Seeing stars

I am endlessly amused (or endlessly frustrated, depending on my mood) by the way the same piece of information can be interpreted by different woo-woos to support each of their varying, and in many cases mutually contradictory, views of the world.  All of them take the same bit of data, and put their own spin on it, so that it becomes some kind of purportedly incontrovertible support for whatever they already believed.

In short order, you have a multilayered rainbow-colored cake of confirmation bias, with nuts.

Take, for example, the curious photograph that is currently zinging its way around the Internet, an image from Google Maps taken by satellite of a spot near Lisakovsk, Kazakhstan:

The thing is real, not a photoshopped image; type the coordinates 52°28’46.86″N 62°11’7.68″E into Google Earth to see it for yourself.  But of course, once you know it's real, what is it?

You can bet that the fundamentalist Christians have an answer to that.

The upside-down pentagram is well known as a sign of Satan, and this cadre has accompanied the photograph with a dire-sounding message that the Time Of The Antichrist Is At Hand.  This version of the story is also accompanied by a claim that the pentagram appeared near a pair of towns called "Adam" and "Lucifer," a statement that is supposed to be significant somehow but for which I could find no corroboration whatsoever.  And frankly, that part sounds more than a little spurious to me.  Most of the towns in Kazakhstan that I could find on a map have names like "Zhezkagan" and "Stepnogorsk."  "Adam" and "Lucifer" sound a little... anglo to me to be place names in that part of the world.

And, after all, New York has an Adams County and a Lucifer Falls, and I've seen neither giant pentagrams nor Satan appearing around here, so there's that.

Another thing, though, is that whether this looks like an upside-down pentagram depends on the angle from which you view it.  Turn the photograph upside-down, or (in fact) rotate it by 36° in either direction, and all of a sudden it becomes a right-side-up pentagram.  So color me unconvinced that this is a sign of the End Times.

But of course, the evangelical Christians aren't the only ones who have weighed in on the curious photograph.  You also have the ones who think it's a sign from Mother Earth that we are "abusing nature" and that we need to be more considerate of our environment.  This version of the story has a piece about the pentagram being one of the "signs that we cannot continue to harm our planet without the planet letting us know about it."

These are presumably the same people who think that crop circles are a way for the Spirit of Nature to inform us to give up coal mining and take up organic farming and wear clothes woven from hemp.  And these folks think the upside-down pentagram isn't an evil symbol at all, but a positive, vital neopagan symbol that has suddenly appeared to bring us all to some kind of environmental enlightenment.

Then, you have the people who think that the pentagram is "an unfinished summer camp for the children of the Illuminati."  Because the Illuminati are just that sneaky and secretive, that they would create a structure that you couldn't ever find out about unless you happened to look on Google Maps.  According to this guy, "Kazakistan" (which is how he pronounces it throughout the entire video) is part of the "bloodline of the Illuminati."  Whatever the fuck that means.  But that's where the whole world is being controlled from, so... so... just don't let your guard down for a minute.

You know how that goes.

The speculation doesn't end there, however.  There's another group who weighed in on the topic, and they don't think the star is a symbol of Satan, the Illuminati, or Gaea, but a communiqué from... you'll never guess who.

Righty-o.  Because intelligent extraterrestrials who have expended a great amount of effort, time, and energy to get to Earth from a planet light years away would have nothing better to do than to draw a giant star on the ground and then leave.

Of course, the actual explanation turned out to be much simpler.  No Antichrist, Nature Spirits, New World Order, or extraterrestrials needed.

"It is the outline of a park made in the form of a star," archaeologist Emma Usmanova said in an interview with LiveScience about the geographical oddity.  "The star was a popular symbol during the Soviet era.  Stars were often used throughout the Soviet Union to decorate building facades, flags and monuments...  We believe that the star shape was the abandoned site of a Soviet-era lakeside campground."

And Usmanova apparently has years of experience working in the Lisakovsk area, so she should know.

Not that I expect that this will shut up the "It's Aliens" crew, much less the neopagans or the fundamentalists.  But that's how confirmation bias works, isn't it?  You latch on to an explanation for something because it fits what you already believed, and hang on like grim death even if there's a plausible explanation to the contrary.  Because, let's face it; when it comes to choosing an explanation, "an abandoned campground site" just doesn't have the gravitas that Satan, Mother Earth, the Illuminati, and aliens do.

