efference

Flora and Fauna in Salaya

2009-10-12T06:06:00.000-07:00

You can see some more images of my environs here. It's a "photobucket.com" slideshow. I strongly advise against saving pics on photobucket's incredibly counterintuitive, ad-laden website. I do it simply because that's where I've already uploaded a fair number of other pics. It's reasonable to assume flickr.com would be a better choice.

More pics to come...

Alternative Dwellings in Bangkok

2009-09-22T01:55:00.000-07:00

Here's a strange dwelling just off Phaholyothin Road, near the Mor Chit Skytrain Station:

Passing by at night, the lights are on. Somehow, just a sliver of a former apartment was preserved in the process of demolition. A parking lot surrounds the structure.

I wouldn't mind living there. Deck it out with vines, potted plants, and eerie lighting.

Here's another joint I've long eyeballed as a possible dwelling:

Cinderella's Castle at the old "Din neramit" Amusement Park. Several generations of Thais have fond memories of this place, as elementary schools would bus their students here for a day of enjoyment. It was hardly world-class and became redundant following the opening of "Dream World."

The park closed about a decade ago, with virtually all the attractions being shuttled off to wherever antiqued attractions get shuttled. Only the castle remains. In the background, you see unfinished condos, victims of the 1997 Southeast Asian currency crisis:

My solution to this double boondoggle:

In the course of a day of studying...

2009-07-15T04:54:00.000-07:00

...I stumbled across a couple of oddities.

First, there's a web page devoted to documenting instances of left-handed DNA in the media and technical publications. "Handedness" is not a difficult concept. Every nut and bolt and spiral staircase is either left-handed or right-handed. Viewing a spiraling structure from an end (either the top or the bottom), you'll see that the rails spiral away from you in either a clockwise (right-handed) or counter-clockwise direction (left-handed). If a spiral is left-handed when viewed from the top, it will also be left-handed when viewed from the bottom. You can verify that in 20 seconds by twisting up a piece of paper.

The DNA in your cells is right-handed, so any depictions otherwise are in error. The aforementioned website lists almost 700 instances of left-handed imagery, some of which appear in technical papers. The first instance, dating to 1964, was a minor national embarrassment:

(from http://www.ccrnp.ncifcrf.gov/~toms/icons/stamp.israeli.1964.jpg )

If you want to be finicky, you can point to the rare left-handed form of DNA known as "Z-DNA." In that case, however, half of the "bases" (say, all of the orange and pink strips) would have to be depicted outside the black and white rails, not inside.

The second oddity was this video:

This is farrrrrr from the level of detail I desired. What's more, the video is quite lame from any number of perspectives. But something about the speaker's accent, cadence, focus, and who knows what else, set my brain a-buzzing.

The buzz. Does that ever happen to you? For myself, it occurs when I watch or listen to a person who is intensely wrapped up in whatever he or she is doing. I can recall a couple of instances where the feeling was particularly strong. The first was in watching a cook prepare a hamburger...grilling the buns, treating them with mayo and sauce, gently squishing the oil out of the patties, etc. All accomplished with the utmost TLC. My new-age friends would probably expect such a burger to be especially tasty, with the normally unwholesome, fatty, and carcinogenic properties of various ingredients being negated by the purity of the chef's consciousness.

Another instance was in listening to a speech on the part of a vice-presidential candidate perhaps 20 years ago. Searching the net for third-party candidates at that time, I'm thinking it was Sonia Johnson of the Peace and Freedom Party. Whoever it was, she spoke with strange urgency. If she felt that the audience hadn't fully grokked her message, she'd pause, shift her feet around in little increments, and try to find a new angle of expression. Her gestures were odd, too. Again, a new-age type might see her as a channel for the Truth, with the Truth feeling a tad uncomfortable in that particular body and those particular garments. I wondered if she wasn't a tad nutty. It didn't matter, though, as most of my mental energy was focused on enjoying the buzz.

Anyway, you might want to view the video and see if it produces any odd feelings.

Gratawn, Santol

2009-07-08T02:03:00.000-07:00

Here's an amazingly delicious fruit that's difficult to find outside Southeast Asia.

The closest thing to an English name for the fruit would be "Santol", from Tagalog. The Thais call them "gra-tawn". You gotta say the first syllable staccato-like.

How does it taste? That's a difficult question. No other fruits come to mind as a reference. Looking at its lineage, you can see why:

Species: Santol Tree (Sandoricum Koetjape)
Genus: Sandoricum
Family: Meliaceae
Order: Sapindales

The Meliaceae family contains about 575 different shrubs and trees, but the Santol is one of the few that produces a fruit of distinction. So, unless genomics proves otherwise in the future, it seems that the Santol is somewhat evolutionarily removed from run-of-the-mill fruits in your supermarket. Moving to the broader category of "order", you do find that Sapindales include ordinary citrus fruits, lychees, and more.

Another Meliaceae that produces edible fruit would be the Lansium Domesticum. The Thais call these fruits "longkang" and the Philipinos "langsat". This is a source for eternal confusion, since "langsat" in Thai refers to a particular variety of longkang. What's more, there's another fruit that we call "longan", but Thais call "lomyai". Not to be confused with loganberries. Longkang and longan look similar, but belong to different botanical families. Longkang are tasty. Somewhat woody. On occasions when I have the will to peel and de-seed the little fruits, I mix lime, longkang, sugar, and gin in a blender. I don't see the appeal of longan, though...they're kind of radishy.

You can see a few similarities between longkang and gratawn. They both have yellow, leathery skin, and a handful of seeds inside. In Thailand, the two fruits come into season in the same brief period...usually June and July. But gratawn are much bigger and taste different. Longkang resin will stick to your hands even after you soap them off, and the pulp will occasionally squirt in your eye. If you let a gratawn ripen fully, however, the flesh is custardy. The seeds are big and tough, so you cut a circle around them, twist the two hemispheres apart, and dig into the flesh with a spoon. The sweetest pulp surrounds the seeds, so you suck on the seeds.

The flavor is...still difficult to describe. Bear in mind that Meliaceae includes frankincense and myrhh and mahogany. There's something spicy going on. I'm guessing that the pulp is loaded with interesting terpenes like linalool, the distinctive fragrance of Froot Loops. When I worked as a chemist at a winery, we had bottle of linalool in the refrigerator. I'm not sure why, actually. Perhaps because the winemaker desired to make illegal midnight flavor adjustments, dripping a few drops into the tanks. Opening a bottle of pure linalool was something like finding yourself in the midst of an exploding Froot Loops factory.

A couple papers suggest the presence of catechins and proanthocyanidins in gratawn...these are more typically found in teas, fruit skins, cinnamon, cocoa, and tree bark.

I just cut a gratawn open...there's something banana-ish in there too.

Unfortunately, I haven't been able to dig up a full profile of the flavor components of gratawn in the academic literature. There are plenty of papers focusing on possible medicinal qualities of the bark and leaves, but no in-depth analysis of the qualities that make the fruit distinctive from an olfactory/gustatory perspective. Sounds like a decent Masters or Ph.D. thesis for someone interested in natural products chemistry.

Transformers and Michael Jackson

2009-06-30T23:02:00.000-07:00

Normally I refrain from commenting on pop phenomena. This week, however, my brain has reached a state of pop hypersaturation, so I'll blog in the name of self-help.

In college, a friend of a friend (and a distant friend at that...let's get this straight!) was a big Jackson fan and bought tickets for a number of his concerts on the West Coast. Los Angeles, San Francisco, etc. She reported that the show included a segment where Jackson began a song and then ordered the band to stop playing after maybe 30 seconds. You see, his emotions were bubbling over, and he absolutely needed to express them via a different tune. That's nice, but it turns out that Jackson went through this routine at every concert. Offhand, I can't think of a more extreme example of feigned spontaneity.

