albigensian Crusade against a sect of Cathar Cyborgs in the cyberpunk future - Montsegur 2144, if you will - is fertile ground for... something.) Of course, we are still light-years away from affordable cybernetics, but the pace of medical technological innovation is quick and, it seems, accelerating - so tolerate my sanguine outlook (pun intended) if you must, and join in if it humours you (two for two!).
That said, I think it would take a long time to get used to not having a heartbeat. And it would be creepy as hell for almost all of that time. But I think knowing that I was one step closer to being an optimized, streamlined Man Of Tomorrow (tm) would go a long way toward easing those reservations.
was a pretty awesome improvement over the old brackish amphibian salad spinner that was popular for a while, but we can do it better now! Technology 1, Invisible Sky-Beard 0! Wait, what's that you say? How can we be more intelligent designers than the Intelligent Designer? I'm sorry, I just couldn't hear you over the sound of your worldview imploding (metaphorically pictured below).The exciting possibilities for human-driven human augmentation are starting to be realized now, and I have renewed hope that cyborg technology will really take off within my lifetime (and how cool is it to be able to say that with a straight face?). Perhaps I'm alone in not feeling an undue attachment to the clay from which I was sculpted. The human body is a low-efficiency, poorly-(un)designed machine, perpetually degrading toward decrepitude and demise. Once we can cost-effectively replace parts as they fail, or, better, upgrade them to more durable models, we can transcend our fleshy prisons in a way that would make a Cathar swoon. (Note to self: Second Albigensian Crusade against a sect of Cathar Cyborgs in the cyberpunk future - Montsegur 2144, if you will - is fertile ground for... something.) Of course, we are still light-years away from affordable cybernetics, but the pace of medical technological innovation is quick and, it seems, accelerating - so tolerate my sanguine outlook (pun intended) if you must, and join in if it humours you (two for two!).
That said, I think it would take a long time to get used to not having a heartbeat. And it would be creepy as hell for almost all of that time. But I think knowing that I was one step closer to being an optimized, streamlined Man Of Tomorrow (tm) would go a long way toward easing those reservations.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Present Engagements
1. I'm building a ballista on a $10 budget.
Our physics department is hosting a Punkin' Chunkin' competition, which is both a concept and a phrase that fills my heart with joy. The idea is to see who can attain the greatest range with a homemade, jury-rigged gourd-flinger. Naturally, I couldn't pass up this opportunity to combine my love of ancient technology with the destruction of produce (cf. Halloween 2009, "De Motu Citrus Nitrensis"). As such, I've spent a number of hours rummaging through local dumpsters and junk piles for building materials. The ten dollars went towards a coil of rope, but if I can find any for free I'll use it instead. I'd share my design plan here, but I'm keeping it secret lest any rivals stumble across this blog. If everything works out, I'll try to post pictures or videos.
2. I'm interviewing for medical school.
Tomorrow. It's my first one. Still haven't really processed it. I mean, what? Me? Interviewing for med school? How did that happen? I'm just a humble punkin' chunker from a punkin' chunkin' clan - not doctor material. Don't be silly. (Can you tell I'm a little nervous?)
Granted, part of me is sure I'm going to blow the roof off this thing like a tornado in a trailer park, but that's the same part of me that also says things like "If this medicine thing doesn't work out, you could always be Supreme God-Emperor of the Galaxy," so I'm taking its advice with a grain of salt.
If this last bit seems especially prideful to you, you're right. It's part of my campaign to hit all seven deadlies in one day, because today is 3. International Blasphemy Day. So crowning myself king of the cosmos seems like a decent way to get in pride and offend the Invisible Sky-Beard all at once. Now, I'm off to find a lingerie-clad model baking a chocolate cake she won't let me have, and that should cover another 3 or 4 no problem.
Our physics department is hosting a Punkin' Chunkin' competition, which is both a concept and a phrase that fills my heart with joy. The idea is to see who can attain the greatest range with a homemade, jury-rigged gourd-flinger. Naturally, I couldn't pass up this opportunity to combine my love of ancient technology with the destruction of produce (cf. Halloween 2009, "De Motu Citrus Nitrensis"). As such, I've spent a number of hours rummaging through local dumpsters and junk piles for building materials. The ten dollars went towards a coil of rope, but if I can find any for free I'll use it instead. I'd share my design plan here, but I'm keeping it secret lest any rivals stumble across this blog. If everything works out, I'll try to post pictures or videos.
2. I'm interviewing for medical school.
Tomorrow. It's my first one. Still haven't really processed it. I mean, what? Me? Interviewing for med school? How did that happen? I'm just a humble punkin' chunker from a punkin' chunkin' clan - not doctor material. Don't be silly. (Can you tell I'm a little nervous?)
Granted, part of me is sure I'm going to blow the roof off this thing like a tornado in a trailer park, but that's the same part of me that also says things like "If this medicine thing doesn't work out, you could always be Supreme God-Emperor of the Galaxy," so I'm taking its advice with a grain of salt.
If this last bit seems especially prideful to you, you're right. It's part of my campaign to hit all seven deadlies in one day, because today is 3. International Blasphemy Day. So crowning myself king of the cosmos seems like a decent way to get in pride and offend the Invisible Sky-Beard all at once. Now, I'm off to find a lingerie-clad model baking a chocolate cake she won't let me have, and that should cover another 3 or 4 no problem.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Incendiary
I just saw Buckethead at the Recher in Towson. His opening act was a mohawk-sporting hulk named Wolff (of Drums and Tuba) who, living up to his absent band's moniker, spent the better part of an hour doing unwholesome things with, and to, a tuba. We then stood for another interminable hour with an ever-more-restless crowd, waiting for the virtuoso to appear. Just as we began to ask ourselves "How long would you wait for Buckethead?" he descended upon us. The rest of the evening is a haze of shrill and blinding shredding, the music that Disney plays in its animatronic attractions, Buckethead dispensing gifts from a giant blue sack, an excellent John Williams interlude, and some genuinely solid and meaty metal riffs. The man, it must be said, is a prodigy. At times it was entirely unclear if he was playing the guitar or giving it multiple orgasms. My ears still feel cotton-plugged and my legs ache from standing, but the 90-minute set flew by. Not all of Buckethead's music is gentle on the ears, nor even entirely pleasant, but it is powerful if for nothing other than the immense skill it evinces. And his more melodic tracks can be perfectly sublime.
Did I mention that he wears a KFC bucket over his featureless white mask and does not speak during shows? Well, he's earned the right to be as strange as he wants. When you're that good with a guitar, no one cares what you're wearing on your head.
Did I mention that he wears a KFC bucket over his featureless white mask and does not speak during shows? Well, he's earned the right to be as strange as he wants. When you're that good with a guitar, no one cares what you're wearing on your head.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Thank you for contacting Dr. Daria H.H. Greg & Co.
Dear Sir or Madam,
We thank you graciously for contacting the offices of Dr. Daria H.H. Greg & Co., where your fortune is our business. Please be assured that we will attend to your correspondence with the utmost diligence and alacrity.
At this time, we regret to inform you that Mr. Verulam is presently abroad for the indefinite future. If the matter is both delicate and urgent, and requires his immediate attention and unique expertise, he may best be reached by contacting Eric "Badger" Rushgour, our agent abroad in Kampala. Simply give Mr. Rushgour your personal client identification number and the details of your situation, and he will ensure that Mr. Verulam receives intelligence of your proposed venture as soon as is humanly possible.