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The cost of helplessness

The United Nations Office for Disaster Risk Reduction defines disaster to mean:

A serious disruption of the functioning of a community or a society at any scale due to hazardous events interacting with conditions of exposure, vulnerability and capacity, leading to one or more of the following: human, material, economic and environmental losses and impacts...  [Disasters] may test or exceed the capacity of a community or society to cope using its own resources, and therefore may require assistance from external sources, which could include neighbouring jurisdictions, or those at the national or international levels.

This comes up because the UNDRR just released its Global Assessment Report, which was (to put it mildly) not optimistic.  The rate of disasters (as defined) has been rising steadily; over the last two decades the world has averaged between 350 and 500 medium- to large-scale disasters a year, but at the current rate of increase we'll be up to an average of 560 by the year 2030.

That's 1.5 disasters a day.

The reason seems to be a combination of factors.  One, of course, is anthropogenic climate change, which is destabilizing the climate worldwide (as just one of many examples, the southeastern and midwestern United States is forecast to have record-breaking heat over the next three days, and summer hasn't even officially started yet).  Sea level rise is not only threatening coastlines, if it gets much worse (and there is no reason to think it will not) there are a number of island nations that will simply cease to exist, Tuvalu, Kiribati, Vanuatu, the Marshall Islands, and the Maldives topping the list.  The combined cost of all these disasters, especially in Asia and the Pacific, is predicted to cost affected nations 1.6% of their GDP every year.

You can't incur these kinds of costs and continue to function as a society.

South Tarawa Island, part of the nation of Kiribati [Image licensed under the Creative Commons Photo taken by Government of Kiribati employee in the course of their work, South Tarawa from the air, CC BY 3.0]

The UNDRR's report found that the primary culprits in our vulnerability were:

• Optimism -- sure, we built our town on the side of a volcano, but I'm sure it won't erupt.
• Underestimation -- if there's a flood, we'll get a bit of water in our basement, but we can manage that.
• Invincibility -- we'll just ride this hurricane out, I'm not afraid of some wind and rain.

I think that's spot on, but I'd like to add three of my own:

• Helplessness -- what can I do?  I'm just one person.  It doesn't matter if I continue to drive a gas-guzzler, because no one else is gonna give them up.
• Corporate callousness and greed -- strip-mining the Amazon Basin produces valuable resources that are absolutely necessary for industry.
• Media disinformation -- there's no such thing as human-caused climate change; Tucker Carlson said it was a myth made up by the radical Left.

Despite the odds, this is no time to give up and accept catastrophes as inevitable.  "The world needs to do more to incorporate disaster risk in how we live, build and invest, which is setting humanity on a spiral of self-destruction," said Amina J. Mohammed, Deputy Secretary-General of the United Nations.  "We must turn our collective complacency to action. Together we can slow the rate of preventable disasters as we work to deliver the Sustainable Development Goals for everyone, everywhere."

Which I certainly agree with in principle, but how do you put it into practice?  We've known about humanity's role in climate change, and the potential devastation it will wreak, for more than three decades.  I remember teaching students about it my first year as a public school teacher, which was 1986.  The people who have been the most vocal in advocating a global climate change policy -- my dear friend, the articulate and endlessly courageous Dr. Sandra Steingraber, comes to mind -- have been fighting a Sisyphean battle.

"Disasters can be prevented, but only if countries invest the time and resources to understand and reduce their risks," said Mami Mizutori, who heads the UNDRR.  "By deliberately ignoring risk and failing to integrate it in decision making, the world is effectively bankrolling its own destruction.  Critical sectors, from government to development and financial services, must urgently rethink how they perceive and address disaster risk."

Yes, but how?  Humanity is notorious for valuing short-term expediency and profit over long-term safety -- and even viability.  There are certainly days when I feel like I'm shouting into a vacuum; I've been ranting about environmental issues since I started Skeptophilia in 2011.  But giving up is exactly the wrong response, as tempting as it is some days.  Perhaps we don't know what positive effect we can have if we act, but we do know what positive effect we'll have if we throw our hands up and say, "To hell with it."

Zero.

I'll end with two quotes that I think are particularly apposite.