Some call this sort of behavior "showmanship." Mick Jagger is supposed to be a great showman. When the 40-up crowd (of which I'm a member) ventures out to see a Rolling Stones mega-concert, they inevitably return with high praise - Jagger still has "got it." Then, of course, there are the obligatory comments about Keith Richard's appearance and longevity. To me, it feels like the concert-going fogeys are simply rationalizing their existences; see, us old farts can also prance around a stage. We might just still "have it." Hell, in high school, my circle of friends felt that the Rolling Stones began a downward spiral in 1967, when Brian Jones died. In the early 90's, I was pleased to hear that a decent chunk of the younger portion of the audience walked out on the Stones after a couple tunes. Pearl Jam, it seems, was the opening act, and the contrast between Eddie Vedder's genuine spontaneity and Jagger's rehearsed "professionalism" was too much to bear.

Oliver Sacks relates an anecdote from the aphasic ward of a mental hospital. Aphasics have a difficult time formulating and understanding concepts, so Sacks initially found it odd to see a group of them laughing hysterically at President Reagan's televised speech. As Sacks says, though, "It was the grimaces, the histrionics, the false gestures and, above all, the false tones and cadences of the voice which rang false for these wordless but immensely sensitive patients." Perhaps I lean a tad toward the aphasic end of the spectrum, as Michael Jackson always seemed too cartoony to take seriously. For those who perceive him a master showman, you're entitled to your own personal mix of neurotransmitters.

Regarding pedophilia, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Did he fantasize about becoming white?...no, it seems like he really did have a hangup with vitiligo. I know because I've been dowsed with spam e-mails that prove the point with attached photos. What bothers me, however, is the praise he has received as some sort of music pioneer. Sly Stone and Hendrix were crushing racial boundaries when the Jackson 5 was a generic (but good) Motown act. One might argue that Jackson's transformation into whiteness, like Emperor Leto's transformation into wormness, was an act of sacrifice, designed to carry all sentient beings to a new degree of awakening. But the vitiligo spam disproves that theory.

Then there's the idea that Jackson was responsible for MTV. There may be some truth in that. In which case, the need for a successful musician to have a pretty face, dancing and acting skills, and to be on the cutting edge of fashion and personality - a 30 year trend away from actual musicianship - is Jackson's doing.

*********************

Now, let it be known that "Transformers II" is dreck. I just have few observations. In the spirit of the film, they're disjointed.

Following release of the excellent, "Elephant", Gus Van Zant predicted the demise of the "narrative format." No more linear story-telling. That's what you got in "Transformers II", which willfully discards plot and continuity. I say "willfully" because it's impossible to believe that these myriad discontinuities (a robot busts through the wall of the Smithsonian...into a remote jet airstrip) went unnoticed in production. Van Zant's vision, of course, is one intended to challenge the audience. "Transformers II" is the ugly, cynical side of the "non-narrative" format.

In fact, it feels as if recent films like "Star Trek" and "Transformers" operate on the principle that there's no limit to the degree of "suspension of disbelief" that the human brain can tolerate. "Suspension of disbelief" has now been expanded to include much more than run-of-the-mill violations of the laws of physics. We're talking about slashing through a coherent plot and timeline.

I found the first Transformers film notable for its ability to invoke a sense of wonder. That's a rare quality in a film. Somehow, you've got to mix nature, the right music, a sense of connection to the deep past, the grandness of the cosmos, paradox, and death and suffering, in just the right proportions to pull it off. This sense was totally lacking in the second film, a testament to the slipperiness of awe and wonder.

We poke fun at Bollywood productions. Singing, dancing, and fighting. There's something for every audience sector...slapstick for the kids, sex and violence for the teenage boys, true love for the chicks, and family values for mom and dad. But films like "Transformers II" run the risk of falling into the same "variety show" trap. You've got robots speaking with ghetto accents, plenty of slapstick, militarism, and the family pulling through in the end. Unnecessary skits. When Megan Fox's foxiness is the focus, the music changes suddenly, the film slows, and the camera zooms...very Bollywood!

On the positive side, I hope that this piece of garbage forces a number of critics to reassess Star Wars Episodes I-III. Lack of humanity?

Undoubtedly, the execs are rolling in the dough and lighting Gran Coronas with critics' reviews. Prediction: they'll be puzzled when "Transformers III" fails to meet box-office expectations. Hmmmmm.

Pigasus

2009-06-26T00:40:00.000-07:00

Google "Pigasus" and you'll find it's a well-used pun. It's unlikely that the Thais at "Satapon Plastic" company were aware of that when they created their logo, however. One wonders what inspired them.

Western Baggage

2009-06-07T02:59:00.000-07:00

He'd already visited me twice, but this time was special. He handed me his sacred text. I accepted with both hands, briefly leafed through it, then pulled up a chair to place the text on the sahn. Looking back, Khun John began breathing faster and his eyes bulged more than usual. Young farangs are quite excitable. But he smiled and gestured to continue. The little jasmine wreaths were already fresh, so it was only necessary to light the incense and recite a quick prayer. The atmosphere in the room changed.

What did you pray about? I told him that I wanted good luck for my family, refraining from mentioning the means by which this was to be obtained (the lottery). In fact, a glance through the Bible suggested new possibilities for number-selection.

He spoke Thai. Do you believe in God? I reminded him of our English-only agreement. His tone was quite direct today, but the gift entitled him to that. I answered "yes". The flitting motions of his pupils slowed. This was the correct answer. If Tom Hanks had responded this way in "Angels and Demons", he'd have spared himself a lot of trouble.

****************

My respect for the boy had been growing. He was not birdshit farang. His grooming was immaculate, he knew when and how to wai, and sat straight on his two-stroke motorcycle. He had taken vows of sobriety. He worked without hope for material reward in a land far from his own. Our own monks lack such conviction.

It was odd, then, to discover the weakness of his semati. As had become habit, he initiated our session with prayer. It was clear that he was speaking the language of the pra, so there was no point in trying to understand. Instead, I silently repeated a mantra. He had already finished his own incantation, but I felt compelled to continue, as stopping on the fourth recitation would be inauspicious. Khun John stood patiently, exercising the perfection of khanti. The telephone rang. With my eyes only half-shut, I could see him flinch.

What did you pray about (as always)? I really couldn't say, of course, since the syllables were in Pali. I had learned the mantra in my childhood in Isan. We'd take jam-packed song-taews to the wat on auspicious occasions, regardless of the weather. The women would gossip and sing on the way. I salivated over the kanom in their bags. Inevitably, the ceremonies had already begun. Everything changed instantly as we shed our shoes and passed through the door. Important work was being done. Oh, I digress...

"You pray and you don't understand the meaning of your prayer?"

A difficult question. Was it a "prayer"? I tried to keep things easy: "Yes, I don't."

"Yes, you do" or "No, you don't"? He muttered something about bananas.

A discussion of English grammar ensued. We agreed that "No, I don't" was the response I had intended. It was difficult to understand the logic behind this mode of speaking, so we both agreed it would be better to memorize the structure and dispense with analysis. "Leave it", as we say.

****************

On our next appointment, he returned to question of belief in God. This time, however, it was "God, creator of the universe." I got the feeling that he conferred with a higher pra; restating questions from previous sessions was one of his patterns. Over time, it had become apparent that believing in this and believing in that was essential to Khun John, so I answered his question as directly as possible:

"I don't know."

From the time of my youth, I had been taught that these sorts of questions were best left to science. He seemed unsatisfied with the response. In some esoteric texts, Mt. Meru is considered the center of this particular universe.

"Do you actually believe that?"

"No."

Khun John had the mind of a scientist. He concerned himself greatly with beginnings and ends, sizes and locations, logic and contradictions. He thought a lot.

He had positioned himself directly beneath the sahn. A little chunk of incense broke off and landed on his scalp. The heat was spent, but he sensed a disturbance as he spoke, attempted to remove the particles, but wound up smearing them on his nose and left cheek. For the rest of the session, it was difficult to suppress a laugh. You'd have to have been there.

*******************

"What did you pray about?"

This time, I had practiced semati, not prayer. My English was improving. "It wasn't a prayer."

"Well, what did you think about?"

"I try not to think."

"That's impossible."

********************

As it neared time for Khun John to complete his mission, I began to understand. This was a powerful god, capable of creating universes in a fraction of a kalpa. Yet the ten rules and other scriptures showed this god to be subject to the three poisons of attachment, aversion, and ignorance. Jealousy was his strongest attribute; this explained why Khun John would never wai my spirit house, even with his impeccable good manners.

