We'll discuss this at the meeting

Back in my teaching days, one of my least favorite things was when I realized that there was a faculty meeting after school.

Faculty meetings -- and, I suspect, meetings in general -- were an utter waste of time.  Not only did they take between forty-five minutes and an hour and a half to cover stuff that could have been taken care of in a three-paragraph email, they were frequently preceded by "icebreaker" games like one time (I swear I'm not making this up) holding a single raisin in our mouths for a minute then describing the sensation.  I recall distinctly sitting there thinking, "Dear god, I hope the moderator doesn't call on me."  But the universe being the twisted place it is, of course the moderator called on me.

My answer was to growl at the presenter, "The sensation is like having a raisin in my mouth."

My colleagues, who by and large knew what a grumpy sonofabitch I am, thought this was drop-dead hilarious, mostly because they were imagining what expletives I'd have included if I was just a tad less conscious of decorum and professionalism.  (One of these colleagues emailed me shortly after I retired to tell me that faculty meetings are now way less entertaining because he no longer can place bets on how many minutes it'd take for my face to go from "Impatient But Tolerating It" to "Are You Fucking Kidding Me Right Now?")

The reason all this comes up is because of some research that appeared in the journal The Leadership Quarterly last week that looked at how leaders emerge from leaderless groups.  They varied the composition of the groups -- single-gender vs. mixed-gender, age-grouped vs. mixed-age, even varying it by intelligence, personality traits, and professions of the members.  They then gave the groups tasks to perform, and observed who was most likely to become the group leader (as assessed by the groups' members afterward).

Of all the variables they tested, only one mattered.

The one who became the leader was the one who talked the most.

This idea has been observed in an anecdotal fashion before, and is amusingly called "the Babble Hypothesis."  Because it turns out it doesn't even matter what, exactly, the incipient leader was saying.  The likelihood of becoming the group leader was a function of the number of words spoken, even if what (s)he was saying was complete and utter bullshit.

"I think one take away is the importance of speaking up in group settings," said study lead author Neil MacLaren, of the Bernard M. and Ruth R. Bass Center for Leadership Studies.  "For example, if you are in a leadership position the evidence suggests you should play an active role in the conversation.  Taking this finding to extremes is unhelpful because skewed amounts of speaking time are associated with poorer group performance outcomes, but the evidence does seem consistent that people who speak more are more likely to be viewed as leaders."

This explains why I was not looked upon as a leader in our school (although I do think I was well-respected as a teacher).  I rarely spoke at faculty meetings, and that was for one specific reason: if I said something, it would make the meeting last longer.  There were a handful of faculty members who could always be counted upon to raise their hands when the call came for comments or questions on the day's topic, and it's a damn good thing that the evil eye isn't a real thing, because I would always look at them like this:

Not that it ever had an effect.  I have a sneaking suspicion these people actually enjoy meetings, which I have a hard time fathoming.  My attitude toward meetings was that if I was offered a choice of attending weekly meetings for a year or having my prostate examined by Edward Scissorhands, I'd have to think about it.

Anyhow, that's today's episode of Bizarre Human Social Behavior.  I have to say that although there are many things I miss about teaching, being retired does have some serious perks.  Now the only meetings I attend are with my dogs, and they seldom talk about such things as Changing Educational Paradigms or Thinking Outside the Box or Restructuring Curricular Frameworks.  All they want to discuss is why their food bowls are empty and whether the weather's nice enough to go outside and play.

That kind of meeting, I can deal with.

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Author Michael Pollan became famous for two books in the early 2000s, The Botany of Desire and The Omnivore's Dilemma, which looked at the complex relationships between humans and the various species that we have domesticated over the past few millennia.

More recently, Pollan has become interested in one particular facet of this relationship -- our use of psychotropic substances, most of which come from plants, to alter our moods and perceptions.  In How to Change Your Mind, he considered the promise of psychedelic drugs (such as ketamine and psilocybin) to treat medication-resistant depression; in this week's Skeptophilia book recommendation of the week, This is Your Mind on Plants, he looks at another aspect, which is our strange attitude toward three different plant-produced chemicals: opium, caffeine, and mescaline.

Pollan writes about the long history of our use of these three chemicals, the plants that produce them (poppies, tea and coffee, and the peyote cactus, respectively), and -- most interestingly -- the disparate attitudes of the law toward them.  Why, for example, is a brew containing caffeine available for sale with no restrictions, but a brew containing opium a federal crime?  (I know the physiological effects differ; but the answer is more complex than that, and has a fascinating and convoluted history.)

Pollan's lucid, engaging writing style places a lens on this long relationship, and considers not only its backstory but how our attitudes have little to do with the reality of what the use of the plants do.  It's another chapter in his ongoing study of our relationship to what we put in our bodies -- and how those things change how we think, act, and feel.

[Note:  if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

Doggie determination

Our dog Guinness has brought home the truth of the quip that cats are teenagers, dogs are toddlers.

