The problem with Hubble

In my Critical Thinking classes, I did a unit on statistics and data, and how you tell if a measurement is worth paying attention to.  One of the first things to consider, I told them, is whether a particular piece of data is accurate or merely precise -- two words that in common parlance are used interchangeably.

In science, they don't mean the same thing.  A piece of equipment is said to be precise if it gives you close to the same value every time.  Accuracy, though, is a higher standard; data are accurate if the values are not only close to each other when measured with the same equipment, but agree with data taken independently, using a different device or a different method.

A simple example is that if my bathroom scale tells me every day for a month that my mass is (to within one kilogram either way) 239 kilograms, it's highly precise, but very inaccurate.

This is why scientists always look for independent corroboration of their data.  It's not enough to keep getting the same numbers over and over; you've got to be certain those numbers actually reflect reality.

This all comes up because of some new information about one of the biggest scientific questions known -- the rate of expansion of the entire universe.

[Image is in the Public Domain, courtesy of NASA]

A few months ago, I wrote about some recent experiments that were allowing physicists to home in on the Hubble constant, a quantity that is a measure of how fast everything in the universe is flying apart.  And the news appeared to be good; from a range of between 50 and 500, physicists had been able to narrow down the value of the Hubble constant to between 65.3 and 75.6.

The problem is, nobody's been able to get closer than that -- and in fact, recent measurements have widened, not narrowed, the gap.

There are two main ways to measure the Hubble constant.  The first is to use information like red shift and Cepheid variables (stars whose period of brightness oscillation varies predictably with their intrinsic brightness, making them a good "standard candle" to determine the distance to other galaxies) to figure out how fast the galaxies we see are receding from each other.  The other is to use the cosmic microwave background radiation -- the leftovers from the radiation produced by the Big Bang -- to determine the age of the universe, and therefore, how fast it's expanding.

So this is a little like checking my bathroom scale by weighing myself on it, then comparing my weight as measured by the scale at the gym and seeing if I get the same answer.

And the problem is, the measurement of the Hubble constant by these two methods is increasingly looking like it's resulting in two irreconcilably different values.

The genesis of the problem is that our measurement ability has become more and more precise -- the error bars associated with data collection have shrunk considerably.  And if the two measurements were not only precise, but also accurate, you would expect that our increasing precision would result in the two values getting closer and closer together.

Exactly the opposite has happened.

"Five years ago, no one in cosmology was really worried about the question of how fast the universe was expanding.  We took it for granted," said astrophysicist Daniel Mortlock of Imperial College London.  "Now we are having to do a great deal of head scratching – and a lot of research...  Everyone’s best bet was that the difference between the two estimates was just down to chance, and that the two values would converge as more and more measurements were taken.  In fact, the opposite has occurred.  The discrepancy has become stronger.  The estimate of the Hubble constant that had the lower value has got a bit lower over the years and the one that was a bit higher has got even greater."

The discovery of dark matter and dark energy, the first by Vera Rubin, Kent Ford, and Ken Freeman in the 1970s, and the second by Adam Riess and Saul Perlmutter in the 1990s, accounted for the fact that the rate of expansion seemed wildly out of whack with the amount of observable matter in the universe.  The problem is, since the discovery of the effects of dark matter and dark energy, we haven't gotten any closer to finding out what they actually are.  Every attempt to directly detect either one has resulted in zero success.

Now, it appears that the problems run even deeper than that.

"Those two discoveries [dark matter and dark energy] were remarkable enough," said Riess.  "But now we are facing the fact there may be a third phenomenon that we had overlooked – though we haven’t really got a clue yet what it might be."

"The basic problem is that having two different figures for the Hubble constant measured from different perspectives would simply invalidate the cosmological model we made of the universe," Mortlock said.  "So we wouldn’t be able to say what the age of the universe was until we had put our physics right."

It sounds to me a lot like the situation in the late 1800s, when physicists were trying to determine the answer to a seemingly simple question -- in what medium do light waves propagate?  Every wave has to be moving through something; water waves come from regular motion of water molecules, sound waves from oscillation of air molecules, and so on.  With light waves, what was "waving?"

Because the answer most people accepted was, "something has to be waving even if we don't know what it is," scientists proposed a mysterious substance called the "aether" that permeated all of space, and was the medium through which light waves were propagating.  All attempts to directly detect the aether were failures, but this didn't discourage people from saying that it must be there, because otherwise, how would light move?

Then along came the brilliant (and quite simple -- in principle, anyhow) Michelson-Morley experiment, which proved beyond any doubt that the aether didn't exist.  Light traveling in a vacuum appeared to have a constant speed in all frames of reference, which is entirely unlike any other wave ever studied.  And it wasn't until Einstein came along and turned our entire understanding upside down with the Special Theory of Relativity that we saw the piece we'd been missing that made sense of all the weird data.

