Primates are cool, mmmkay?

From the NZ Herald:

Remarkable video clips of wild chimpanzees using "tool kits" to dig out termites from their underground nest have been recorded by scientists who believe it is the most sophisticated culture yet observed in great apes other than man.

Although chimps are known to use long twigs as simple tools to fish for termites - a nutritious delicacy - this is the first time that a far more complex behaviour involving two different kinds of tools has been observed in the wild.

Crickette Sanz of the Max Planck Institute in Leipzig and David Morgan of Cambridge University make the video with the help of hidden cameras trained on termite mounds in the tropical forests of the Congo that chimps were known to frequent.

They filmed the chimps using a thick stick, which they had previously prepared by stripping it of its leaves, to push a long tunnel about a foot deep into the heart of the underground termite nest. Once they had removed the stick, they pushed a far more delicate twig that had been deliberately frayed at one end down the tunnel and into the heart of the nest, said Professor Andrew Whiten of Edinburgh University.

Sweet. I've been flirting with the idea of pursuing a career in Primatology for a few months now. Stuff like this really makes me want to go for it (once I get the whole education thing going again, of course).

And one more important point from the story:

However, the primatologists warned that the study of primate culture is getting more difficult because all species of great ape are threatened with extinction.

"On a daily basis we're losing the opportunity to document culture in wild gorillas because these populations are disappearing faster than we can actually study them," she said.

Our closest cousins (especially Mountain Gorillas, Orangutuans and Bonobos) are in serious danger of extinction due to a variety of factors including loss of habitat due to deforestation and the bushmeat trade. This is a real tragedy that I hope can be averted, but I'm fairly pessimistic about our chances. If I could devote my life and career to saving as many of these incredible animals as possible (ala Jane Goodall), I would consider it time well spent.

English Writing Assignment #2: Narrative

Little Shop Class of Horrors

As a pre-pubescent twelve-year-old, I loathed and feared the idea of vulnerability. Who could blame me? The harsh environment of most junior high schools, where the weak are preyed upon by the strong and the smallest sign of frailty can result in an atomic wedgie or worse, is enough to give even the most ardent Social Darwinist pause. The school I attended, Dassel-Cokato Middle School, was situated in the country between two very small towns. Some people might think that my school, with its rustic atmosphere, would have a more generous, kind-spirited attitude than its suburban counterparts. They would be wrong. Surrounded on all sides by miles of corn and bean fields, many of my classmates seemed to turn to cruelty and viciousness simply out of shear boredom. Whatever the reason, life at my junior high school was like life at most junior high schools; in other words, it was terrible. I was generally a good student and I had some friends, but I was nowhere near the top of the social pecking order and simply maintaining my low position required constant effort.

In the midst of this struggle, I was thrust into a daunting new environment that threatened to shake the core of my already anemic self-confidence: shop class. In order to churn out well-rounded individuals, my school required that each student take two quarters of the “Industrial Arts.” Most boys my age seemed delighted at this prospect, but for me it was a nightmare. In my mind, the ability to work with my hands was a skill that I was content to leave in a state of permanent atrophy and I wanted to learn to use power tools about as much as I wanted to go to prison. But I was not given a choice, so, on one brisk winter morning, I found myself attending the first day of shop class.

The teacher, Mr. Osborne, did nothing to inspire my confidence. He was tall and skinny with a flushed face and a shock of wispy white hair on the top of his head. When his mouth closed, his lips formed a condescending sneer that seemed to say, “I’m helping you because I’m being paid, not because I care about you.” It was this ugly mouth that I was watching on the first day of class. Mr. Osborne had gathered us in a rough semi-circle around one of the jigsaws and was explaining the safety rules for using the machine.

He pointed to the thin, vertically-aligned blade of the saw and stated, “This is not a toy and you will not treat it like one. The blade is designed to cut through wood, but it can just as easily cut through skin and bone if you’re not careful.”

He held out his thumb, directed our eyes to the top joint and said, “Always keep at least an inch between your fingers and the blade. In all my years of teaching, only one student has had an accident with a saw. He was messing around, not paying attention to what he was doing and you know what happened? He cut the tip of his index finger off. He had to have it sewed back on. There was blood everywhere.”