His engine has two settings: "full throttle" and "off."  We got him two and a half years ago as an eleven-month-old rescue, so he has settled down a little as compared to the irrepressible puppy exuberance he came with.  Which is a bit of a relief.  Handling seventy pounds' worth of irrepressible puppy exuberance can be a little exhausting.

He is never content unless he's interacting with either me or my wife.  "Will you please go entertain yourself for a while?" is a common phrase heard around Chez Bloomgarden-Bonnet.  And he doesn't just want to interact with us any old way; it has to be exactly the right way.  He loves to play fetch -- can do so for hours on end -- but not if we're standing on the patio.  No, throwing the ball into the lawn from the patio is not the proper way.  A true game of fetch must be played from a seated position, in one of the lawn chairs next to the pond.  I kid you not.  From the patio, he'll chase the ball once, pick it up, and then stare at us with an expression like, "What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"  Move a hundred yards in a westward direction to the lawn chairs by the pond, and he will happily retrieve over and over.  And over and over and over.

No, I don't get it, either.

Be that as it may, he is extraordinarily sensitive to our moods, tone of voice, and body language, and seems to watch us constantly for cues about what is going on.  We can talk about him without using any obvious clue-words like his name, or even dog or play or ball, and he immediately knows (to judge by the fact that his tail will start wagging, even if he appeared to be sound asleep).  When we talk to him directly, he stares at us with this eager expression, like he really wants to understand every word we're saying.  If it's a bit above his head, he gives us the Canine Head-Tilt of Puzzlement:

"I'm so disappointed in myself," he seems to be saying.  "I will try much harder to understand next time."

You might even say he shows dogged determination.  *rimshot*

He's also one of the most affectionate dogs I've ever known.  Like I said, his number one priority is interacting with us as much as possible.

The reason all this comes up is because of a study that appeared this week in the journal Current Biology that strongly suggests dogs come pre-wired to connect with humans -- i.e., this isn't learned behavior.  Dogs may refine these skills, and learn specific cues and behaviors, but the ability is innate.

Led by Hannah Salomons of Duke University, this study compared the behavior of puppies and wolf cubs, both groups of which had been given equal prior exposure to humans.  They found that the puppies automatically responded to people -- they were much more willing to come up to a person spontaneously, make eye contact, and look to the human for cues about what to do.  Wolves, on the other hand, started out afraid, and would huddle in the corner when a person came close, and even once habituated to people's presence would mostly ignore them rather than interact.  "They acted like I was a piece of furniture," Salomons said.

Most fascinating of all, puppies seem to come equipped with at least some level of a "theory of mind" -- knowledge that their own perspective isn't shared by everyone, and that the world would look different through the eyes of another.  One of the most rudimentary theory-of-mind tests is to point at a treat on the floor that is visually hidden from the dog -- i.e., you can see it, the dog can't.  Wolves don't respond to this at all; dogs usually pick up on it right away.  And it's a more sophisticated response than it seems at first.  To figure out what pointing means, the dog has to think, "If I was standing where (s)he is, sight-lining down the arm toward the floor, where would it be indicating?"

"Dogs are born with this innate ability to understand that we're communicating with them and we're trying to cooperate with them," Salomons said, in an interview with Science Daily.

We not only cooperate with them, we also provide a valuable opportunity for them to get dressed up fancy now and again.

It seems like this in-touchness dogs are born with has come from millennia of domestication, where their use as companions meant that generation after generation people were selecting the most responsive, interactive dogs, meaning their capacity for bonding to humans increased over time.  Contrast that to cats -- and I mean no disparagement of our feline friends -- but they are often characterized as more aloof and self-reliant than dogs.  No surprise, really; having cats as companion animals is a relatively recent innovation, while there is good evidence that dogs have been companions back at least thirty thousand years.

"This study really solidifies the evidence that the social genius of dogs is a product of domestication," said Brian Hare, professor of evolutionary anthropology at Duke, senior author of the study.  "It's this ability that makes dogs such great service animals.  It is something they are really born prepared to do."

Now, y'all'll have to excuse me.  Guinness wants something.  I'm not sure if it's food, petting, or an early round of fetch-the-ball.  Maybe some of each.  Don't worry, I'll figure it out.

Which, incidentally, brings up the awkward question of who domesticated whom.

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I've loved Neil de Grasse Tyson's brilliant podcast StarTalk for some time.  Tyson's ability to take complex and abstruse theories from astrophysics and make them accessible to the layperson is legendary, as is his animation and sense of humor.

If you've enjoyed it as well, this week's Skeptophilia book-of-the-week is a must-read.  In Cosmic Queries: StarTalk's Guide to Who We Are, How We Got Here, and Where We're Going, Tyson teams up with science writer James Trefil to consider some of the deepest questions there are -- how life on Earth originated, whether it's likely there's life on other planets, whether any life that's out there might be expected to be intelligent, and what the study of physics tells us about the nature of matter, time, and energy.

