Thursday, November 27, 2008

Monster Semantics

According to ancient Greek mythology a ferocious three-headed dog named Cerberus guarded the gates of the underworld and kept the dead from rejoining the living.

I’ve got issues with that.

Not with the concept; an awesome monster-dog at the gates is much more entertaining than an old bouncer that looks like Santa in a bath robe checking names against the naughty/nice list to see who can get into heaven. Mine is an issue with semantics.

I have a friend who’s expecting (or more accurately his girlfriend is expecting) and he thinks that based on the size of her belly that they will be having twins. Let’s say he’s right and in 7 months she gives birth to two normal healthy twins. Wonderful! As my wife and I have always wanted two kids, I for one have always thought that having twins on the first go would be great; get it all over at once. Plus I could get my tubes tied while she’s giving birth (to save gas).

Now, let’s say that by some crazy chance (1 in about 125,000 births according to Wikipedia) she gives birth to conjoined twins. Don’t freak out, I’m not jinxing my friend’s girlfriend’s pregnancy. I threw salt over my shoulder as I wrote it.
In this unlikely event, two babies would still be the end result, they might just be linked at the hip or back or whatever. My point is that conjoined twins are still two individuals; you would never say that they were one individual with two heads.
So why was Cerberus a three-headed dog? If each head is an individual, wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that he (or she?) was a one-bodied pack of dogs? The same would go for any of the multi-individual single-bodied monsters that riddle mythologies, fairy tales, and B-horror movies.
Regardless of what fiction they reside in, these are fearsome beasts! Let’s give them the respect they deserve and use proper mythological nomenclature when discussing them.
Thanks for reading.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Quote of the Day

God, how we get our fingers in each other's clay. That's friendship, each playing the potter to see what shapes we can make of the other.

-Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

Friday, August 22, 2008

Poem: Hope Thins

This is one of mine:

At times the hope thins
No longer buoyant
Supportive
It swirls in vapors
You grasp at it
Falling
It's all you have left
Reaching out for any wisp of it
Shadow of it
For it is strong
And if you could but catch just a little bit of it
The smallest bit
It could support your weight
And the weight upon you
For it is strong
Hope
You could climb back up
And out
If you could catch it

Thursday, August 21, 2008

"Dear God," she prayed, "let me be something every minute of every hour of my life. Let me be gay; let me be sad. Let me be cold; let me be warm. Let me be hungry...have too much to eat. Let me be ragged or well dressed. Let me be sincere-be deceitful. Let me be truthful; let me be a liar. Let me be honorable and let me sin. Only let me be something ever blessed minute. And when I sleep, let me dream all the time so that not one little piece of living is ever lost."

-Frances Nolan
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
by Betty Smith

Monday, August 11, 2008

A Manly Handshake

 Males have it rough. It’s true that we can pee wherever we want and that we don’t have to endure the pain of childbirth, but we still have some biological issues. I invite you to take a mental journey through the animal kingdom. Aside from spectacular mass migrations and gruesome predatory kills, nothing draws more attention in nature than males being male. I’m talking about courtship displays, territorial battles, and the establishment of dominance.

Think about two majestic big horn sheep bashing skulls to determine the right to the female harem. Reflect on the sheer beauty of a male peacock’s plumage. Consider the meticulous craftsmanship of the bower bird that will spend days arranging bits of grass, sticks, feathers, and berries to attract potential mates. Ponder the figure of the lone male lion as he patrols his territorial boarders, marking to create olfactory sign posts and mauling any rival that would dare enter his sanctum. Take the nearest branches in the evolutionary tree, apes and monkeys. Male chimpanzees and gorillas wreak havoc during displays to assert their dominance, howling, pounding their chests, throwing tree limbs; all in a spectacle that says “I am a powerful, manly male!”