The first one comes from one of my personal heroes, Wangari Maathai, the amazing Kenyan activist, environmentalist, and women's rights advocate: "In order to accomplish anything, we must keep our feelings of empowerment ahead of our feelings of despair.  We cannot do everything, but still there are many things we can do."

And I'll give the last word to my friend Sandra: "We are all musicians in a great human orchestra, and it is now time to play the Save the World Symphony.  You are not required to play a solo, but you are required to know what instrument you hold and play it as well as you can.  You are required to find your place in the score.  What we love we must protect.  That's what love means.  From the right to know and the duty to inquire flows the obligation to act."

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Oops, I did it again

The following is a direct transcript of how I got welcomed into a multi-person business-related Zoom call a couple of years ago:

Me: How are you today?

Meeting leader: I'm fine, how are you?

Me: Pretty good, how are you?

Meeting leader: ...

Me: *vows never to open his mouth in public again*

I think we can all relate to this sort of thing -- and the awful sensation of realizing, microseconds after it leaves our mouths, that what we just said was idiotic.  When my then fiancée, now wife, told a mutual friend that she was getting married -- after we'd been dating for two years -- the friend blurted out, "To who?"  Another friend ended a serious phone call with her boss by saying, "Love you, honey!"  Another -- and I witnessed this one -- was at a trailhead in a local park, preparing to go for a walk as two cyclists were mounting their bikes and putting on their helmets.  He said to them, "Enjoy your hike!"

The funniest one, though, was a friend who was in a restaurant, and the waitress asked what she'd like for dinner.  My friend said, "The half chicken bake, please."  The waitress said, "Which side?"  My friend frowned with puzzlement and said, "Um... I dunno... Left, I guess?"  There was a long pause, and the waitress, obviously trying not to guffaw, said, "No, ma'am, I mean, which side order would you like?"

I don't think my friend has been in that restaurant since.

This "oops" phenomenon probably shouldn't embarrass us as much as it does, because it's damn near ubiquitous.  The brilliant writer Jenny Lawson -- whose three wonderful books, Let's Pretend This Never Happened, Furiously Happy, and Broken (In the Best Possibly Way) should be on everyone's reading list -- posted on her Twitter (@TheBloggess -- follow her immediately if you don't already) a while back, "Airport cashier: 'Have a safe flight.'  Me: 'You too!'  I CAN NEVER COME HERE AGAIN.", and was immediately inundated by (literally) thousands of replies from followers who shared their own embarrassing, and hilarious, moments.  She devotes a whole chapter to these endearing blunders in her book Broken -- by the time I was done reading that chapter, my stomach hurt from laughing -- but here are three that struck me as particularly funny:

I walked up to a baby-holding stranger (thinking it was my sister) at my daughter's soccer game and said "Give me the baby."

A friend thanked me for coming to her husband's funeral.  My reply?  "Anytime."

A friend placed her order at drive thru.  She then heard, "Could you drive up to the speaker?  You're talking to the trash can."

Lawson responded, "How could you not love each and every member of this awkward tribe?"

This universal phenomenon -- particularly the moment of sudden realization that we've just said or done something ridiculous -- was the subject of a study at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center that came out last week, led by neurologist Ueli Rutishauser.  You'd think it'd be a difficult subject to study; how do you catch someone in one of those moments, and find out what's going on in the brain at the time?  But they got around this in a clever way, by studying patients who were epileptic and already had electrode implants to locate the focal point of their seizures, and had them perform a task that was set up to trigger people to make mistakes.  It's a famous one called the Stroop Test, after psychologist John Ridley Stroop who published a paper on it in 1935.  It's an array of names of colors, where each name is printed in a different color from the one named:

The task is to state the colors, not the names, as quickly as you can.

Most people find this really difficult to do, because we're generally taught to pay attention to what words say and ignore what color it's printed in.  "This creates conflict in the brain," Rutishauser said. "You have decades of training in reading, but now your goal is to suppress that habit of reading and say the color of the ink that the word is written in instead."  Most people, though, when they do make an error, realize it right away.  So this made it an ideal way to see what was happening in the brain in those sudden "oops" moments.

What Rutishauser et al. found is that there are two arrays of neurons that kick in when we make a mistake, a process called "performance monitoring."  The first is the domain-general network, which identifies that we've made a mistake.  Then, the domain-specific network pinpoints what exactly the mistake was.  This, of course, takes time, which is why we usually become aware of what we've just done a moment after it's too late to stop it.