Just released three months ago, Cosmic Queries will give you the absolute cutting edge of science -- where the questions stand right now.  In a fast-moving scientific world, where books that are five years old are often out-of-date, this fascinating analysis will catch you up to where the scientists stand today, and give you a vision into where we might be headed.  If you're a science aficionado, you need to read this book.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

Midnight, the Proud Boys, and the lure of the mob

In the brilliant but devastating Doctor Who episode "Midnight," the Doctor is on a sightseeing expedition that turns deadly when an alien attacks the "space train," and takes over the body of one of the passengers.

The increasing sophistication of the alien -- whose real form we never see -- as it gradually learns to operate the body of the passenger it has hijacked is one of the most chilling progressions the series ever conceived.  The character of Sky Silvestri is played to the absolute hilt by actress Lesley Sharp, and her riveting portrayal of an intelligence that is intrinsically hostile to other life forms is the stuff of nightmares.

By far the scariest thing about the episode, however, is how the other passengers react.  Doctor Who doesn't often flinch from showing us the ugly side of humanity, and here is mob psychology at its absolute worst -- looking for someone to blame for what has happened, and unfortunately landing on the wrong person.  The result is near catastrophe, and the resolution of the story one of the most poignant and disturbing scenes I've ever watched.  (Ask any Whovian about the line "The Hostess -- what was her name?" and you'll be sure to get a reaction, as well as possibly depressing them for the rest of the day.)

The force of mob psychology has been much on my mind since the riots in Washington, D.C. this past weekend resulted in twenty-three arrests and four people hospitalized with stab wounds.  The #StopTheSteal rallying cry, based upon zero-evidence, entirely bogus claims by Donald Trump and his cronies, spurred far-right groups like the "Proud Boys" to stage demonstrations in downtown D.C., and of course -- undoubtedly what Trump wanted -- the demonstrators clashed with counter-protestors.  (If you doubt my labeling the claims of election fraud as "bogus," explain how those same claims have resulted in almost sixty lawsuits, all but one of which was shot down, including two unanimous 9-0 votes by the conservative-dominated Supreme Court.  Apparently no judge is willing to jeopardize her/his career and reputation supporting a lawsuit with zero evidence to support it, even judges appointed by Donald Trump himself.)

It seems like all you have to do is get a sufficient number of people together, and the psychology of the crowd takes over and accomplishes the rest.  As Terry Pratchett put it, "The IQ of a mob is equal to the IQ of its stupidest member, divided by the number of people in the mob."  In the case of the Proud Boys, this would be a vanishingly small quantity.  More scientifically, a paper back in 2017 by French psychologists Serge Moscovici and Marisa Zavalloni tried to quantify this effect, and found something as fascinating as it is horrifying.  It took 140 secondary school students, and asked them beforehand to give an assessment of two things -- their opinion of the French president, and their attitudes toward Americans.  They then had the test subjects join a group, discuss the two topics, and then reassessed their opinions afterward.

A lot of us have the impression that group discussion moderates extreme viewpoints -- something we might characterize as the "democratic principle," that if you give everyone a voice, the fringes on either end are argued out of their extremism, or at least so vastly outnumbered that their rants don't count for much.  What Moscovici and Zavalloni found was exactly the opposite.  Exposing people with moderate views to ones with extreme beliefs makes the moderate people more extreme.

In other words: being in a group increases the polarization of the members, even the ones who started out in the middle of the pack.

As psychologist Robert Cialdini put it, in his book Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion, "Whether the question is what to do with an empty popcorn box in a movie theater, how fast to drive on a certain stretch of highway, or how to eat the chicken at a dinner party, the actions of those around us will be important in defining the answer."

So much of what we do comes from the fact that, all civilization and culture and intelligence aside, at our core we're still just social primates.  It doesn't take much for the veneer of civility to fall away, and once that happens, we tend to base our behavior on the behavior of those around us.

For better or worse.

This all sounds pretty hopeless, but to return to where I started -- "Midnight" -- it's important to acknowledge the fact that sometimes all it takes is one person resisting the pull of the mob to turn things around.  This requires courage, determination, and (often) not an inconsiderable amount of risk.  But ultimately, it's the only way we can avoid the worst outcomes of our built-in tribal mentality -- intolerance, polarization, discrimination, and violence.  Let's hope that there are people today who have the guts to do this.

And maybe this time, we'll even remember their names.

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If you, like me, never quite got over the obsession with dinosaurs we had as children, there's a new book you really need to read.

In The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs: A New History of a Lost World, author Stephen Brusatte describes in brilliantly vivid language the most current knowledge of these impressive animals who for almost two hundred million years were the dominant life forms on Earth.  The huge, lumbering T. rexes and stegosauruses that we usually think of are only the most obvious members of a group that had more diversity than mammals do today; there were not only terrestrial dinosaurs of pretty much every size and shape, there were aerial ones from the tiny Sordes pilosus (wingspan of only a half a meter) to the impossibly huge Quetzalcoatlus, with a ten-meter wingspan and a mass of two hundred kilograms.  There were aquatic dinosaurs, arboreal dinosaurs, carnivores and herbivores, ones with feathers and scales and something very like hair, ones with teeth as big as your hand and others with no teeth at all.

