The phantom whirlpool

The universe is a dangerous place.

I'm not talking about crazy stuff happening down here on Earth, although a lot of that certainly qualifies.  The violence we wreak upon each other (and by our careless actions, often upon ourselves) fades into insignificance by comparison to the purely natural violence out there in the cosmos.  Familiar phenomena like black holes and supernovas come near the top of the list, but there are others equally scary whose names are hardly common topics of conversation -- Wolf-Rayet stars, gamma-ray bursters, quasars, and Thorne-Zytkow objects come to mind, not to mention the truly terrifying possibility of a "false vacuum collapse" that I wrote about here at Skeptophilia a while back.

It's why I always find it odd when people talk about the how peaceful the night sky is, or that the glory of the cosmos supports the existence of a benevolent deity.  Impressive?  Sure.  Awe-inspiring?  Definitely.

Benevolent?  Hardly.  The suggestion that the universe was created to be the perfectly hospitable home to humanity -- the "fine-tuning" argument, or "strong anthropic principle" -- conveniently ignores the fact that the vast majority of the universe is intrinsically deadly to terrestrial life forms, and even here on Earth, we're able to survive the conditions of less than a quarter of its surface area.

I'm not trying to scare anyone, here.  But I do think it's a good idea to keep in mind how small and fragile we are.  Especially if it makes us more cognizant of taking care of the congenial planet we're on.

In any case, back to astronomical phenomena that are big and scary and can kill you.  Even the ones we know about don't exhaust the catalog of violent space stuff.  Take, for example, the (thus far) unexplained invisible vortex that is tearing apart the Hyades.

The Hyades is a star cluster in the constellation Taurus, which gets its name from the five sisters of Hyas, a beautiful Greek youth who died tragically.  Which brings up the question of whether any beautiful Greek youths actually survived to adulthood.  When ancient Greeks had kids, if they had a really handsome son, did they look at him and shake their heads sadly, and say, "Well, I guess he's fucked"?

To read Greek mythology, you get the impression that the major cause of death in ancient Greek was being so beautiful it pissed the gods off.

Anyhow, Hyas's five sisters were so devastated by the loss of their beloved brother that they couldn't stop crying, so the gods took pity on them even though Zeus et al. were the ones who caused the whole problem in the first place, and turned them into stars.  Which I suppose is better than nothing.  But even so, the sisters' weeping wouldn't stop -- which is why the appearance of the Hyades in the sky in the spring is associated with the rainy season. (In fact, in England the cluster is called "the April rainers.")

The Hyades [Image licensed under the Creative Commons NASA, ESA, and STScI, Hyades cluster, CC BY-SA 4.0]

In reality, the Hyades have nothing to do with rain or tragically beautiful Greek youths.  They are a group of fairly young stars, on the order of 625 million years old (the Sun is about ten times older), and like most clusters was created from a collapsing clump of gas.  The Hyades are quite close to us -- 153 light years away -- and because of that have been intensively studied.  Like many clusters, the tidal forces generated by the relative motion of the stars is gradually pulling them away from each other, but here there seems to be something else, something far more violent, going on.

A press release from the European Space Agency describes a study of the motion of the stars in the Hyades indicating that their movements aren't the ordinary gentle dissipation most clusters undergo.  A team led by astrophysicist Tereza Jerabkova used data from the European Southern Observatory to map members of the cluster, and to identify other stars that once were part of the Hyades but since have been pulled away, and they found that the leading "tidal tail" -- the streamer of stars out ahead of the motion of the cluster as a whole -- has been ripped to shreds.

The only solution Jerabkova and her team found that made sense of the data is that the leading tail of the Hyades collided -- or is in the process of colliding -- with a huge blob of some sort, containing a mass ten million times that of the Sun.  The problem is, an object that big, only 153 light years away, should be visible, or at least detectable, and there seems to be nothing there.

"There must have been a close interaction with this really massive clump, and the Hyades just got smashed," Jerabkova said.