Now consider your average human male: receding hairline, slightly overweight and under-groomed, no plumage or antlers, and no claws or fangs. It is difficult for the animal that is the human male to find release for those male behaviors which evolution has bread into our biology. We aren’t allowed to pee on things that we consider ours. Throwing files and computers around the office to establish dominance over the smartass I.T. guy is frowned upon. Some of us have mock-plumage, i.e. fancy cars, clothes, homes. Men do fight; some for real, most in video games. Many men try to assign a number value to their manliness tied directly to their bank account; the more they have in the bank the more dominant they see themselves in society. Plenty of men stick to the age old strategy of having sex with as many women as possible. Nothing makes you more male than using your penis a lot. One of the funny things is that with the exception of penis use, none of these activities is exclusively male.

For me, I have several little things that help me feel manly. The first is something I can’t control; I’m big (6’4”, 220 lbs). There’s just something about being in a crowd and standing a head taller than everyone else that makes me feel good. Another is my job. Being an ecologist means that I get to go outdoors all the time and muck around, get dirty, and yes, pee on trees. The last is one that I find a lot of men do, but I’m not sure they know they do it; a manly handshake.

Most men want to have a strong manly handshake but I doubt that most realize that this becomes an assertion of dominance. Upon meeting, men usually shake hands. The type of handshake depends on the setting and the shakers. In a job interview you go for a respectable and firm handshake, but not crushing. You meet your girlfriend’s man-buddy in a bar and things are different. And there is more to a dominant handshake than just force. While you definitely want to grind some bones, there are also the thumb-web impact, the angle of approach, and the duration of the shake to consider.

The thumb-web impact concerns how much force you apply to the forward thrust of the hand when meeting the others to shake. If you go in slow there’s very little impact. If you go in quick the tissue between the thumb and pointer finger (or thumb-web) will meet in nice manly bump. The angle of approach is also a consideration. I like to use my height to my advantage and come in a little over the top with my palm turned down slightly. That way at the beginning of the shake I’m on top. Then there is the always difficult question of how long to shake. I’m usually a quick shaker; too long of a handshake and all of a sudden you’re holding hands. Hopefully, with the right handshake you can tell your girl’s buddy everything that needs to be said without saying a word.

And that’s about the just of it. It might be said that I have put way too much thought into this. That may be so but I think it’s just one more tiny facet of human behavior that is so interesting to observe. Others may say I’m relying way too much on a handshake to assert my manliness. That also may be true. Oh well, at least I’m not running around trying to impregnate any woman still breathing.

Thank you for reading.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

I Have an Old Rusty Nut


I have an old nut on my desk at work. My office is scattered with odd little trinkets that biologists tend to pick up in the field: antlers, leaves, sharks teeth, golf balls, etc. This nut is different. It’s a metal nut (as in “nuts and bolts”) that’s bigger than any nut you’ll ever see at your local hardware store. It’s bigger than a golf ball and probably weighs as much as a tennis shoe. It’s also quite old. It’s faded, worn, and rusted. It’s pitted, gouged, and the thread is completely stripped away. And for me, it is a constant source of inspiration.

To understand why, you need to know where the nut came from. I guess I don’t exactly know its origin; some smelter somewhere I suppose. Where it crossed my path was in Idaho. I stole it from a former place of employment on my last day there. I’m sure nobody missed it; the floor was littered with them. That same floor was also cover with tobacco spit, wood chips, glue, dirt, sweat, blood, long metal bolts, and heavy metal bracers. It was, and I suppose still is, the floor of a beam plant.

I’m not fond of sharing how I ended up at the beam plant so let’s just leave it that I was there. A beam plant is, as the name implies, a plant where they manufacture wooden beams to be used in building construction. The whole process works down a long conveyor belt. Boards come in one end of the building, are cut and planed down to certain sizes in the prep room then sent on down the conveyor belt to the glue room to be glued and dried to make beams of specific dimensions. The beams then go on down the conveyor to be planed again and sanded and eventually shipped out the other end of the long building. The manufacturing process is labor intensive and dangerous, no more so than in the glue room. As a result, the glue room has a relatively high turn-over rate. Consequently, that’s where I was hired to work.