Brusatte is a rising star in the field of paleontology, and writes with the clear confidence of someone who not only is an expert but has tremendous passion and enthusiasm.  If you're looking for a book for a dinosaur-loving friend -- or maybe you're the dino aficionado -- this one is a must-read.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

The sound of a friendly voice

Given my inability to recognize faces, I've developed a number of compensatory mechanisms.  One is that I remember people by memorizing specific features; he's the guy with curly black hair, she's the woman with small oval glasses and a tattoo on her right hand.  I notice how people walk and how they carry their posture; I can sometimes recognize people I know well even if they're walking away from me, if they have a distinctive gait (which many people do, whether they realize it or not).

But for me the most important thing is the sound of their voices.  I think that may be why it took me so long to figure out I'm face blind; often, all people have to do is say a few words and I immediately know who they are, so the fact that their faces don't trigger the immediate recognition most people have doesn't hamper me as much.

It turns out that I'm not alone in relying on vocalizations for identifying who's around.  According to a paper last week in Science Advances, zebra finches have an ability to recognize their flock mates' unique vocalizations that rivals that of most humans.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons JJ Harrison (https://www.jjharrison.com.au/), Taeniopygia guttata - Bushell's Lagoon, CC BY-SA 4.0]

In "High-Capacity Auditory Memory for Vocal Communication in a Social Songbird," a team composed of biologists Kevin Yu, William Wood, and Frederic Theunissen, all of the University of California-Berkeley, used rewards to train a bunch of Australian zebra finches (Taeniopygia guttata) and see how far they could push the birds' ability to distinguish between the vocalizations of different members of their species.  And surprisingly -- at least to anyone who has heard the twittering cacophony of a cageful of zebra finches -- these birds could distinguish between the voices of forty or more of their friends.

The authors write:

Effective vocal communication often requires the listener to recognize the identity of a vocalizer, and this recognition is dependent on the listener’s ability to form auditory memories.  We tested the memory capacity of a social songbird, the zebra finch, for vocalizer identities using conditioning experiments and found that male and female zebra finches can remember a large number of vocalizers (mean, 42) based solely on the individual signatures found in their songs and distance calls.  These memories were formed within a few trials, were generalized to previously unheard renditions, and were maintained for up to a month.  A fast and high-capacity auditory memory for vocalizer identity has not been demonstrated previously in any nonhuman animals and is an important component of vocal communication in social species.

This is the first time this kind of individual vocal recognition has been demonstrated in a non-human animal.  "For animals, the ability to recognize the source and meaning of a cohort member's call requires complex mapping skills, and this is something zebra finches have clearly mastered," study co-author Theunissen said, in an interview with Science Direct.  "They have what we call a 'fusion fission' society, where they split up and then come back together.  They don't want to separate from the flock, and so, if one of them gets lost, they might call out 'Hey, Ted, we're right here.'  Or, if one of them is sitting in a nest while the other is foraging, one might call out to ask if it's safe to return to the nest...   I am really impressed by the spectacular memory abilities that zebra finches possess in order to interpret communication calls.  Previous research shows that songbirds are capable of using simple syntax to generate complex meanings and that, in many bird species, a song is learned by imitation.  It is now clear that the songbird brain is wired for vocal communication."

Social behavior is fascinating, and requires an astonishing repertoire of subtle perceptual skills to work well.  Take, for example, flocking behavior in starlings.  If you live in the United States, Canada, or western Europe, you've probably seen the flocks of black birds that swirl and move, almost in unison, as if the entire flock shared a single mind.  Scientists still don't know exactly how they manage it, but experiments have demonstrated that each bird monitors its seven nearest neighbors on either side, and determines its own flight path from those neighbors' movements.  We see that kind of thing in human crowds and in herds of cattle, of course; but the speed and degree of sophistication shown by starlings is mind-boggling.  The passage of information from one bird to the next is lightning-fast and shows almost no signal degradation (the kind of thing that happens in the game of Telephone) across the entire flock.  The result: they can move very nearly as one.  Take a look at this incredible video of a starling flock in motion:

So we aren't the only ones with fancy communication abilities.  Everywhere we look in the natural world, we see the amazing ways in which the species we share the Earth with survive, interact, and reproduce.  It can seem like a harsh, bleak world at times -- but if you want to be reminded of the astonishing beauty and wonder this planet contains, all you have to do is look around you.

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I'm fascinated with history, and being that I also write speculative fiction, a lot of times I ponder the question of how things would be different if you changed one historical event.  The topic has been visited over and over by authors for a very long time; three early examples are Ray Bradbury's "The Sound of Thunder" (1952), Keith Roberts's Pavane (1968), and R. A. Lafferty's screamingly funny "Thus We Frustrate Charlemagne" (1967).

There are a few pivotal moments that truly merit the overused nametag of "turning points in history," where a change almost certainly would have resulted in a very, very different future.  One of these is the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest, which happened in 9 C.E., when a group of Germanic guerrilla fighters maneuvered the highly-trained, much better-armed Seventeenth, Eighteenth, and Nineteenth Roman Legions into a trap and slaughtered them, almost to the last man.  There were twenty thousand casualties on the Roman side -- amounting to half their total military forces at the time -- and only about five hundred on the Germans'.