During this lecture, I happened to be standing next to a girl named Rose. She had moved to my school the previous fall and I did not know her well, but she was tall, husky and had a reputation for being a bit of a bully. While Mr. Osborne was telling us his “Parable of the Inattentive Student,” I noticed a change come over her. I saw all of the color drain out of her face. I do not know exactly what physiological responses cause a person’s skin to become suddenly and immediately pale, but it looked as if the blood in her veins had been replaced by liquefied chalk. To me, it appeared that death was near. Then, as if to confirm my suspicion, her eyeballs rolled into the back of her head and she staggered backward against the table she had been leaning against. Then, without warning, her muscles shut down and she crumpled onto the floor like a pair of discarded pants. I watched this astounding event unfold from a distance of one foot.

Mr. Osborne stopped his speech and went to Rose. He seemed more annoyed than worried, but he called the school nurse who quickly came and helped Rose out of the class. After they had left the room, Mr. Osborne picked up with his lecture, but his audience had become distracted. While the air around me hummed with a mixture of shocked murmurs and amused snickering, I stood in silence. In my head, I watched Rose collapse in a repeating slow-motion replay that paused each time to focus on the ghostly blank stare of her sightless eyes. As Mr. Osborne continued to explain to us the terrible things that would happen if we misused his machinery, I was overwhelmed by nausea. My eyesight blurred and I began to see a company of tiny black ants dance along the edges of my vision. All at once, my pores exploded with sweat, but I felt like the room temperature had dropped ten degrees. I cannot personally attest to what transpired next, but afterwards I was informed that my skin took on that familiar white-death hue and I proceeded to perform a nosedive onto the polished granite floor. Unlike Rose, who had the grace to simply collapse in a heap, I toppled head-first, my body as straight and inflexible as a two-by-four.

Ten seconds later, I regained consciousness and found myself lying on the floor. I had no idea what had happened, but I could sense that things were amiss. The world was spinning and I could not see clearly, but I noticed that my glasses were mysteriously bent and lying next to me, instead of on my face. Mr. Osborne called the nurse and, for the second time in less than ten minutes, she came to escort a sick student out of shop class. Even with her assistance, I barely managed to make it through the door before I collapsed against the wall and had to bury my head as far into my knees as it would go. Eventually, the gyrating of the world slowed enough to allow me to get back on my feet and, small step by small step, we continued the long trek to the nurse’s office.

I was placed down on a cot next to Rose who, amused at our combined infirmity, proceeded to make me feel even more miserable than I already did. She looked at me and said, “Well, I guess we both just have weak stomachs. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Her words were meant to comfort me, but they had the opposite effect she intended and I resented her for it. I did not have a weak stomach! Maybe her stomach was unsound (and as far as I was concerned there was something wrong with that!), but mine most certainly was not. I was just as strong and normal as anybody else and I certainly had not been bothered by the teacher’s graphic descriptions. I was a boy and that meant that I enjoyed discussing gruesome topics like losing digits and bleeding profusely, right? The real reason I had passed out was that I had seen Rose do it first and my body had, for reasons unknown, been forced to mimic her. In other words, all of this was her fault!

These were the lies that I told myself in an attempt to reestablish a sense of invulnerability, if only in my own eyes. Certainly I would be teased about blacking out (“Hey kid, did you have a nice trip? How was your fall?”), but if I could convince myself that personal weakness had not been the true cause, maybe it would not hurt as badly. Armed with this strategy, I went back to shop class the next day and managed to survive. I almost always wished that I could be anywhere else, but I did my time without further incident or embarrassment.

Looking back on that day with a decade of hindsight and a bit more maturity, I can see the dishonesty in the things I told myself while in the nurse’s office and I realize now that Rose was right about me. I do have a weak stomach. I have not passed out since that day but I’ve come uncomfortably close quite a few times. Even today, a particularly grisly discussion may occasionally send me searching for a place to sit down and hug my knees before waves of vertigo sweep me under. I have learned to live with these infrequent, but unpleasant experiences. I also know that Rose was right about something else; we are all weak and vulnerable at times and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Self-hating Jews Promote World Peace

This is too funny:

Amitai Sandy (29), graphic artist and publisher of Dimona Comix Publishing, from Tel-Aviv, Israel, has followed the unfolding of the “Muhammad cartoon-gate” events in amazement, until finally he came up with the right answer to all this insanity - and so he announced today the launch of a new anti-Semitic cartoons contest - this time drawn by Jews themselves!
“We’ll show the world we can do the best, sharpest, most offensive Jew hating cartoons ever published!” said Sandy “No Iranian will beat us on our home turf!”

