Archive for: March, 2005

That ’70s Show

Mar 23 2005 Published by under Modest Proposals

Dude, that was such an awesome show. I used to watch it all the time when I was a kid. Yeah, the one where those hillbilly brothers raced their cool car on back roads, just ahead of the law. They always escaped. I wanted to be just like those Clinton boys.

Are you sure? I could have sworn that was their name. Yeah, that’s right. Billy Clinton, he was the eldest. David Hasselhoff played him. There was George Clinton, played by Mr T. He was younger then, and didn’t have the mohawk—he was a really cool dude. George had dark hair so he wore a white hat, but Billy was blond and wore a black one. That’s how you could remember which was Billy: B, B, B. And there was the younger brother—everyone forgets his name. He didn’t drive.

I mostly watched it for cousin Daisy, though. Man, she was so hot. She always wore boots, and a cowboy hat and these denim cutoffs, and a bodice, and wristbands and a lasso. She could deflect bullets with those wristbands. Lindsay Wagner played her, I think. Wait, didn’t she go on strike one season? The second Daisy wasn’t as good. Then it turned out the real Daisy had been kidnapped by alien robots and the brothers had to rescue her in starfighters. Wait a minute, I must be getting confused. That was Dr Who.

Usually the Clinton boys drove the General Kitt, this black Pontiac Firebird with an American flag on the hood. The horn would play Yankee Doodle. The General Kitt could talk too, but only to Billy. That was so funny, when he told the others that the General talked to him, and they just rolled their eyes.

Roger! That was the other brother. Dirk Benedict played him. He didn’t drive, because he was once in a terrible accident, and only came out of it barely alive. But they rebuilt him, and made him better than he was before. He had bionic vision that could see Enos coming a mile away (there were always two cops chasing the boys, Enos and Andy). But mostly he was just the mechanic; he could fix anything with a Swiss Army knife.

Anyway, the bad guy was Colonel Louis Hogg—“Boss” Hogg, they called him. He was this little short guy in a white suit, played by Danny DeVito with a white goatee. He was so evil. And his right-hand man was Rosco P. Coltrane, who was actually George Clinton’s cousin. Not many people know that. Everyone’s related out in the boonies, aren’t they? Rosco wasn’t all that bad, and sometimes he and George would jam. He was played by the guy from Magnum P.I., I forget his name.

Oh, and Uncle Jesse (George Peppard, with a white beard). He was the mastermind, who always had a plan to outwit Boss Hogg. At the end of the show, he’d always say “Ah love it when a plan comes togetha!” and drink some moonshine or play his banjo. He was really good on the banjo; once they had John Denver as a special guest star, and he and Uncle Jesse played this duet called Feudin’ Banjos (although John Denver actually played guitar, not banjo). Of course I’m sure.

My favorite episode was when Uncle Jesse had brewed up a whole mess of ’shine, and needed the boys to take it across the state line. Enos and Andy had made a fake radar gun out of a megaphone and a hairdryer, so they could “prove” the Clinton boys had been speeding. But Rosco bragged about it in front of the General Kitt, who told Billy, who led them on a wild goose chase and then called their bluff, while Daisy smuggled the ’shine in her invisible plane. But they all met up afterwards at the Hogg Farm to party: Boss Hogg handed out big buckets of fried chicken, Rosco played the sax, and everybody got funky.

Yeah, I’ll always remember that show. Why can’t they make stuff like that today?

(Duke Chronicle, March 23, 2005)

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Why Grad School is Like Communism

Mar 02 2005 Published by under Modest Proposals

Welcome, comrade! Congratulations on defecting to graduate school, an endless march from darkness into light toward a bountiful utopia, guided by scientific principles and strict adherence to the Five-Year Plan. Rumors that this utopia does not exist are the work of capitalist reptiles and class enemies. Heed them not! No doubt you would like some advice on how to succeed in our worker’s paradise. First, remember that everyone else is smarter and more diligent than you. Nevertheless, if you just work twice as hard as your comrades and meet all your production targets, you too will become renowned as a Good Worker, and will be happy. Probably.

Nothing matters more in graduate school than being a Good Worker. Good Workers gain the respect of their superiors, and are rewarded with research grants and meetings in California. They are also kept away from the unwashed masses of undergraduates—the proles. Although the proles provide us with our livelihood, their plebeian tastes can grate. Indeed, most of them have a poor grasp of Correct Doctrine, and some harbor capitalist sympathies. Pity them, even if they seem to be happier than you.

The great task ahead, comrade, will be adherence to the Five-Year Plan. All must be sacrificed to the success of the Glorious Five-Year Plan! (In practice, of course, the Five-Year Plan ends up being the Six-And-A-Half-Year Plan. Or the Eight-Year Plan. Did they not mention this when you defected? Oh. Well, don’t tell the other workers; it would only demoralize them.)

Being a Good Worker and meeting production targets may sound like a wearying existence. But sloth is for capitalists; it has no place in our paradise, where we happily work all the time. Thus, shirkers who indulge in effete music, intoxicating substances, or frivolous hobbies are rightfully viewed with suspicion by the Central Committee; they may be committing the thoughtcrime of Not Taking It Seriously. Why would a Good Worker waste valuable work time dining at a fancy restaurant (assuming, for the sake of argument, they could afford to)? The only acceptable food for a Good Worker is leftover noodles, eaten at one’s computer. Sometimes there is even free pizza. Who could possibly want more?