"When we observed the activity of neurons in this brain area, it surprised us that most of them only become active after a decision or an action was completed," said study first author Zhongzheng Fu.  "This indicates that this brain area plays a role in evaluating decisions after the fact, rather than while making them."

Which is kind of unfortunate, because however we rationalize those kinds of blunders as being commonplace, it's hard not to feel like crawling into a hole afterward.  But I guess that, given the fact that it's hardwired into our brains, there's not much hope of changing it.

So we should just embrace embarrassing situations as being part of the human condition.  We're weird, funny, awkward beasts, fumbling along as best we can, and just about everyone can relate to the ridiculous things we say and do sometimes.

But I still don't think I'd be able to persuade my friend to eat dinner at the restaurant where she ordered the left half of a chicken.

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A black widow pirouette

It's difficult to talk about neutron stars without lapsing into superlatives.  They're the collapsed remnants of large stars -- those that start out at about eight solar masses or larger -- and form because when the star exhausts its fuel at the end of its life, the ongoing battle between the outward pressure from the heat from the core and the inward pull of gravity from the star's mass goes out of equilibrium.  Gravity wins.  The outer layers of the star fall inward, and the increase in pressure spikes the temperature to an estimated billion degrees Celsius.  This creates a massive explosion -- a supernova -- releasing 10^44 joules of energy.

I don't know about you, but I have a hard time even wrapping my brain around a number that big.  Suffice it to say that the explosion of a supernova releases in a few minutes as much energy as the Sun will produce in its entire ten-billion-year life.

These unimaginable pressures jam together atomic nuclei that otherwise would never have overcome the electrostatic repulsion (all nuclei have a net positive charge, and like charges repel), producing pretty much every element in the periodic table heavier than nitrogen.  

So as bizarre as it seems, the oxygen you breathe, the calcium in your bones, the sodium and chlorine you sprinkle on your food at dinnertime, the iron in your blood, the silicon in your window glass, the gold and silver in your jewelry -- all were created in the unimaginable violence of stellar collapse and explosion.

Nota bene: This is an oversimplification; not only are there several types of supernovas which vary some in output, there are other phenomena, like the merger of neutron stars (more on that in a moment), that can create heavy elements and disperse them through the cosmos -- but it'll do as a first-order approximation.  If you're curious about breaking it down further, the following table represents a finer-grained analysis of where all the elements come from:

[Image licensed under the Creative Cosmos Cmglee, Nucleosynthesis periodic table, CC BY-SA 3.0]

As astrophysicist Carl Sagan put it, "We are made of star stuff...  Our ancestors worshipped the Sun, and they were far from foolish.  It makes sense to revere the Sun and the stars, for we are their children."

The reason this comes up because of a recent discovery that adds a new weird twist to the behavior of neutron stars.  About three thousand light years away is what's left of a triple-star system.  Multiple-star systems aren't that uncommon; a while back I wrote here about one of the most peculiar ones known, Algol (in the constellation Perseus).  The newly-discovered one, though, called ZTF J1406+1222, has an additional layer of strangeness; not only are two of the components neutron stars, they're close enough that they're whirling around their common center of gravity so fast that they complete their orbits in only sixty-two minutes.  In fact, they're close enough that the heavier of the two is siphoning off material from the lighter one.  Stars like this are called black widow binaries, from the unfortunate habit of female black widow spiders eating their mates.

The most astonishing thing about all this is to consider how much force it would take to pull material from a neutron star.  The collapse of the core during its formation was so powerful that it basically crushed the electrons of the constituent atoms into the nucleus, raising its density so high that it's estimated that one teaspoon full of neutron star material would weigh as much as a mountain.

That's the stuff that's being ripped from the surface of the lighter member of the pair.

What about star number three?  The third companion is a much smaller stellar remnant, a white dwarf, that has a ten thousand year orbital period -- almost as if it's edging carefully around its violently spinning friends, keeping at a safe distance while the inner two tear each other apart.