If your circumstances are rather more perilous than you should deem comfortable, or communication abroad is impossible, you may find our district offices in Regent Street no. 12, Westminster. To gain admittance, simply knock thrice and ask for Tamerlan N. Aquilar.
As always, we appreciate your business, and hope to remain your first choice in overseas expeditionary ventures and acquisition of rare commodities.
Your servant ever,
Dr. Daria H.H. Greg, M.D., D.Ph., D. Litt.
We thank you graciously for contacting the offices of Dr. Daria H.H. Greg & Co., where your fortune is our business. Please be assured that we will attend to your correspondence with the utmost diligence and alacrity.
At this time, we regret to inform you that Mr. Verulam is presently abroad for the indefinite future. If the matter is both delicate and urgent, and requires his immediate attention and unique expertise, he may best be reached by contacting Eric "Badger" Rushgour, our agent abroad in Kampala. Simply give Mr. Rushgour your personal client identification number and the details of your situation, and he will ensure that Mr. Verulam receives intelligence of your proposed venture as soon as is humanly possible.
If your circumstances are rather more perilous than you should deem comfortable, or communication abroad is impossible, you may find our district offices in Regent Street no. 12, Westminster. To gain admittance, simply knock thrice and ask for Tamerlan N. Aquilar.
As always, we appreciate your business, and hope to remain your first choice in overseas expeditionary ventures and acquisition of rare commodities.
Your servant ever,
Dr. Daria H.H. Greg, M.D., D.Ph., D. Litt.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
"Who's the more foolish: The fool, or the fool who follows him?"
I am sure I'm not alone in being sick of Sarah Palin. I was sick of Palin when she was running for national office, and I really wish she would just go away. I imagined that quitting her day job, she would spend all her time hunting and fishing and patrolling the Russian border, and the thought made me happy. I now realize, on the other side of a media circus, that she may strike herself down, but it will only make her more powerful than you can possibly imagine.*
This Reuters article only made me more frustrated, and I have developed a proposal for your consideration, Nation.** Let's say I want to make a comment about someone's policy; maybe I want to "slam Obama's energy and environment plans." OK, what are my options? Well, I can write a blog post about it, I can bitterly whine about it to my friends, I can make a card-stock sign and parade around Capitol Hill, or I can dump a bunch of Tetley in the trash. Among the things I cannot do are call a press conference or schedule a TV interview. Why not? Because I'm just a regular citizen, and nobody cares what I think. And you know what? That's fine. It's better than fine: it's right and just and fair.
Now, granted, Mrs. Palin is still a state governor, so I suppose she does get to have her turn at the podium. For now. But once she steps down, can we please start ignoring her? A concerted effort would be nice. If she willingly gives up her public office, she doesn't merit regard in the public forum anymore. I know it's a fool's hope, because, if nothing else, Fox News will never stop smearing her pablum around the airwaves, but I really think we should have a Palin moratorium. No more caring what she saysor thinks, no more caring about her abstinence-only soap operas. I don't want to hear a peep about Palin again.
The consequence of giving up responsibility is giving up privilege. Public regard should be earned by public service or on the merit of erudition in public matters. Now that Palin has given up on service, she is bereft of all qualifications for regard, and she should be paid no more heed than any other bloviating celebrity with ill-informed views.
*It pains me to compare her to Obi-Wan. It pains me even more that, upon googling the quote to make certain I had it right the first goddamn result is some right-wing blogger mourning Palin's resignation! Gah! Leave my Star Wars bloody well alone! This makes me feel better, though.
**The rest of it doesn't rhyme. Also, can I address the Nation, or is only Stephen Colbert allowed to do that?
This Reuters article only made me more frustrated, and I have developed a proposal for your consideration, Nation.** Let's say I want to make a comment about someone's policy; maybe I want to "slam Obama's energy and environment plans." OK, what are my options? Well, I can write a blog post about it, I can bitterly whine about it to my friends, I can make a card-stock sign and parade around Capitol Hill, or I can dump a bunch of Tetley in the trash. Among the things I cannot do are call a press conference or schedule a TV interview. Why not? Because I'm just a regular citizen, and nobody cares what I think. And you know what? That's fine. It's better than fine: it's right and just and fair.
Now, granted, Mrs. Palin is still a state governor, so I suppose she does get to have her turn at the podium. For now. But once she steps down, can we please start ignoring her? A concerted effort would be nice. If she willingly gives up her public office, she doesn't merit regard in the public forum anymore. I know it's a fool's hope, because, if nothing else, Fox News will never stop smearing her pablum around the airwaves, but I really think we should have a Palin moratorium. No more caring what she says
The consequence of giving up responsibility is giving up privilege. Public regard should be earned by public service or on the merit of erudition in public matters. Now that Palin has given up on service, she is bereft of all qualifications for regard, and she should be paid no more heed than any other bloviating celebrity with ill-informed views.
*It pains me to compare her to Obi-Wan. It pains me even more that, upon googling the quote to make certain I had it right the first goddamn result is some right-wing blogger mourning Palin's resignation! Gah! Leave my Star Wars bloody well alone! This makes me feel better, though.
**The rest of it doesn't rhyme. Also, can I address the Nation, or is only Stephen Colbert allowed to do that?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Making duchesses of draggle-tailed guttersnipes
A scientific wager to be adjudicated by the Royal Society? Oh, smashing good fun, chaps!
In short, "Prof Wolpert bets that the following will happen. Dr Sheldrake bets it will not: By May 1, 2029, given the genome of a fertilized egg of an animal or plant, we will be able to predict in at least one case all the details of the organism that develops from it, including any abnormalities." [Boing Boing, via Detritus].
I'm afraid the good Dr. Wolpert is doomed to lose. The whole scenario reminds me of an essay titled "An Earnest Proposal" by Lewis Thomas (in his collection Lives of a Cell), in which he proposes that, tied to the big red buttons of the world's thermonuclear arsenal, we have program that prevents their launch until we've entered every single detail of the structure of a single microorganism: Mixotricha paradoxa, an intestinal bacterium living inside the guts of Australian termites. This at first seems like a ludicrously minimal safeguard against nuclear holocaust, but the essay goes on to explain that M. paradoxa is really rather more complicated than one might expect. Its flagella are fully-formed spirochetes themselves, its cytoplasmic organelles are bacteria with enzymes that break down cellulose, and its centrioles are yet a third kind of unique creatures. Thomas imagines that, at the end of a decade of superpowers racing to collect the required information and, presumably, angrily growling at each other all the while, some hapless government scientist will finally input everything they've learned, only to receive the message: "Request more data. How are spirochetes attached? Do not fire!"
It's a charming essay, featuring Thomas' typically brilliant prose, but why do I bring it up here? Only to say that life is infinitely more complex than we tend to realize. I imagine that when 2029 rolls around, and the fine port is aged to delicious perfection, Dr. Wolpert will triumphantly present his genomic databanks and his predictive algorithms based on amino acid sequences, and Dr. Sheldrake will only need to find a single aspect left unexplained to win the case of Quinto.
Now, I happen to agree with Sheldrake on principle, too. I think that an organism's genes are the central determinant of the majority of its features, but that there are too many environmental factors involved in growth and development to comfortably state that nucleic acids are the be all and the end all in determination. Granted, a simple enough organism bred under strict laboratory controls may fit Wolpert's criteria-- in which case, I hope he enjoys his rich beverage.