Perhaps this god was a rudra. 6,000 years offer a fraction of the lifetimes needed to reach full awakening, especially via slow paths, so one shouldn't be particularly critical. If, on the other hand, this rudra had a timeless existence (as is sometimes implied), there was really no excuse. Another possibility was simply that this being had incarnated at the highest position of the sixth realm, explaining his flamboyant ego.

My English had improved, but I was sad to say goodbye to Khun John. He vanished down the soi, necktie flapping over his shoulder.

A 40+ Farang Going for a Master's

2009-06-01T03:32:00.000-07:00

I've been enrolled at Mahidol University for more than a month now, going for a Masters (and possibly a Ph.D) in Genetic Engineering. I had assumed that the relative novelty of a 40-something farang pursuing a degree in Thailand would make for some interesting, bloggable experiences. Unfortunately for this blog, university life has proceeded with few hitches, thanks to the well-organized administration at Mahidol, as well as the mostly 22-24 year old colleagues who don't find my presence the least bit perturbing. 99% of professional travel writing revolves around the pursuit of frustrating, risky, intractable experiences, so I guess I'm a lousy travel writer.

Quitting work has meant cutting back on the luxuries I enjoyed just a couple months ago. No fancy dinners. For the most part, I take the bus or skytrain to downtown Bangkok, something I hadn't done in a decade here, opting for taxis instead. I'm now a "farang kee nok" (birdshit white guy), I guess.

In the name of frugality, I canceled cable TV today. No big deal. It's mostly Korean pop culture, Japanese folks trying to complete some bizarre challenge, Chinese historical dramas, crude CGI flicks involving giant snakes, lanky female humans walking to and fro in garments that are never seen on the street, German language news, endless analysis of soccer, Mexican soap operas, and American professional wrestling. I'll miss the MMA and K1. Boo hoo.

The new routine means a long walk to the Skytrain, dropoff at Victory Monument, and a short bus ride to Mahidol's Phayathai campus. Street vendors. Beggars...mostly blind folks singing with the aid of a cheap amplifier. One dude plays an electric guitar most impressively...I've seen him at Central Mall Lad Prao in the early afternoon many times in the last decade; our routines now intersect more than ever. Others are purely pathetic, victims of mishaps involving electricity or motorcycles. Thais usually don't protest the results of karma.

Coming home means taking the legendary #8 bus. Again, I had no idea about this facet of existence until a month ago. Like most other buses, it's public transport, but somehow this particular number has a special reputation for accidents, folks falling out the doors into busy traffic, and the like. Last month some old guy was hit and dragged under the bus for a couple kilometers before the money-collector noticed thudding noises that seemed out-of-place in the money-collecting realm.

The tour books teach of etiquette on the Thai buses. As usual, the books are nonsense. Seating is mostly first-come first-serve. Unless a patron is obviously frail, few folks will offer their seats. In fairness to the Thais, I don't think the thought process is purely selfish. It's more like this: if I get up and offer a seat, I'll be making myself conspicuous, someone might feel obliged to thank me, and I wouldn't want to trouble anyone that way.

At the Phayathai campus, perhaps 95% of the students are Thai. My first class was something of a prep class for all sorts of bioscience-related graduate programs, so I'm guessing there were 250 students in the room. Four caucasians, myself included. The others come from locations like Indonesia, Nepal, Cambodia, Burma, Iran, Iraq, Egypt, and Ethiopia. It took maybe 10 minutes after the first class session before a dude named Muhammad was offering his views on the role of women (they shouldn't travel), the stupidity of Shiites (versus Sunnis), the decadence of Buddhism, and the amazingness of the Koran. The Muslims, bless their hearts, seem determined to prove that they're reasonable folks and the terrorists are mutants. I already know that, and it's fun to chat with them, but I would also like a chance to chat with the owners of the amazing legs that are only seen at a tangent.

Sarbast, a Kurdish Iraqi, is a fun dude. He doesn't hate the American soldiers, but does find them odd. Why, he laughs, do the soldiers purchase so much Viagra from his pharmacy when prostitutes are fairly scarce (though hardly nonexistent) in the region? The massive consumption of anabolic steroids is more understandable.

I'm mostly impressed with the education I'm getting so far. The profs are Thai, but their English language skills range from adequate to flawless. Acharn Prapol speaks with a fairly strong English accent. As might be expected, there's a slightly heavier emphasis on memorization and testing than you'd probably see in the West, but it's not as if the profs don't understand the importance of communicating broad concepts.

Below...9 of my 15 compadres in this year's Genetic Engineering program, eating noodles near Victory monument.

oo (อุ)

2009-04-19T16:49:00.001-07:00

That's a ~~bottle~~ pot of "oo", an alcoholic treat from the Northeast of Thailand. I paid 160 baht for it...about $4.

"~~Susan Boyle~~ Mother Tong Yaem" brand. Don't drink and drive. It's illegal to drink if you're under 18. Expiration date. Etc.

You've got to bust through the plaster seal before you can drink. It's a pain in the ass. It was the second time I tried the stuff, so I knew what to do...bring it down to a local eatery and let management deal with it.

Rice husks. I'll have to do some more research on the topic of "oo", as the stuff is still a mystery to me. Alcohol is a liquid, but it seems like the contents are not the least bit moist. You add water, wait 5 minutes, punch the wooden straws through the mass (difficult!), and suck.

Tasty stuff. Sweet and sour. You might compare it to sweet sake or, if you're already familiar with Thai alcohols, "sato". I'd say that it's more complex than either, however. I detected hints of cinammon and/or coconut, though I doubt any was added. Apparently, you can get "oo" in pineapple and watermelon flavors too.

It's not easy to find oo in Bangkok. This pot was acquired in roundabout fashion: a couple weeks ago a taxi driver and I found ourselves chatting on the subject of oo. He actually went out, bought a pot, and stowed it in his trunk, waiting for our next encounter. I threw in a 40 baht tip for the effort. He told me he found the stuff at an "OTOP" (one tambon/village, one product) shop in Bangkok.

Befriended taxi drivers, by the way, are awesome resources. I can't count how many times I've hopped in a taxi, told the driver to "take me to a good Thai restaurant", and had a great meal.

The Mantra of Avalokitesvara

2009-03-29T18:05:00.000-07:00

How does a denizen of the Nepali Himalayas become affluent in a non-touristed region? Join the Indian army. Send the money home to your devoted wife, who purchases a TV and satellite dish, solar panels, Tibetan carpets, thangkas, and various adornments for the shrine. A large poster of an English manor and flower garden...true paradise. A sink and an improved hearth. Copper pots. A comfy bed. And a high quality sound system.

Thus it was that I found myself in a surprisingly clean and well-managed tea house in the non-touristed Ganesh Himal. In the early evening, hail pounded down on corrugated metal roofing, a good time to slurp Tibetan tea and rakshi.

At 6:00 AM, I was blasted out of a cozy sleep via the above Mantra of Avalokitesvara, piped directly into the sleeping quarters. The reaction was irritation. I paid good rupees for my sleep. Those feelings dissipated quickly. The sky was clear, the Himalayan foothills green, prayer flags flapping in the breeze, and the villagers were an hour into their routines. This rendering of the Mantra is mind-blowing, as far as I'm concerned.

Some folks, mostly Westerners, describe this take on the Mantra as "new-agey" or "inauthentic" or "over-produced". You wouldn't have heard this melody wafting out of Himalayan gompas 15 years ago, much less a century. The instrumentation is not entirely Tibetan. That doesn't stop lay Buddhists, and even some Hindus, from dropping the cassette into cassette players (no iPods as yet) as they trod through the mountains, rewinding every 23 minutes and 55 seconds. The tune, if it can be called that, emanates alongside juniper and pine incense from shops in Boudhanath, Thamel, and elsewhere in the Kathmandu valley. I feel a tinge of pity for anyone who fails to be transported.

On the Falsifiability of Evolution

2009-02-24T16:19:00.000-08:00

I would give absolutely nothing for the theory of Natural Selection, if it requires miraculous additions at any one stage of descent.