It's unknown how this mad pirouette will end.  The surmise is eventually the two will merge, but what happens then?  If the combined mass is high enough (estimated at about twenty solar masses), then even the neutron/neutron repulsion, mediated by the strong nuclear force, would be insufficient to overcome the gravitational pull, and the collapse will resume -- forming a black hole.  It's also possible that the inertia of such huge masses being accelerated so quickly will rip the two apart completely, flinging neutron star material -- which, once it cools and settles down, would be the aforementioned heavy elements -- across the area of space it's sitting in.

So that's our mind-boggling cosmic tale for today.  It's easy to forget, here on the (comparatively) placid Earth, the unimaginable violence that happens out there in space.  Not only that -- the same violence is what created most of the atoms that make up ourselves and all of the everyday objects we're surrounded with.

When you think about it, there's nothing about the universe we live in that isn't extraordinary.

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Love, not actually

For about a year I've been working with a wonderful personal trainer.  Not only is Kevin an outstanding running coach (who has kept me going through the last eight months during which I've dealt with a back injury and various other health problems), he's also funnier than hell.  I swear, some sessions we spend as much time laughing as working out.  We're pretty similar in a lot of ways, not least that we both are frequently baffled by how absolutely weird the human race is.

So when I got an email from him a couple of days ago with the subject line, "Humankind is completely BONKERS," along with a link, I figured it had to be good.  I'm happy to say he didn't disappoint.

The link brought me to a story about a Japanese gentleman named Akihiko who has fallen madly in love with a woman named Hatsune Miko, and decided to marry her.  Here's where the problems start, though.  First, Hatsune is only sixteen years old, which is a little troubling.  But that's not the only issue.

Hatsune is a computer-generated hologram.

I swear I'm not making this up.  I know I say this a lot, but I can sense y'all looking at me like I've lost my marbles.  Akihiko calls himself a "fictosexual" -- someone who is sexually attracted to fictional characters.  Now, let me say up front that on some level, I understand.  My love for Doctor Who led to my basically being in lust with both Amy Pond (played by Karen Gillan) and Captain Jack Harkness (played by John Barrowman).  (Being bisexual comes along with the problem that I can get my head turned by just about anyone.)

But I've never lost sight of two facts: (1) Amy and Captain Jack are fictional characters; and (2) any attraction I have for them is disappears as soon as I turn the television off.  I might have been a bit goggle-eyed by Amy in her sleek little policewoman outfit and Captain Jack when he had all his clothes vaporized by a robot, but that was where it ended.

It turns out there's a name for this: a parasocial relationship.  The researchers who studied this -- it was the subject of a paper in The Journal of Social and Personal Relationships last October, and in fact I touched on it in a post shortly after the paper came out -- describe it as "a false sense of mutual awareness with favorite characters and [the presence of] strong emotional bonds with them."  So somehow, the fact that the characters they love aren't real and are played by actors who have their own quite different lives and relationships gets lost, and they feel like that love is somehow reciprocated.

The researchers found that the likelihood of forming a parasocial relationship tended to go hand-in-hand with what they call avoidant attachment.  This sounds like an oxymoron, and it sort of is; a push-me-pull-you battle between a desperation to have a relationship and a powerful desire to avoid emotional connections.  When you think about it, it's at least somewhat understandable.  Actual human relationships are demanding, because humans are not only complex creatures, we sometimes hide parts of our personality that only come out later, or change because of external circumstances.  "Relationships" with characters in television and movies, on the other hand, are entirely one-sided.  You can read anything you like into them.

Well, most of the time.  I've run into people who are deeply enamored of a fictional character, and then become furious when the character "betrays them" by either doing something unexpected or (worse) falling in love with another character.  Or, sometimes, when the character is at odds with the actor portraying him/her.  To use my previous example -- apparently the actor John Barrowman can kind of be a putz, and there are allegations that he said and did some things behind the scenes that were completely inappropriate.  My guess is that he's not someone I would want to spend time with.

But I can still think that Captain Jack is hot.  Because he and the actor who plays him are not the same person.

So while attraction is one thing, actually going all in with a fictional character is in a different category altogether.  Or, in the case of Akihiko, a computer-generated hologram.  I'm particularly puzzled about the "sexual" part of "fictosexual."  As Kevin put it, "What if his penis is a USB-A plug and her vagina is a USB-B port?"  Which is it exactly.  Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to get cozy with someone who is actually flesh-and-blood.