The loss stopped Rome in its tracks, and they never again made any serious attempts to conquer lands east of the Rhine.  There's some evidence that the defeat was so profoundly demoralizing to the Emperor Augustus that it contributed to his mental decline and death five years later.  This battle -- the site of which was recently discovered and excavated by archaeologists -- is the subject of the fantastic book The Battle That Stopped Rome by Peter Wells, which looks at the evidence collected at the location, near the village of Kalkriese, as well as the historical documents describing the massacre.  This is not just a book for history buffs, though; it gives a vivid look at what life was like at the time, and paints a fascinating if grisly picture of one of the most striking David-vs.-Goliath battles ever fought.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

A pandemic of isolation

When the pandemic started, and I first realized what the implications were, I thought the effect of it on me personally was going to be less than it has turned out to be.

I'm retired from my day job, and now am a full-time writer.  So even before the lockdown started, on a typical day I'd spend most of my time in my office.  (I was going to say "most of my time writing," but given how distractible I am, it'd be closer to the truth to say, "most of my time futzing around on social media and feeling guilty because I'm not writing."  The struggle is real.)  My social life consisted of gym nights with my pal Dave, weekly critique sessions with my writing partner Cly, and the occasional dinner out with my wife.

So I figured, "hey, I'm an introvert anyhow, this isn't going to change my day-to-day life much."

I was wrong.

The social isolation is really getting to me, and has been for some time.  Part of it, of course, is that now I can't socialize with people even if I want to.  I've tried to work in some socially-distanced visits; Dave and I do the occasional hike on a local trail, and I still meet with Cly on her front porch for our critiques, once every three weeks or so.  (What we'll do when the weather turns cold -- which in upstate New York could be by the end of September -- I have no idea.)

But it's been hard.  I miss people.  I miss being able to travel.  I was going to sign up for a three-week retreat in Thailand in January 2021 led by John Aigner, who led the transformative weekend retreat I attended last November (and about which I wrote here), but due to the piss-poor response our country's leaders had to the pandemic, there's now what amounts to a barrier around the United States preventing any of us from leaving and infecting the rest of the world.  (Donald Trump wanted a wall.  Well, he got one.)

I know in the grand scheme of things, this is all minor stuff.  First-world problems, you know?  And honestly, I'm fine with making these sacrifices to slow down the spread of this horrible disease.

But I'd be lying if I said it hasn't affected me.  And I'm not alone.  Research published this week in the Journal of the American Medical Association found that since the pandemic started, the rates of depression in the United States have tripled.  The increase, unsurprisingly, is higher amongst people with low income, who are not only facing the social isolation but fears of medical bills, loss of jobs, threats of eviction, what to do about their children who are now staying home from school when they can't afford daycare, and being in a situation where just to survive they have to expose themselves and their families to illness.  The effect, though, was there regardless of demographic.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Sander van der Wel from Netherlands, Depressed (4649749639), CC BY-SA 2.0]

We're social primates, and a strong social context is important even to us introverts.  A study published this week in Nature Neuroscience looked at the effects of early social isolation in mice, and found that being alone caused an inhibition in activity in the neurons that link the prefrontal cortex to the paraventricular thalamus -- known to be part of the reward circuitry active in adults.  While the research could lead to targeted medical treatments for psychiatric disorders impairing socialization, it immediately made me wonder whether this could be at the heart of the spike in depression we're currently seeing.

Because that's part of what I'm experiencing in my own behavior since the pandemic started -- less activity in areas where, prior to the lockdown, the primary reward was dependent on socializing.  Now that I'm not hitting the weights at the gym three times a week with Dave, I haven't been using my home weight bench nearly as much.  I don't have Cly expecting me to have a chapter to read every Tuesday night, so I've been writing way less.

It's been an interesting exercise in self-examination to find out that basically, I'm extrinsically motivated.  When I'm at home alone, and no one is expecting me to get my ass in gear and write something on my work-in-progress or get my gym gear together and head on down to lift for a couple of hours, it's way easier just to say "I'll do it later" and go back to the inevitable focus on the news and social media.  I do have some pastimes I've kept up with -- I'm an amateur potter (not all that good at it; in my hands it's more "playing in the mud for adults") -- and I still hit the wheel three or four times a week.  But it's kind of astonishing to me now that I have more free time, in that I'm no longer teaching eight hours a day, I actually spend less time engaged productively.  And I think a lot of that has to do with the aimlessness that comes from being adrift, on a typical day having no contact with anyone but my wife.

Zoom and Skype and social media only take you so far.

Put simply, I -- and lots of people like me -- are lonely.  It's a hard time for everyone, but I think we can't discount the emotional toll this is taking on ordinary, average people.  There are a lot of jokes going around about how once the pandemic is over, we'll all be celebrating with drunken orgies, but the truth is, I think it's going to take us a long time to recover our equilibrium.