So what is this "really massive clump" made of?  Given the absence of anything made of ordinary matter that is anywhere nearby, the team suggests that it might be something more exotic -- a "dark matter sub-halo."  These hypothesized objects could be scattered across the universe, and might provide the energetic kick to objects whose trajectories can't be explained any other way. But what exactly they are other than a bizarre phantom gravitational whirlpool, no one knows.

Nor what the risk is if we're close to one.

So add "dark matter sub-halos" to our list of scary astronomical phenomena.  I find the whole thing fascinating, and a little humbling.  I'll still find the beauty of a clear night sky soothing, but that's only if I can get my scientific mind to shut the hell up long enough to enjoy it.  Because the truth is, a lot of those twinkling lights are anything but peaceful.

But I suppose it's still better than the gods killing you if you're too handsome.  That would just suck, not that I personally am in any danger.

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Expertise

The attitude of many laypeople toward medical science can be summed up as "all you have to do is."

Never mind those silly experts, who actually went to medical school and all.  All you have to do is (choose one or more):

• take vitamins (two favorites are C and D)
• spend more time outdoors
• get more exercise
• get more exposure to sunshine
• drink more water
• stop eating meat
• eat more probiotics
• eat more protein
• eat less protein
• eat less processed food
• eat less sugar
• eat less salt
• eat less, period

Now, mind you, I'm not saying these are bad ideas, with the exception of eating both more and less protein, which are hard to do at the same time.  Most of us could use more exercise and eating less sugar and salt, for example.  It's just that the "all you have to do is" attitude tries to boil down all medical conditions to some easily understandable, easily treated set of causes, and avoids the scary truth that human health is complicated.

Sometimes so complicated that even the experts are stumped.

One of the weirdest examples of that latter phenomenon is a ten-year-long epidemic that happened in the early twentieth century, which directly caused at least a half a million deaths worldwide, and that even so most people haven't heard of.  It's called encephalitis lethargica, but that's really only a description of its symptoms; encephalitis means "brain swelling," and lethargica -- well, that one's obvious.  The first cases in the epidemic (although as you'll see, perhaps not the first cases ever) happened in 1915, and just about all of the patients experienced the same, very odd progression of symptoms:

• first, sore throat, headache, and lethargy
• double vision and an uncontrollable upward motion of the eyes ("oculogyric crisis") 
• upper body weakness, spasms, and neck rigidity
• "sleep inversion" -- the drive to sleep during the day and be awake at night
• temper tantrums, psychosis, and hypersexuality
• "klazomania" -- compulsive screaming
• catatonia

The most commonly effected were males between the ages of five and eighteen, but people of all genders and ages could (and did) get the disease.  The mortality rate was high -- about half of the known victims died within a year of onset -- and of the ones who survived, a great many had neurological problems for the rest of their lives, with many of them exhibiting emotional disturbances and/or Parkinsonism.

The disease is sometimes called Economo's disease, after Austrian neurologist Constantin von Economo,  who along with French pathologist Jean-René Cruchet wrote several papers describing the pathology, symptoms, and treatments (the latter, mostly unsuccessful) for it.

Medical journal photographs from 1920, showing Constantin von Economo (upper left) along with four patients suffering from encephalitis lethargica [Image is in the Public Domain]

To cut to the punch line: we still have no idea what caused it.

Initially, it was thought to have something to do with the Spanish flu, which happened around the same time -- possibly an autoimmune reaction triggered by the flu virus -- but that hypothesis was ruled out because there seems to be no correlation between the disease and previous flu exposure.  Also, the Spanish flu pandemic ended in 1919, while the epidemic of encephalitis lethargica went on until 1926.  (This by itself doesn't eliminate a connection; odd immune reactions occurring long after exposure are relatively common, such as shingles turning up years after contracting, and recovering from, chicken pox.)  The brilliant writer Oliver Sacks, in his book Awakenings, stated that the most likely culprit was an enterovirus, a group that contains the causative pathogen of another multi-symptom disease -- polio -- as well as the Coxsackie viruses, thought to play a role in such autoimmune diseases as type 1 diabetes, myalgic encephalomyelitis, and Sjögren's syndrome.  This contention, however, is still considered speculative at best.