Indeed, such healthy austerity demonstrates the moral purity of graduate school. Not for us the new cars, nice clothes, adequate dental care, and living wages that are the decadent trappings of the reactionary lackeys in the professional schools. Lickspittle lawyers! Running-dog doctors! We mock the inanities of the class traitors! Remember, Good Workers selflessly help each other meet production targets, unlike these cutthroat capitalists. Their gaudy luxury is tempting, yes, yes, but adhering to the Five-Year Plan will allow us one day to equal or even exceed their standard of living! Then we shall dance on their graves. Although our dancing will be somewhat rusty.

(Note how weaklings and malcontents who defect to the capitalist lackeys are Never Spoken Of, and their names expunged from the records. Be strong!)

Ultimately, comrade, your happiness in graduate school depends on the favor of the Central Committee, also known as the Gang of Five. The Committee is your friend. Trust the Committee. Because one day you will undoubtedly be dragged before it and interrogated on your grasp of Correct Doctrine. In Room 101, you will gabble forth your knowledge of the Approved Writings for hours, undertaking frank and forthright self-criticism until you break down, hoping desperately that the Committee will find you innocent and say “Congratulations, comrade! You are a Good Worker!” Never fear; they usually do.

If you progress according to schedule in the Five-Year Plan, you may even be invited to join the Party one day. Membership has many benefits, such as fine wines and caviar; your just rewards for service to the collectivist ideal. Party members fondly remember the days when they too were Good Workers; remember to nod respectfully when they reminisce. Strangely, attaining Party membership seems to get harder every year…but not for a Good Worker like you, I’m sure!

Anyway, enough chit-chat! Why aren’t you working? Onward! Forward!

(Duke Chronicle, March 2, 2005)

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Spotting Fake Critters

Mar 02 2005 Published by under Pedantry

aanimals.jpg Astonishing Animals
Tim Flannery; illustrated by Peter Schouten
Atlantic Monthly Press, 2004
ISBN: 0871138751

Why do biologists find the aliens of science fiction laughable? Because we know a little about how bizarre and inventive evolution is, and it’s a lot more imaginative than most screenwriters. The aliens on Star Trek were duller than what you could find in your own back garden. Tim Flannery, a biologist and museum director who writes regularly for the New York Review, and wildlife artist Peter Schouten collaborated on A Gap In Nature (Atlantic Monthly Press, 2001), know that truth is stranger than fiction, and aim to prove it by showcasing 90-odd amazing animals.

But the brilliant twist, mentioned almost in passing by the authors, is this: one of the animals is imaginary. And not just imaginary in an obvious way, like the dull chimeras of Greek mythology. Imaginary in a cunning biological way, a perfectly plausible beast that happens through an oversight of evolution not to exist. So reading the book becomes simultaneously an exercise in skeptical puzzle-solving. As a zoologist myself, surely it wouldn’t be hard to spot the fake? Guess again. In the first pass through the book, everything looked perfectly plausible, or equally implausible. It was time to get serious.

Flannery’s an authority on the mammals of New Guinea, so he’s in the best position to invent, say, a undescribed tree-kangaroo that only inhabits a remote and imaginary valley. How about the black dorsopsis, which, we’re told, never lays the full length of its tail on the ground (only the tip), for fear of leeches? Yeah, right. Very funny, Flannery. But oops, it really does exist. Back to the drawing board.

One way to invent an animal would be to come up with a minor twist on something that already exists. Easy, but it seems like cheating. He shows four species of bizarre pipefish; would he have the gall to slip in a fifth that’s a slightly different color or shape? Nope, all the pipefish are real.

Another cheat would be to invent an analogue of a real species, but transplant it to a different continent, a cheap trick evolution pulls all the time. (Dougal Dixon relies on this in his alternative-evolution book The New Dinosaurs, and that’s what made it so disappointing.) How about the sail-tailed lizard, which looks something like the marine iguana of the Galapagos, but transplanted to Indonesia? No, that one exists.

Biologists have no real advantage here, because the world is too rich. Biological training is too specialized for someone to know lots about mammals, amphibians, birds, and fishes. At best it’s pick any three. And that’s leaving aside the invertebrates, which Flannery largely does. The whole book could have been restricted to ants alone, and would be no less amazing—are you listening, E. O. Wilson?

(Hey, Google can’t find the pygmy chameleon (Brooksia minima)! No, it’s just a typo. Brooksia is a type of plant; the chameleon is Brookesia. Damn.)

In fact, a biologist would probably find it harder to pick out imaginary animals. We know too much about how weird the world is. Something that would make a lay person boggle and say “you’re kidding, right?” is all too plausible. Sometimes science is accused of reducing the sense of wonder–actually, it shows us the world is more amazing than our limited imaginations.

(The Sulawesi naked bat would be my pick, except I happen to know it exists. “Often crawling with a large species of earwig which lives nowhere else.” True, but reality’s even stranger. It’s a flightless parasitic earwig; in fact, there are two species of them.)

The even-more-feverishly brilliant trick? Flannery might be lying. All these animals might be real. If it’s a lie, it’s a fiendishly clever one. After a while the parade of natural wonders in the book might make even the most wide-eyed and naive reader a little jaded. But adding a puzzle forces us to critically examine every entry, looking for telltale implausibilities. Having to pick just one is the killer. If we knew a handful of animals were imaginary, we could write off all the most implausible; but deciding we’re found the fake, then turning the page to see something even more far-fetched, and knowing one of the two must exist, is a little mind-blowing.

(Found it! Finally! Perfectly plausible, and in fact more plausible than the creature it’s an analogue of, with a killingly odd little factoid—like the leech-avoiding tail—added to fool us. It’s the…)

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