Charles Darwin (in a letter to Charles Lyell)

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To reject one paradigm without simultaneously substituting another is to reject science itself.

Thomas Kuhn (The Structure of Scientific Revolutions)

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One of the websites I most love to hate, "Uncommon Descent", has a post regarding the falsifiability of evolution. Many "intelligent design" proponents (IDiots) are sophisticated enough to claim to concede "common descent", so the poster argues that biologists can't simply invoke Haldane's "rabbit in the pre-Cambrian" argument to drive a wedge between evolution and ID (as the discovery of a rabbit in the Cambrian would falsify both views).

What numerous ID proponents seem to argue for is "common descent with meddling", the meddling being of a conscious nature. But is that really common descent? Such a view suggests discontinuity, which could/should manifest in the fossil record. When arguing with "common descent with meddling" advocates, why shouldn't a "rabbit in the pre-Cambrian" be invoked as a falsification of evolution and a confirmation of ID? The rabbit is admittedly a dramatic example of discontinuity, but it differs with myriad other possibilities (e.g. a mammoth in Australia) only in degree. When an IDiot says that evidence for common descent can never refute ID, an appropriate response may be, "what bizarre version of common descent are you imagining?" Ordinary sexual/asexual reproduction plus occasional/constant creative input from a third/second party designer is quite a distortion of the historical concept. Visualize a "tree of life" with disconnected branches held up by skyhooks. Alternatively, you can place a fairy on every fork.

Another ID view, the front-loading view, is that evolution was somehow programmed from the very beginning to be driven, or accelerated toward some end; a single, primordial instance of meddling. Here, a "rabbit in the pre-Cambrian" would clearly falsify both this view of ID and evolution. So how does a researcher falsify either of these views? I'd say that the IDiots are playing a sneaky game here: they do their damndest to conform to standard theory, sprinkle in a tad of supernaturalism/teleology, and then ask biologists to falsify one view over the other.

Obviously, the more closely a parasitic view wraps itself around the other, the harder it is to falsify one view while leaving the other intact. Given a choice of views, it seems eminently reasonable to opt for that which is supported by peer-reviewed research, practicing biologists, and which dispenses of superhuman entities. Tediously, the "Uncommon Descent" crowd spends a great deal of energy refuting this, invoking worldwide academic conspiracies, the wisdom of engineers who aren't constrained by mere biology, and the Designer Without Inferable Motives or Identity.

Above, one sees that ID takes a number of forms. The rabbit in the pre-Cambrian falsifies some versions, but not others. But proponents like Dembski and Behe fastidiously avoid formulating specific theories of ID, preferring to harp on every perceived weakness in standard evolutionary theory. They wouldn't want to favor the frontloaders versus the tinkerers versus the constant interventionists versus the creationists. At the same time, when arguing that evolution is difficult to falsify over ID, the IDiots can conveniently pull out the version of ID that best makes the case.

Given the fact that some versions of ID are hugely parasitic on standard theory, piggybacking, free-loading at every opportunity, biologists are sometimes challenged to show how evolutionary theory provides any practical benefits that competing "theories" couldn't. The responses of biologists run the gamut, from Dobzhansky's famous "nothing in biology makes sense except in the light of evolution", to Coyne's recent argument that evolutionary theory, like cosmology, need only expand human knowledge to justify its existence.

Personally, it does seem that hardcore biologists sometimes exaggerate the case for evolutionary theory's utility in a clinical setting. A compartmentalizing creationist crystallographer could conceivably concoct cofactors (sorry, couldn't resist) that inhibit enzyme function, believing all the while that the active site was the result of conscious design. However, it occurs to me that one area that ID, in most of its incarnations (we can never say "all", given ID's aforementioned slipperiness) would fail horribly is in that of "ultra-selfish" DNA. We're talking about transposons, retroviral sequences, etc., that function solely to perpetuate themselves through the host's DNA. These sequences are problematic for ID, as they confirm an abundance of "junk DNA" in the genome, something most IDiots dispute with great tenacity. At the same time, these entities are strongly implicated in cancers and other maladies. Certainly, modeling and proposed treatments for such disease pathways should be influenced by whether the sequences are primarily "selfish" or "functional". To simplify, in one case it might be possible to "attack" the sequence and its [selfish] activity; in the other, one would expect any number of side effects.

My own dogma is that scientific insight arises in the minds of those who are already strongly grounded in correct views. Is it any surprise, then, that "ID theorists" contribute nothing to biological understanding?

****************

Below, I'll try to collect articles that do support the utility of evolutionary theory in medicine:

On the Utility of Evolution in Experimental Biology and Medicine

Hacking Evolution

Of What Value is Evolutionary Biology in Medicine?

Evolution as Policy, not Symbolism or Critical Thinking

Does Evolutionary Biology Make Predictions?

Of course, I understand that the poobahs of "Intelligent Design" may not be impressed. They'll argue that they don't deny "microevolution", so evolution of antibiotic resistance is no proof of standard theory's superiority to ID. They'll tell you that experiments in synthetic biology are an example of design, not evolution. And, of course, medical inferences based on "common descent" are taken to be "exactly what ID predicts".

The lack of creativity of ID proponents is sometimes mind-blowing. In addition to the aforementioned inability to come up with their own theories and research, there's the consistent flow of arguments that boil down to incredulity...I can't imagine it, so it can't be true. There's also this childish tendency to try to parrot back the criticisms of their opponents: evolution is a religious belief, evolution requires too much faith, blah, blah, blah. This is the tact adopted by children who, having been insulted, can't conjure up a decent comeback.

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Click here for a more artful "rabbit in the Cambrian" image.

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Samak's Nose

2009-02-15T04:53:00.001-08:00

Above is a shot of former Thai Prime Minister and Bangkok Mayor Samak Sundaravej. He had some highly lampoonable quirks, as you'll see.

Amongst numerous segments of Thai society that reviled him were the artists. That's largely because of his efforts to open a shopping mall/car park where an art museum had been planned. To Bangkok's benefit, the artists ultimately got their way. Way back in 2001, however, things were up in the air, and the artistic community staged a protest event. Participants were given canvas and paint. You can now see hundreds, perhaps thousands, of their efforts on the top floor of the art museum.

Samak was a cat fancier. The fish represents the museum. "Cats eat fish; the mayor eats the art museum". In English, we don't really have a slang word for "eat". In Thai, however, the word "daeg", used in the work, is considered quite nasty. These artists weren't pulling any punches.

A five minute browsing of a guide to Thai etiquette informs you that you should be careful where you point your feet. Samak is represented as the red foot above, squashing hopes for a museum. How do I know that the red foot represents Samak? Read on and take a second glimpse at the pic.

The above pic actually takes a swipe at foreigners: "Black head [like a real Thai], face like a foreigner". Apparently, a Japanese consortium was behind the shopping mall efforts.

The pic above references Samak's TV cooking show. The translation is a bit tricky...something like "we want an art museum; don't eat it you stupid man".

"Evil mind, Evil thoughts, Evil culture".

Now, if you haven't already noticed, all the pics target Samak's distinctive nose.

More nastiness. The nose, which needn't even be embodied anymore, is also given the attributes of a buffalo. More so than any other animal (with the possible exception of a water monitor), you shouldn't liken a Thai to a buffalo. It's the sort of offense that could earn you a punch.

Adding another level of abstraction, the nose takes the form of a rampaging rose apple!

Above is just a small selection of the works.

Google "Samak's nose" and you'll find that TV sign language interpreters simply touched their noses to indicate "Samak Sundaravej". Though the translation had persisted for a decade, some of Samak's supporters caught on and protested. To quote one article: "Stung by the controversy, the association [for the deaf in Thailand] has been examining other ways to indicate Mr Samak, for instance a reference to his passion for cooking."

I'm not sure how sign-language interpreters now refer to Samak.

3,2,1 Buddhas

2009-02-07T05:23:00.001-08:00

(The last one is a friend's pic, actually)

Tom Yum Poong Plah (Thai Fish Maw Soup)

2009-02-06T06:34:00.000-08:00

My dinner Thursday night!