The glue room consists of the long conveyor belt down the center of the room leading from prep and moving on to the sanding area. Spaced evenly along both sides of the belt are large metal frames shaped like 6’ tall L’s standing up off the floor. As each individual board enters the room from prep, it passes through a machine that coats the top side of the board with thick, hot, foul-smelling glue. The glue is made with formaldehyde and its fumes cause headaches and eye irritation in new workers. Some workers are unfortunate enough to react badly to contact with the glue, breaking out in rashes on any exposed areas of skin. Getting the glue off at the end of the day involves copious amounts of soap and scrubbing, usually leaving you pink and raw.

A man (and I’m not being sexist, no women work in the glue room) standing just in front of the glue machine (to the side of the conveyor belt) known as the “thrower”, grabs each board as it comes whizzing out from the glue machine at high speed. The thrower then whips the board, each of which may be up to 60’ long and weigh nearly 100 lbs, off the side of the conveyor belt and down steep metal ramps to rest in the L shaped frames. If the thrower gets his fingers between two boards as they come out of the glue machine, they will likely be crushed.

On the L-frames, a man known as the “stander” has seconds to stand the board up so that the glued top of the board will rest evenly against the unglued bottom of the adjacent board. He uses a specially shaped hammer to pound and wrestle the board into place. The boards whip down the ramps and slam into the frame. If the stander doesn’t move quickly enough when grabbing the boards to stand them up, his fingers will likely be smashed and broken.

Layer after layer of glued boars is stacked into the L’s. In between each layer, 2 or 3 men working behind the L’s lay long heavy metal bolts that hang from racks on the walls. As each layer is completed, the bolts are run up with powerful pneumatic wrenches using heavy metal bracers (known as irons) and large nuts to squeeze the glued boards together to dry. If the man running up the bolts mistakenly holds an iron with his fingers between the iron and the wood as the bolt is being tightened by the pneumatic wrench, the worker will probably loose the fingers. Any misstep can send the long metal bolts teetering from the racks down onto the workers.

As the stacks of glued boards grow higher, the workers must climb higher on the stacks to stand the boards and lay the bolts. The stacks routinely top 6-7’ and the hot glue is slippery making falls not an uncommon occurrence. Tall stacks also bring the workers closer and closer to the dozen large heaters that keep the glue room at a minimum 96 degrees for the purpose of drying the glue as fast as possible. When working on the top of the stack, being so close to the heaters can raise air temperatures well over 100 degrees.

The glue is allowed to dry until the next shift at which point the newly formed beams are hoisted back onto the conveyor using pneumatic lifts. The beams can weigh hundreds of pounds and the lifts must be raised and lowered in unison so as not to upset them. If upset, the beams can fall off the lifts and crash down the ramps right back at the workers.

I personally witnessed a number of accidents, most minor, some major. Every-day injuries included banged-up knees and shins from irons, boards or bolts, banged-up and smashed fingers, splinters of every variety, dehydration, heat stress, slips, scrapes, and falls. I experienced all of that myself. My wife was always pulling slivers of wood out of my battered shins. I was also one of the unfortunate few that reacted badly to the glue, breaking out in painful and itchy rashes on my arms. I very nearly lost some fingers while running up a bolt but was saved that fate by an alert coworker (to whom I am still grateful). I was lucky however, to avoid the more serious injuries that I witnessed.

In my 6 months in the glue room at the beam plant, I knew of or witnessed a number of broken fingers and toes, several lost fingers, and a chainsaw that kicked back and cut a whole big enough to hide a softball in a coworker’s torso. There was a guy on a different shift that fell off the stack and broke his pelvis. The worst injury involved a guy I worked with that was bent backwards over the conveyor by a large beam. He broke his back and lost most of his spleen. There has been one reported death at the plant that I know of but that was before my time. And while I was employed there, we received a safety award from OSHA; now that’s irony.

The guys I worked with were, strangely enough, a bit of a bright spot. They were all crude, some racist, some bigots, most sexist, some addicts, and some worse. But for the most part they were good guys doing hard, honest work. They treated each other like shit, but that was just part of the deal.