I worry, too, about the implications of developing a paradigm of genetic determinism, as biology guided by such principles has the potential to be misused in some spectacularly errant ways. Being able to "blame it on the genes" could be a rather dangerous proposition for human beings in particular, as would, I believe, any model that permits us to take less responsibility for our own condition and actions. Not to say that we should shy away from the answers to these questions, any more than we should be blaming Darwin for Social Darwinism (or Nazism, as some wingnuts take great delight in doing). But we must, as ever, proceed with prudent acknowledgment of the possible repercussions of scientific research.
In short, "Prof Wolpert bets that the following will happen. Dr Sheldrake bets it will not: By May 1, 2029, given the genome of a fertilized egg of an animal or plant, we will be able to predict in at least one case all the details of the organism that develops from it, including any abnormalities." [Boing Boing, via Detritus].
I'm afraid the good Dr. Wolpert is doomed to lose. The whole scenario reminds me of an essay titled "An Earnest Proposal" by Lewis Thomas (in his collection Lives of a Cell), in which he proposes that, tied to the big red buttons of the world's thermonuclear arsenal, we have program that prevents their launch until we've entered every single detail of the structure of a single microorganism: Mixotricha paradoxa, an intestinal bacterium living inside the guts of Australian termites. This at first seems like a ludicrously minimal safeguard against nuclear holocaust, but the essay goes on to explain that M. paradoxa is really rather more complicated than one might expect. Its flagella are fully-formed spirochetes themselves, its cytoplasmic organelles are bacteria with enzymes that break down cellulose, and its centrioles are yet a third kind of unique creatures. Thomas imagines that, at the end of a decade of superpowers racing to collect the required information and, presumably, angrily growling at each other all the while, some hapless government scientist will finally input everything they've learned, only to receive the message: "Request more data. How are spirochetes attached? Do not fire!"
It's a charming essay, featuring Thomas' typically brilliant prose, but why do I bring it up here? Only to say that life is infinitely more complex than we tend to realize. I imagine that when 2029 rolls around, and the fine port is aged to delicious perfection, Dr. Wolpert will triumphantly present his genomic databanks and his predictive algorithms based on amino acid sequences, and Dr. Sheldrake will only need to find a single aspect left unexplained to win the case of Quinto.
Now, I happen to agree with Sheldrake on principle, too. I think that an organism's genes are the central determinant of the majority of its features, but that there are too many environmental factors involved in growth and development to comfortably state that nucleic acids are the be all and the end all in determination. Granted, a simple enough organism bred under strict laboratory controls may fit Wolpert's criteria-- in which case, I hope he enjoys his rich beverage.
I worry, too, about the implications of developing a paradigm of genetic determinism, as biology guided by such principles has the potential to be misused in some spectacularly errant ways. Being able to "blame it on the genes" could be a rather dangerous proposition for human beings in particular, as would, I believe, any model that permits us to take less responsibility for our own condition and actions. Not to say that we should shy away from the answers to these questions, any more than we should be blaming Darwin for Social Darwinism (or Nazism, as some wingnuts take great delight in doing). But we must, as ever, proceed with prudent acknowledgment of the possible repercussions of scientific research.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
From the Motherland
Two tidbits that caught my eye, both from the land of Muscovy, both meriting skepticism:
1. Back in the 1920s, a Russian scientist by the name of Sergei Brukhonenko managed to keep a dog's severed head alive by hooking it up to the autojector device (a sort of rudimentary heart-lung machine, but with a more bad-ass name). At some Meeting of the People's Distinguished Physiological Laborers in '28, Comrade Brukhonenko managed to get the head to respond to stimuli and fed it a piece of cheese, which apparently popped right out the back end of its truncated esophagus.
So... an adept of Abdul Alhazred? Latter-day Vaucanson? Something else entirely?
2. In today's Russia, what's a listless petro-mogul, bored ex-KGB mafioso, or washed-up Olympic athlete who's been fraudulently elected to the Duma supposed to do for fun? I mean, you can only gamble at Red Square's swanky Kазино SoL so much, and the hookers on Nevski Prospekt all start to look the same after a while.
Enter Pirate Hunting. Yep, that's right. For a modest fee ($5970 a day), any Йосеф шесть-водок can go cruising along the coastline of Somalia, trawling for pirates. When the buccaneers arrive, it's open season: "AK-47 rental on the pirate cruises is apparently just $5 per day, with 100 rounds costing $12 and just in case things get out of control, a squad of ex special forces troops is on hand."
Just... wow. Many believe this to be a hoax, but if it's true... I'm really lost for words. I guess it's worth remembering that General Zaroff was Russian.
1. Back in the 1920s, a Russian scientist by the name of Sergei Brukhonenko managed to keep a dog's severed head alive by hooking it up to the autojector device (a sort of rudimentary heart-lung machine, but with a more bad-ass name). At some Meeting of the People's Distinguished Physiological Laborers in '28, Comrade Brukhonenko managed to get the head to respond to stimuli and fed it a piece of cheese, which apparently popped right out the back end of its truncated esophagus.
So... an adept of Abdul Alhazred? Latter-day Vaucanson? Something else entirely?
2. In today's Russia, what's a listless petro-mogul, bored ex-KGB mafioso, or washed-up Olympic athlete who's been fraudulently elected to the Duma supposed to do for fun? I mean, you can only gamble at Red Square's swanky Kазино SoL so much, and the hookers on Nevski Prospekt all start to look the same after a while.
Enter Pirate Hunting. Yep, that's right. For a modest fee ($5970 a day), any Йосеф шесть-водок can go cruising along the coastline of Somalia, trawling for pirates. When the buccaneers arrive, it's open season: "AK-47 rental on the pirate cruises is apparently just $5 per day, with 100 rounds costing $12 and just in case things get out of control, a squad of ex special forces troops is on hand."
Just... wow. Many believe this to be a hoax, but if it's true... I'm really lost for words. I guess it's worth remembering that General Zaroff was Russian.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Happy Birthday, Gottfried Wilhelm von Leibniz!
In honor of his special day, do some calculus, science, philosophy, law, theology, philology... heck, do anything! After all, Leibniz could.Or, just go out and purchase some Leibniz Butterkeks from your local retailer of fine foods, and check out a former blog of mine, The Leibniz Projekt, in which a colleague and I attempted to photograph every member of the the Princeton History of Science department eating said cookies.
Formic acid is thicker than water
"But it now appears that billions of Argentine ants around the world all actually belong to one single global mega-colony."
Whoa.
Whoa.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Holly Beach Inn
These are a couple of photos I took nearly a year ago in Holly Neck, MD. Take a look through the series if you're so inclined. I returned to the spot this past May to find that the inn had been demolished, so I'm glad to have photographed it while I still could.
I am also, in a way, glad that the old building has been euthanized, as it had clearly witnessed the kind of things that shiver men's sanity to flotsam. Imagine this starlit husk on moonless night, the relentless splash of Chesapeake waves on the reedy shoreline, and a circle of hooded, shadowy wights chanting tuneless hymns to an alien god long-forgotten. If this scene reeks of truth (as I am sure beyond sure that it does), it savors thus only because it was so. Can you not see their dusky cloaks? The glint of ancient stars upon the high priest's blade? And as you gaze upon their primal rite beware, for can those baleful wraiths not also see you?
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Too Soon
I know I was amazed to discover that Michael Jackson passed away this week at the age of 50. If you're anything like me, you can't believe that his strange and scrutinized life has come to an untimely end. You might assume that these are the kind of shocking events that happen only once in long while.
