Vinegar FTW

The frustrating thing about woo-woo ideas is that they never really go away permanently.

Take, for example, the Ancient Aliens thing.  It really came into the public eye with Erich von Däniken's 1968 bestseller Chariots of the Gods.  Buoyed up by his book unexpectedly catapulting him into fame, he followed it up with a number of sequels, including: Gods from Outer Space; The Gold of the Gods; In Search of Ancient Gods; Miracles of the Gods; Signs of the Gods; Pathways to the Gods; and Enough About The Fucking Gods, Already, Let's Talk About Something Else For A Change.

Ha!  I made the last one up, of course, because von Däniken is currently ninety years old and still talks about The Gods all the time, raking in huge amounts of money from conferences and keynote speeches (as well as book royalties).  And that's the difficulty, isn't it?  When there's money to be made (or clicks to be clicked -- which in today's social media world, amounts to the same thing), you can never really be confident of saying goodbye to an idiotic idea.

Which, unfortunately, brings us to "chemtrails."

Chemtrails -- known to us Kool-Aid Drinkin' Sheeple as ordinary jet contrails -- got their start in 2007.  A reporter for KSLA News (Shreveport, Louisiana) was investigating a report of "an unusually persistent jet contrail," and found that a man in the area had "collected dew in bowls" after he saw the contrail.  The station had the water in the bowls analyzed, and reported that it contained 6.8 parts per million of the heavy metal barium -- dangerously high concentrations.  The problem is, the reporter got the concentration wrong by a factor of a hundred -- it was 68 parts per billion, which is right in the normal range for water from natural sources (especially water collected in a glazed ceramic bowl, because ceramic glazes often contain barium as a flux).  But the error was overlooked, or (worse) explained away post hoc as a government coverup.  The barium was at dangerous concentrations, people said.  And it came from the contrail.  Which might contain all sorts of other things that they're not telling you about.

And thus were "chemtrails" born.

Since then, the Evil Government has been accused of putting all sorts of things into jet fuel, with the intention of spraying it all over us and Causing Bad Stuff.  Mind-control chemicals, compounds that can alter our DNA, pathogens (anthrax seems especially popular), chemicals that induce sterility.  Notwithstanding the fact that if you want to get Something Nasty into a large fraction of the population, sneaking it into jet fuel and then hoping that the right people are going to be outside when the jet goes over, and then will inhale enough of it to work, has to be the all-time stupidest Evil Plot I've ever heard of.  I mean, this one makes Boris and Natasha's Goof Gas thing seem like unadulterated genius.

Oh, but don't worry; this time the Good Guys are way ahead.  Chemtrail your little hearts out, Evil Deep State Operatives, they're saying.  Because they have a secret weapon in their arsenal that will neutralize all chemtrails.  You ready?

Vinegar.

And not even special magical vinegar; ordinary white vinegar that you can buy from the supermarket.  You're supposed to "gently heat (not boil)" it, and the vapors rise and do battle with the poisonous chemtrails.  How this supposedly works adds a whole other level of facepalming to the discussion.  "White vinegar is acetate acid [sic]," said one YouTuber.  "It eats alkaline metals which is [sic] what they spray to create the geoengineered clouds."

The problem here -- well, amongst the myriad problems here -- is that dissolving a chemical element doesn't destroy it.  If there really were alkaline metals in jet contrails, vinegar might react chemically with them, but the metals would still be there (and presumably, still be just as toxic).  It's like the claim I've seen about pillbugs (isopods) being our friends because they "remove heavy metals from soils."  Now, isopods might well be tolerant to soils with heavy metal contamination -- I haven't verified that possibility -- but if they do consume plant material laden with heavy metals, where do you think those contaminants go after they're eaten?  They're now inside the isopod's body, and when they isopod dies, the heavy metals leach right back into the soil.  Barium, cadmium, lead, arsenic, and so on are elements, and if you are unclear on why that point is relevant, I refer you to the definition thereof.

Notwithstanding, the anti-chemtrail people claim that simmering vinegar in your back yard can "clear contaminated chemtrails in a ten-mile radius in a few hours."  Which would be a pretty good trick, if it weren't for the fact that jet contrails themselves always disappear completely on their own in fifteen minutes or so.

The whole issue hasn't been helped by Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene, who in between sessions of Congress seems to spend her time doing sit-ups underneath parked cars, proposing a bill prohibiting "geoengineering and weather modification," which includes chemtrails.

But of course, the bill conveniently says nothing about the carbon dioxide released by burning jet fuel, which actually is modifying our climate.  Can't mention climate change and piss off the corporate donors, after all.

So once again, we're confronted by a conspiracy theory that keeps rising, zombie-like, from its shallow grave.  At least in this case it'll keep the woo-woos busy simmering (not boiling) vinegar in their back yards, which is fairly harmless.  And it'll give a boost to the vinegar manufacturers.  Me, though, I'm kind of pining for the Ancient Aliens to come back around again.  At least they keep people interested in stuff like history and mythology and archaeology, even if their conclusions aren't any more grounded in reality than the vinegar/chemtrail people.

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Miracles and incredulity

I have a problem with how people use the word miracle.