Like I said earlier, I'm still completely willing to make these sacrifices for the common good, and I think the people who are flouting the rules and getting together in large groups anyhow (or people like Florida's governor Ron DeSantis who have steadfastly refused to mandate wearing masks) are simply assholes.  But the fact remains that a lot of us are struggling.  So check in on your friends and family, even the ones for whom it's easy to say, "Oh, well, (s)he's an introvert, I'm sure (s)he's fine."  We need to be kind to each other in these times, and to understand that the illness itself isn't the only concern.

And take care of yourself, okay?  We need all of you to stay happy and healthy and whole through this.

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This week's Skeptophilia book recommendation of the week should be in everyone's personal library.  It's the parting gift we received from the brilliant astrophysicist Stephen Hawking, who died two years ago after beating the odds against ALS's death sentence for over fifty years.

In Brief Answers to the Big Questions, Hawking looks at our future -- our chances at stopping anthropogenic climate change, preventing nuclear war, curbing overpopulation -- as well as addressing a number of the "big questions" he references in the title.  Does God exist?  Should we colonize space?  What would happen if the aliens came here?  Is it a good idea to develop artificial intelligence?

And finally, what is humanity's chance of surviving?

In a fascinating, engaging, and ultimately optimistic book, Hawking gives us his answers to the questions that occupy the minds of every intelligent human.  Published posthumously -- Hawking died in March of 2018, and Brief Answers hit the bookshelves in October of that year -- it's a final missive from one of the finest brains our species ever produced.  Anyone with more than a passing interest in science or philosophy should put this book on the to-read list.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

Rewarding the daredevil

There were three magic words that used to be able to induce me to do almost anything, regardless how catastrophically stupid it was: "I dare you."

It's how I ended up walking the ridgeline of a friend's house when I was in eighth grade:

Friend: My house has such a steep roof.  I don't know how anyone could keep his balance up there.

Me:  I bet I could. 

Friend (dubiously):  You think? 

Me;  Yeah. 

Friend:  I dare you. 

Me:  Get me a ladder.

That I didn't break my neck was as much due to luck as skill, although it must be said that back then I did have a hell of a sense of balance, even if I didn't have much of any other kind of sense.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Øyvind Holmstad, A yellow house with a sheltering roof, CC BY-SA 3.0]

Research by neuroscientists Lei Zhang (University Medical Center Hamburg-Eppendorf) and Jan Gläscher (University of Vienna) has given us some insight into why I was prone to doing that sort of thing (beyond my parent's explanation, which boiled down to "you sure are an idiot").  Apparently the whole thing has to do with something called "reward prediction error" -- and they've identified the part of the brain where it occurs.

Reward prediction error occurs when there is a mismatch between the expected reward and the actual reward.  If expected reward occurs, prediction error is low, and you get some reinforcement via neurochemical release in the putamen and right temporoparietal junction, which form an important part of the brain's reward circuit.  A prediction error can go two ways: (1) the reward can be lower than the expectation, in which case you learn by changing your expectations; or (2) the reward can be higher than the expectation, in which case you get treated to a flood of endorphins.

Which explains my stupid roof-climbing behavior, and loads of other activities that begin with the words "hold my beer."  I wasn't nearly as fearless as I was acting; I fully expected to lose my balance and go tumbling down the roof.  When that didn't happen, and I came ambling back down the ladder afterward to the awed appreciation of my friend, I got a neurochemical bonus that nearly guaranteed that next time I heard "I dare you," I'd do the same thing again.

The structure of the researchers' experiment was interesting.  Here's how it was described in a press release in EurekAlert:

[The] researchers... placed groups of five volunteers in the same computer-based decision-making experiment, where each of them was presented with two abstract symbols.  Their objective was to find out which symbol would lead to more monetary rewards in the long run.  In each round of the experiment, every person first made a choice between the two symbols, and then they observed which symbols the other four people had selected; next, every person could decide to stick with their initial choice or switch to the alternative symbol.  Finally, a monetary outcome, either a win or a loss, was delivered to every one according to their second decision...  In fact, which symbol was related to more reward was always changing.  At the beginning of the experiment, one of the two symbols returned monetary rewards 70% of the time, and after a few rounds, it provided rewards only 30% of the time.  These changes took place multiple times throughout the experiment...  Expectedly, the volunteers switched more often when they were confronted with opposing choices from the others, but interestingly, the second choice (after considering social information) reflected the reward structure better than the first choice.

So social learning -- making your decisions according to your friends' behaviors and expectations -- is actually not a bad strategy.  "Direct learning is efficient in stable situations," said study co-author Jan Gläscher, "and when situations are changing and uncertain, social learning may play an important role together with direct learning to adapt to novel situations, such as deciding on the lunch menu at a new company."

Or deciding whether or not it's worth it to climb the roof of a friend's house.

We're social primates, so it's no surprise we rely a great deal on the members of our tribe for information about what we should and should not do.  This works well when we're looking to older and wiser individuals, and not so well when the other members of our tribe are just as dumb as we are.  (This latter bit explains a lot of the behavior we're currently seeing in the United States Senate.)  But our brains are built that way, for better or for worse.