But wait! There's more.
Call in the next ten minutes and you can get two fifty-year-old celebrity deaths in the same week! With your Michael Jackson, we'll throw in a Billy Mays at no extra charge! That's right. Michael Jackson and Billy Mays: a combined hundred-year-old value for just $20.09 plus shipping and handling. Act now, before this once-in-a-lifetime offer expires.
Yes, I know I'm going to burn in Hell, why do you ask?
But wait! There's more.
Call in the next ten minutes and you can get two fifty-year-old celebrity deaths in the same week! With your Michael Jackson, we'll throw in a Billy Mays at no extra charge! That's right. Michael Jackson and Billy Mays: a combined hundred-year-old value for just $20.09 plus shipping and handling. Act now, before this once-in-a-lifetime offer expires.
Yes, I know I'm going to burn in Hell, why do you ask?
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Today I get my MCAT Score
I was once a competitive athlete, so I know about nerves. I have been anxious before. But I had never felt like every ounce of my blood was replaced by adrenaline until this morning. I slept fitfully, dreaming all night of checking my score. I woke up buzzing. My limbs feel light and the world seems kind of slow and gauzy. Perhaps having coped with failure already in my countless repetitive dreams last night has put me at peace with the possibility of disappointment, or at least as much at peace as I can expect to be.
I click the button.
"You have no scores yet."
Not until 5:00pm.
I can wait.
I click the button.
"You have no scores yet."
Not until 5:00pm.
I can wait.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Trepanation for everyone!
A friend and colleague of mine just posted on her new blog, "silverware in the pancake drawer" (a Scrubs reference-- awesome!) about the woes of migraine headaches. The swiftly shifting season has afflicted her with agony, and she certainly has my sympathy.
But that is not the only purpose of this post, for she also idly commented that "On mornings like these, I wonder what the hell happened to trepanation." Ah, I'm so very glad you asked! I was intrigued by this question, and decided to waste a little time sniffing out trepanation (or trepanning) on the intertubes. There is, as usual, an embarrassment of riches when it comes to searching the world wide web, so I've only included some choice morsels, and links for further exploration below.
In 1978, a Briton named Amanda Fielding ran for Parliament in Chelsea and received 40 votes. Her platform promised that the National Health Service would offer free trepanation services to all and sundry. Yes, that's trepanation:
Most politicians assume their constituents have holes in their heads, but it is a true rara avis who promises to put one there for you. But it's only fair, I suppose, since Ms. Fielding had performed her own craniotomy with a dental drill and some local anesthetic. She decided to air out her cerebrum under the tutelage of Bart Huges, a Dutch almost-doctor who was denied his MD either for advocating marijuana use or for failing his obstetrics course. Or because he's a raving lunatic. Known as "the father of modern trepanation," Huges is the author of a number of works, including an eight-foot scroll articulating his view that people who drill holes in their skulls are representatives of the next stage in human evolution, or homo sapiens correctus. It should be unsurprising that most of his research seems to have involved dropping acid and drilling into his own skull. Trepanation is, for Huges and his followers, merely the next step in mind-expansion, following LSD and presumably preceding the injection of reindeer urine into your eyeballs. "Gravity," says Huges, "brings you down," so he used to stand on his head to try and defeat it.
Yeah.
So anyway, poking holes in your cranium has a long history, and was generally used to help shamans communicate with the spirit world, or to drive out the evil spirits that inhabited people's heads. Want to chat with the ancestors? Pop! Hallucinating? Pop! Headaches? Pop! Speaking against the priesthood? Pop!
Well, I suppose "pop" is not quite the correct onomatopoeia. Another acolyte of Huges' by the name of Joseph Mellen (whose cooperative acid trips and skull-drilling with Amanda Fielding would lead to their eventual marriage and spawning of offspring), described his own experience thus:
All of this is not to say that cranial aeration doesn't have its place in the realm of legitimate medical procedures. Often, to relieve intracranial pressure or hematoma, it is necessary to remove a piece of the skull. However, there's a vast gulf between a trained surgeon doing so in order to save a patient's life and a drug-addled guru helping his disciples grind holes in their foreheads in quest of "expanded consciousness."
So that, then, is what the hell happened to trepanation. Next time you're wishing you could release those migranous miasmas, remember that a vote for Fielding is a vote for a dental drill in every home.
(For more insight into the people who drill for gray matter, check out "Lunch With Heather Perry" at Neurophilosophy, "trepanation" at The Skeptic's Dictionary, and "Like a Hole in the Head" from Cabinet Magazine.)
But that is not the only purpose of this post, for she also idly commented that "On mornings like these, I wonder what the hell happened to trepanation." Ah, I'm so very glad you asked! I was intrigued by this question, and decided to waste a little time sniffing out trepanation (or trepanning) on the intertubes. There is, as usual, an embarrassment of riches when it comes to searching the world wide web, so I've only included some choice morsels, and links for further exploration below.
In 1978, a Briton named Amanda Fielding ran for Parliament in Chelsea and received 40 votes. Her platform promised that the National Health Service would offer free trepanation services to all and sundry. Yes, that's trepanation:
Most politicians assume their constituents have holes in their heads, but it is a true rara avis who promises to put one there for you. But it's only fair, I suppose, since Ms. Fielding had performed her own craniotomy with a dental drill and some local anesthetic. She decided to air out her cerebrum under the tutelage of Bart Huges, a Dutch almost-doctor who was denied his MD either for advocating marijuana use or for failing his obstetrics course. Or because he's a raving lunatic. Known as "the father of modern trepanation," Huges is the author of a number of works, including an eight-foot scroll articulating his view that people who drill holes in their skulls are representatives of the next stage in human evolution, or homo sapiens correctus. It should be unsurprising that most of his research seems to have involved dropping acid and drilling into his own skull. Trepanation is, for Huges and his followers, merely the next step in mind-expansion, following LSD and presumably preceding the injection of reindeer urine into your eyeballs. "Gravity," says Huges, "brings you down," so he used to stand on his head to try and defeat it.Yeah.
So anyway, poking holes in your cranium has a long history, and was generally used to help shamans communicate with the spirit world, or to drive out the evil spirits that inhabited people's heads. Want to chat with the ancestors? Pop! Hallucinating? Pop! Headaches? Pop! Speaking against the priesthood? Pop!
Well, I suppose "pop" is not quite the correct onomatopoeia. Another acolyte of Huges' by the name of Joseph Mellen (whose cooperative acid trips and skull-drilling with Amanda Fielding would lead to their eventual marriage and spawning of offspring), described his own experience thus:
"After some time there was an ominous-sounding shlurp and the sound of bubbling… It sounded like air bubbles running under the skull as they were pressed out."OK, if the idea of "an ominous-sounding schlurp" coming from inside your bloody skull isn't enough to make you question the wisdom of this procedure, then you're a stouter (and stupider) man than I, Gunga Din.
All of this is not to say that cranial aeration doesn't have its place in the realm of legitimate medical procedures. Often, to relieve intracranial pressure or hematoma, it is necessary to remove a piece of the skull. However, there's a vast gulf between a trained surgeon doing so in order to save a patient's life and a drug-addled guru helping his disciples grind holes in their foreheads in quest of "expanded consciousness."
So that, then, is what the hell happened to trepanation. Next time you're wishing you could release those migranous miasmas, remember that a vote for Fielding is a vote for a dental drill in every home.