What we seem to be waiting for is this century's Einstein, who will explain the discrepancies in the measurements of the Hubble constant, and very likely account for the mysterious, undetectable dark matter and dark energy (which sound a lot like the aether, don't they?) at the same time.  But until then, we're left with a mystery that calls into question one of the most fundamental conclusions of modern physics -- the age of the universe.

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

This week's Skeptophilia book recommendation is a fun book about math.

Bet that's a phrase you've hardly ever heard uttered.

Jordan Ellenberg's amazing How Not to Be Wrong: The Power of Mathematical Thinking looks at how critical it is for people to have a basic understanding and appreciation for math -- and how misunderstandings can lead to profound errors in decision-making.  Ellenberg takes us on a fantastic trip through dozens of disparate realms -- baseball, crime and punishment, politics, psychology, artificial languages, and social media, to name a few -- and how in each, a comprehension of math leads you to a deeper understanding of the world.

As he puts it: math is "an atomic-powered prosthesis that you attach to your common sense, vastly multiplying its reach and strength."  Which is certainly something that is drastically needed lately.

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

Gone is gone forever

A month ago I wrote about an alarming study that looks at the population decline amongst American bird species.  We're not talking small numbers, here.  The best overall estimate is that there has been at 25% drop in the number of birds continent-wise, a loss of a grand total of three billion birds.

What surprised me about the response to this news, both to my blog post and to the media announcements in general, is that it can be summed up as, "Oh, that's sad.  Oh, well, what can you do?"  Unfortunate that the little feathery guys at our bird feeders aren't showing up like they used to, but... well, they're just birds, right?  Primarily decorative, and most of the species they're talking about I've never heard of anyway.

The people who were the most alarmed were the ones who were already alarmed about the state of our environment.  I very much got the impression everyone else just kind of shrugged and went about their business at usual.

It brings up a question of how you get people to care.  Not the environmentalists and eco-activists and birdwatchers and Sierra Club members.  Like I said, they care already.  But how do you reach your average person, and get them to see the magnitude of what we're doing to the planet -- and how the possibility is very real that we won't avoid horrible consequences, not just to a few obscure species of animals, but to ourselves?

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Drpranjit, The endangered species, CC BY-SA 4.0]

This is the topic of a study that appeared this week in Nature: Scientific Reports, by Stefan Schubert, Lucius Caviola, and Nadira S. Faber, of the Department of Experimental Psychology at Oxford University.  Titled, "The Psychology of Existential Risk: Moral Judgments about Human Extinction," the study asked individuals both in the United Kingdom and United States to consider the possibility of both human and other-species extinction, and an interesting pattern emerged.

In each of the types of extinction that Schubert et al. asked their test subject to think about, they asked two questions: how bad is it?  And, why is it bad?  What they found was that people tended to think quantitatively.  No matter what species was being considered, the bigger the percent drop, the worse it was.  An 85% reduction was worse than a 60% reduction, a 60% reduction worse than a 35% reduction, and so on.  So far, nothing too shocking.

What is alarming -- to we environmental types, anyhow -- is that this "degree of harm" is scaled up in a fairly linear fashion, all the way up to 100%.  Complete extinction.

Why this is alarming is that people don't seem to recognize the qualitative difference between a 100% loss and a 99% loss.  At least theoretically, if you have even 1% of the individuals left, recovery is possible (although not likely; 1%, for most species, is probably below the minimum viable population, the point at which the natural death rate exceeds the natural birth rate, so a downward spiral is inevitable).

But complete extinction?  Gone completely is gone forever.  And the magnitude of that just doesn't seem to register with most people, even when we're talking about humans themselves as the victims.

The authors write:

Our studies show that people find that human extinction is bad, and that it is important to prevent it.  However, when presented with a scenario involving no catastrophe, a near-extinction catastrophe and an extinction catastrophe as possible outcomes, they do not see human extinction as uniquely bad compared with non-extinction.  We find that this is partly because people feel strongly for the victims of the catastrophes, and therefore focus on the immediate consequences of the catastrophes.  The immediate consequences of near-extinction are not that different from those of extinction, so this naturally leads them to find near-extinction almost as bad as extinction. Another reason is that they neglect the long-term consequences of the outcomes.  Lastly, their empirical beliefs about the quality of the future make a difference: telling them that the future will be extraordinarily good makes more people find extinction uniquely bad. 

Thus, when asked in the most straightforward and unqualified way, participants do not find human extinction uniquely bad.  This could partly explain why we currently invest relatively small resources in reducing existential risk.

Which makes sense (of a sort) of what we started with -- that dire reports on the decline in wild species don't seem to generate much beyond an "aw, that's too bad" response in your average media consumer.  It also makes it clear that if the people who write about the environmental crisis focused on the long-term consequences of our current behavior, rather than just on sad photographs of starving polar bears, we might see a bigger seismic shift in attitudes.

Of course, this doesn't take into account other factors, such as disinformation from corporations heavily invested in business as usual, and the ignorant, self-serving politicians who are in those corporations' pockets.  But since those politicians are elected by us ordinary folk, it's still worthwhile to try to create a change in attitudes that could, perhaps, avert disaster.