The dictionary definition is "a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency."  So this would undoubtedly qualify:

The Miracle of St. Mark, by Jacopo Tintoretto (ca. 1548) [Image is in the Public Domain]

But other than claims of honest-to-goodness angels appearing and stopping someone from getting murdered, the occurrences people usually call miracles seem to fall into two categories:

1. Events that have a positive outcome where one can imagine all sorts of ways they could have gone very wrong.  An example is when I was driving down my road in the middle of winter, hit a patch of black ice, and spun out -- coming to rest in a five-meter-by-five-meter gravel patch without hitting anything, where other trajectories would have taken me into a creek, an embankment, or oncoming traffic.
2. Events that are big and impressive, and about which we don't understand the exact cause.

It's the second category that attracted the attention of one Michael Grosso, who writes over at the site Consciousness Unbound, in a post this week called "A Trio of Obvious Miracles."  I was intrigued to find out what Grosso thought qualified not only as miracles but as obvious ones, and I was a little let down to find out that they were (1) the Big Bang, (2) the appearance of life, and (3) the evolution of consciousness.

The problem with all three of these is a lack of information.  In the first case, we have a pretty good idea what happened shortly after the Big Bang -- and by "shortly after" I mean "more than 10^-35 seconds after" -- but no real idea what triggered the expansion itself, or what came before it.  (If "before the Big Bang" even has any meaning.  Stephen Hawking said the question was like asking "what is north of the North Pole?"  Roger Penrose, on the other hand, thinks that a cyclic universe is a real possibility, and there may be a way to detect the traces of iterations of previous universes left behind in our current one.  The question is, at present, still being hotly debated by cosmologists.)

As far as Grosso's second example -- the origins of life -- that's more in my wheelhouse.  The difficulty here is that even the biologists can't agree about what makes something "alive."  Freshman biology texts usually have a list of characteristics of life, which include:

• made of one or more cells
• shows high levels of organization
• capable of reproduction
• capable of growth
• has a limited life span
• responds to stimuli
• adapts through natural selection
• has some form of a genetic code
• has a metabolism/use of energy

Not only are there organisms that are clearly alive but break one or more rules (sterile hybrids are incapable of reproducing, bristlecone pines appear to have no upper bound on their life spans), there are others, such as viruses, that have a few of the characteristics (organization, reproduction, limited life span, adaptation, and genetic code) while lacking others (cells, growth, response, and independent metabolism).  We talk about something "killing viruses," but the jury's still out as to whether they were alive in the first place.  (Perhaps "inactivating" them would be more accurate.)  In any case, the search for some ineffable something that differentiates life from non-life, like Henri Bergson's élan vital, have been unsuccessful.

With the final example, consciousness, we're on even shakier ground.  Once again starting with the dictionary definition -- "an awareness of one's internal and/or external environment, allowing for introspection, imagination, and volition" -- it remains to be seen whether we're unique in having consciousness, or if it (like intelligence) exists on a spectrum.  I'd argue that my dogs are conscious, but are insects?  How about earthworms?  How about amoebas?  All of them have some awareness of their external world, as evidenced by their moving toward pleasant stimuli and away from unpleasant ones; but I doubt very much if amoebas think about it.  So is our much more complex experience of consciousness simply due to our large and highly-interconnected brains, which would suggest that consciousness arises from a purely physical substratum?  If so, would it be possible to emulate it in a machine?  Some people are arguing, from a Turing-esque "if you can't tell the difference, there is no difference" stance, that large language models such as ChatGPT are already showing signs of consciousness.  While I find that a little doubtful -- although admittedly, I'm no expert on the topic -- it seems like we're in the same boat with consciousness as we are with life; it's hard to argue about something when we can't even agree on what the definition is, especially when the characteristic in question seems not to exist on a binary, you've-got-it-or-you-don't basis.

In any case, the whole thing seems to boil down to an argument from incredulity -- "I can't explain this, so it must be a miracle."  Grosso writes:

I grant the astonishing character of the miraculous, and the rarity.  But in the parapsychological definition, the term refers to phenomena that are extraphysical; cannot be physically explained. But what is causing these deviations from physical reality?...  Of course, we generally don’t kneel in awe at the miraculous sunrise or shudder with wonder as we wolf a burger down our gullet.  We are in fact swamped by what in fact are obvious miracles, the whole of nature and life in its wild multiplicity.  But thanks to habit and routine our imagination of the marvelous is deadened.

Honestly, I'm not even all that convinced about the rarity of miracles.  He's picked three things that -- so far as we know -- only happened once, and from that deduced that they're miraculous.  I did a post here a couple of years ago about Littlewood's Law of Miracles (named after British mathematician John Edensor Littlewood), which uses some admittedly rather silly mathematical logic to demonstrate that we should, on average, expect a miracle to occur every other month or so.  So I'm not sure that our perception of something as unlikely (and therefore miraculous) means much. 

The thing is, we can't really deduce anything from a lack of information.  Myself, I'm more comfortable relying on science to elucidate what's going on; like the astronomer Pierre-Simon Laplace famously said to Napoleon when the latter asked why Laplace's book on celestial mechanics made no mention of God, "Je n'avais pas besoin de cette hypothèse-là" ("I have no need of that hypothesis.").  If you're claiming something is a miracle, you're saying it's outside the capacity of science to explain, and that seems to me to be very premature.

My stance is that in all three cases he cited, science hasn't explained them yet.  And that little word at the end is doing a lot of heavy lifting.

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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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