(For more insight into the people who drill for gray matter, check out "Lunch With Heather Perry" at Neurophilosophy, "trepanation" at The Skeptic's Dictionary, and "Like a Hole in the Head" from Cabinet Magazine.)
Friday, June 19, 2009
Upgrade Your Neural Implant
Braingate Neural Interface Developing Into Wireless Version
The potential implications and applications of this are, dare I say, mind-blowing.
The potential implications and applications of this are, dare I say, mind-blowing.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
"The sixth age shifts / Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon..."
Interesting article from The Daily Galaxy:
The End of Aging?
The End of Aging?
De Grey's call to action, writes Dr. Sherwin Nuland, clinical professor of surgery at Yale University School of Medicine and author of How We Die and The Art of Aging, "is the message neither of a madman nor a bad man, but of a brilliant, beneficent man of goodwill, who wants only for civilization to fulfill the highest hopes he has for its future.” An opinion darkly countered by Dr. Martin Raff, emeritus professor of biology at University College London and coauthor of Molecular Biology of the Cell: “Seems to me this man could be put in jail with reasonable cause.”Despite the fact that the name "Aubrey de Grey" sounds like it belongs to a megalomaniac villain, and the irony that de Grey is fighting de gray, this kind of thing is like scientific catnip to me. It has the right blend of pseudoscientific wackiness and a genuine appeal to the relief of one of my darker fears. If de Grey is a nut, then this is entertaining claptrap on the order of cold fusion. But if he's right, I'll be the first to sign up for immortality, ethics be damned.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Oy, Forsooth!
Here's an awesome tidbit from medieval blog In the Middle:
Medieval Jew Punks Christians
It's really a bit surprising that this guy got to wait around and be killed by God's subtle knife, because if I were a medieval Christian, I totally would have drawn and quartered him. I guess it is rather appropriate that the Jew died of guilt, though. His mother probably wouldn't stop nagging him about spending his time playing pranks on the goys instead of studying leech-craft and giving her grandchildren with that nice girl from the next ghetto.
Also, Gerald of Wales was kind of a jerk. Just saying.
Medieval Jew Punks Christians
It's really a bit surprising that this guy got to wait around and be killed by God's subtle knife, because if I were a medieval Christian, I totally would have drawn and quartered him. I guess it is rather appropriate that the Jew died of guilt, though. His mother probably wouldn't stop nagging him about spending his time playing pranks on the goys instead of studying leech-craft and giving her grandchildren with that nice girl from the next ghetto.
Also, Gerald of Wales was kind of a jerk. Just saying.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Cortisol
OK, so this article about the President's address to the AMA grinds my gears a bit-- not just as the son of physicians and a future doctor myself, but as a logical person who appreciates balanced reporting.
I'm okay with Obama not limiting jury damages in malpractice cases, and I get where he's coming from. I'm not proud of the fact that he got booed. But what really bugs me is the lack of understanding displayed by the criticism of doctors for contributing to the inflated cost of health care by ordering "unnecessary tests." I can't claim expertise in the matter, but it seems to me that if doctors were not quite so afraid of being embroiled in malpractice suits over negligence, they could relax their hyperactive testing and procedures a bit. Don't get me wrong: I'm sure a lot of doctors are greedy SOBs who do it for the kickbacks, but you can't tell me that's the motivation in every case. So it troubles me that there seems to be a change in the prevailing winds, that now accusatory fingers are being pointed squarely at doctors, often without appropriate context.
Undoubtedly, some people actually know what they're talking about. And yes, Atul Gawande, I'm looking at you. As Dr. Gawande explained, the nation's doctors must cut down on the exorbitant expenses incurred by patients, but he recognizes the complexities of the issue:
Oh, and this quote?
I'm okay with Obama not limiting jury damages in malpractice cases, and I get where he's coming from. I'm not proud of the fact that he got booed. But what really bugs me is the lack of understanding displayed by the criticism of doctors for contributing to the inflated cost of health care by ordering "unnecessary tests." I can't claim expertise in the matter, but it seems to me that if doctors were not quite so afraid of being embroiled in malpractice suits over negligence, they could relax their hyperactive testing and procedures a bit. Don't get me wrong: I'm sure a lot of doctors are greedy SOBs who do it for the kickbacks, but you can't tell me that's the motivation in every case. So it troubles me that there seems to be a change in the prevailing winds, that now accusatory fingers are being pointed squarely at doctors, often without appropriate context.
Undoubtedly, some people actually know what they're talking about. And yes, Atul Gawande, I'm looking at you. As Dr. Gawande explained, the nation's doctors must cut down on the exorbitant expenses incurred by patients, but he recognizes the complexities of the issue:
"Fixing this problem can feel dishearteningly complex. Across the country, we have to change skewed incentives that reward quantity over quality, and that reward narrowly specialized individuals, instead of teams that make sure nothing falls between the cracks for patients and resources are not misused [emphasis added]."The skewed incentives are not only the monetary rewards that doctors gain by loading up on dubious rigmarole, but the incentive to avoid accusations of negligence. Pace organic chemistry, the specter of malpractice is one of the scariest things faced by aspiring physicians. Reading ER doc blogger WhiteCoat's "Trial of a WhiteCoat" series (which is the ongoing account of his own malpractice suit), I can't help worrying that someday I'll also be held accountable for negligence if I don't order some test or consult some specialist quickly enough, and a grieving family assumes that my hesitation to call in the heavy artillery was what killed their loved one. So I completely understand the urge to open up with the whole battery of technological marvels, fill them full of contrast and blast them with radiation, poke, prod, jab, scan, biopsy, and consult with the experts in the interest of avoiding someone suing your scrubs off. So the criticisms being leveled at the doctors are perhaps valid, but they need to be contextualized in order to be fair.
Oh, and this quote?
Obama did not blame the doctors. Instead, he tried to woo them, much as he has done with recalcitrant foreign leaders.Really, is it really necessary to lump us in with Ahmadinejad and Co.? I don't think so.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Yo ho ho, and a... wait, what?
This is the Somali Navy training to fight pirates:
Guys, the footwork is impressive and the jaunty way you're holding your hands just so is quite debonair, but I think you're dealing with the other kind of pirates.
Yeah, not these guys:
These guys:
Oh, you realized that? Right, OK, well... cool. Yeah, just checking. No, I know. You were totally thinking of the pirates with RPGs and AK-47s, not the ones with cutlasses and cannons, and... yeah. Cool. Well, um... keep up the training there. Yeah.
[BBC News]
Guys, the footwork is impressive and the jaunty way you're holding your hands just so is quite debonair, but I think you're dealing with the other kind of pirates.
Yeah, not these guys:
These guys:
Oh, you realized that? Right, OK, well... cool. Yeah, just checking. No, I know. You were totally thinking of the pirates with RPGs and AK-47s, not the ones with cutlasses and cannons, and... yeah. Cool. Well, um... keep up the training there. Yeah.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Alo, Salut, sunt eu, un haiduc...
Somehow, this article from the BBC tells you pretty much all you need to know about Romania.
The gist of it is this: Gigi Becali was a shepherd "who made a fortune in land deals" and now owns the country's biggest soccer team. He is "a devout Christian" (as the
golden icon in his photograph no doubt tipped you off), and he's one of Romania's most flamboyant politicians. Described as a "Robin Hood figure," he announced his candidacy for European Parliament from prison. Why was he in jail? When some thieves stole his car and demanded a ransom, he first paid the money, then sent a gang of thugs to trap, kidnap, and beat up the thieves.