As the old cliche states, this idea is "so crazy it just might work."
Here's hoping.

English class writing, #1

I'm currently taking an English class at a local community college? Why? Because, UCSD told me that I needed another college-level english writing classes to be eligible for transfer, that's why. My first assignment was to write a self-portrait from the neck up. I post it here, not because I think it was particularly stellar or terribly relevant to this blog, but simply because it's something that I wrote:

What’s in a name? If William Shakespeare is to be believed, a name does not say much about its owner. A face, on the other hand, says quite a lot. A person’s face is the first feature to be seen and the last to be forgotten. It is the most enduring physical impression that you or I have to offer. I hope - and it will soon be clear if my optimism is justified - that mine puts me in a comfortable position somewhere between Quasimodo and Johnny Depp.

Lounging on my head is a mat of finely textured brown hair. The sides and back are shaved short, not short enough to garner me any military discounts, but close. The top, with the exception of an Alfalfa-like patch near the rear that refuses to bend to the forces of gravity or human will, is pushed down and forward, while the front is spiked up like a fortress wall guarding my scalp against the onslaught of an army of combs. Highlighted by a pale complexion and under close scrutiny, my forehead is a lined, scarred and pockmarked testament to historic battles instigated by the forces of chicken pox and acne against my poor, defenseless epidermis. In addition, three horizontal fold lines have formed across my temple, possibly indicating that I spend too much time alternating between astonished excitement and furrowed disapproval.

My eyebrows, which are of a similar hue to the hair on my scalp, are thick and may often aspire to and sometimes verge upon unruliness, but I have never found them to be unmanageable. A centimeter lower, two narrow dark blue rings circumscribe the outer edges of my irises. Inside these borders are two fascinating amalgamations of sapphire, jade and gold that, when gazed into for a long time, appears to dance and shimmer from the surface of my eyes all the way to the back of my head. These jewels are, I think, one of my better features. Conversely, my nose is unquestionably my least tolerable feature. Overly large and uneven, it seems that I may have opted for the super-size when I should have ordered a medium! To make matters worse, the skin on and surrounding my schnozzle consistently manages, in seemingly paradoxical fashion, to be both dry and oily.

My lips are full and evenly matched, save for when they are pursed and my upper lip seems to be swallowed by its bottom partner. Often in need of ChapStick, but rarely in possession of it, they tend to be parched and cracked. My jaw line is firm but rounded and is hidden by a scraggly, auburn-shaded beard. These glorified whiskers are constantly threatening to creep and crawl down my collar and are often encouraged in this endeavor by my inconsistent shaving habits. My neck is thin and unremarkable except for a single lonely mole that, like a rose in the desert, seems curiously, but not unpleasantly, out of place.

As the most noteworthy and identifiable of physical characteristics, our faces have interesting things to say about who we are. Not for nothing does the old maxim remind us to “Put our best faces forward.” My best face may not be perfect and there are certainly things that I would change about it if I could, but my mug is generally satisfactory and could, I like to believe, be loved by more than just my mother.

Senator Russ Feingold on warrantless wiretapping

From TPMCafe:

"This administration reacts to anyone who questions this illegal program by saying that those of us who demand the truth and stand up for our rights and freedoms somehow has a pre-9/11 world view. In fact, the President has a pre-1776 world view. Our government has three branches, not one. And no one, not even the President, is above the law."

Mhmmmm....makes me proud to say I was born in Wisconsin.

The metaphysical implications of cross-pavement poultry movement

Skeptico, in hilarious fashion, answers one of life's timeless questions. Go read it. Now.

In which I prove to be too cool to live up to my commitments

I have decided to put my Apocalyptic literature plans on the back-burner, at least for the moment. Why am turning my back on this lucrative career move? Well, my reasoning goes something like this:

1. I tried to think of something funny to write.
2. Nothing came to mind.
3. I got bored.
4. I quit.

No doubt this decision is for the best. I'm far too sophisticated for that sort of pulp fiction anyway. I think I need to focus my attention on more high-class forms of artistic expression....like comic books and professional wrestling!