Although for what it's worth, I no longer do ridiculous stunts when someone says "I dare you."  So if you were planning on trying it, don't get your hopes up.

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This week's Skeptophilia book recommendation of the week is a brilliant retrospective of how we've come to our understanding of one of the fastest-moving scientific fields: genetics.

In Siddhartha Mukherjee's wonderful book The Gene: An Intimate History, we're taken from the first bit of research that suggested how inheritance took place: Gregor Mendel's famous study of pea plants that established a "unit of heredity" (he called them "factors" rather than "genes" or "alleles," but he got the basic idea spot on).  From there, he looks at how our understanding of heredity was refined -- how DNA was identified as the chemical that housed genetic information, to how that information is encoded and translated, to cutting-edge research in gene modification techniques like CRISPR-Cas9.  Along each step, he paints a very human picture of researchers striving to understand, many of them with inadequate tools and resources, finally leading up to today's fine-grained picture of how heredity works.

It's wonderful reading for anyone interested in genetics and the history of science.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

Foxes, hedgehogs, and extreme politics

As if we needed anything to make us less confident about what goes on inside our skulls, an article in e! Science News appeared on Monday, entitled, "Extreme Political Attitudes May Stem From an Illusion of Understanding."

The study's principle author, Philip Fernbach of the University of Colorado, explained that the study came out of an observation that people who loudly expressed views on politics often seemed not to have much in the way of factual knowledge about the topic upon which they were expounding.

"We wanted to know how it's possible that people can maintain such strong positions on issues that are so complex -- such as macroeconomics, health care, foreign relations -- and yet seem to be so ill-informed about those issues,"  Fernbach said.

What the study did was to ask a group of test subjects to rate how well they understood six different political issues, including instituting merit pay for teachers, raising the age on Social Security, and enacting a flat tax.  The subjects then were asked to explain two of the policies, including their own position and why they held it, and were questioned on their understanding of facts of the policy by the researchers.  Afterwards, they were asked to re-rate their level of comprehension.

Across the board, self-assessment scores went down on the subjects they were asked to explain.  More importantly, their positions shifted -- there was a distinct movement toward the center that occurred regardless of the political affiliation of the participant.  Further, the worse the person's explanation had been -- i.e., the more their ignorance of the facts had been uncovered -- the further toward the center they shifted.

This seems to be further evidence for the Dunning-Kruger effect -- a bias in which people nearly always tend to overestimate their own knowledge and skill.  (It also brings to mind Dave Barry's comment, "Everyone thinks they're an above-average driver.")

I'm also reminded of Philip Tetlock's brilliant work Expert Political Judgment, which is summarized here but which anyone who is a student of politics or sociology should read in its entirety.  In the research for his book, he analyzed the political pronouncements of hundreds of individuals, evaluating the predictions of experts in a variety of fields to the actual outcome in the real world, and uses this information to draw some fascinating conclusions about human social behavior.  The relevant part of his argument, for our purposes here, is that humans exhibit two basic "cognitive styles," which he calls "the fox and the hedgehog" (the symbols come from a European folk tale).

Foxes, Tetlock says, tend to be able to see multiple viewpoints, and have a high tolerance for ambiguity (in the interest of conciseness, quotes are taken from the summary, not from the original book):

Experts who think in the 'Fox' cognitive style are suspicious of a commitment to any one way of seeing the issue, and prefer a loose insight that is nonetheless calibrated from many different perspectives.  They use quantification of uncertain events more as calibration, as a metaphor, than as a prediction.  They are tolerant of dissonance within a model - for example, that an 'enemy' regime might have redeeming qualities - and relatively ready to recalibrate their view when unexpected events cast doubt on what they had previously believed to be true.

Hedgehogs, on the other hand, like certainty, closure, and definite answers:

In contrast to this, Hedgehogs work hard to exclude dissonance from their models. They prefer to treat events which contradict their expectations as exceptions, and to re-interpret events in such a way as to allocate exceptions to external events. For example, positive aspects of an enemy regime may be assigned to propaganda, either on the part of the regime or through its sympathizers...  Hedgehogs tend to flourish and excel in environments in which uncertainty and ambiguity have been excluded, either by actual or artificial means. The mantra of "targets and accountability" was made by and for Hedgehogs.

The differences, Tetlock said, are irrespective of political leaning; there are conservative and liberal foxes, and conservative and liberal hedgehogs.  But, most importantly, the foxes' tolerance of many viewpoints, and awareness of their own ignorance, gives them the appearance of knowing less than they actually do, and lessens their influence on policy and society; and the hedgehogs' certainty, and clear, concise answers to complex problems, gives them the appearance of knowing more than they actually do, and increases their influence.

Hedgehogs, Tetlock found, were more often wrong in their assessment of political situations, but their views achieved wide impact.  Foxes were more often right -- but no one listened.