Naturally, the thieves went to the police to complain about the violence, and Becali was arrested. Now he has been released and got himself elected as MEP, but a travel ban has been placed on him while the investigation is underway. As a matter of course, he's decided to ignore the ban and go to Brussels anyway, challenging the Romanian authorities to arrest him there.
Romania is a very odd country, and if my own experiences there are any indication, crime is viewed somewhat differently there than it is in other parts of the world. The long conversation I had with a cutpurse named Funny on a Bucharest city bus is a story for another time, but I mention it now because of the relative nonchalance with which he admitted to being a thief, and his emphasis on theft as a rectification of the injustices of class difference. Granted, I'm still unsure of Funny's mental soundness, but he seemed to see himself as a kind of Robin Hood, as well.
And I've just remembered something else: as I was about to wonder whether there was an analogous Robin Hood figure in Romania, I suddenly flashed back to a restaurant in Braşov where I ate cotlet haiducesc, or outlaw's porkchop. As referenced in the title of this post, the song "Dragostea Din Tei" (arguably Romania's biggest export since Dracula) also has the singer calling himself "haiduc."* From a completely unresearched perspective, I get the sense that there is a romanticized outlaw folklore in Romania. I think I'll look into it.
The gist of it is this: Gigi Becali was a shepherd "who made a fortune in land deals" and now owns the country's biggest soccer team. He is "a devout Christian" (as the
golden icon in his photograph no doubt tipped you off), and he's one of Romania's most flamboyant politicians. Described as a "Robin Hood figure," he announced his candidacy for European Parliament from prison. Why was he in jail? When some thieves stole his car and demanded a ransom, he first paid the money, then sent a gang of thugs to trap, kidnap, and beat up the thieves.Naturally, the thieves went to the police to complain about the violence, and Becali was arrested. Now he has been released and got himself elected as MEP, but a travel ban has been placed on him while the investigation is underway. As a matter of course, he's decided to ignore the ban and go to Brussels anyway, challenging the Romanian authorities to arrest him there.
Romania is a very odd country, and if my own experiences there are any indication, crime is viewed somewhat differently there than it is in other parts of the world. The long conversation I had with a cutpurse named Funny on a Bucharest city bus is a story for another time, but I mention it now because of the relative nonchalance with which he admitted to being a thief, and his emphasis on theft as a rectification of the injustices of class difference. Granted, I'm still unsure of Funny's mental soundness, but he seemed to see himself as a kind of Robin Hood, as well.
And I've just remembered something else: as I was about to wonder whether there was an analogous Robin Hood figure in Romania, I suddenly flashed back to a restaurant in Braşov where I ate cotlet haiducesc, or outlaw's porkchop. As referenced in the title of this post, the song "Dragostea Din Tei" (arguably Romania's biggest export since Dracula) also has the singer calling himself "haiduc."* From a completely unresearched perspective, I get the sense that there is a romanticized outlaw folklore in Romania. I think I'll look into it.
"Hæþenra manna hergunc adilegode Godes cyrican..."
This is the first time I have updated this blog while mentally compromised. I am currently feeling the effects of copious mead and ale (as promised to those who attended my party tonight), for I have just finished celebrating the 1,216th anniversary of the Vikings' sack of Lindisfarne Abbey in 793 CE. We played a fantastic game of Viking's Cup (my invention), but I believe I was the only one imbibing the honeyed nectar of Valhalla. As such, all I have to say right now is this:
Hail Odin, the All-father, ruler of Asgard and inspiration of the skalds.
I'm going to drink a lot of water before I go to bed, and pray to the Aesir that I am spared the all-too-imminent repercussions of the night's excesses. May the gods smile upon you.
Hail Odin, the All-father, ruler of Asgard and inspiration of the skalds.
I'm going to drink a lot of water before I go to bed, and pray to the Aesir that I am spared the all-too-imminent repercussions of the night's excesses. May the gods smile upon you.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Adventure: Wicked Sick!
Things I am not sure how to adequately express: just how unbelievably awesome this morning's clue was.
Individuals quoted in said clue: Timothy Leary
Preparations suggested: purchasing a day's worth of food, propane, and bug spray.
Mysterious action hinted at: "Get high" and "drop out."
Clarification for emphasis: "We really mean DROP out."
Today's destination: unknown spot, 180 miles from Ashland, west along the California state line.
Things I do not know: what we're doing today. Not even a bit. And I love it.
And the AWESOME continues...
Individuals quoted in said clue: Timothy Leary
Preparations suggested: purchasing a day's worth of food, propane, and bug spray.
Mysterious action hinted at: "Get high" and "drop out."
Clarification for emphasis: "We really mean DROP out."
Today's destination: unknown spot, 180 miles from Ashland, west along the California state line.
Things I do not know: what we're doing today. Not even a bit. And I love it.
And the AWESOME continues...
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Adventure: Water-blogged
Location: Still Ashland, OR.
I was: so very wrong about the days activities.
We ended up: whitewater rafting from here to California.
OK, maybe I wasn't: completely wrong - we're going to see the Scottish Play tonight.
And the adventure continues...
I was: so very wrong about the days activities.
We ended up: whitewater rafting from here to California.
OK, maybe I wasn't: completely wrong - we're going to see the Scottish Play tonight.
And the adventure continues...
Adventure: Late Breaking Update
Location: Ashland, OR.
Means of transportation: bucket-of-bolts from SeaTac.
Ashland is famous for: Shakespeare Festival.
Degree of certainty regarding what tomorrow's tasks will involve: very to extremely.
And the adventure continues...
Means of transportation: bucket-of-bolts from SeaTac.
Ashland is famous for: Shakespeare Festival.
Degree of certainty regarding what tomorrow's tasks will involve: very to extremely.
And the adventure continues...
Monday, May 25, 2009
Adventure: Update
Current Location: Moore Hotel, Seattle, WA
Going to: Pike Place Market; Bainbridge Island; Jackson County, Oregon (and beyond... maybe?)
And the adventure continues...
Going to: Pike Place Market; Bainbridge Island; Jackson County, Oregon (and beyond... maybe?)
And the adventure continues...
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Adventure: First Stop
Current Location: Cyber Dogs vegetarian "not dog" internet cafe, Seattle, WA.
Eating: Veggie schnitzel with onions.
Eating with: Kaile and Katie.
Going to: The Science Fiction Museum, The Space Needle, Pike Place Market.
And the adventure continues...
Eating: Veggie schnitzel with onions.
Eating with: Kaile and Katie.
Going to: The Science Fiction Museum, The Space Needle, Pike Place Market.
And the adventure continues...
Friday, May 22, 2009
A Short List of Things I Wish To Say
- I took the MCAT exam this morning.
- I am leaving at dawn for parts unknown. I am assuming I will not have access to the internet, so this will likely be my last post for at least one week.* I will post again when I return, perhaps with a tale of adventure and peril.
*Yes, I am aware that it's been more than a week since my last post. I was just getting you used to not having regular updates. Yes, I am aware that I never update regularly. I am also aware that shut the hell up.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Fuckin' Awesome
Yes. That's all I have to say about these photographs (posted on Morbid Anatomy):
They come from a newly-released book, Dissection: Photographs of a Rite of Passage in American Medicine 1880–1930. I think I need it.