It is, after all, in our common interest to do so.  And the Schubert et al. gives us a possible approach to make that point clear to everyone.

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

This week's Skeptophilia book recommendation is a really cool one: Andrew H. Knoll's Life on a Young Planet: The First Three Billion Years of Evolution on Earth.

Knoll starts out with an objection to the fact that most books on prehistoric life focus on the big, flashy, charismatic megafauna popular in children's books -- dinosaurs such as Brachiosaurus, Allosaurus, and Quetzalcoatlus, and impressive mammals like Baluchitherium and Brontops.  As fascinating as those are, Knoll points out that this approach misses a huge part of evolutionary history -- so he set out to chronicle the parts that are often overlooked or relegated to a few quick sentences.  His entire book looks at the Pre-Cambrian Period, which encompasses 7/8 of Earth's history, and ends with the Cambrian Explosion, the event that generated nearly all the animal body plans we currently have, and which is still (very) incompletely understood.

Knoll's book is fun reading, requires no particular scientific background, and will be eye-opening for almost everyone who reads it.  So prepare yourself to dive into a time period that's gone largely ignored since such matters were considered -- the first three billion years.

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

Freebird

A friend and long-time loyal reader of Skeptophilia tagged me in a post on Facebook a couple of days ago, with a link and the single line "Wake up, Sheeple."

The link was to a site that is called, I shit you not, "Birds Aren't Real."  My first thought was that the name would turn out to be metaphorical or symbolic or something, but no; these people believe in Truth in Advertising.

They are really, literally saying that birds are not real.

He's awfully pretty for being imaginary, don't you think?  [Image licensed under the Creative Commons Eleanor Briccetti, Flame-faced Tanager (4851596008), CC BY-SA 2.0]

On their "History" page, which you should read in its entirety because it's just that entertaining, we find passages like the following:

On June 2nd, 1959 operation “Water the Country” was born.  This was to be the secret code name given to the program from 1959 to 1976, when it was renamed to “Operation Very Large Bird” (the individual in charge of naming the program didn’t want to get into any copyright trouble with the popular PBS show Sesame Street by naming the project Operation Big Bird.)  Within the next 6 years, 15% of the bird population was wiped out.  During these first few years, bird prototypes were released by the hundred million.  The term ‘drone’ was not used at this time, and instead they were referred to as Robot Birds.

It also quotes Alvin B. Cleaver, Internal Communications Director for the CIA, as saying, "We’ve killed about 220 million so far, and the best thing is, the Robot Birds we’ve released in their place have done such a good job that nobody even suspects a thing."

Oh, and I didn't mention that the whole thing is underneath a header that says, "The only way to properly explain this is with words."  Making me wonder if we had another choice, such as interpretive dance.

So anyhow, I'm reading this, and my expression is looking more and more like this:

This has to be a spoof, I'm thinking.  No one in their right mind would believe this.  So I started to look, first on the website itself, then somewhere in the media, trying to find a place where someone, anyone basically went, "Ha-ha, we were just kidding."

But no.

Birds Aren't Real is the brainchild of one Seth McIndoe of Memphis, Tennessee, and to all appearances he's entirely serious.  There are now chapters of the "Bird Brigade" in fifty cities around the United States, dedicated to convincing people that by 2001, the government had replaced all real birds with robotic drones.  "We hope to achieve public unity through disbelief in avian beings," McIndoe says.

When told that some of the people in the Bird Brigade are doing it for the laughs and don't really believe it's the truth, McIndoe just shrugs and says, "We're living in a post-truth era."

Whatever the fuck that means.

He's nothing if not thorough, though.  He's suspicious of each and every bird, from the Bald Eagles soaring the Colorado Rockies to the Song Sparrows nibbling sunflower seeds at your bird feeder.  "I see them every day," McIndoe says.  "Every bird I see I am aware it is a surveillance drone from above sending footage, recordings to the Pentagon."

If you're inclined to agree with McIndoe, I should point out that there's a whole line of "Activism Apparel" on the Birds Aren't Real website, featuring t-shirts (several designs), hoodies, bumper stickers, and baseball caps, so you can advertise your allegiance to this fairly dubious cause.  My favorite one has a picture of Sesame Street's Big Bird and is labeled "Big Propaganda."

So McIndoe, apparently, is less concerned with trademark infringement than the CIA is.

What made me facepalm the hardest, though, was that after perusing the website, I dropped onto social media for a few minutes -- and saw three advertisements for Birds Aren't Real merchandise.  That's how long it took.  I clicked on one site, and five minutes later, I've already been pegged as some kind of Avian Truther.

Or Post-Truther.  Or whatever.

To the friend who started all this, allow me to say: thanks just bunches.  Like I need more crazies aiming their targeted advertisements at me.  I already regularly see ads for items like the SasqWatch (a wristwatch that has a band shaped like a -- you guessed it -- big foot), Cryptids of the World Coasters, a MothMan Running Team t-shirt, and an Ogopogo mug, to name just a few.

