Quick Note

I've decided, for reasons which remain unclear even to me, to resurrect my other blog, Science Books Reviewed, with a new entry regarding some reading that I've finally caught up with, after our family trip to Utah last summer, on the great state of Wyoming.

The new review will be the first of several (I have at least two more planned), so if you're looking for an idiosyncratic but mildly well-informed view of some current science books, take a look. The new review covers, briefly, John McPhee's Rising from the Plains and the Mountain Press volume covering the Roadside Geology of Wyoming. Take a look!

At the Mercy of Technology

For tens of thousands of years, human beings lived very closely to nature. In fact, much of the existence of early humans was a struggle against nature. For most of the course of recorded human history, one of the greatest forces mitigating against human survival was, collectively, nature. Flood, drought, wildfire, pestilence, plague... these were the things which laid empires low and drove armies back into their own territories. But in the last hundred years or so, an unusual thing has happened. Instead of struggling against nature, we now struggle against our technology.

Technology was how humans began to combat nature. Fire brought light to darkness. Sharpened stones and pointed sticks gave early humans tools to fight against predators, to take their skins and bones and use them to build shelter. Fire and ores yielded their metals, making sharper weapons, better tools. In short order, human beings, through the use of techology, did unimaginable things to the world.

There is a price, however, even in advancement. Who has not now learned to feel slightly helpless when the internet connection goes down, if your mobile or landline telephone fails, the lift is stuck between floors, or when the cable television goes out? People are now reliant upon these things, to such an extent that their absence is more than a mere inconvenience: lack of some devices present a serious detriment to how well we live our days.

And as, in most cases, we don't necessarily understand enough to fix these devices, the sense of helplessness when they go wrong is almost palpable. Perhaps "almost" is sugar-coating the question. It is a real sensation, a digging at the guts that feels like the gnawing of rodents. Skin grows clammy and cold. That cold shiver crawls up and down the spine, as the realisation dawns that, yes, you may have to do something on your own. Or do without.

This is the dilemma of the modern world, nowhere more starkly played out than when a car suddenly and unexpectedly fails.

As my vehicle has done exactly that, I'm fairly confident of my mastery of the topic (he says, ruefully).

We've had some good times, my car and I. We've driven to Minnesota and back, on countless expeditions of exploration around the state. It was the first car that I bought and drove around in with my children. It was the car that I had when I met my wife, when we used to commute back and forth across town to see each other. And, with some expected exceptions, it has been largely trouble-free. But after doing nearly 175,000 miles, a couple of seemingly routine maintenance needs quickly ballooned into something unmanageable, and unreasonable for an eleven year-old car. The replacement cost versus new cost equation, as compelling as the calculation based on various interest rates, make the decision for you sometimes.

Ironically, today's death knell falls on the anniversary of the announcement of ENIAC, the first general purpose electronic computer (compared to the devices such as those from Bletchley Park ( Wiki | Official Site ), which were intended as code-breaking devices). With the introduction of the computer, ostensibly a labour-saving device, have our lives really become that much simpler? Granted, it is possible for scribblers such as myself to routinely publish these random screeds to an indifferent audience, but does that really make the world a better place? Much like the utility and world-changing nature of all our other technology, that is a question which I will leave you to answer in your own time, and in your own way.

For my part, I think that once this car disaster is over, we will go home and try to enjoy ourselves... technology free.

Serious Friday

I've written before about my respect for the work of Jacob Bronowski. His 1973 television series, The Ascent of Man is the cornerstone on which nearly all good science documentaries are built.

Over at his blog Respectful Insolence, Orac has posted one of the most moving moments from that series, where Bronowski visits Auschwitz. As this visit occurred some thirty years after the atrocities committed there, it seems almost more poignant than a similar commentary might now. In the event that you don't read Orac (and you really should), I thought that this clip, which first set me out on a search for the entire series several years ago, deserved any additional viewers that I could provide it. Bearing in mind much current American political rhetoric, a warning against the perils of dogma is opportune, at the very least.

If you're interested in watching more of The Ascent of Man, much of it can be found on YouTube, or, in the United States, it may be obtained through Ambrose Video. Most good public libraries should have it too.

Friday Humour

Completely unconnected with anything else, here's a sketch with John Cleese and a Not the Nine O'Clock News-era Rowan Atkinson, discussing beekeeping. Enjoy.