In which I reveal certain ethical shortcomings and prove to be a misanthrope, part 1

I had a "moment of clarity" the other day. I was driving home from work and listening to a news story on All Things Considered regarding the escalating situation between the US/EU and Iran on all things nuclear. My first thought, "Wow, this sounds like an extremely volatile situation," was quickly followed by, "....That is just begging to be exploited!" And just like that, I received a revelation.

I quickily came to see that my life's goal, no, my life's calling is to become fabulously rich by churning out Eschatological fiction geared towards fundamentalist Christians (isn't that where all of it is geared anyway?). While possibly not the noblest of missions, I submit that, in monetary terms, my plan is virtually flawless. I base this on three fundamental (pun intended) premises:


1. Fundamentalists generally have poor taste in entertainment (as evidenced by the success of the Left Behind Series, The Prayer of Jabez, and Pat Robertson).

2. Fundamentalists are generally ignorant of the world around them (as evidenced by the success of the Left Behind Series, The Prayer of Jabez, and Pat Robertson).

3. Fundamentalists generally have a fair bit of cash available for discretionary spending (as evidenced by the success of the Left Behind Series, The Prayer of Jabez, and Pat Robertson).

Yes, as long as I can consistently pound out 300 pages of that lovable combination of violence, cultural egotism and self-absorbed religiosity, I can't help but become disturbingly successful! Sure, my books will be pure dreck. Sure the characters will all be one-dimensional and completely unlikable. Sure, I'll be writing about things that I have little to no knowledge about, but those are nothing but technical difficulties, mere irrelevancies! As long as my incompetent, one-dimensional dreck appeals to the base emotions of my chosen demographic, they'll eat it up!

Though still in early draft form, I've tentatively titled my first book AD 2007: The Year of Our Lord. While I'll be including an excerpt of what I promise will be a thriller "ripped straight from the headlines(!)" in my next post, let me first set the stage:

It is late January, 2007. After nearly a year of tense fruitless negotiations, the leaders of Iran have decided to defy the Americans and proceed with their plan to continue uranium-enriching experiments. They claim to want enriched uranium for "purely peaceful, domestic purposes" but the NSA has uncovered evidence to the contrary. After a leak to the hardliner Israeli Prime Minister, an aerial strike on Iran is ordered. Thousands of Iranians die in one fateful night and their leaders promise vengeance. As the situation deteriorates and the world stands at the precipice of Armageddon, The U.S. sends a crack squad of Navy Seals into Iran in a desperate attempt to gain some control of this spirally situation.

It is here that we meet our protagonist, Ryan Rand. Ryan is a former atheist who became a Christian during a long talk with Pastor Jack Golde, minister of Grace Valley Community Baptist Church. After his arguments were defeated and his worldview was shown to be worthless, , Ryan opened his heardened heart to Jesus. Now a member of the Navy Seals in Iran, Ryan has been captured and imprisoned by Iranian authorities. He still remembers that inspring talk with Pastor Jack, but in this dark place it seems like a lifetime ago. Ryan is about to learn that if faith is to be proven true, it must be tested by fire....in his case, gunfire.

To be continued...

Excuses, Excuses

I haven't blogged in over a month because:

- I was stranded on a desert island.
- My dog ate the internet.
- I developed a debilitating disease that has since gone into remission.
- My hands were horrifically mutilated in an industrial accident and I've spent the past month in intensive rehab.
- I've been on a non-stop bender (actually, I'd probably be blogging more if this was the case).
- I was kidnapped by the U.S. government and forced to find and subsequently destroy the cures for cancer, AIDS and the common cold (hint: they're the same thing!)
- I spent the past month training for a Dance Dance Revolution battle against Hugo Chavez.

All of these (and more!) are true. My blogging absence has nothing whatsoever to do with laziness.

Goooooo Team Democracy!

Not enough good news in Iraq? No problem, we'll just plant our own:

U.S. Military Covertly Pays to Run Stories in Iraqi Press
WASHINGTON — As part of an information offensive in Iraq, the U.S. military is secretly paying Iraqi newspapers to publish stories written by American troops in an effort to burnish the image of the U.S. mission in Iraq.