So honestly, I guess one more won't hurt.  It'll give me something interesting to wear on my next birdwatching trip.

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

This week's Skeptophilia book recommendation is a really cool one: Andrew H. Knoll's Life on a Young Planet: The First Three Billion Years of Evolution on Earth.

Knoll starts out with an objection to the fact that most books on prehistoric life focus on the big, flashy, charismatic megafauna popular in children's books -- dinosaurs such as Brachiosaurus, Allosaurus, and Quetzalcoatlus, and impressive mammals like Baluchitherium and Brontops.  As fascinating as those are, Knoll points out that this approach misses a huge part of evolutionary history -- so he set out to chronicle the parts that are often overlooked or relegated to a few quick sentences.  His entire book looks at the Pre-Cambrian Period, which encompasses 7/8 of Earth's history, and ends with the Cambrian Explosion, the event that generated nearly all the animal body plans we currently have, and which is still (very) incompletely understood.

Knoll's book is fun reading, requires no particular scientific background, and will be eye-opening for almost everyone who reads it.  So prepare yourself to dive into a time period that's gone largely ignored since such matters were considered -- the first three billion years.

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

A tale of a bizarre cocktail party

Today is Halloween, and in honor of that spookiest day of the year, I'm going to tell you a story.

It's a story about something that happened to me about thirty-five years ago, when I lived in Olympia, Washington, and it's definitely in the top five creepiest things I've ever experienced.  I still don't have a particularly good explanation for it, and it still makes me shudder to remember.

I was about twenty-five at the time, working a stupid desk job I hated, and to lighten the daily drudgery I decided on a lark to take an art class at Evergreen State College.  Now, I'll say up front that I'm not much of an artist.  My attempt in my biology classes to draw an animal on the whiteboard led to its being christened by students as the "All-Purpose Quadruped" because no one could figure out if it was a cow, a dog, an armadillo, or whatever.  But even considering my lack of talent, I thought an art class could be fun, so I went for it.

One of the students in the class was Laura L______.  Laura was between thirty-five and forty, at a guess, and in very short order she kind of attached herself to me.  There was nothing remotely sexual about it; I never got the impression she was coming on to me, or anything.  It was more that she hung on my every word as if I was the smartest, most interesting person she'd ever met.  We discovered a mutual interest in languages -- and it was off to the races.

Now, I hasten to state that at twenty-five, I simply wasn't that interesting.  I was a young, naive guy who had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, and at that point was just kind of flailing around trying to make enough money to pay for rent and groceries.  So as flattering as it was, even then I recognized that there was something weird and over-the-top about Laura's attentions.  Still, it was a sop to my ego, and I didn't do anything to discourage her.

About three weeks into the art course, I wrote a letter to a college friend of mine (remember, this is in the days before email and texting), and along with the usual newsy stuff, I mentioned the art class and "this weird woman named Laura."  "Next time we talk, I have to tell you more about her," I wrote.  Nothing more in detail than that -- a passing couple of sentences that didn't capture how peculiar she was, nor even in what way she was peculiar.

Around that time, Laura asked if my wife and I wanted to come over to her house, that she and her husband were throwing a party for a few friends, and that she'd love it if we came.  I said okay -- again, with a mild feeling of trepidation, but not enough to say "oh, hell no" -- and she seemed really excited that I'd agreed, and was bringing along my wife.

Saturday came, and we showed up at Laura's house.  And... Laura's husband, and the other guests, were all the same kind of way-too-bright-eyed intellectual that she was.  The topics were all over the place -- science, linguistics, art, history, philosophy, you name it.  And just like conversations with Laura, everything I said was met with "that's fascinating!" and "wow, that is so cool!"  Looking at it from the outside, you'd have sworn that I was Stephen Hawking or something.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons David Shankbone creator QS:P170,Q12899557, House party in Denver Colorado, CC BY 3.0]

After about forty-five minutes of this, both my wife and I got freaked out enough that we decided to leave.  We invented some kind of excuse -- I forget exactly what -- and told Laura we had to go.

"Oh, I'm so sorry you can't stay," she said, her forehead creasing with dismay.  "Are you sure?"

I said I was sure, was "so sorry, too," and told her I'd see her next class.  She didn't argue more, but definitely looked disappointed.  My wife and I talked all the way home about how bizarre the evening had been, and how relieved we both were to leave -- even though nothing happened.

Two postscripts are what make this story even creepier.

About three or four days after the party, I got a letter from my college friend.  Best I can recall, the relevant passage went something like this:

I know you'll probably think this is ridiculous, but I felt like I had to say something.  When I read what you said in your letter about your classmate Laura, I got a real premonition of evil.  There was immediately a feeling that she meant you harm.  I know how skeptical you are about this sort of thing, so you'll probably laugh and then throw this letter in the trash, but I felt like I couldn't simply not tell you.

The second thing is that Laura never came back to the art class.

The first time she missed, I just figured she was sick or something (and was actually a little relieved, because I didn't want to get into it with her about why we'd left her party).  But then another class came, and another, and she never showed up.