Quick Follow-Up

A bit of a retraction is due here: in a previous post entitled Wish Me Luck, I lamented what I expected to be the inevitable outcome of trying to lead a discussion of geology, all to earn the Webelos Geologist Pin, with a particular group of children. I was worried on two scores; first, that I'd look like a plonker in front of my own son, and second, that these kids would be not be particularly well-behaved. This latter idea was based on previous experiences, and I had rather written off the whole exercise in my head.

Honestly, I was not in the best of tempers when I got there. There were lots of little reasons why I was already annoyed, not least of which being that my car had performed the automotive equivalent of a nervous breakdown, leaving me up in the air as to the status and cost of repairs to a vehicle which we planned to keep through the end of this calendar year. Sitting and waiting for the endless stream of suburban assault vehicles to move just enough so that I could find a place to park, I tried to keep in the back of my mind the whole time the idea that I was doing it for the benefit of my son, but I was still more than a little irritated.

What I neglected to remember, however, was that (a) children mature and grow up, (b) any topic which sufficiently captures the interest of ten year olds will keep their attention for at least the required hour, and (c) if you're sufficiently confident in your mastery of the subject, and you enjoy it, kids will pick up on that. At least, this group did.

In other words, it didn't go badly. Not at all. For the most part, the kids were interested and engaged, and asked some good and thoughtful questions (and kept the silly ones to a minimum). And while I'm still not the sort of person who genuinely enjoys hanging out with children other than our own two, I can see that this is the age, where, with careful and appropriate guidance and only the occasional stern talking-to, they could well take those first steps on the road to being interesting people. And Ian, who for reasons of his own is sometimes wary of his classmates, seemed pleased with the outcome. Or, at the very least, not appallingly and fatally embarrassed.

So I eat my words, more than just a bit. I hope that I'm enough of an adult myself to admit when I was wrong. Sometimes I wonder.

"Astronauts Are Just Like Us... Except Better"

Listening to last night's podcast of the Rachel Maddow Show on one of my forty-five minutes drives this afternoon, I was delighted to hear the audio for this piece, which I was finally able to see on returning home much later tonight. Take a look:

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

I could make some moderately profound statement at this point, something about how humans meld art and science by carrying music, in a small way, into space. There's a history there, going back to the Voyager missions, both of which carried a golden LP of the best music from the Earth, just in case that some wandering extraterrestrial should happen across one of those craft in a million years' time. But frankly, a large part of my enjoyment derives from being a long-time Jethro Tull fan. The notion of Ian Anderson having leant a flute to an astronaut for a space mission strikes me as rather a wonderful gesture.

As a result, this, like Christmastide, puts me in a Tull sort of mood. Here's a clip of classic Tull which isn't one of the two songs ("Aqualung" and "Locomotive Breath" which most people generally know), the title track of their 1977 LP:

I spent far too long selecting this clip, looking for something that was just right. Almost went with "Hunting Girl", but decided against it. There are lots of other great ones out there, especially from the late 70s. Just have a look.

The other amusing element in the first clip is Rachel Maddow's unfettered delight at the astronauts' zero-G antics. Which led, of course, to the post title. And after all, if you found yourself in orbit, wouldn't you do the same?

Of Seabed Widows and Ghost Brews

I'm partial to a drop of Veuve Clicquot on the right occasions, and I also happen to enjoy a decent beer on the right occasion, in the right company, or as a way to end a day, with dinner almost anytime. Substitute wine, scotch, or a number of other tipples ad libitum.This evening, because tonight it was either a question of ploughing mindlessly through news stories or worrying about the repairs to my car, which has chosen this delightful weather as the ideal time in which to undergo a collection of major malfunctions, I elected instead to make a cup of tea of and have a look around the web. Blogging gold! Some related stories which I had somehow managed to miss in the past few weeks and months caught my eye, and off I went.

First, the BBC's reporting of this story Shipwreck's 'oldest beer' to by analysed, brewed again leapt out at me. I must confess that the notion of encountering a late 18th century ale set my imagination running. This could conceivably have been a French ale - perhaps even made before the head-chopping began in 1789. Would this be the sort of beverage that Voltaire might have imbibed, or perhaps Diderot (almost certainly Diderot, from what I recall of his work)? Could Marat have nipped down the pub for a quick pint of this brew before going to his ill-fated bath? Scholars of 18th century French literature and history, have at me for not doing any better research than whimsical imaginings, by all means.

It almost seems like stunt casting, in a way, trying to resurrect lost and forgotten food and drink. On the other hand, I must confess myself curious, to say the least. I appreciate, but don't know a great deal about, what are generally considered "good" ales, whiskeys, and wines. Is there a difference between a six dollar bottle of plonk and a sixty dollar one? That depends on the reason that you're drinking it, presumably, but if you're interested in the complexity and nuance of taste, the answer is almost certainly a resounding "yes!"