While the 1915-1926 outbreak was the most serious, medical historians have identified other epidemics that may be encephalitis lethargica in Europe -- 1580, 1674, 1712, and 1890.  Because there's no certainty of the cause of the 1915 outbreak, it's hard to be sure these are the same disease, but from the symptoms they sound similar.

The reason I bring all this up today is more than just a chance to talk about a biological oddity.  It's to point out that human physiology, and all the things that can go wrong with it, are complex topics.  Emergent diseases like encephalitis lethargica are scary precisely because they strike suddenly and hard, then can vanish before we have much of a chance to study them (and potentially prevent subsequent outbreaks).

And -- the crucial point -- when they do, we need the best-trained minds in medical science to have every tool at their disposal.

Which, in the United States, we don't.  At the moment, the head of the Department of Health and Human Services is a loony anti-vaxxer who is still trying to connect vaccines to autism despite massive study after massive study showing there's no correlation, much less a causation.  His latest salvo was touting putting cane sugar back into Coke as a major victory in "Making America Healthy Again," despite the fact that it's hard for me to see how anything involving drinking Coke would foster better health.  There's a real concern that because of his policies we may have significant shortages of the flu and COVID-19 vaccines this fall, raising the specter of unchecked epidemics.  Research into cancer treatment -- including an mRNA vaccine that shows great promise in treating deadly pancreatic cancer -- have had their funding pulled.

Oh, but according to RFK Jr., that's not a problem.  "All you have to do" to remain healthy is spend more time outdoors and take vitamins.

This is the man in charge of our health policy today.

Look, I know all too well that there were serious problems with the American medical system even before RFK was appointed.  Overpresciption of antibiotics, opioids, antidepressants, and anxiolytics.  Necessary medical procedures being denied by avaricious insurance companies.  Getting the runaround from GP to specialist and back again, with the result that treatment can be delayed weeks to months.  My wife's a registered nurse; don't think I'm unaware of the issues.

But.  If I were to develop a serious medical condition, I'd still want trained experts working on it.  Why on earth would I not?  How does it make sense to doubt medical expertise, when we trust expertise of just about every other sort?  No one gets on an airplane and says, "To hell with training, I'm okay if the plane is piloted by a plumber who has never flown before."  When your house's wiring needs work, you don't say, "I'm fine hiring an accountant to do the job.  He'll do just as well as an actual electrician."  People of all professions work long and hard to acquire their skills and knowledge, and by and large, we trust that they know what they're doing within their given fields.

So why have we been told that medical researchers are somehow the only ones who are lying to us?  And why do so many believe it?

I wish I knew the answer to that.  Maybe it's just because with something as complex and potentially scary as our health, we tend to flail around for something, anything, to make it simpler and more reassuring.  And it's a sad truth of life that sometimes the answers evade even the experts.  The outbreak of encephalitis lethargica is just one of many examples.  But when the next mystery disease strikes -- or even some of the familiar ones -- we want the best shot we have to respond quickly and effectively.

And for that, we need trained doctors and researchers, not anti-science ideologues.

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Weathering the storm

Something that really grinds my gears is how quick people can be to trumpet their own ignorance, seemingly with pride.

I recall being in a school board budget meeting some years ago, and the science department line items were being discussed.  One of the proposed equipment purchases that came up was an electronic weather station for the Earth Science classroom.  And a local attending the meeting said, loud enough for all to hear, "Why the hell do they need a weather station?  If I want to know what the weather is, I stick my head out the window!  Hurr hurr hurr hurr durr!"

Several of his friends joined in the laughter, while I -- and the rest of the science faculty in attendance -- sat there quietly attempting to bring our blood pressures back down to non-lethal levels.

What astonishes me about this idiotic comment is two things: (1) my aforementioned bafflement about why he was so quick to demonstrate to everyone at the meeting that he was ignorant; and (2) what it said about his own level of curiosity.  When I don't know something, my first thought is not to ridicule but to ask questions.  If I thought an electronic weather station might be an odd or a frivolous purchase, I would have asked what exactly the thing did, and how it was better than "sticking my head out the window."  The Earth Science teacher -- who was in attendance that evening -- could then have explained it to me.