I never saw her again.

My wife said, "Maybe she realized that she'd missed her chance to get you, and you weren't going to trust her enough to give her another opportunity."

I actually thought, several times, about driving past her house, just to see what I could see (I had no inclination to knock on her door).  But each time, the idea that she might see my car driving past gave me such a chill up my backbone that I didn't do it.  Where she lived wasn't on my way to work or anything, it was quite a bit out of the way, so I never did go back.

To this day, I don't have a good explanation for this.  Were they just weird, over-enthusiastic intellectual types, and it was all just innocent overcompensation for social awkwardness?  Was it a cult?  Were they planning on drugging our drinks or something?  If we'd stayed longer, were they going to drag out a display of Amway products?

I honestly have no idea.  But even though nothing happened -- "strange, extremely happy smart people freak out young couple," is really about the extent of it -- I still can't think of this incident without shuddering.  I've many times considered turning it into a short story or novel, but I have never been able to come up with a convincing ending.

And on that note, I'll end by wishing you a spooky, scary, and fun-filled Halloween.  Just be careful about befriending odd middle-aged women in your art classes.

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

This week's Skeptophilia book recommendation is a really cool one: Andrew H. Knoll's Life on a Young Planet: The First Three Billion Years of Evolution on Earth.

Knoll starts out with an objection to the fact that most books on prehistoric life focus on the big, flashy, charismatic megafauna popular in children's books -- dinosaurs such as Brachiosaurus, Allosaurus, and Quetzalcoatlus, and impressive mammals like Baluchitherium and Brontops.  As fascinating as those are, Knoll points out that this approach misses a huge part of evolutionary history -- so he set out to chronicle the parts that are often overlooked or relegated to a few quick sentences.  His entire book looks at the Pre-Cambrian Period, which encompasses 7/8 of Earth's history, and ends with the Cambrian Explosion, the event that generated nearly all the animal body plans we currently have, and which is still (very) incompletely understood.

Knoll's book is fun reading, requires no particular scientific background, and will be eye-opening for almost everyone who reads it.  So prepare yourself to dive into a time period that's gone largely ignored since such matters were considered -- the first three billion years.

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

Ten questions, ten answers

I got an anonymous email yesterday, from an address I didn't recognize, with a link to a YouTube video called "10 Questions Atheists Can't Answer," and no other text.

Whenever I get something like this, I always get the feeling that the sender expects me simply to retreat in disarray.  I also have the impression that the people who put together videos like this are being disingenuous -- I wonder very much if they've actually talked to any atheists, or if they just came up with a list of things for which their explanation is "God did it" and they can't imagine anyone would have a different answer than that.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Notas de prensa, Confused man, CC BY-SA 2.5]

So I don't think the sender actually intended me to respond (although I might be wrong about that).  But in the spirit of being a good sport, here are the ten questions, along with my answers.  See if you find 'em convincing.


1.  Do people really believe that science is the only answer to all of life's questions?

Well, no, no one really thinks that, atheists included.  Atheists (and even worse, atheist scientists) don't spend their entire time doing science.  Like everyone else, they have hobbies, fall in love, get angry, play with their pets, feel sad, and experience all the other thousand things that are part of the human condition.  None of these are especially scientific, but it would be a rare person -- atheist or otherwise -- who would say they were unimportant.

And another thing.  The question, as it's phrased, embodies a misconception, and that is that science itself is a belief.  Science isn't a belief, science is a method.  It's the use of evidence, data, and logic to determine understanding.  And we atheists are hardly the only ones who do that.  The religious generally only have a problem with science when it leads to a different answer than their religion does on a particular topic; they're perfectly happy to use the scientific method every day, on everything else.

2.  Why do atheists care if I worship God?

Simply put: I don't.  I don't care even a little bit.  You can believe the universe is ruled by a Giant Green Bunny from the Andromeda Galaxy if you want to, and I still don't care.  What I do care about  -- a lot -- is when people start telling me what I'm supposed to believe.  Or using their religion to shoehorn unscientific explanations into public school science curricula.  Or pushing religion-based legislation that denies rights to a subset of people they think are "evil" or "an abomination in God's eyes."  Then you can expect me to fight like hell.

Otherwise, believe whatever you want.

3.  Can nothing create something?

I presume you're referring to the Big Bang Theory here, and I have some advice; don't frame scientific questions in such a way that makes it clear you haven't bothered to learn what the scientists are actually saying.  All that shows is that you can't be bothered to do even a half-hour's research on Wikipedia, but would rather come up with ridiculous straw-man arguments than have an intelligent, thoughtful conversation.

4.  How do you know that God doesn't exist?

I don't.  I find the lack of evidence in favor of a deity strongly supports that conclusion, but as with anything, I might be wrong.  That's the nice thing about a scientific approach; if the data contradicts your previous theory, you don't ignore the data -- you change the theory.