They come from a newly-released book, Dissection: Photographs of a Rite of Passage in American Medicine 1880–1930. I think I need it.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Now cracks a noble mind
As I was stumbling into bed a minute ago, far too late for the alarm clock I just set, I began mumbling in exhausted delirium. "Goodnight, sweet prince," I slurred to... myself, I suppose, "and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. The rest," I continued, "is silence." I was immediately struck by three things, none of which (fortunately) were corporeal:
1) That I had just recited the lines out of order, and would probably be consigned to an extra decade in purgatory for my offense against the Bard.
2) That it's funny how both Hamlet and Horatio use the word "rest" two different ways in their abutting lines-- could it have been wordplay?
3) And lastly: what if it was a stage direction? I mean, it's one of the most famous lines in Shakespeare, if not the English canon, but what if "the rest is silence" is not what the actor playing Hamlet is actually supposed to say, but it just means that he's supposed to shut the hell up after prophesying the election lighting on Fortinbras? If certain scholars are to be believed, our written corpus of Shakespeare's work came from the frantic scribblings of audience-based scribes, probably looking to sell pirated copies of the latest blockbuster. So what if Jack Half-Flagon was scratching out the final iambs and forgot to put parentheses around the part where Hamlet starts mumbling incoherently before shuffling off his mortal coil? Over the next couple centuries, that smidge of non-dialogue gets enshrined as one of Will Shakespeare's most profound sentiments. It could all be a lie! I can see, even now, the topless towers of Academe crumbling to dust around my feet, and prophesy the destruction lights on English Departments. So tell them, with the occurrents, more and less, which have solicited. The rest is silence.
1) That I had just recited the lines out of order, and would probably be consigned to an extra decade in purgatory for my offense against the Bard.
2) That it's funny how both Hamlet and Horatio use the word "rest" two different ways in their abutting lines-- could it have been wordplay?
3) And lastly: what if it was a stage direction? I mean, it's one of the most famous lines in Shakespeare, if not the English canon, but what if "the rest is silence" is not what the actor playing Hamlet is actually supposed to say, but it just means that he's supposed to shut the hell up after prophesying the election lighting on Fortinbras? If certain scholars are to be believed, our written corpus of Shakespeare's work came from the frantic scribblings of audience-based scribes, probably looking to sell pirated copies of the latest blockbuster. So what if Jack Half-Flagon was scratching out the final iambs and forgot to put parentheses around the part where Hamlet starts mumbling incoherently before shuffling off his mortal coil? Over the next couple centuries, that smidge of non-dialogue gets enshrined as one of Will Shakespeare's most profound sentiments. It could all be a lie! I can see, even now, the topless towers of Academe crumbling to dust around my feet, and prophesy the destruction lights on English Departments. So tell them, with the occurrents, more and less, which have solicited. The rest is silence.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Riding the Wave
I used to be very troubled by the fact that my mind is basically just a very complicated chemical reaction. Thought, emotion, aspiration, and dream could all be reduced (or maybe oxidized) to basic organic molecules and cation gradients. Don't get me wrong, it still isn't my favorite thing to contemplate, but I put it in a new perspective this morning. As biology is increasingly melded with chemistry, and chemistry with physics, we begin to see the ways by which fundamental principles govern complex systems. For instance, traits may be determined by DNA, which is structured the way it is due to the interactions of nucleic acids, which interact as they do because of the properties of nitrogenous bases and phosphates, which react in specific ways because of the electrons in their molecular orbitals. Electrons, of course, and all subatomic particles really, are essentially wave functions describing the probabilities of their existence at a point in space and time. Despite the gross over-simplification and my minuscule knowledge of quantum physics , it makes me think about the fact that we are not just animals (as per Darwin's decentralization of humanity), we are not just unconscious minds (as per Freud's), we are not just chemical reactions sloshing around in a bony brain-case, we are not even collections of atoms. We are, as far as I can tell, probability functions with enough pieces to have a high degree of existence. The "Free Will" of particles notwithstanding, thinking about these kinds of things can lead to a very dark, scary, and confusing place, not unlike certain Baltimore neighborhoods late at night. In the interest of not getting mugged and beaten by my own psyche, I don't spend too much time there. But visiting every once in a while does remind me that living in a place where I can think of myself as a well-maintained chemical reaction really isn't so generative of existential angst. After all, it could be a lot worse: I could have to reconcile my rich inner life and sense of self with the notion that I am just a lucky interference pattern of quarks. Here, I have no choice but to take Hume's sacrament:
Drinking the Scotsman's claret absolves me of my grindings and rumblings, and all is well enough for now.
"I dine, I play a game of backgammon, I converse, and am merry with my friends; and when after three or four hours’ amusement, I would return to these speculations, they appear so cold, and strained, and ridiculous, that I cannot find in my heart to enter into them any farther. Here then I find myself absolutely and necessarily determined to live, and talk, and act like other people in the common affairs of life..."(A Treatise of Human Nature, I.vii)
Drinking the Scotsman's claret absolves me of my grindings and rumblings, and all is well enough for now.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
A brief glimpse into the Postbacc Life
The second most exciting thing I did yesterday was open a new bottle of deli mustard. I have not finished my last bottle, but I was having a hot dog and wanted Hebrew National deli mustard. This begs a question: what was the most exciting thing that I did yesterday? I ate a poptart dipped in sugar-free pudding for desert.
As I took a moment to look down upon the pitiful creature I have become, my giddy laughter was tinctured with self-loathing and despair. Unable to decide whether to burst into tears or collapse in gales of manic laughter, I could only return to the anesthetizing tedium of organic chemistry. The test is on Friday. I am not yet ready.
As I took a moment to look down upon the pitiful creature I have become, my giddy laughter was tinctured with self-loathing and despair. Unable to decide whether to burst into tears or collapse in gales of manic laughter, I could only return to the anesthetizing tedium of organic chemistry. The test is on Friday. I am not yet ready.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Indiana Jones and the Lost Crusade
Let it not be forgotten that today marks the 805th anniversary of the Fourth Crusade sacking Constantinople. Yes, that's right, the capital of the Byzantine Empire-- a Christian (albeit Eastern Orthodox) empire and stalwart buttress against the rising Ottoman tide. None of that mattered on April 12, 1204, though, and the resulting slaughter was the ultra-violent capstone on the most hilarious crusade ever. To make a long comedy short, the Warriors of Christ make it to Venice without enough money, so the cunning (and blind) Doge Dandolo cons them into paying for boats by assaulting the rebellious port-town of Zara. Hearing of this development, Pope Innocent III sent a pretty stern letter to the leaders of the crusade, reminding them that killing other Christians wasn't really in the spirit of the venture, and threatening excommunication if they pulled another stunt like it.
Things might have gone smoothly at this point were it not for the appearance of Alexius Angelus. A claimant to the throne of Byzantium, Alexius (IV, or so he hoped) offered the flat-broke Knights of the Cross a humongous pile of money if they helped him reclaim his throne from Alexius III. So, they did.
The siege began around July 17, 1203, and lasted until April of the following year, during which period many wacky developments occurred, including the crusaders instating Alexius as emperor, then attacking a mosque defended by Greeks and Turks alike, and the Venetians mistakenly burning down a huge part of the city. Oops.
It all really went to hell (well, more to hell) when one of Alexius IV's courtiers, Alexius "Murtzuphlos"* Ducas had the new emperor strangled to death and proclaimed himself Alexius V.** This made the crusaders angry. And you won't like them when they're angry... Despite the Pope's warning not to do anything stupid, the Holy Warriors (for lack of a better term) totally got medieval on Byzantium's ass.