Below you see "Plah Deuk Foo"...shredded and deep fried catfish. Properly prepared, it's not nearly as greasy as you'd expect. It's standard fare. Often, it's served with mango yum, which cuts through the oiliness. This time, though, there's a kind of curry sauce. A nasty, cheesy aroma wafted off it. They actually added milk to the sauce...a bit unusual in the country where the populace has the lowest lactose tolerance in the world.

The next course is "Yum Gorp". Chilis, spices, and frogs! The blackish blobs are the frogs. In a Thai restaurant in the USA, where the waiter might ask you to specify your spice-tolerance on a scale of 1-10, this would rank 100.

Next is "Gratai Put Pet". Rabbit. The green spheres are fresh black peppers.

Take a moment to grok that pic. It appears primed to spontaneously ignite. I've been here long enough to derive honest masochistic pleasure from extreme spiciness; nevertheless, it would be nice to actually experience the rabbitness of that rabbit. You can slosh some beer around in your palate and launder the remains of the critter, but it won't help much.

Here's the real treat. It looks innocent enough as it's placed on the table....

But there are some jewels under the placid surface...

Tom Yum Poong Plah...Thai Fish Maw Soup (ต้มยำพุงปลา). That veined, maggoty entity is an egg sack. I think.

Just to be sure, we asked the waiter if everything in that bowl was edible. "Mai mee kee", he said ("no have shit"). Reassured, we dug in.

For foreigners who straddle the border between novelty-seeking and health concerns, Thais almost always remove the shit from the fish they serve. The exception would be small fish, where the diner must perform the "shit-ectomy" with fork and spoon.

It's not subtle. It's not French cuisine. But it IS gamy, spicy (to an extreme, if you're unaccustomed), complex, and intense. You sweat and drink beer at a high flow rate. It's hard to imagine legally available food products eliciting more sensation per neuron.

It would be all the more amazing accompanied with, say, some trance-inducing "Mor Laem" music. But, of course, management sees the farang enter the joint and promptly whips out a selection of Abba and Carpenters tunes. Oh well.

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I just showed these pics to a Philippino friend. She then proceeds to tell me about cow testicle/penis soup. Apparently, you simply ask for "Soup Number 5", and everybody knows what you're talking about. Of course, it's supposed to increase virility. Sometimes they even throw in a sea cucumber for extra phallicity. Are there any dishes that perform the opposite function? Boiled eggplant?

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On second thought, maybe the choice of music wasn't entirely inappropriate.

Mud Muse

2009-01-20T04:54:00.000-08:00

In the early 70's, my parents dragged my siblings and me off to a kinetic art exhibit at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. In retrospect, it's surprising that this opportunity ever arose, as my parents aren't exactly connoiseurs of this scene.

On arrival, we were greeted by a giant, undulating ice bag. It might have been 20 feet high. (Note 5/31/2009: click on the link and you'll see that it's not 20 feet high...so much for childhood memories). Bearing in mind that my memories are dim, I certainly wondered "what's the point?", and probably didn't get any satisfying answer.

Inside the museum, the first piece was a snooker-table sized tub of slowly gurgling, bubbling glop. A plexiglas window prevented most of that glop from going splat on the art aficionados. There were occasional major eruptions, however; the evidence was all over the floor.

I didn't want to leave that room. "What's the point?" didn't have much point at that point. You'd just strain your little head to catch the next explosion, mesmerized by the whole messy affair.

Onward to a pre-laser light show. After that, I don't recall. I assume we ventured into other, more permanent exhibitions. We may have passed by Van Gogh or Picasso. Or Warhol, for that matter. The art that left a lifelong convex-shaped impression, at least until I go senile, was that tub of mud.

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A few years ago, I got to wondering what exactly I saw. Turns out, it's "Mud Muse" by Robert Rauschenberg. He died just last year! Quite a famous figure, if you know your modern art. Along with Jasper Johns, Warhol, Twombly (friends and/or lovers, actually), the stereotype of the whacked-out modern artist.

I asked my father about that exhibition. He retains a sort of catalog of all the pieces at the event. More than 200 pages. The construction of "Mud Muse" is covered in a fair amount of detail. The "mud" is actually bentonite, known best to me as a protein-removing substance in winemaking. The gurgling was caused by some sort of vibrating action under the table, not a conventional system of pumps.

Google "mud muse" and you'll read the art critics a-cooing. According to one, it's "the interactive work of art conceived as the perfectly responsive lover." OK. Others make note of the fecal texture and color of the work. Even as a toddler fresh out of his anal expulsive phase, I don't think I saw things in that light. It was just the essential, amplified, glorified gloppiness of mud.

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Below is a video of "Mud Muse" in action. I don't recall any soundtrack, and have a strong recollection of the mud being far more viscous. Perhaps someone over-diluted the bentonite on the day the video was shot.

Yum Kai Mangda

2009-01-12T14:06:00.000-08:00

An American friend once described a horseshoe crab as culinarily useless. Not true, as you can see. Those orange globules are the eggs of one of the critters, served up with onions, chilis, mangos, and the other sorts of ingredients you typically find in Thai "yum".

The experience is something akin to eating little nuggets of candle wax. That's not a complaint, actually, as the resulting texture is unique. As with any number of other Thai dishes, there's an element of "sanook" (fun) involved in the gustatory process. It begins when the appalling form of the "mangda" is presented on the table, continues as you endure the spices, and nears completion with those little spheres rolling about in your palate.

Now, don't start combing the nearest beach for these buggers. For one thing, there are some conservation issues. More immediate, however, is the fact that the eggs of certain species are loaded with tetrodotoxin, the same poison found in fugu, the famous Japanese pufferfish. A Mahidol University paper counts 280 cases of poisoning, including 5 deaths, between 1994 and 2006. In Thailand, the culprit is the species C. Rotundicauda, as opposed to the edible Tachypleus Gigas. The appearance of the two is quite similar.

It's a tad difficult to hunt down this dish. A couple of the aforementioned deaths were fairly recent and well-publicized, so restaurants and customers are a bit wary. You could start by avoiding the sorts of joints that have large numbers of tourists. Also, smallish eateries probably won't have the kind of customer volume that justifies purchasing fresh horseshoe crabs on a daily basis.

Did you know the mouth of a horseshoe crab lies between its legs? Another interesting factoid: the beasty is more closely related to spiders than crabs, shrimps, or lobsters.

Photoshopped Satun Rocks

2009-01-06T04:20:00.000-08:00

South of Yecheng

2008-12-24T06:49:00.000-08:00

Let me continue to recall a voyage in Western China, into Tibet, picking up where I left off in a previous post.

Mani and I had busted out of the hotel compound and were now walking southward, out of Yecheng. Being Sherpa, Mani could pass as a Chinese national, but not me. Fortunately, I had picked up a hat made of black sheep's wool back in Kashgar, which hid my western features, afro-like. It was early morning, there was a moon, and the road was lined with poplars. Folks were hauling goods on donkey carts, mostly toward the city, but nobody paid special attention to me. That's my memory.

After a couple hours, we caught a convoy of truckers heading south. We traveled perhaps 200 kilometers before we stopped. Word was, a bridge was washed out, and we'd have to wait in a small Muslim town. Here's a map. You'll find Yecheng in the lower left. You'll also note that there aren't any towns worthy of being marked on the route that leads into Ali, in Tibet.

As things go in this part of the world, it's bad form to immediately busy yourself with issues like food and lodging, gesturing into your palate and the like. You hang and let the locals feel you out. That's what we did. It was 1987 and the velcro on my backpack was the object of fascination for local children, and later, the adults. Those hooks and loops were put to the test for better than an hour, I'm sure.

A Tibetan man was stranded in that town. On his truck were hundreds of watermelons, destined for Lhasa, several thousand kilometers away. He figured the Tibetans would shell out major renmibi for the novelty fruit. His plan was now shattered, but he didn't seem fazed. I imagined that the adventures of that Tibetan, who faced disruptions and weirdness (e.g. me, as well as the local Uigurs) with equanimity, would make a nice low-budget movie. "Lhasa Watermelon Run". Black and white.