5.  What is the origin of life?

As with question #3, there are some really fascinating scenarios as to how this might have happened -- it looks like organic molecules are quick to form abiotically as long as there are raw materials, a source of energy, and no strongly oxidizing chemicals around to rip them apart as fast as they form.  After that, there are a great many scenarios that are possible, and biochemists are looking into them with great interest (one reason being that what they find out could give us a lens into the possibilities of life on other planets).  So once again, you might want to do a little research about the scientific explanations before you conclude science doesn't have one.

6.  Where does our morality come from?

My morality comes from a desire to care for the people around me, care for the environment, and in general, not to be a dick.  The reason I have those morals is because I much prefer it when the people in my life are happy and healthy and I have a clean and habitable planet to live on.  The interesting thing is that there's good evidence that a lot of other animals have at least the rudiments of moral behavior -- reciprocity exists in a lot of primate species, elephants, and even some birds (such as crows and ravens); dogs show an understanding of fair play; and a surprising number of species form strong emotional bonds, and go through profound grief when their loved ones die.  Social species, in general, do whatever it takes to make the social order cohere, so it's perfectly understandable that they wouldn't engage in lying, cheating, stealing, assault, and so on.  No deity required.

7.  If you had evidence of God, would you become a Christian?

Cf. question #4.  If I had incontrovertible evidence of the existence of God, I wouldn't have any choice but to accept that I was wrong and alter my worldview.  But you might want to ask yourself if you'd change your beliefs if you got incontrovertible evidence of a different god -- say, Odin or Zeus or Ra.  If the answer is "of course not, I'm a Christian and that's that," then this question is just more evidence that you're being disingenuous.

8.  If evolution is real, then why are there no transitional forms in the present?

What does this even mean?  From the perspective of someone ten million years from now, all of the life forms on Earth today would be transitional forms.  If you're asking about transitional fossils, then this once again shows you need to do your research.  There are thousands of transitional fossils.  Go talk to a paleontologist, and then we can have the discussion. 

9.  Do you live according to what you believe, or do you live according to what you lack in belief?

Okay, at this point I think you were just running out of ideas, because once again, I have no clue what the fuck this question is asking.  How can you live by a lack of belief?  Do you live according to your lack of belief in unicorns?  Because frankly, I don't give my lack of belief in unicorns much thought, and I suspect you don't, either.

10.  If God exists, will you not lose your soul when you die?

Again, I suppose that's a possibility, if I'm wrong.  Based on what I know, I don't think I'm in much danger, frankly.  And even if there is an afterlife, and the universe is being run by some kind of all-knowing power, I'd think he/she/it would be forgiving of someone who used the brain (s)he was provided with and came to the best and most consistent answers (s)he could.  Frankly, I suspect even the Christian God would prefer an honest, kind, compassionate atheist to a narrow-minded, bigoted, hateful Christian.  (Nota bene: I am in no way saying all Christians are like that.  However, a subset of them are, and I've found that those are the ones who are most convinced they're going to heaven.)

So there are my answers to the ten unanswerable questions.  To the anonymous link-sender, I hope you read my responses with thoughtful consideration.  Not that I'm trying to change anyone's mind, but a little mutual understanding goes a long way.  Certainly better than mischaracterizing an entire group based on faulty assumptions, then proceeding as if that judgment was the truth.

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

This week's Skeptophilia book recommendation is a really cool one: Andrew H. Knoll's Life on a Young Planet: The First Three Billion Years of Evolution on Earth.

Knoll starts out with an objection to the fact that most books on prehistoric life focus on the big, flashy, charismatic megafauna popular in children's books -- dinosaurs such as Brachiosaurus, Allosaurus, and Quetzalcoatlus, and impressive mammals like Baluchitherium and Brontops.  As fascinating as those are, Knoll points out that this approach misses a huge part of evolutionary history -- so he set out to chronicle the parts that are often overlooked or relegated to a few quick sentences.  His entire book looks at the Pre-Cambrian Period, which encompasses 7/8 of Earth's history, and ends with the Cambrian Explosion, the event that generated nearly all the animal body plans we currently have, and which is still (very) incompletely understood.

Knoll's book is fun reading, requires no particular scientific background, and will be eye-opening for almost everyone who reads it.  So prepare yourself to dive into a time period that's gone largely ignored since such matters were considered -- the first three billion years.

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

The firestarter

It is the nature of the world that sometimes we have to look at all of the available evidence, and not come to a conclusion.

It's tempting to think that science, and the skeptical approach, will always result in answers, but the sad fact is that sometimes we have to admit that (barring the uncovering of further data) we will never have an explanation.  This is something that often doesn't sit well with people, however.  We like understanding, we like everything to be tidy and clear, without loose ends, and the result is that we will sometimes settle for a bogus explanation simply because it feels better than saying, "We don't know."

Such, I believe, is the strange case of Carole Compton, the Scottish nanny who almost ended up spending decades in jail because of an accusation of attempted murder by pyrokinesis (starting fires with your mind) and witchcraft -- surprisingly, only forty years ago.