Anyhow, that's our excursion into Weird Human Behavior for today.  I wish I had a good explanation for it, but failing that, I think I'll fall back on Kevin's assessment: "Humankind is bonkers."

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The dunes of Io

By anyone's standards, Jupiter's moon Io is a strange place.  It is by far the most geologically-active body in the Solar System, which is extremely unusual for an object its size.  Since tectonic forces are created by heat generated in the core, and smaller objects radiate away heat faster, it was thought that most planetary moons should be tectonically dead -- essentially, frozen in place.

What keeps the fires in Io going are the tidal forces between Jupiter and the other three "Galilean" moons (so called because they were first spotted by Galileo Galilei in January of 1610, and were instrumental in his championing of the heliocentric model of the Solar System).  But from earthbound telescopes all four just looked like points of light, despite the fact that as moons go, they're pretty big.  In fact, the largest of them -- Ganymede -- is bigger than Mercury, with a radius of 2,634 kilometers (as compared to Mercury's 2,440).  The four, the two aforementioned plus Europa and Callisto, were all named for various of Zeus's lovers, which meant astronomers had an extensive list of names to choose from, given that 95% of Greek mythology was driven by Zeus's inability to keep his toga on.

In any case, the push-and-pull of the gravitational forces from Jupiter and its moons stretches Io, and the friction thus created generates enough heat to keep its core (thought to be made mostly of iron, like Earth's) molten.  This thermal energy drives tectonic forces that dwarf the most violent volcanoes and earthquakes here on our planet.  Io has extensive lava flows, some over five hundred kilometers across.  Its volcanoes have ejected so much debris that there is a plasma ring surrounding Jupiter, sketching out Io's orbit.

We got our first good images of Io from Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 in 1979, and from its brightly-colored, pockmarked surface astronomers said it "looked like a moldy pizza" -- a vivid image that is certainly apt enough:

An image of Io taken, appropriately enough, by the spacecraft Galileo in 1995 [Image is in the Public Domain courtesy of NASA/JPL]

The bright yellows and oranges come from crystalline sulfur, which is abundant on the moon's surface.  Also common on its surface is sulfur dioxide, which at Earth's surface temperatures is a colorless gas that smells like rotten eggs; at Io's temperatures, averaging at 110 K (about -160 C), it's a crystalline solid.  The rest is mostly made up of silicate rock and sand.

There's still a lot we don't know about this peculiar place.  One of its odd features is that it has dunes, some of them over thirty meters high.  This should be impossible, as dunes are caused by fluid flow -- on Earth, either wind or water -- and Io has essentially no atmosphere and no liquid component of any kind on the surface.  But a recent paper published in Nature Communications explains a way that dunes can form without any wind; once again, it's caused by Io's extreme volcanism.  The study found that if there's at least a ten-centimeter thick layer of sulfur dioxide ice, and it is contacted by the subterranean (well, subionion) lava flows, the ice sublimates rapidly and explosively, blowing plumes of gas and debris at speeds of up to seventy kilometers and hour, reaching as much as two hundred kilometers high.

The force, though, isn't just exerted upwards, it's exerted outward.  This lateral blast moves enough of the sand and rock on the surface to generate Io's extensive dunes.  A combination of two things -- Io's low gravity and lack of an atmosphere -- means that the airborne debris can move a lot farther than a similar flow could do on Earth.  So while at first glance the processes seem similar to what we know of planetary geology, it's (as far as we know) unique in the Solar System.

"In some sense, these [other worlds] are looking more familiar," says George McDonald, a planetary scientist at Rutgers University, who co-authored the study, in an interview with Science News.  "But the more you think about it, they feel more and more exotic."

If you want to experience mystery and wonder, just look up.  The night sky is filled with a myriad places we are only just beginning to understand.  As French physicist and mathematician Jules Henri Poincaré put it, "Astronomy is useful because it raises us above ourselves; it is useful because it is grand; …  It shows us how small is man's body, how great his mind, since his intelligence can embrace the whole of this dazzling immensity, where his body is only an obscure point, and enjoy its silent harmony."

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Cellphones and brain explosions

A while back there was a rumor circulating that using cellphones could give you brain cancer. A study of 420,000 cellphone users, sponsored by the National Cancer Institute, indicates that there is no correlation between cellphone use and cancer, which caused sighs of relief from the thousands of people who like to discuss details of their sex lives and intimate health issues in public places.