And afterward, miracle of miracles, I might have learned something.

All sciences are to some extent prone to this "I'm ignorant and I'm proud of it" attitude by laypeople, but meteorology may be the worst.  How many times have you heard people say things like, "A fifty percent chance of rain?  How many jobs can you think of where you could get as good results by flipping a coin, and still get paid?"  It took me a fifteen-second Google search to find the weather.gov page explaining that the "probability of precipitation" percentages mean something a great deal more specific than the forecasters throwing their hands in the air and saying, "Might happen, might not."  A fifty-percent chance of rain means that in the forecast area, any given point has a fifty percent chance of receiving at least 0.01" of rain; from this it's obvious that if there's a fifty percent chance over a large geographical area, the likelihood of someone receiving rain in the region is much greater than fifty percent.  (These middling percentages are far more common in the northern hemisphere's summer, when much of the rain falls in the form of sporadic local thunderstorms that are extremely hard to predict precisely.  If you live in the US Midwest or anywhere in the eastern half of North America, you can probably remember times when you got rain and your friends five miles away didn't, or vice versa.)

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Walter Baxter, The Milestone weather forecasting stone - geograph.org.uk - 1708774, CC BY-SA 2.0]

The problem is, meteorology is complex.  Computer models of the atmosphere rely on estimates of conditions (barometric pressure, temperature, humidity, air speed both vertically and horizontally, and particulate content, to name a few) along with mathematical equations describing how those quantities vary over time and influence each other.  The results are never completely accurate, and extending forward in time -- long-range forecasting -- is still nearly impossible except in the broadest-brush sense.  Add to that the fact there are weather phenomena that are still largely unexplained; one of the weirdest is the Catatumbo lightning, which occurs near where the Catatumbo River flows into Lake Maracaibo in Venezuela.  That one small region gets significant lightning 140 to 160 days a year, nine hours per day, and with lightning flashes from sixteen to forty times per minute.  The area sees the highest density of lightning in the world, at 250 strikes per square kilometer -- and no one knows why.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Fernando Flores, Catatumbo Lightning (141677107), CC BY-SA 3.0]

Despite the inaccuracies and the gaps in our understanding, we are far ahead of the idiotic "they're just flipping a coin" that the non-science types would have you believe.  The deadliest North American hurricane on record, the 1900 Galveston storm that took an estimated eight thousand lives, was as devastating as it was precisely because back then, forecasting was so rudimentary that almost no one knew it was coming.  Today we usually have days, sometimes weeks, of warning before major weather events -- and yet, if the prediction is off by a few hours or landfall is inaccurate by ten miles, people still complain that "the meteorologists are just making guesses."

What's grimly ironic is that we might get our chance to find out what it's like to go back to a United States where we actually don't have accurate weather forecasting, because Trump and his cronies have cut the National Weather Service and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration to the bone.  The motivation was, I suspect, largely because of the Right's pro-fossil-fuels, anti-climate-change bias, but the result will be to hobble our ability to make precise forecasts and get people out of harm's way.  You think the central Texas floods in the first week of July were bad?

Keep in mind that Atlantic hurricane season has just started, as well as the western wildfire season.  The already understaffed NWS and NOAA offices are now running on skeleton crews, just at the point when skilled forecasters are needed the most.  My intuition is you ain't seen nothin' yet.

Oh, and don't ask FEMA to help you after the disaster hits.  That's been cut, too.  Following the Texas floods, thousands of calls from survivors to FEMA were never returned, because Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem was too busy cosplaying at Alligator Auschwitz to bother doing anything about the situation.  (She responded to criticism by stating that FEMA "responded to every caller swiftly and efficiently," following the Trump approach that all you have to do is lie egregiously and it automatically becomes true.)