[Image is in the Public Domain]

Compton is from Ayr, Scotland, but had fallen in love with an Italian man she'd met there and followed him back home.  While waiting for him to complete his military service, she took on a job as a nanny for a wealthy family near Rome.  The Riccis welcomed Carole into their home to look after their children, and all went well until a small religious picture fell off the wall as Carole walked by, prompting a maid to make the sign of the cross and raise her eyebrows about what it could mean.

That event was recalled several weeks later when Carole accompanied the Riccis on their annual vacation in the Alps, and a fire broke out in their vacation home, destroying the second floor completely.  Firemen said that the house had a history of electrical problems, and that was undoubtedly the cause.  But the Riccis began to question that explanation when two subsequent fires began in Carole's presence -- one in a trash can and the other in the bedroom of the Ricci's two-year-old son.

Shortly afterwards, the Riccis fired Carole.

Carole was rehired by another family, the Tontis, once again as a nanny.  The grandmother of the family, however, took an instant dislike to Carole, which was intensified to hatred and fear when once again Carole seemed to be the epicenter of bizarre occurrences -- a fire in a mattress, a vase falling from a table and breaking while no one was near it, and objects (including a religious figurine) flying off shelves and walls.  At this point, the word strega (witch) was used, and the talk started in earnest.

But it was all talk until a fire started in another mattress, this time in the room of three-year-old Agnese, the child Carole had been hired to care for.  The grandmother demanded that it be stopped, and the authorities intervened, and arrested Carole for attempted murder.

The media went wild about "the nanny they call a witch."  Some people claimed she was psychotic, and had engineered the incidents; others that there was a poltergeist following her around.  The consensus, though, was that she was possessed, and the demon was visiting its evil on the people she lived with.  It took over a year for her to come to trial (in December 1983), and she was found innocent of the attempted murder charge, but guilty on two counts of arson.  She was sentenced to two and a half years in prison, but was released on time served and immediately left Italy to return to her native Scotland.

What really happened in the Compton case?  It hardly bears mention that I'm doubtful about the "poltergeist" and "demonic possession" explanations, not to mention the phenomena of telekinesis and pyrokinesis in general.  According to an article about Compton and other similar cases in The Scotsman, Compton now is living quietly with her husband, Zaroof Fazal, in a town in Yorkshire, and they have three school-age children.  Nothing further in the way of quasi-supernatural events has happened to her.  "What happened to me is something that never goes away," she told reporters.  "It was a dreadful ordeal...  I have a happy life now.  I try not to think about the past."

Not the sort of thing you'd expect if she suffered from Münchausen's-by-proxy, which is another explanation that has been put forward -- that she deliberately attempted to injure her young charges in order to garner attention and/or care.  Compton seemed horrified at the attention she was getting right from the beginning, and even she denied that anything supernatural was going on, although she didn't have an alternate explanation.  During her trial, noted supernatural investigator Guy Lyon Playfair (the man who did the study of the Enfield poltergeist) offered to look into the case, but Compton didn't want him to get involved, claiming that there must be a rational explanation and surely the Italian legal system would realize that.

No such rational explanation has ever been found.

Of the non-paranormal solutions to the case that have been proposed -- Compton being psychotic or suffering from Münchausen's-by-proxy, the fires having a natural cause (nearby electrical shorts, for example), and the falling objects being due to the fact that objects fall down sometimes -- none of them explain the entire story, nor why those events seemed to follow Compton around.  Even the people who accused Compton -- the Tonti grandmother, for example -- steadfastly claimed that the fires erupted and objects fell and broke without Compton touching them.  No one in the Tonti household said that Compton had gone around breaking things and setting fires deliberately; it was only after it got into the courts that this explanation was settled on, because no 20th century European judge would be willing to risk his or her reputation by seriously considering a charge of witchcraft.

So we're left where we started; some weird things happened in Carole Compton's presence in Italy in the 1980s, and no one knows why.

Not a satisfying explanation, by a longshot.  But as skeptics, we have to go as far as the evidence pushes us, and no further.

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

This week's Skeptophilia book recommendation is a really cool one: Andrew H. Knoll's Life on a Young Planet: The First Three Billion Years of Evolution on Earth.

Knoll starts out with an objection to the fact that most books on prehistoric life focus on the big, flashy, charismatic megafauna popular in children's books -- dinosaurs such as Brachiosaurus, Allosaurus, and Quetzalcoatlus, and impressive mammals like Baluchitherium and Brontops.  As fascinating as those are, Knoll points out that this approach misses a huge part of evolutionary history -- so he set out to chronicle the parts that are often overlooked or relegated to a few quick sentences.  His entire book looks at the Pre-Cambrian Period, which encompasses 7/8 of Earth's history, and ends with the Cambrian Explosion, the event that generated nearly all the animal body plans we currently have, and which is still (very) incompletely understood.

Knoll's book is fun reading, requires no particular scientific background, and will be eye-opening for almost everyone who reads it.  So prepare yourself to dive into a time period that's gone largely ignored since such matters were considered -- the first three billion years.