The take home message of this long-winded tutorial is that this place was pretty much hell. It was hot, smelly, and dangerous. I lost 25 lbs during my time there just because of the intensity of the labor (and I was skinny to begin with). I slowly got tired of pain. Few people, myself included, enjoy pain but to be exposed to it so regularly that you actually get physically tired of it is something else completely. I reworded Grateful Dead songs so that the lyrics talked about escaping from my beam plant hell. I hated that place. And today, I wouldn’t give my time there back for anything.

I think that one of the main reasons people become unhappy, especially here in the US, is that they don’t realize how good they have it. Find two couples that have been together about the same length of time, one that has gone through some real rough times and one that hasn’t. The couple who’s always been happy will most likely be bickering about every little thing that comes up. The couple who’s been through hell and come out the other side knows not to sweat the small stuff.

That’s what QB did for me. The nut on my desk has been worn down from a shiny brand-new piece of industry to a rusted and broken paperweight. I keep it on my desk to remind me how good I have it. I could easily be in a place that would wear me down; that would break me. Instead I’m in a good place doing something I enjoy. This may be a little melodramatic, but maybe you have to go through hell to appreciate heaven.

Saturday, July 12, 2008

Hot and Cold Soup


Whenever I read a book or watch a movie I have two reactions: the hot soup reaction and the cold soup reaction. The hot soup reaction is my response while in the act of reading/viewing the book/movie and immediately after. It's about emotional response, flow, and pure entertainment. The cold soup reaction occurs in the days and weeks afterword. When you make homemade chicken soup or chili and then put it into the fridge to sit a few days, little bits of fat float to the top in bits of yellowish congealed grossness. That’s how my cold soup reaction goes. As time goes on the little plot glitches, character flaws, and dialog stumbles of any book or movie float to the top of my consciousness and bug the hell out of me.
Thanks for reading.

Friday, July 4, 2008

Song Review: No Handle Bars, Flobot

The first time I heard this song the radio DJ introduced it by saying, “I think it’s political but I’m not sure.” It seemed like a fairly stupid statement but after listening to the song, I wasn’t sure either. I knew I liked it, but I felt like the lyrics (please see below) were probably deeper that I comprehended at the time.

I like that the lyrics require thought. I get sick of “teardrops on my guitar” pop songs that require about as much mental effort as a Dancing with the Stars marathon. I’ve listed to the song a few more times and I still like it. It still makes me think but I think I’ve got the basics of it. I think my original mistake had been trying to analyze the individual lyrics. This song requires a more big-picture approach.

The song opens with a first stanza that speaks of raw talent “I can show you how to scratch a record” “I can keep rhythm with no metronome”. But the subject also has a child-like innocence in his broad subject matter (“I can tie a knot in a cherry stem, I can tell you about Leif Erikson”) and content (“Me and my friend saw a platypus”). The talent is that of youth, raw and untainted by ambition.

The second stanza quickly introduces that ambition. It leaves young talent and moves to the corporate. The ambition starts relatively small (“I can make money open up a thrift store, I can make a living off a magazine”) and progressively becomes more ambitious “(I can make new antibiotics, I can make computers survive aquatic conditions”). The lyrics progress from the subject working in a business to designing a product to running a business. It then moves beyond a single business to the understanding and manipulation of the economy as a whole (“Movers shakers and producers, Me and my friends understand the future, I see the strings that control the systems”).

The second stanza ends with the subject moving out of the corporate and into the political. The line, “I can do anything with no assistance” implies a single leader while “I can lead a nation with a microphone” makes it pretty clear that the leadership role being referenced is that of President of the United States.

The third stanza opens with lyrics that reflect the triumph associated with power. The subject is sure of his power, its reach and its scope. And no sooner has that power been proclaimed than we see that it has corrupted. The only mention of using the power for good (“I can hand out a million vaccinations”) is there only to illustrate that the alternative is just as easy to order and well within his power (“Or let'em all die in exasperation”). It’s hard to hear “I can make anybody go to prison, Just because I don't like'em and, I can do anything with no permission” without thinking of the enemy combatants in Guantanamo.