Ignorance is nothing to be embarrassed about, but it's also nothing to be proud of.  And when people's ignorance impels them to elect ignorant ideologues as leaders, the whole thing becomes downright dangerous.  Learn some science yourself, sure; the whole fifteen-year run of Skeptophilia could probably be summed up in that sentence.

But more than that -- demand that our leaders base their decisions on facts, logic, science, and evidence, not ideology, bias, and who happens to have dumped the most money into the election campaign.  We're standing on a precipice right now, and we can't afford to be silent.

Otherwise I'm very much afraid we'll find out all too quickly which way the wind is blowing.

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Cats in boxes

Any cat owners amongst my readers will undoubtedly know about the strange propensity of cats to climb into boxes.  Apparently it works for cats of all sizes:

With apologies to Robert Burns, a cat's a cat for a' that.

In fact, it doesn't even have to be a real box:

I've never heard a particularly convincing explanation of why cats do this.  Some people suggest it's because being in close quarters gives them a sense of security, perhaps a remnant of when they lived in the wild and slept in burrows or caves.  Me, I suspect it's just because cats are a little weird.  I've been of this opinion ever since owning a very strange cat named Puck, who used to sleep on the arm of the couch with one front and one back leg hanging limp on one side of the arm and the other two dangling over the other side, a pose that earned her the nickname "Monorail Cat."  She also had eyes that didn't quite line up, and a broken fang that caused her tongue to stick out of one side of her mouth.  She was quite a sweet-natured cat, really, but even people who love cats thought Puck looked like she had a screw loose.

The topic comes up because of a delightful piece of research in the journal Applied Animal Behaviour Science.  The paper was titled "If I Fits, I Sits: A Citizen Science Investigation into Illusory Contour Susceptibility in Domestic Cats," by Gabriella Smith and Sarah-Elizabeth Byosiere (of Hunter College) and Philippe Chouinard (of LaTrobe University), and looked at data collected from cat owners to find out if cats are fooled by the Kanizsa Rectangle Illusion.

The Kanizsa Rectangle Illusion is an image that tricks the brains into seeing contours that aren't there.  Here's one representation of it:

To most people, this looks like an opaque white rectangle laid over four black hexagons, and not what it really is -- four black hexagons with triangular wedges cut out.  Apparently the brain goes with an Ockham's Razor-ish approach to interpreting what it sees, deducing that a white rectangle on top of black hexagons is much more likely than having the cut-out bits just happening to line up perfectly.  It's amazing, though, how quickly this decision is made; we don't go through a back-and-forth "is it this, or is it that?"; the illusion is instantaneous, and so convincing that many of us can almost see the entire boundary of the rectangle even though there's nothing there.

Well, apparently, so can cats.  And, as one would expect, they sit in the middle of the nonexistent rectangle just as if it was a real box.  The authors write:

A well-known phenomenon to cat owners is the tendency of their cats to sit in enclosed spaces such as boxes, laundry baskets, and even shape outlines taped on the floor.  This investigative study asks whether domestic cats (Felis silvestris catus) are also susceptible to sitting in enclosures that are illusory in nature, utilizing cats’ attraction to box-like spaces to assess their perception of the Kanizsa square visual illusion...  [T]his study randomly assigned citizen science participants booklets of six randomized, counterbalanced daily stimuli to print out, prepare, and place on the floor in pairs.  Owners observed and videorecorded their cats’ behavior with the stimuli and reported findings from home over the course of the six daily trials...  This study revealed that cats selected the Kanizsa illusion just as often as the square and more often than the control, indicating that domestic cats may treat the subjective Kanizsa contours as they do real contours.

It's a fascinating result, and indicative that other animal species see the world much as we do.  It still doesn't explain why cats like to sit in boxes, though.  I think my conclusion ("cats are weird") covers it about as well as anything.  But at least in one way, our perceptual/interpretive centers are just as weird as the cats' are.  I'm not inclined to go sit in a box, but it does make me wonder what our pets would think if we showed them other optical illusions.

I doubt my dogs would be interested.  If what they're looking at has nothing to do with food, petting, napping, or playing, they pretty much ignore it.  Must be nice to see the world in such simple terms.