Now, however, thanks to a scary email I received yesterday, I find that cellphone users have worse things to worry about than cancer; using your phone can simply make your brain explode.

Don't believe me?  I'll show you.  I excerpt part of the email below:

Do not pick up calls under the following given numbers: 9888308001, 9316048121 91+, 9876266211, 9888854137, 9876715587.  These numbers will come up red in color, if the call comes from these numbers.  It's with very high wavelength, and very high frequency.  If a call is received from mobile on these numbers, it creates a very high frequency and will cause you to have a brain hemorrhage.

It's not a joke, it's TRUE.  27 people have died receiving calls from these numbers.  This has appeared on news programs and has been verified as true, it's not a hoax.  Please forward this on to all the people you care about!

Well, first off, it's a little ironic that I was the recipient of this email.  My phone service provider gives me a weekly rundown of use time, and I average about fifteen minutes a day.  Most of this use is not talking to people, but playing an idiotic game called Snood that I somehow have become addicted to.  Snood involves using a little catapult to launch funny-looking faces at an array of other funny-looking faces, with the Tetris-like goal of getting three or more in a row, at which point they fall off the screen.  The goal is to get all of the faces to fall.  I'd like to say I enjoy Snood, but honestly, mostly what it does is piss me off, because I always flub easy shots and then achieve phone-hurling levels of anger.

I should probably avoid games altogether, honestly, and find a hobby that is more suited to my temperament and level of technological skill, such as making music by banging two rocks together.

Part of the problem is that besides being a Luddite, I just hate telephones in general.  I actually enjoy being in a place where I can't be reached by telephone.  I'm sort of like Pavlov's dog -- but instead of salivating, when the phone rings, I swear.  If people want to communicate with me, my order of preferred modes of contact is as follows:

1. Email
2. Text
3. Social media direct message
4. Every other form of communication ever invented, up to and including carrier pigeon
5. Telephones

I will go to amazing lengths to avoid talking on the phone.  When we order take-out, my wife places the order (two-minute phone conversation) and I drive to pick it up (at least twenty-minute drive each way, because we live in the middle of nowhere), and I still think it's an excellent tradeoff.  As far as people calling me, thank heaven for caller ID, which at least allows me to screen the calls I get and ignore the ones from people I don't want to talk to, which is just about everyone.  The idea of taking a telephone with me, so I can be reached anywhere, has about as much appeal as taking along my dentist on vacation so that he can interrupt my lying around on the beach by doing a little impromptu root canal.

But I digress.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Ed Yourdon from New York City, USA, People using cellphones on a street in New York, CC BY-SA 2.0]

For those of you who actually do use your phones to communicate with other human beings, should you worry about picking up your phone, for fear of your brain exploding?  The answer, fortunately, is no, and we don't need to have a study funded by the National Brain Explosion Institute to prove it.  Without even trying hard, I can find three problems with the contents of the email:

First, there's no way that a cellphone could transmit sound waves at a high enough volume to cause any damage.  Phone speakers are simply not capable of producing large-amplitude (high decibel level) sounds -- phone use isn't even damaging to your ears, much less your brain.  You're at more risk of ear damage from turning the volume up too high when you're listening to music through earbuds than you are from talking to someone on your phone.

Second, how do they know all of this, if all the people it happened to died?  Did the victims pick up their phones, say "Hi," and then turn to their spouses and say, "OMIGOD ETHEL I JUST RECEIVED A CALL FROM 9888308001 AND THE NUMBER CAME UP RED AND NOW I'M HAVING A BRAIN ANEURYSM ACCCCCKKKKK"?

Third, the email itself indicates that the originator has the intelligence of a peach pit, because anyone who's taken high school physics knows that it's impossible for a wave to have high frequency and high wavelength at the same time, as wavelength and frequency are inversely proportional, sort of like IQ and the likelihood of being a Flat Earther.

So, anyway, feel free to continue using your phones without any qualms, and I'll feel free to continue to not use mine.  Maybe one day I'll eventually arrive in the 21st century, and stop being such a grumpy curmudgeon about telephones, and consent to carry one around so I can have constant, 24/7 availability to receive calls about my car's extended warranty.

But don't expect it to happen any time soon.

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