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

Trick or tract

Halloween is this Thursday, so you know what that means: pumpkin decorations and skeletons and ghosts everywhere, candy of all kinds for sale in the stores, people excitedly coming up with creative costumes for parties and trick-or-treating, and the extremely religious telling people that indulging in any of the above will doom them for all eternity.

This time the harbinger of fire and brimstone is none other than Ken Ham, who runs Answers in Genesis and is most famous for "Ark Encounter," a museum (to use the term loosely) in Grant County, Kentucky that has as its mission convincing people that a book documenting the beliefs of a handful of Bronze-Age sheep herders is the best resource we have for understanding science.  According to Ham, here's the way it all went down:

• The Earth is only about six thousand years old.  Any evidence to the contrary is either flat wrong or was put there by Satan to fuck with us.
• In a matter of a few weeks, Noah built a boat capable of holding two of each of the nine-million-odd species on Earth, using only hand tools and materials he could find in the desert.   [Nota bene: The Ark Encounter itself, supposed to be a modernized replica of the Ark, took several years and a few million dollars to finish.  And that was using huge work crews equipped with power tools.]
• The dinosaurs died because they missed getting aboard the Ark.  Oh, and before the Fall of Man, the dinosaurs were all peaceful herbivores.  T. rex, apparently, used his Big Nasty Pointy Teeth to munch on carrots.
• It rained enough to cover the entire land surface area of the planet, and after forty days all the water just kind of went away, presumably down a big drain in the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean or something.
• Afterwards, the kangaroos, dingoes, and wombats hopped, skulked, and waddled their way back to Australia unaided, conveniently leaving behind no traces of their thousand-mile journey.

But other than that, it makes complete sense.

Looks to me like there's an issue here with the lions.  Maybe they're gay lions, I dunno.  But even though I applaud them for coming out of the closet, it would still be problematic with respect to rebuilding the lion population, post-Flood.

So anyway, we're already on shaky ground, reality-wise, with Ken Ham weighing in on pretty much anything.  That didn't stop him from giving the devout some suggestions on how to deal with the upcoming Day of Evil.  "One way you can make the most of this once-a-year opportunity is by giving gospel tracts to children and/or their parents," Ham said.

Yeah, that'll make you popular in your neighborhood.

He also recommended buying (from his online store -- of course) some "million-dollar bills" printed with a picture of a T. rex on one side and a picture of the Ark on the other, with edifying messages such as:

• Have you ever lied, stolen or used God’s name in vain?  If so, you’ve broken God’s law.  The penalty for your crimes against God is death and eternal hell because God is holy and just.
• If you have engaged in lust, this is the same as committing adultery.  God sees you as guilty of sin.  The penalty of sin is death and eternity in hell.
• We broke God's law, but Jesus paid our fine.  Proving He satisfied God's justice, He rose from the dead.  Now God as Judge can legally dismiss our case!

Now wait a moment.  "Legally?"  What does that even mean in this context?  Isn't the whole point of the Bible that God can pretty much do whatever he damn well pleases, and we humans just have to suck it up and deal?  Seems like if God wanted to forgive us, he would have just done it, and not gone through the whole nasty crucifixion business.  So that "Jesus paid our fine" thing has never made a scrap of sense to me.  It's kind of like if your brother pissed your dad off, and your dad spanked you.  Then he says to your brother, "You're forgiven now."  When you understandably object to all of this, your dad says, "Well, I had to spank someone, right?"

In any case, I wouldn't throw away your bags full of Snickers bars and replace them with gospel tracts.  For one thing, it seems like a good way to get your house egged.  Second, warning trick-or-treaters about the dangers of lust seems to me to be targeting the wrong audience, even if you think lustful thoughts are evil, which I don't because that would mean that 99% of humanity is destined for eternal hellfire.

So have fun with your costumes and scary decorations and whatnot.  Honestly, it seems a lot more sensible than all the stuff Ken Ham is trying to get you to believe.  And that's even if you account for the gay lion couple.

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

This week's Skeptophilia book recommendation is a really cool one: Andrew H. Knoll's Life on a Young Planet: The First Three Billion Years of Evolution on Earth.

Knoll starts out with an objection to the fact that most books on prehistoric life focus on the big, flashy, charismatic megafauna popular in children's books -- dinosaurs such as Brachiosaurus, Allosaurus, and Quetzalcoatlus, and impressive mammals like Baluchitherium and Brontops.  As fascinating as those are, Knoll points out that this approach misses a huge part of evolutionary history -- so he set out to chronicle the parts that are often overlooked or relegated to a few quick sentences.  His entire book looks at the Pre-Cambrian Period, which encompasses 7/8 of Earth's history, and ends with the Cambrian Explosion, the event that generated nearly all the animal body plans we currently have, and which is still (very) incompletely understood.

Knoll's book is fun reading, requires no particular scientific background, and will be eye-opening for almost everyone who reads it.  So prepare yourself to dive into a time period that's gone largely ignored since such matters were considered -- the first three billion years.

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