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Footprints

The southern tip of mainland Italy is called Calabria.  It's a strikingly beautiful place, containing three national parks (Pollino National Park, Sila National Park and Aspromonte National Park), and a stretch of coastline -- near Reggio, facing across the Straits of Messina to Sicily -- that poet Gabriele D'Annunzio called "the most beautiful kilometer in Italy."  It's a region blessed with more than its share of dramatic scenery.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Cliff at Tropea, Italy, Sep 2005 , CC BY-SA 2.5]

Calabria forms the "toe of Italy's boot."  I remember noticing the country's odd shape when I was a kid and first became fascinated with maps (a fascination that remains with me today), and wondering why it looked like that; back then, when plate tectonics was still a new science, I doubt they really understood it on a level any deeper than "it's near a plate margin, and that moves stuff around."  Today, we have a much more detailed understanding of the geology of the area, and it is complex.

Tectonic map of southern Italy and Sicily [Image licensed under the Creative Commons Jpvandijk, J.P. van Dijk, Janpieter van Dijk, Johannes Petrus van Dijk, CentralMediterranean-GeotectonicMap, CC BY-SA 4.0]

On its simplest level, the entire southern half of Italy is being pushed to the southeast, and it's riding up and over the northern edge of the African Plate.  This process is responsible not only for the volcanism of the region -- Mount Etna being the most obvious example -- but the massive earthquakes that have shaped it, in part creating the gorgeous topography.  (It also has made it a dangerous place to live.  The Messina Earthquake of 1908, with an epicenter right across the straits from Calabria, had a magnitude of 7.1 and killed an estimated eighty thousand people, most of them in the first three minutes after the quake struck and the majority of the buildings collapsed.)

As interesting as the geology of the region is, that's not what spurred me to write about the topic today.  What I'd like to tell you about is Calabria's tremendous linguistic diversity, an embarrassment of riches packed into a small geographical area.  The main language, of course, is standard Italian, but a great many people there (especially in the southern parts) speak Calabrian, a Greek-influenced-Latin derivative that is mostly mutually intelligible with Italian but has some distinct vocabulary and pronunciations. 

Then there's Grecanico, which is derived from an archaic dialect of Byzantine Greek, and is spoken by a group of people descended from folks who settled in the region more than a thousand years ago and have somehow maintained their ethnic identity the whole time.  It's written with the Latin, not Greek, alphabet -- but other than that has more in common with Thessalian Greek than with Italian.

Another language that has little to do with Italian is Arbëresh, a dialect of Albanian brought in with migrants during the Late Middle Ages.  From some of its idiosyncrasies, it appears to be related to Tosk Albanian, a group of dialects spoken in the southern parts of Albania, near the border of Greece.  It's astonishing that we can still identify the part of the world the ancestors of the Arbëreshë people came from centuries ago -- by the peculiarities of the language they have spoken during the more than six hundred years they've lived in isolated communities in Calabria.

Finally, there's Gardiol, which is related to Occitan (also known as Provençal or Languedoc), the Romance language widely spoken in the southern half of France.  Like with Calabrian (and also Catalan in Spain), most Occitan speakers in France speak the majority language as well, but use Occitan when speaking with family, friends, and locals.  The ancestors of the speakers of Gardiol came in with the persecution of the Waldensian "heretics" in France in the thirteenth century, who found a refuge in a thinly-populated part of northern Calabria.  Once again -- amazingly -- they've retained their ethnic identity and language through all the vagaries of time since their arrival.

All of that -- and standard Italian as well -- in an area of around fifteen thousand square kilometers, a little more than the size of the state of Connecticut.

UNESCO describes all four of these languages -- Calabrian, Grecanico, Arbëresh, and Gardiol -- as "in serious danger of disappearing."  It's sad to think of these footprints of history vanishing, and taking along with them pieces of human culture that somehow had persisted for centuries.  I understand why this happens; in modern life, speaking and writing the dominant language is not only useful, it's often essential for getting a job and making a living.  These little pockets of other languages survived better when people had little mobility and even less connectedness to others living far away.  In today's world, they seem doomed.