So, we ate watermelons while the bridge was being repaired south of the village. We ate so many watermelons, we shat red. There were also these very long noodles ("la mian") served as soup or stew, a regional specialty.

Mani and I played gin rummy constantly to pass the time. If we had another encounter with the police, it's possible that the penalties would be stiffer, so there was always some lingering fear. Mani began to see me as an obstacle. He was a professional photographer looking for novel shots in this part of the world, but my presence screamed "trespassing foreigner". We'd been together a couple weeks now, and he had decided that we our luck was better when he won the card games. In the end, nobody contacted the police to rat on us...I suspect that local dislike of Han authorities benefited us.

After maybe four days we were able to continue. Heading south toward Ali, the memories are dim. In the distance, a convoy of trucks winding slowly up a pass, like ants traversing the edge of a taffy ribbon. Little outposts serving noodles. I got the feeling that the workers in these regions, all male, had been sent out here as punishment. Things were cold and desolate in the Takla Makan desert...beautiful for a traveler, but probably incredibly tedious from the point of view of a companionless grunt. At one stop, however, two pairs of female legs emerged from a truck, and the workers lost any semblance of composure. I assume the women were prostitutes...fairly good-looking, and dressed inappropriately for the cold.

One thing I'll never forget is the golden mountain. It was perhaps 9:00 in the morning and this pyramidal peak must have been dusted with mica or some other reflective mineral. It really gleamed. I urged Mani to take a photo, but he knew that the effect would be lost...it was simply a monstrous chunk of gold. So, that intense goldness must be added to the list of amazing things that can't be photographed...

*a deep, blue, cloudless sky

*pure blackness in a cave

*the intense, encompassing whiteness you get when you're walking on the snow, in the clouds, with the sun threatening to break through

Supposedly, K2 could be seen from that region. Nobody was there to point it out amongst the other distant peaks, however.

Toilet paper isn't sold in that part of the world. I found a communist youth magazine that sufficed, however. The right, absorbent texture; nothing glossy. Yes, those pages were endowed with pics of all the revolutionary heroes.

At some point, we were traveling a narrow one way road, to one side a steep bank, to the other a lake. We encountered a convoy traveling in the opposite direction. Neither convoy seemed interested in reversing course. I'm not sure how this conflict was settled. Rather than slugging it out, it seems that both parties decided to relax and snack near the lake; a very sedate game of "chicken". We might have hung there for 2 hours. The incident brought to mind Dr. Seuss's tale of the Zax.

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Above is a photo of postcard. Mani made postcards as his livelihood. That's Mt. Mustagh Ata in China. Despite the gentle slopes, it peaks at 7500 meters...one hell of a footprint. Actually, the pic was probably taken from the Karakoram Highway on the way to Kashgar, a week or so prior to the travels described above. I'll have to write about that later.

Cover for "Understanding Intelligent Design 2008"

2008-12-08T02:49:00.000-08:00

Yeccccchhhh...A Smiling Face in the Sky

2008-12-02T05:07:00.000-08:00

Last night, my good friend Kan called, said "look at the moon", and hung up. With the greatest of compassion, she didn't inform me that I was supposed to see a smiley face.

Tonight, the moon has risen another 12 or so degrees higher, placing that smile above the two eyes (Venus and Jupiter). Rotating your head, or your photo, by 180 degrees gives you a frowning face. Hooray!

This astronomical episode sets the geek in me a-spinning. They say that you won't see another smiley-phenomenon like this for another 44 years or so. So how often is it possible to see a be-nosed smiley with a third planet, Mars or Saturn? Well, if you take 50 years as a rough average for the frequency of last night's performance, and you figure that nose only has a couple of degrees leeway between the eyes and the smile, you can multiply those 50 years by 180 (360/2) and get 9,000 years. That's awfully rough, and the frequency is probably even lower if you restrict the nose to a narrow left/right region across the face.

My inner geek also got to wondering about the logistics of seeing a frowning face without rotating head or photograph. I don't think it's possible! To see a "real" frown, the sun couldn't be far off the earth-moon line (otherwise, the moon would be closer to being full, and the smile would be replaced by a gape). The sun would also have to be above the moon from an earthbound perspective. That's necessary to get a frown. But if the sun is slightly above the moon, it'll wash out the planets! It doesn't matter if you're looking at the pre-dawn or post-dusk sky.

It's possible to imagine another solar system with planets that are visible in the daytime. Then you might see a frowning formation. Or, to get really sci-fi, you can imagine a universe with suns that spew rays of blackness into the otherwise ever-brilliant heavens. That would work. Hmmmmm.

I'm in a good mood now, and hereby donate this observation to the "intelligent design" crowd as evidence for a loving creator. Take it before I rescind the offer.

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To be clear, the geek only emerged after a good solid gawk. Not once did a smiling face impinge on my consciousness. In "A Beautiful Mind", mathematician John Nash displays his talent for connecting the dots and inventing new constellations on demand. You can call my story, "An Ugly Mind".

Honestly, what's the point of overlaying an awesome display of the night sky with...something else? Even worse is something as banal as a smiley.

A nice candlelight dinner for two couples back in University comes to mind. The food was great, and the company wonderful. And then there was Rachmaninoff's extraordinary Piano Concerto #3. I recall getting horribly tweaked when my company felt compelled to verbalize and reify the imagery that the music stirred in their brains. Noooooo!

Embellishing the already-astounding, be it music, sex, or a celestial display. Just a longstanding pet peeve of mine.

Obamasattva

2008-11-26T03:48:00.000-08:00

Hey, I voted for the guy. But read the following editorial commentary from the Bangkok Post:

Looking at Obama's historic campaign, what strikes us most is how consistently mindful this candidate has been. By mindfulness, Buddhism refers to the ability to be totally aware of the nature of things as they are, in the present moment, without pre-formed judgment or emotional partiality...

...From a Buddhist point of view, it is because Obama has a firm grasp on the fundamentals of dhamma, the nature of things, as well as karma, the law of cause and effect of action. Obama himself stressed throughout his campaign that he himself was not perfect and that he expected to make mistakes as president. This is a fundamental understanding of human nature and of dhamma...

...Want to be like Obama? It's not beyond our human capacity. To be able to achieve this level of maha sati, Great Mindfulness, Buddhism prescribes vipassana practice with a detailed step-by-step guidance for anyone who cares to learn.

The entire article is here.

On one hand, I can't say I'm entirely bothered by the Obamasattva perspective. McCain and Obama debated thrice, with neither side gaining a huge advantage in the process. McCain is no ninny, but even his strongest supporters must concede that Obama offered something McCain couldn't...a fresh start with the rest of the world. Does anyone imagine for one moment that the above superlatives would be flowing from Thai pens if McCain had been elected?

On the other hand, the author might want to step back from the whirlwind of recent events, gather up his own mindfulness, and put things in historical, emotional, and spiritual perspective. Jimmy Carter may have been a saint, but he won't go down as a great president. Oil prices and nefarious actions in Iran conspired against him, but it doesn't look like Obama will have it any easier. For every leader who cuts Obama some initial slack, there will be another trying to push the boundaries.

Above: Profound absorption or ordinary languor?

I just hope the world's expectations for Obama aren't too high.

More over-the-top gushing is found here.

Human-Chimp DNA Similarities: Truth, Distortions, Lies

2008-11-16T17:22:00.000-08:00

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy (Shakespeare)

And for every minute thing in heaven and earth, Hamlet,
An infinitude of lies and distortions regarding it await (Me)

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If falsehood, like truth, had but one face, we would be more on equal terms. For we would consider the contrary of what the liar said to be certain. But the opposite of truth has a hundred thousand faces and an infinite field. (Michel Eyquem de Montaigne)

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So many percentages are floated around regarding human/chimp DNA similarities. Despite the essentially non-existent contribution of creationists to biological science, google "human chimpanzee DNA similarities" and you'll be bombarded with creationist tracts. For every fact-based statement about biological reality, you'll find creationists offering a near-infinitude of lies and distortions.