I think Papa Innocent summed it up best in this letter:
Yep. The Venetians did. Heaps and heaps of filthy Byzantine lucre poured into Venice-- most famously, the giant horses on the Basilica di San Marco. They stand as pigeon shit-covered monuments to the Lost Crusade, and to the eternal idiocy of "holy" war.
Footnotes
*A reference to his prominent eyebrows which, depending on the source you read, were either "bushy," "luxuriant," or "conjoined and overhanging."
**No, being named Alexius was not a requirement for the empry. Sure seems like it though.
***Ah, the sordid lusts of boys. To what ends will they not drive us? This is crucially different from the sordid lust for boys, which would be a thorn in the Church's side in a different century.
****Sort of. The ones who stayed to defend Constantinople got absolved and had their pilgrimage vows annulled, which elicited a huge "WTF?" from Innocent (see the above-linked letter).
Things might have gone smoothly at this point were it not for the appearance of Alexius Angelus. A claimant to the throne of Byzantium, Alexius (IV, or so he hoped) offered the flat-broke Knights of the Cross a humongous pile of money if they helped him reclaim his throne from Alexius III. So, they did.
The siege began around July 17, 1203, and lasted until April of the following year, during which period many wacky developments occurred, including the crusaders instating Alexius as emperor, then attacking a mosque defended by Greeks and Turks alike, and the Venetians mistakenly burning down a huge part of the city. Oops.
It all really went to hell (well, more to hell) when one of Alexius IV's courtiers, Alexius "Murtzuphlos"* Ducas had the new emperor strangled to death and proclaimed himself Alexius V.** This made the crusaders angry. And you won't like them when they're angry... Despite the Pope's warning not to do anything stupid, the Holy Warriors (for lack of a better term) totally got medieval on Byzantium's ass.
I think Papa Innocent summed it up best in this letter:
"As for those who were supposed to be seeking the ends of Jesus Christ, not their own ends, who made their swords, which they were supposed to use against the pagans, drip with Christian blood, they have spared neither religion, nor age, nor sex. They have committed incest, adultery, and fornication before the eyes of men. They have exposed both matrons and virgins, even those dedicated to God, to the sordid lusts of boys.*** Not satisfied with breaking open the imperial treasury and plundering the goods of princes and lesser men, they also laid their hands on the treasures of the churches and, what is more serious, on their very possessions. They have even ripped silver plates from the altars and have hacked them to pieces among themselves. They violated the holy places and have carried off crosses and relics."Anyway, suffice it to say they all got excommunicated, the end.**** So the Crusade never got within spitting distance of the Holy Land, Constantinople got absolutely mashed, and the schism between the Eastern and Western Churches was pretty much solidified. So did anyone really win?
Yep. The Venetians did. Heaps and heaps of filthy Byzantine lucre poured into Venice-- most famously, the giant horses on the Basilica di San Marco. They stand as pigeon shit-covered monuments to the Lost Crusade, and to the eternal idiocy of "holy" war.
Footnotes
*A reference to his prominent eyebrows which, depending on the source you read, were either "bushy," "luxuriant," or "conjoined and overhanging."
**No, being named Alexius was not a requirement for the empry. Sure seems like it though.
***Ah, the sordid lusts of boys. To what ends will they not drive us? This is crucially different from the sordid lust for boys, which would be a thorn in the Church's side in a different century.
****Sort of. The ones who stayed to defend Constantinople got absolved and had their pilgrimage vows annulled, which elicited a huge "WTF?" from Innocent (see the above-linked letter).
An Easter Homily
I am currently sitting in the library and, until about 60 seconds ago, I was taking a practice MCAT. All was quiet, and only a handful of other doughty souls were studying here on a beautiful Sunday morning. Enter two campus security personnel. The crackle of their walkie-talkies and casual conversation are reminders of the fact that Goucher's library has designated Quiet Zones, and I am not in one. I cram down my noise-canceling headphones and try to tune out the interlopers: hydrolytic cleavage and mitosis demanded my undivided attention.
Still, the officers were chatting only twenty feet away, so I couldn't help but notice when the conversation shifted from someone needing to open a locked room in the student center to biblical exegesis. "Over the years, you see," one guard explained, "the text has changed. Like, i's and t's. Sometimes, you know, a t gets crossed that wasn't before, so the word is different. Which is why you need to go back to the original text to get the true meaning. Most people," he continued, "just follow the text... without thinking about it." "Blindly?" his companion suggested. "Exactly. Blindly. But you need to really understand the original meaning."
I took off my headphones. I wanted to hear clearly when he started quoting Luther or Trithemius. But he had apparently run out of sermon in that direction, so he swerved, taking a new tack: "You got to have faith. When you look at the structure... of a tree, or when you look at the complicated structure of a cell, you know it couldn't have evolved. There had to be a creator, and that creator had to be infinite." (I'm paraphrasing here, because his actual words are rapidly melting from my memory, but I think that was the gist of it.) His companion made a soft noise of assent, or perhaps feigned interest, and thanked him.
The itinerant blue-light preacher bid him adieu and ambled out of my silent-once-more sanctum; his flock of one walked off in the other direction, into the stacks. I got back to my MCAT: "The concentration of the protein cyclin rises and falls during the cell cycle as shown in Figure 1. What mechanism could account for this oscillation of cyclin protein concentration?" 'Divine intervention' was not one of the answer choices.
Still, the officers were chatting only twenty feet away, so I couldn't help but notice when the conversation shifted from someone needing to open a locked room in the student center to biblical exegesis. "Over the years, you see," one guard explained, "the text has changed. Like, i's and t's. Sometimes, you know, a t gets crossed that wasn't before, so the word is different. Which is why you need to go back to the original text to get the true meaning. Most people," he continued, "just follow the text... without thinking about it." "Blindly?" his companion suggested. "Exactly. Blindly. But you need to really understand the original meaning."
I took off my headphones. I wanted to hear clearly when he started quoting Luther or Trithemius. But he had apparently run out of sermon in that direction, so he swerved, taking a new tack: "You got to have faith. When you look at the structure... of a tree, or when you look at the complicated structure of a cell, you know it couldn't have evolved. There had to be a creator, and that creator had to be infinite." (I'm paraphrasing here, because his actual words are rapidly melting from my memory, but I think that was the gist of it.) His companion made a soft noise of assent, or perhaps feigned interest, and thanked him.
The itinerant blue-light preacher bid him adieu and ambled out of my silent-once-more sanctum; his flock of one walked off in the other direction, into the stacks. I got back to my MCAT: "The concentration of the protein cyclin rises and falls during the cell cycle as shown in Figure 1. What mechanism could account for this oscillation of cyclin protein concentration?" 'Divine intervention' was not one of the answer choices.
Friday, April 10, 2009
You can't make a theory without breaking a few eggs...
And just in time for Easter, too:
And the creamy fondant center of this Cadbury Genius Egg is the Theory of Evolution by Natural Selection. *Crunch* *Schlurp* Mmmmm! The Origin... of Delicious!
And the creamy fondant center of this Cadbury Genius Egg is the Theory of Evolution by Natural Selection. *Crunch* *Schlurp* Mmmmm! The Origin... of Delicious!
Monday, March 30, 2009
Dragut Corsaro Di Barberia
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Competitively-Inhibited Synapse
From the Anchorage Daily News:
Top of the third paragraph:
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.
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