Change is the fate of all things, but it inevitably comes with a sense of loss.  The linguistic diversity of the beautiful region of Calabria will, very likely, soon be gone.  Like biodiversity loss, this diminishes the richness of our world.  I hope that linguists are working to catalog and study these unique languages -- before the last native speakers are gone forever.

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Hello, dolly

You may have heard that a 54-year-old paranormal investigator named Dan Rivera died a few days ago while on tour with a supposedly possessed Raggedy Ann doll named "Annabelle."  I know I have, because about two dozen loyal readers of Skeptophilia have sent me links about the story.

Positively DO NOT.  Whatever you were thinking about doing, just DON'T.

According to the most recent news releases, police found no signs of foul play or anything suspicious about Rivera's death, although more information may come out once an autopsy is performed.

Annabelle has a long history.  Her reputation for supernatural hijinks goes back to the 1970s, when her owner reported odd and scary behavior (moving on her own, leaving scrawled and threatening notes, knocking stuff over in the middle of the night) to none other than Ed and Lorraine Warren.  Ed Warren was a "self-taught demonologist," which is pretty much the only kind there is at the moment, given that Cotton Mather, Tomás de Torquemada, and Girolamo Savonarola are no longer in charge of designing university curricula.  Lorraine was a "light-trance medium" who assisted her husband on his demon-hunting expeditions.  If you've heard of them, it's probably because of their involvement in the famous Amityville Horror case, which was the subject of much hype and a movie featuring one (1) puking nun.  (Interesting fact: my wife, who grew up on Long Island, worked in a record store in Amityville during the height of the craze.  She and her coworkers were constantly being asked "Where's the Horror House?"  Their stock answer was "Take the first left, go about a mile to the third stoplight, then turn right.  Three blocks down, on the right."  In point of fact, none of them knew nor cared where the Horror House was, because they rightly believed that the entire story was bullshit.)

In any case, Annabelle was given to the Warrens, who locked her up in a cabinet in the museum of the occult they ran, but they said they still periodically found her running loose when they got there in the morning, and more than once they heard eerie laughter when no one was there.  This drew the attention of various people, all of whom regretted getting involved.  These allegedly included a skeptic who was given "psychic slashes" that drew blood; a priest who insulted Annabelle and forthwith ran his car into a tree; and a homicide detective who was stabbed by the doll, "receiving injuries that forced him into an early retirement."

The museum closed after Lorraine's death at age 92 in 2019, and the New England Society for Psychic Research took charge of Annabelle, sending her out earlier this year on a "Devils On the Run" tour that showcased items from the Warrens' collection.

You have to wonder why they did this.  I would think the members of the New England Society for Psychic Research would, by and large, believe that all this possessed-doll stuff is completely reasonable.  So wouldn't they go, "Hell no, we gotta keep Annabelle locked up, she's too dangerous, someone could get hurt"?  Nope, they sent her right out on tour, suggesting that either they (1) believe Annabelle's powers are real but don't give a damn if she does injure someone, (2) believe in some psychic stuff but figure Annabelle is nonsense, or (3) don't believe any of it but saw a good opportunity to cash in on the fact that lots of other people do.

You also have to wonder what they think now that one of her handlers has died.

Of course, the great likelihood is that Rivera died of natural causes.  I get that 54 is a pretty young age to drop dead; it'd be surprising, given that I am a 64-year-old person, if that thought didn't cross my mind.  But I'm going to follow my Prime Directive of eliminating all the normal and natural explanations before jumping to a paranormal or supernatural one, and I think once we learn what the autopsy finds, it'll turn out Rivera had a heart attack or stroke.

So it's sad -- from the tributes written by his friends, he sounds like he was a good guy -- but unlikely to be due to the evil machinations of "Annabelle."

One of the people who sent me a link added the message, "Be careful what you write about her, though!  She'll get even with you if you make fun!"  My response to that is:

Ha ha ha ha ha, Annabelle, you are ugly and your mom dresses you funny.  You've got a blank expression, a goofy smile, and what is that triangle-thing in the middle of your face supposed to be?  You call that a nose?  Oh, and you don't like my saying all that?  What're you gonna do about it?  Go ahead, girl, gimme your best shot.  I dare you.