DNA can be compared to a book, written with only four letters. If your task is to assign a percentage value to the similarities between two books, how would you do it? It's tricky! If you simply try to line up two otherwise identical books, letter for letter, the deletion of a single letter on page 1 of one text will result in a very low similarity score. How will you treat alternative spellings? In such a case, no meaning is lost...shouldn't a text riddled with alternative spellings receive a higher similarity score than a text riddled with spelling errors? If, oddly, one version tells exactly the same story two times, is it really fair to say that this version differs from the other by 50%?

Needless to say, good, intelligent, earnest, truth-seeking scientists have devised all sorts of measures to compare DNA strands. Needless to say, creationists accuse these scientists of various anti-god conspiracies. Needless to say, given a choice between two different comparison methods, the creationists will opt for the method that offers the lower percentage.

What are these percentages?

99.7%: This is the percentage of similarity in protein coding regions when "synonymous" substitutions are ignored. Imagine two cookbooks. Much of the two books are drivel...expositions on the author's intimate relationship with fennel, for example. However, a portion of both books actually offer recipes that you can try out. A taste-test of consumers finds that the end products of the two books are 99.7% similar.

98.4%-98.8%: These are the most commonly cited measures of human-chimp similarity. Most of the relevant studies here simply seek to match up letters to letters (as opposed to words to words, or paragraphs to paragraphs). Mary-Claire King's 1973 study of chimp/human differences in a handful of proteins extrapolated a 99% similarity, and the figure hasn't change much since. Since better than 80% of mutational events involve letter/letter substitutions, the 98.5% figure is probably the one that best gives a sense of the degree of divergence between humans and chips.

95%: This is the 2002 similarity estimate arrived at by Roy Britten at CalTech. His method of calculating similarities between books differs from that of most other researchers, though all parties are using the same books. Britten includes deletions or insertions of words, sentences, and paragraphs in his work, a somewhat controversial tactic. To quote Carl Zimmer:

Suppose a stretch of our DNA 6,000 base pairs long disappeared a million years ago. Britten would count that as 6,000 separate changes, yet other geneticists would count it as a single evolutionary event.

And isn't the counting of evolutionary events the truly important measure when we consider the divergence of humans and chimps?

83%: This is the percentage of coding sequences on human-chimp chromosome 22 whose corresponding proteins show any differences at all. To simplify, imagine two cookbooks. The proportions of ingredients in 83% of the recipes differ very slightly (say, one part in 300), with the end result being that consumers usually can't even taste a difference. The remaining 17% of recipes are exactly the same. Shall we conclude that the two cookbooks are "83% different"?

76%: For various reasons, including the fact that the chimpanzee genome was not fully sequenced at the time of the study in question, scientists chose to "align" 76% (2400 gigabases out of 3100) of the human and chimp genomes and then proceed to ask questions based on this alignment. See the 48.6% figure below for a book-based analogy. The figure, of course, has been propagated by agenda-bearers (in particular, one Richard Buggs) as an example of the progressive lowering of human-chimp homology estimates. Never mind that the same paper goes on to reaffirm previous estimates of homology, based on the 76% of usable, high-quality sequences.

To look at it another way, one can imagine a study where scientists choose to compare human/human DNA. Due to budget constraints, only 10% of the sequences are deemed of high enough quality for comparison. Do we conclude that humans are only related to each other by 10%?

Buggs argues that 76% is a conservative, purely scientific derivation, but that's bunk: it's like reading the first 76% of two books, finding they're extremely similar, and then stating there's a 50/50 chance that the remaining pages will diverge in content.

48.6%: This refers to Fujiyama's 2002 comparison of chimp and human DNA. In addition to the fact that Fujiyama employed stringent comparison requirements, the human genome sequence was not completed until 2003, meaning that Fujiyama was working with a draft. It's as if you have two similar books, but one is incomplete. You cut out text from the finished book and try to match it to text in the other. The degree to which the two books match up will then largely depend on the extent to which they're finished. The difficulty of comparison is increased if one book is being written by constantly adding sentences in random locations, as opposed to tacking successive paragraphs to the ends of the last.

Does the above mean that Fujiyama was wasting his time? No. He simply continued his analysis and made inferences based on the text sequences that did line up reasonably well (the ones with minimal "valid alignments"). In those cases, the letter-for-letter similarity came in at 98.77%, confirming earlier studies.

29%: To simplify a bit, assume two books of 20,000 paragraphs. If 29% of all paragraphs are precisely the same, and most paragraphs only differ in one or two letters, would you conclude the two books are hugely different? That's what the creoids do after "reading" 2005's monumental "Initial sequence of the chimpanzee genome and comparison with the human genome".

25%: If your books contain four letters, with each letter randomly appearing about 25% of the time, chance dictates that two letters will line up 25% of the time. A fool will then exclaim that no two books can ever differ by more than 75%. Never mind that no credible comparison methods are this simplistic. A single letter may match up 25% of the time, but two letters will only match up 6.25% of the time (etc.)

6.4%: This is a recent estimate of difference in "copy number" between humans and chimps. To simplify, assume that one book has duplicates of 6.4% of its paragraphs and the other hasn't. If the two books were previously thought to be 98% similar, does this new information now mean that we can subtract 6.4% from 98% and get a revised estimate of 91.6%? Not really. It's a simple matter to copy and paste a paragraph to a new location in your text, but it takes some serious effort to write a new paragraph. To make the fallacy even more obvious, consider two books that are precisely the same, except for the fact that one book duplicates all paragraphs 100 times. Is it really fair to say they are only similar by 1%?

I'm not critiquing the paper per se. However, if humans find some comfort in the 6.4% figure, mice should take deep solace...they differ from their dirty, unrefined cousins, the rats, by a full 10% in copy number.

0%: This is the frequency with which the creobots, when given a choice between two homology measurements, choose the larger. It's also tempting to offer this percentage as the contribution of these ninnies to biological understanding, but that would be generous...I'm not being facetious when I say that a negative number would be most appropriate.

Images on the Way to Mera

2008-10-31T03:52:00.000-07:00

Here's a pic from Kare, on the way to Mera. It was actually distilled from my old video camera in "super-nightshot" mode.

I'm a bit pissed that I wasn't more liberal with the camera up there, but you can see another handful of pics here (in slideshow format...give them time to load).

Mera Peak, Amazing Sherpas

2008-10-28T06:30:00.000-07:00

I just returned from a jaunt up Mera Peak. "Jaunt" is a fair describer of the climb...there were really no technical challenges on the way up. The last 50 meters or so is a bit steep, so they've got a line onto which you can attach a jumar, if you wish. The line is interrupted by a snowbar or ice-axe or something at some point, so it's necessary to detach and reattach your jumar at that point. Never mind, though...they've got a Sherpa stationed right there, ready to take care of those pesky details for you. The immediate impression I got was that of being on a scary amusement park ride, where operators check that you're properly harnessed before the ride proceeds. Honestly...that's what passed through my mind at 6,450 or so meters!

The lines disappear quickly over a course of days or weeks. A mountain like Everest must have thousands of ice screws, pitons, and snowbars embedded in her rock and ice. The really dangerous work is to re-establish a grip on these mountains. These days, that work is accomplished almost entirely by Sherpas. With the lines already set, the clients need only be bright enough to make sure their jumars are simultaneously attached to their lines and harnesses. Hmmmmm.

From my own count, few folks failed to make the summit. Some of those who made it did not have the most impressive physiques. The speed at which one can adjust to the altitude does not seem to be easily gauged beforehand. One pleasing fact: older folks seem to handle the altitudes better than young folks. Hooray! Where else does age give one a physical advantage? A mid-aged German guy spoke with joy of his encounter with a super-fit young Canadian climber who needed assistance down to a lower camp.

I don't mean to poo-poo the experience of climbing Mera. Having woken around 3:00 AM, you walk up a decent slope with less than 50% of the atmospheric oxygen available at sea-level. Depending on your speed, it could take 3-5 hours from high camp. Even my Everest-conquering guide Nima vomited on the way down. Rust-colored. I think it was the canned tuna fish our porters fried up for us. In the week we spent trekking toward the peak, it was obvious that the climb had taken a toll on many folks via seriously chapped lips, sunburn, a gimpy gait, whatever.