And finally the possible final consequence of uncontrolled power ends the stanza: total destruction. That’s the general theme of the song, uncontrolled ambition and power. The subject plows straight through these various life stages unchecked (“Look at me, Look at me, Driving and I won't stop”). The rise to power is the bike with no handlebars, ridden straight forward with little to no control.

The music reflects these stages in both tone and tempo. The song starts with a very controlled tempo; the lyrics nearly monotone and without accompaniment; the instrumentation almost nonexistent. As the song progresses the vocals become less constrained until the end when they are screamed with a likewise screaming chorus. Instrumentation gradually becomes more complex throughout the song as well, slowly adding progressively intensifying trumpet and electric guitar. The tempo increases as the song builds to climax. In short the music of the song mirrors the lyrics as it moves from simplistic to complex, niave to worldly, innocent to corrupt, and along the progession of power.

Thank you for reading.

No Handle Bars, Flobot
Lyrics:

I can ride my bike with no handlebarsNo handlebarsNo handlebarsI can ride my bike with no handlebarsNo handlebarsNo handlebarsLook at me, look at mehands in the air like it's good to beALIVEand I'm a famous rappereven when the paths're all crookedyI can show you how to do-si-doI can show you how to scratch a recordI can take apart the remote controlAnd I can almost put it back togetherI can tie a knot in a cherry stemI can tell you about Leif EricsonI know all the words to "De Colores"And "I'm Proud to be an American"Me and my friend saw a platypusMe and my friend made a comic bookAnd guess how long it tookI can do anything that I want cuz, look:I can keep rhythm with no metronomeNo metronomeNo metronomeI can see your face on the telephoneOn the telephoneOn the telephoneLook at meLook at meJust called to say that it's good to beALIVEIn such a small worldAll curled up with a book to readI can make money open up a thrift storeI can make a living off a magazineI can design an engine sixty fourMiles to a gallon of gasolineI can make new antibioticsI can make computers survive aquatic conditionsI know how to run a businessAnd I can make you wanna buy a productMovers shakers and producersMe and my friends understand the futureI see the strings that control the systemsI can do anything with no assistanceI can lead a nation with a microphoneWith a microphoneWith a microphoneI can split the atoms of a moleculeOf a moleculeOf a moleculeLook at meLook at meDriving and I won't stopAnd it feels so good to beAlive and on topMy reach is globalMy tower secureMy cause is nobleMy power is pureI can hand out a million vaccinationsOr let'em all die in exasperationHave'em all grilled leavin lacerationsHave'em all killed by assassinationI can make anybody go to prisonJust because I don't like'em andI can do anything with no permissionI have it all under my commandI can guide a missile by satelliteBy satelliteBy satelliteand I can hit a target through a telescopeThrough a telescopeThrough a telescopeand I can end the planet in a holocaustIn a holocaustIn a holocaustIn a holocaustIn a holocaustIn a holocaustI can ride my bike with no handlebarsNo handle barsNo handlebarsI can ride my bike with no handlebarsNo handlebarsNo handlebars

Monday, June 30, 2008

Possessing Art

Any piece of art belongs to two entities: the artist and the consumer of the art. When I say “belongs to” I’m not referring to the actual act of physical possession but instead the incorporeal (cultural, intellectual, spiritual, temporal, etc.) nature in which a person(s), by relating to the art in a significant way, makes it their own. For example, the song a couple hears on the radio during their first date and later dances to at their wedding is as much their song as it is the person who wrote it or the group who performed it. To make a significant relation to a piece of art, and in that act possess it, a person will make their own interpretation as to what it signifies, represents, or means to them. Millions of people can possess a single piece of art, and each one will approach it slightly differently based on their own world view. Because our world views change over time, each person’s interpretation may also change. As such, over time there are almost infinite interpretations of any piece of art despite the fact that few of those interpretations may be close to what the artist originally intended; and they are all still correct. That is that nature of art; it is what allows a single creation to mean so much to so many people.

Thank you for reading.