Okay, that should do it.  I'm not sure what the priest said who ended up wrecking his car, but maybe this will be enough for some psychic retribution.

I'll report here if I have any sudden attacks of gout or bursitis or brain aneurysms or whatnot.  Myself, I think I'll probably be okay, but we'll see.  Gordon vs. Annabelle 2025 -- who are you rooting for?

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Who benefits?

One of the most curious features of evolutionary biology is the cui bono principle.

Cui bono? is Latin for "who benefits?" and is an idea that found its first expression in courts of law.  If a crime is committed, look for who benefitted from it.  In evolutionary biology, it's adjuring the researcher to look for an evolutionary explanation for seemingly odd, even self-harming behavior.  Somebody, the principle claims, must benefit from it.

A while back, I did a post on one of the strangest and most complex examples of cui bono; the pathogen Toxoplasma gondii, a protist that primarily infects humans, cats, rats, and mice.  In each, it triggers changes in behavior, but different ones.  It turns rats and mice fearless, and in fact, makes them attracted to the smell of cat urine.  Infected cats are more gregarious and needing of physical contact (either with other cats or with humans).  Humans are more likely to be neurotic and anxious, impelling them to seek comfort from others... including, of course, their pets.  Each of these behaviors increases the likelihood of the pathogen jumping to another host.

That this behavioral engineering is successful can be gauged by the fact that by some estimates three billion people are Toxoplasma-positive.  Yes, that's "billion" with a "b."  As in, one third of the human population.  I can pretty much guarantee that if you've ever owned a cat, you are Toxoplasma-positive.

What effects that has had on the collective behavior of humanity, I'll leave you to ponder.

I just ran into another cool example of cui bono a couple of days ago -- well, cool if you're not a tomato grower.  This is another one for which the answer to "who benefits?" turns out to be a pathogen, this time a virus called tomato yellow leaf curl virus, which has the obvious effect on infected plants.

Uninfected (top) and infected (bottom) tomato plants [Image credit: Zhe Yan et al., MDPI]

The researchers, led by Peng Liang of the Chinese Academy of Agricultural Sciences, noticed a strange pattern; there's a pest of tomato plants (and many other crops) called the silverwing whitefly (Bemisia tabaci) that shows a distinct preference for tomato plants depending on who is infected with what.  If the whitefly is uninfected with the virus, it's preferentially attracted to infected tomato plants; if the whitefly is already infected, it shows a preference for uninfected plants.

So cui bono?  The virus, of course.  Infected whiteflies pass the virus along to uninfected plants, and uninfected whiteflies pick the virus up from infected plants.  Clever.  Insidious, but damn clever.

Liang et al. found that the virus accomplishes this by meddling with a chemical signal from tomato plants called β-myrcene.  The virus actually up-regulates the β-myrcene gene -- essentially, turning the volume up to eleven on β-myrcene's production -- which attracts uninfected whiteflies.  Once the virus gets into the whiteflies, it dials down the sensitivity of the whiteflies' β-myrcene receptors, making them less attracted to it.  

No need to be lured in by the infected plants if you're already infected yourself.

So like with Toxoplasma, we have here a microscopic pathogen that is manipulating the behavior of more than one host species.  It's fascinating but creepy.  You have to wonder what other features of our behavior are being steered by pathogens we might not even be aware of.  Recent studies have found that between five and eight percent of our DNA is composed of endogenous retroviruses -- scraps of DNA left behind by viruses in the genomes of our forebears, and which are suspected to have a role in multiple sclerosis and some forms of schizophrenia.

Who knows what else they might be doing?

If you find this whole topic a little shudder-inducing, you're not alone.  Science is like that sometimes.  If there's one thing I've learned, it's that the universe is under no compulsion to make me feel comfortable.  If you agree, sorry I put you through reading this.  Go cuddle with your kitty.

I'm sure that'll make you feel better.

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