The weather is a huge factor in your chances of success. We enjoyed perfect weather on the summit. With the sun reflecting off the snow, I could have shed a layer of clothing. The next day was sour, however, with one Czech dude suffering frostbite on his toes. He was worried that the docs might have to do some snipping in Kathmandu, though I do believe he'll be OK.

More than anything, the appeal of Mera is the view. Everest and Makalu are right in your face. Kanchenjunga, the 3rd highest mountain in the world, looks like a fortress in the distance. There's Cho Oyu, beautiful Ama Dablam, Pumori, and more. Hopefully, you'll retain enough consciousness to appreciate it all in the rarefied atmosphere.

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Unbeknownst to the morons at TITV here in Thailand*, there are good reasons why folks don't climb Everest in October. The lack of action on the monster peaks at this time of year means that you'll meet some really amazing Sherpa climbers guiding expeditions on the lesser peaks. Let me tell you a bit about these guys:

Most impressive was Dawa Sherpa. If you watch the Discovery channel, you know that your typical Everest expedition requires a base camp and four higher camps. The whole process might take 2 months for a foreigner, who shells out as much as $100,000 to reach his dream. But Mr. Dawa simply began his adventure at the base camp on the Tibet side of Everest, reached the Summit, and traversed down to the Nepali base camp in a total of 20 hours. He told me he was a bit disappointed, since he was shooting for 18 hours. All told, Mr. Dawa has summited Everest 8 times.

Then there was Danu Sherpa. Our trek paralled that of Danu and his two wonderful clients, Christian and Chantal (sorry, no photos), so we had plenty of chances to interact with Danu. Not only has he summited Everest 11 times, and Annapurna I once (which is enough, given a 50% death rate), but he's also a radiantly friendly individual.

I shouldn't neglect my own guide, Nima. At the age of 22, he organized and led a Nepali team up Everest.

Finally, there's the story of a Sherpa whose name eludes me who loaded up on Nepali rakshi (a hard alcohol that Sherpas sometimes refer to as "oxygen"), left his home in Pangboche, summited Everest, and returned home to Pangboche in a span of 30 hours.

High altitude climbing, not to mention high-altitude portering, will never be an Olympic event, but I find the accomplishments of these Sherpas to be truly mind-blowing. It was about 30 years ago that Tenzing Norgay surmised that Reinhold Messner must have cheated on the way to the first ascent of Everest without bottled oxygen. Since then, however, it seems that the Sherpas have discovered their almost unhuman high altitude talents, and I'll be a bit surprised if any non-Sherpas come close to duplicating the above feats.
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*The Thai TV station TITV sponsored an Everest expedition in October-November of 2007. The unusual timing was supposed to honor King Bhumibol, whose birthday falls on Dec. 5. You could see updates and live reports amidst bombastic music nightly on TITV. The team failed about 800 meters below the summit. In May of 2008, the first Thai reached the summit. He had failed to attract any sponsors whatsoever, but later managed to minimize his costs by joining a Vietnamese team. The accomplishment was met with surprisingly little fanfare in Thailand.

Despite the comparative ease of climbing Mera, no Thais have done it! We scoured the records! Below, I attempt to advance the cause. Pardon the fractured footage...apparently, Nima found my video camera to be more challenging than Everest.

Plane Crash in Lukla

2008-10-28T02:17:00.000-07:00

We took the third flight out of Kathmandu, bound to Lukla, on the morning of Oct 8. I knew something was a tad haywire when, after 30 minutes or so, the plane began circling around some cloud-obscured location below. Shortly thereafter we found ourselves on the rarely-used landing strip at Lamidanda.

In Nepal, information passes through several filters before it reaches a foreigner's ear. First, it was confirmed that visibility was poor in Lukla. After awhile, word spread that an accident had occured. Was anyone hurt? The pilot is alive. What about other people? The pilot survived. I guess that's the Nepali way of saying, "everyone else died".

It turns out that [the doomed] flight no. 4 was about 2 minutes behind us. If the gossip on the ground is to be believed, our pilot warned the tailing pilot not to attempt a landing. The pilot of the ill-fated craft is quoted in Nepali papers as blaming Kathmandu-Lukla communications on the disaster, and Yeti Airlines officially claims that the airport was "suddenly" cloaked in fog, but the word at Lamidanda was simply that this guy, Surendra Kunwar, decided to play daredevil. He survived, apparently, because he was thrown through the cockpit windshield onto the runway, while everyone else had to endure the airplane flipping and then falling back 50 meters down the hillside.

In my life, I've met not one, but two sole survivors of bus accidents in India. Anyone who has spent anytime in this part of the world can regale you with tales of whisky-sotted bus drivers who, at 100 kilometers/hour, play "chicken" with the oncoming traffic on narrow mountain roads. Point is: the "daredevil" theory is not particularly far-fetched.

After a couple hours, we flew back to Kathmandu. I had encouraged my guide Nima to consider the possibility of trekking from Lamidanda to Lukla. It would take about five extra days, but being an American, I feared an FAA-style investigation that would shut the airport/airline down indefinitely. Not to worry...it turns out that a few October 8 flights landed after the crash.

I'm always the last guy to propose a "moment of silence", but the blase reaction of the Lamidanda passengers surprised me. Perhaps we just had trouble believing any Nepali -> foreigner information that came our way. Maybe the news was just too much to integrate into our morning at the pleasant, grassy landing strip, where locals showed up to offer tea. It wasn't "shock". Far from it. Nobody sensed a disturbance in the force as those 18 lives got snuffed out.

Back in Kathmandu, I was told that someone was looking out for me. I resisted the impulse to ask where this "someone" was with regard to the passengers on flight 103. If I was spared, were the others punished? Not the time for a lecture on the shortcomings of theism. One friend e-mailed me with another sentiment: the devil wasn't quite ready to accept me into hell. That view might be .0000001% more accurate than the former.

Nima's family had already gone into mourning when we returned to Kathmandu. Somehow, they were convinced that he had taken the doomed flight.

Despite my cynicism when the events of the day got mixed up in supernaturalism, there was still some sense of amazement at my continued existence, and it's interesting to consider all the little circumstances that led up to me NOT being on Flight 103. For example, I hate the chaos at the domestic terminal in Kathmandu, so I insisted on arriving at the airport as fast as possible that morning. We were there at 5:00 AM, before the airport doors even opened. What little behind-the-scenes bureaucratic adjustments might have spared our lives? Why had the passengers chosen Yeti Airlines, and not another? (for my own part, I refuse to fly Sita Air, another carrier, because they wouldn't accept responsibility for lost baggage on a previous excursion to Lukla).

Of course, it's not a done deal that everyone would have died had I been on Flight 103. Consider the following scenario: I hop on the flight. 10 kilometers from Lukla, I cough loudly, causing the pilot to reflect on his sick daughter back in Kathmandu. A conservative, family-oriented, risk-averse state of consciousness ensues, and the pilot returns to Kathmandu.

It's also eerie to consider that we had, most likely, smiled and interacted with the doomed parties. Undoubtedly, they were thrilled in anticipation of their upcoming Himalayan adventures. That's how everyone feels when they hop into that "Twin Otter"...chances are high that some amazing experiences are just around the corner, but you're not really sure when/where/how they'll manifest. At Lukla, the landing arrives suddenly...in that mountainous environment, where the plane must be flying upwards at an 11 degree angle upon touch down, you don't have the usual indications that you're about to land...so the ill-fated passengers probably carried those happy feelings until their last seconds.

When we finally made it to Lukla on October 10 (the weather was bad on October 9), I walked down to the crash scene to take some video. As "luck" would have it, I bumped into my former super-porter on the way. I dragged him back up to the main strip of Lukla and asked Nima to consider him as a porter for our upcoming jaunt up Mera Peak. That was fine with Nima, and it turned out to be a great decision. Anyway, Mr. Super-Porter related that he heard a boom, visited the crash site, and was greeted with the sight of bodies with burnt-off faces, and some strange, unpleasant odors. That's pretty much the story you'll hear from all the denizens of Lukla.