Monday, June 23, 2008

Thank You, Mr. George Carlin


I am a vain person. Not all around and not excessively, but I am vain none the less. I think everyone has their vanities: professional, social, aesthetic, athletic. My vanity is intellectual. I like thinking that I’m smart, that I’m well read. I like to think that my opinions are formed based on information from particularly pertinent and credible sources. I like using big words. I get pleasure from teaching, in part, because I enjoy being the source of information. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I am an intellectual snob, but there is vanity in me that I see.

One symptom of it is that I am often determined not to care about pop-culture and those that inhabit that niche of society. I abhor tabloids and, although I shouldn’t, I look down on people who read them (not much, just a little). I admit the tragedy in the death of a celebrity but rarely care about the particulars. This morning shattered that serenity more that I care to admit. This morning I found out that George Carlin died.

George Carlin was a comedian. That’s what all the tributes that will come out over the next days, weeks, and years will start with. They will talk about the “7 Words You Can’t Say on TV” bit, one of his best. The tributes will mention the implication of the bit on the legal and moral debate over censorship. “All the way to the Supreme Court”, they will read. What they won’t say, what it’s difficult to convey, is Mr. Carlin’s influence on the way we think; the way we perceive the world and our place in it.

As I said above, I’m vain. I don’t like admitting being influenced by someone that made their living in TV and the movies. But upon reflection when learning of his death, I was surprised to admit to myself that George Carlin probably contributed more of who I am, specifically the way I think about things, than I thought possible. I want to keep things in perspective; I don’t think he made any bulk contributions to who I am in one area or another. More accurately, he added little snippets of influence here and there: religion, politics, sports, war, gay rights, sex, abortion, and women’s rights to name a few. My conscience seems to be riddled with little bits of his bits.

The thing is, I don’t mind. I’m proud to have them there. Even though the tributes will all say he was a comedian, I have always thought of him first as a philosopher or a particularly insightful social commentator. He just used comedy as a vessel to teach people about the things they weren’t seeing; and he was good at it. The vessel and the contents merged into the same. Insight coupled with humor; it’s hard to beat. Not only was he intelligent enough to see, he was gifted enough to convey. That's his legacy as much as the laughter; the fact that when the laughter dies away, people are still left thinking. I, personally, thank him for both.

Thank you for reading.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

I Believe...


I want it to be understood that what I post on this site is what I believe. Like anyone, I think that I have chosen the right or correct thing to believe. People don’t often believe something they think to be incorrect or wrong. That wouldn’t make any sense. Therefore, since I think that my beliefs are right, and since no doubt there may be others with different beliefs, I, by definition, think that those with differing beliefs are wrong or incorrect. This is human nature. If I thought that someone else’s beliefs were better than mine, I would adopt them as my own. Then of course, those who moments before shared my previous belief would now be considered by me to be wrong. This, I think, is the fluidity of belief.

Fluidity is that which keeps your certainty in your own beliefs being the correct beliefs, the best beliefs, from leading to conceit and arrogance. It is natural to think your belief is the best because you think it. But to not keep an open mind that allows even the possibility that there are better beliefs out there is very dangerous. Without openness there is no fluidity of belief. And without fluidity of belief there is no growth; there is only stagnation.

That may seem a lot to say to state what is inherently obvious. But I say this in the effort to examine belief itself. In the context in which I write, the word belief could easily be replaced with "idea" or "feeling". People take their own thought, feelings, and beliefs for granted far too often without taking the time to examine the nature of what they’re experiencing. A brief moment of contemplation, as I’ve just written it, can at least give you a glimpse into the nature of your own belief, its rigidity or fluidity, its strength or weakness.

That having been said, I want to make very clear that I want to imply no disrespect to anyone that believes differently from me. I don’t think anyone (for the most part) is stupid or evil for believing different than me, just mistaken. But if you disagree with me, then you no doubt feel the same. Therefore, if we chose to, we must each make an effort to see the merits, if any, in the others belief. If we find some, we can incorporate them into our own beliefs. If we can successfully argue the absence of merit, then we may be able to convince the other to adopt at least part of our own belief. That’s what this site is all about!

Thank you for reading.