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.

"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:

"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!

Ka Plah!!!"

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.

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)

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.

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.

"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.

"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 says or 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?

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.

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.

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.

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:

"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.)

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 sixth age shifts / Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon..."

Interesting article from The Daily Galaxy:

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.

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!

Just Because

[Via: Medgadget]

Competitively-Inhibited Synapse

From the Anchorage Daily News:

Top of the third paragraph:

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

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

Beannacht Lá Fhéile Pádraig

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

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

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

Motor Synapse

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

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

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


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

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

Hippocampus Synapse

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



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

Vanitas vanitatum omnia vanitas

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

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

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

Apologies

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

For the nonce, enjoy this awesome video:

Serotonin Synapse

What makes me happy?
This Chinese rap about Ben Cao Gang Mu (or Materia Medica), an ancient text of herbal medicine -- complete with scantily-clad ladies and the invaluable advice not to cut the deer horn too thin when preparing... well, some unspecified herbal remedy, I guess.

What makes me happier?
That I discovered it on the awesome (and heretofore unknown to me) blog of an erstwhile colleague and friend from my alma mater, "String between Pearls." This bloggeuse is one of the most impressively yet unassumingly intelligent people I have had the honor of knowing, and her knowledge of eunuchs alone is devastating in its berth.