There's been a lot of interest in "spirit archaeology", if that's not too peculiar a term, in recent years. Announcements and citations are plentiful; for example, a plan to attempt to analyse and learn from the Rare Old Highland Malt Whiskey carried to Antarctica by British explorer Ernest Shackleton in 1907, with the eventual view to understanding the state of distilling in the late 19th century, and recreating the drink for public consumption (I'd buy a bottle, in a heartbeat). The same shipwreck which produced the vintage 1800 ale mentioned above also produced a number of bottles of champagne, and the world's oldest surviving ones at that, including what were thought to be some very early (and pre-Revolution) examples of Veuve Clicquot. Further, discoveries made both in China and Egypt have further expanded our understanding of the different kinds of alcohol which humans have enjoyed. Hell, we've even discovered one of the oldest known wineries, a six thousand year-old setup found in Armenia. Making and consuming alcohol has been a part of human culture ever since the first time that some early human got tipsy from some fermented fruit.

My long ago co-worker and occasional drinking companion Matthew Rowley of Rowley's Whiskey Forge is a dedicated distiller, cookery writer, and generally entertaining and knowledgeable egg, so I tweeted him to ask his thoughts on this topic, but, like mine, they mainly centred on how nice it would be to get hold of a bottle of the widow's work. A fair cop. Regardless, if you're interested in the art and science of food, you should read Mr Rowley's blog, or even buy his book, Moonshine!. I'm going to pick up a copy myself, just as soon as I save enough of my pocket money that I don't already have allocated to booze and viands of various descriptions. In the meantime, raise a glass to the history and science of alcohol, that most delightful of accidents of nature.

Seeing the Beauty?

I meant to post this photograph when I was talking about the climatic conditions the other day, and just thought that I would share, for those of you who are inclined toward meteorlogical smugness:

As you can see, at some point in my life, I obtained a slightly kitschy outdoor thermometer. With birds. Not too long ago, I found it again, and had the brilliant idea of putting it up on the front porch so that I could see how warm (or cold) it was. You know, in the way that really old people obsess about the weather?

Well, it now appears that I'm getting old. It was a lovely morning all the same, if you go in for the snowbound look:

It was, however, much better appreciated from inside, preferrably with a good hot mug of tea and a roaring fire.

GHR often says that she can't imagine why the early settlers of America would have voluntarily stopped here, after experiencing both one average summer and one average winter in rapid succession, with the two-week interval which typically passes for autumn. I can only conclude that our ancestors were far hardier, and far less troubled by frostbite, than our own namby-pamby modern selves.

Appropriate Moments in Reading, Volume 9

I took a quick look at the bookshelves a few minutes ago, sighed in some disgust at myself, then started moving stuff around and trying to make all of the shelves look a bit more tidy. The result?



Don't judge me. I've had a bibliomania problem for a long time, but honestly, it's getting better (the Kindle app for my iPad has genuinely helped here).

On the positive side, apart from the reoranganisation, I found a book that I only vaguely remembered picking up last summer, but one which seems particularly appropriate considering the local weather today: Snowball Earth, by Gabrielle Walker. Since first learning about this hypothesis a few years ago, I've been fascinated by the notion of the Earth essentially being a bit like Hoth from The Empire Strikes Back, in what is now known as the Cryogenian Period. The Snowball Earth hypothesis suggests that, somewhere between 650 and 750 million years ago (a number I see sometimes which is right in between those is 700 MYA), the planet essentially froze. Because this freezing effect would have killed off many members of closely related species, the suggestion of the hypothesis is that, for reasons we won't go into here, this die-off may actually have kick-started the proliferation of multicellular life, which characterised the later Edicaran and Cambrian eras.

The evolutionary pressure of the high relatedness in the context of a post-glaciation population boom may have been sufficient to overcome the reproductive cost of forming a complex animal, for the first time in Earth's history."

This is obviously a hypothesis that is still the subject of some debate, but it does fit a large number of the facts available to us from rocks of this age (700MYA, +/-50MYA).

So, rather than focusing on the snow outside, which is (a) merely weather, rather than climate, and (b) absolutely nothing compared to what might have gone on in the Cryogenian, never mind in the last Ice Age, I can sit back and read into some geological history, safe in the knowledge that it can absolutely get worse.

Or, alternately, perhaps I've got a good book about a nice warm tropical island to read instead?