So, anyway, I read all of this with a vague sense of unease.  Having a blog, after all, implies some level of arrogance -- that you believe your views to be important, intelligent, and interesting enough that people, many of them total strangers, will want to read what you have to say.  Given Fernbach's study, not to mention the Dunning-Kruger effect and the conclusion of Tetlock's research, it does leave me with a bit of a chill.  Would my views on topics become less extreme if I were forced to reconsider the facts of the situation?  Do I really think I'm more knowledgeable than I actually am?  Worst of all (for a blogger), am I a simplistic thinker that is often wrong but whose views have wide social impact, or a complex thinker that no one pays attention to?

Oy.  I'm not sure I, um, want to reevaluate all this.  I think I'll just go have breakfast.  That sounds like a definitive solution to the problem, right?

Of course right.

The natural history of the Common Yutz

As always, the Yiddish language has a word for it, and the word is "yutz."

A yutz is a person with no social graces.  As is typical with Yiddish words, however, there are layers within layers and meanings within meanings.  Implicit in this word is the connotation of someone who means no harm, who really thinks (s)he is a completely normal, well-liked person, and who is entirely unaware that people scatter like rats whenever (s)he is around.  This is a person who is capable of leaving behind a trail of frustration, irritation, and chaos, and being none the wiser.

I remember being on a weekend birdwatching trip to coastal New Jersey, and to my dismay, there was a yutz signed up to go with us.  At our first stop, I was with a small group trying to spot a singing Black-throated Blue Warbler in the treetops over head, and up comes Mrs. Yutz.

"I CAN HEAR HIM," she shouted, in a voice that probably registered on seismographs in Los Angeles.  "CAN YOU HEAR HIM?"

Several of us nodded, and a couple of us turned and glared at her.  One person said, in an exaggerated whisper, "Yes, we hear him."

"I LOVE THEIR LITTLE SONG," she bellowed.  "ZEEEE-ZEEEE-ZEEEE!  LISTEN TO THAT!  ISN'T THAT SO CUTE?  ZEEEE-ZEEEE-ZEEEE!"

Mrs. Yutz's teenage daughter, who was to regret many times coming along on this trip, said, "Mom, ssshhhhh!"

"DO YOU HEAR HIM ANY MORE?" Mrs. Yutz shrieked.  "I CAN'T HEAR HIM ANY MORE."

This was probably because the bird had upped stakes and flown to Atlantic City for some peace and quiet.

[image courtesy of photographer L. T. Shears and the Wikimedia Commons]

I see a lot of yutzim at the grocery store.  I find this species of yutz particularly annoying because I loathe shopping.  My usual shopping method is to run down the aisle, knocking old ladies and small children out of the way with my grocery cart, and to snatch items off the shelf and sling them into the cart without even slowing.  I don't even always look at what I'm throwing in.  I may not be the most accurate and competent shopper,  but let me tell you, I'm fast.  I once set out to one of those bulk discount stores with the instructions, "stock us up on some staples," and came back with nothing but a two-gallon jar of orange marmalade.  However, I was back home in twenty minutes flat, and that is taking Seattle traffic into account.

But I digress.

Grocery-store yutzim are people for whom shopping is apparently some kind of recreational activity.  They meander along at sloth-like speed, look at each and every item on the shelf, consider it carefully, read the label, and then put it back on the shelf.  They always have the biggest shopping carts available, which when set diagonally are capable of blocking an entire aisle.  Our local store has special carts for yutzim with children; these carts have a toy car appended to the front, so the young yutz-in-training can sit inside and pretend to drive.  These behemoths are twice as long as a regular shopping cart, and have about a two-mile turning radius.  One of them can prevent access to an entire row of grocery-store shelves.

When two grocery-store yutzim meet, it's a calamity of such magnitude that it brings all shopping in that region of the store to a halt for an hour.  They stand there, their carts aligned so as to create maximum blockage, talking and gesticulating and laughing, while other shoppers, who would like to arrive home with their groceries some time this decade, have to go from the vegetable department to the meat department via Argentina to get around the congestion.  The yutzim are always completely unaware of the problem they're causing, and if you go up to them and say, "Excuse me," they will stop their conversation, give you a momentary blank look, and then smile and say, "Oh, no problem!" in a cheerful voice.  Then they will go back to their conversation without moving either themselves or their carts.

It's not that yutzim are bad people.  I've known a few of them personally, and they are unfailingly kind, friendly, and generous.  It's just that they lack the level of awareness of their surroundings that most of us have.  I'd like to think that if I walked up to some people in a conversation, and they all simultaneously looked at their watches, announced that they had important meetings to attend, and left, I'd get the clue that it was me that was the problem.  It's like the old line that goes:  "The one common factor in all of your failed relationships, miserable jobs, and blown opportunites is:  You."

Still, you have to feel a little sorry for them.  It's pitiful to think that there are people on whom life has so little impact.  It's a shame that there's not some gentle way to clue them in, to let them know the effect they're having.  And to suggest to them that (1) most people are perfectly capable of identifying a bird's song as "cute" without assistance, and (2) if they're ever in a grocery store, and they see a tall blond guy who is clutching a large jar of marmalade and sprinting down the aisle, they'd be well-advised just to get the hell out of the way.