The articles, written by U.S. military "information operations" troops, are translated into Arabic and placed in Baghdad newspapers with the help of a defense contractor, according to U.S. military officials and documents obtained by the Los Angeles Times.

Many of the articles are presented in the Iraqi press as unbiased news accounts written and reported by independent journalists. The stories trumpet the work of U.S. and Iraqi troops, denounce insurgents and tout U.S.-led efforts to rebuild the country.

Though the articles are basically factual, they present only one side of events and omit information that might reflect poorly on the U.S. or Iraqi governments, officials said. Records and interviews indicate that the U.S. has paid Iraqi newspapers to run dozens of such articles, with headlines such as "Iraqis Insist on Living Despite Terrorism," since the effort began this year.

The operation is designed to mask any connection with the U.S. military. The Pentagon has a contract with a small Washington-based firm called Lincoln Group, which helps translate and place the stories. The Lincoln Group's Iraqi staff, or its subcontractors, sometimes pose as freelance reporters or advertising executives when they deliver the stories to Baghdad media outlets.

The military's effort to disseminate propaganda in the Iraqi media is taking place even as U.S. officials are pledging to promote democratic principles, political transparency and freedom of speech in a country emerging from decades of dictatorship and corruption.

See also Knight Ridder's U.S. military pays Iraqis for positive news stories on war.

Periodically, I find myself having the urge to move to the Upper Peninsula and join one of those paranoid militias that stockpiles weapons and makes plans to fight the Federal Government. Luckily, I always manage to fend off these ridiculous notions. Hearing about stuff like this sure makes it hard, though.

Back to hitting the books?

After a two year hiatus from the academic world, I have turned in my application and am now a prospective student at the University of California at San Diego. Now I only have to wait five long months to find out if I'm one of the lucky five percent of accepted transfers who don't come from other California colleges and universities.



ps. Biological Anthropology, baby! Oh yeah.

What's that spell?

Because Outward Rotting Enables Drama...
Bringing Other Respectable Entities Downward...
Bourgeois Otters Remain Enviable Dudes...
Braggarts Ordering Remarkably Exceptional Doilies...
Boosting Our Retinue's Esteem Daily...
Bannister Organizations Ruining Every Descent...
Brazenly Ousting Routine Endemic Dowries...
Before Ontological Reasoning Executes Diabolically...
Bastards Only Retain Excellent Dialectics...

There really is no justice in this world

'Arrested Development' gets the Ax

Arrested Development is one of the best and funniest shows to be aired on network television in the past decade and Fox cuts it because nobody was watching it. Unbelievable. If you are reading this and happen to be one of the many people who turned a blind eye to fantastic television, I want you to know that I blame you for this. In order to get my proper satisfaction for this egregious wrong-doing, I'm reserving the right to stop by your house and key your car.



(ps. the reason for the non-post below is that I didn't feel comfortable with the juxaposition of a real tragedy with my pseudo-tragic melodrama. I needed a buffer)

This post has no content

See above.

To Allan

The world lost a good one today. Allan Glenn, better known to the internet world as WinAce, has died of complications related to Cystic Fibrosis. He was 20 years old. I'm tempted to try to say a few words about him, but I really didn't know him very well. We talked via email a few times, but mostly I knew him as the creator of Fundies Say the Darndest Things and as a member of the Internet Infidels. Allan, you will be missed. You already are.

Chronic stupidity is not a preventable disease

Via Pharyngula, The San Francisco Chronicle reports that a "new vaccine that protects against cervical cancer has set up a clash between health advocates who want to use the shots aggressively to prevent thousands of malignancies and social conservatives who say immunizing teen-agers could encourage sexual activity. "

Good lord, some people just don't have any common sense. Does anybody really think that somebody who wasn't sexually active because she was afraid of getting cervical cancer is just going to start sleeping around once she gets the vaccine? Call me crazy, but my guess is that she still might be concerned about contracting a few of these little buggers:

Amebiasis
Bacterial Vaginosis
Campylobacter Fetus
Candidiasis
Chancroid
Chlamydia
Condyloma Acuminata
Cytomegalovirus
Enteric Infections
Genital Mycoplasmas
Genital Warts (HPV)
Giardiasis
Gonorrhea
Granuloma Inguinale
Hepatitis
Herpes
HIV Disease
Lymphogranuloma Venereum
Molluscum Contagiosum
Pediculosis Pubis
Pubic Lice (Crabs)
Salmonella
Scabies
Shingellosis
Syphilis
Trichomoniasis
Yeast Infection
Vaginitis
Amebiasis
Bacterial Vaginosis
Campylobacter Fetus
Candidiasis
Chancroid
Chlamydia
Condyloma Acuminata
Cytomegalovirus
Enteric Infections
Genital Mycoplasmas
Genital Warts (HPV)
Giardiasis
Gonorrhea
Granuloma Inguinale
Hepatitis
Herpes
HIV Disease
Lymphogranuloma Venereum
Molluscum Contagiosum
Pediculosis Pubis
Pubic Lice (Crabs)
Salmonella
Scabies
Shingellosis
Syphilis
Trichomoniasis
Yeast Infection
Vaginitis

(from HAC)

This has got to be the stupidest political position anybody has taken in a very long time. The plain truth is that some people will engage in sexual activity no matter what the risks may be and those that are abstaining due to safety concerns will have absolutely no reason to change. This vaccine will save lives. It will not promote sexual activity.

The Times They are A-Changin'.

Well, I haven't written anything here in almost a month. Things have been a bit crazy in my neck of the woods lately. In the past few weeks I have both started a new job (with the same company) and moved to a new apartment. If that wasn't enough craziness (and it was), I also chopped off all of my hair. I went from over a foot long to an inch or less. One of these years, I'll get around to buying a digital camera. When I do, I'll post a picture.

I also managed to get tickets to the Sigur Ros show in San Diego that I wasn't expecting to be able to attend. It was nothing short of pure, transcendent sonic bliss. Basically, seeing them made my year.

I haven't gotten around to getting my apartment set up with internet access yet (I know, I know: where are my priorities??) and I probably won't be able to update this blog very often until I do. I'm sure my massive audience will find a way to cope for now. Somehow...

It's nice to know that we're in such good hands...

From the Washington Post:

As fiscal hawks surrendered, would-be government contractors were meeting in the Hart Senate Office Building to figure out how to get a share of the money. A "Katrina Reconstruction Summit," hosted by Sen. Mel Martinez (R-Fla.) and sponsored by Halliburton, among others, brought some 200 lobbyists, corporate representatives and government staffers to a room overlooking the Capitol for a five-hour conference that included time for a "networking break" and advice on "opportunities for private sector involvement."

Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist (R-Tenn.) sent his budget director, Bill Hoagland, who cautioned that federal Katrina spending might not exceed $100 billion. But John Clerici, from a law firm that helped sponsor the event, told the group that spending would "probably be larger" than $200 billion. "It's going to be spent in a fast and furious way," Clerici said.

Somewhere, a Libertarian is crying.

The Ugly Truth about Superman

Well I guess you really do learn something new every day. Today, thanks to Superdickery, I found out about the true nature of Superman. And the truth isn't pretty. Contrary to popular opinion, it's obvious that this guy's no hero or friend to mankind, he's nothing but a thug!. When he isn't torturing his friends or finding new ways to murder Lois Lane (and it appears that a substantial portion of his time is spent on these activities), he's no doubt off getting some sadistic pleasure from bullying and extorting the everyday citizens of metropolis. Here's some of the damning evidence:




While that evidence is certainly more than enough, it's just the tip of the iceberg! I, for one, am thankful for the people who run the Superdickery website and their dedication to proving to the world, once and for all, that Superman is a dick. The next time I find myself under attack from an arch-villian bent on world-domination or some tentacled science experiment gone awry, you can bet that I'll be calling on Batman, Spiderman or the X-men for help. That pyschopath in blue pajamas can go eat kryptonite!

Skinny Foreigners Making Beautiful Music

I got the chance hear NPR's live webcasting of the Icelandic band Sigur Ros in concert tonight. I really love those guys. Their music is haunting and satisfying at the same time. I find that lying in bed with the lights turned off and my headphones on is the ideal way to listen to them. Succinctly put, Sigur Ros is about as close to pure sonic bliss as it gets. Needless to say, the concert was great, but it just made me want to see them in person all the more. I'm afraid, though, that I may have already missed my shot at getting tickets to their current U.S. tour. Oh well. One of these years...