I'm on the Edge....of Irrelevance

I happened upon a recent Wired article chronicling the writer's self-imposed demotion from a smart phone to a flip phone, and it got me revisiting my own philosophy of technology, which is a product of both intent and financial hardship, with a dose of reluctance for good measure.

I wrote about some aspects of technology in this post, but let me speak more personally as to why I draw the lines where I do. My first reaction to the Wired piece was that it was a flawed experiment in that the writer was regressing from a smart phone to a "dumb phone" as opposed to never having had a smart phone in the first place, which is my situation.

I had to be dragged kicking and screaming into the cell phone era. The breaking point came the nth time my flight was delayed or cancelled and I had no way to reach my party on the receiving end to tell them I would not be arriving in a timely manner. I was still reluctant to make the expenditure for a phone, battery, and calling plan, but it was getting embarrassing and impolite to beg the use of a stranger's device. Consequently, I purchased the cheapest phone, and a pay-as-you-go service.

To this day, I run out of "service days" far more regularly than I run out of minutes. Our household still has a land line, with unlimited long distance (no "roaming" fees), that I rely on for the overwhelming majority of telecommunication aside from e-mails. I briefly flirted with an upgraded phone that had an uncovered keyboard, but after I accidentally pocket-dialed a friend in Massachusetts, I went back to a flip phone and here I am.

One Christmas my wife got me a tablet as a gift. After the futility and frustration of trying to scroll and accidentally connecting to unwanted website after unwanted advertisement, and the aggravation of automatic word suggestions while texting or posting, I gave up. That was about three days in. I am all thumbs when it comes to anything smaller than a full-sized keyboard.

There are many benefits to having sub-forefront technology. The greatest of these might be the deterrent to theft. If a burglar had ever entered my prior residences, he or she would have taken a look around and screamed something to the effect of "Are you KIDDING me?!" and maybe an expletive, before storming out. Had they managed to haul off the television, recovering the unit would be a simple matter of calling around to hospitals to see if anyone had come in with a severe back injury. My laptop is so outdated that even I no longer use it. My desktop is over seven years old, and the various cords too tangled for a hurried criminal to untangle. I am still running Windows 7. This is all exactly how I like it: Technology that gets me through, is still supported and serviced, and not new enough to be attractive to thieves.

Another benefit to not carrying a smart phone or tablet or notebook or whatever they are calling the latest thing is that I am forced to unplug when I am out of my home. I am compelled to interact with other people in the flesh, pay attention to my surroundings, and experience the unadulterated reality of the here-and-now. Yes, sometimes it is boring. So what? If you have to be entertained all the time or, increasingly, feel obligated to entertain others via social media, then you might want to re-examine your life. Take a breath. Smell the flowers. People-watch. Wildlife watch.

I can assure you I do not relate any of this to paint myself as superior, or inferior, or out of touch with the realities of the digital universe. Indeed, I find this Age to be a wonder, but I also wonder whether we are losing sight of things that truly matter, whether we are still engaging one another in meaningful relationships, and whether we are losing touch with the natural world. I am fortunate enough to know people who balance flesh-and-blood and digital worlds perfectly, so I have hope. Meanwhile, if you need to reach me on my travels, good luck. I use Tracfone, and isn't that everyone's punchline for any joke about irrelevance?

I Once Had Good Hearing

© HealthyWomen.org

My eyesight has long since deserted me, but I pride myself on having excellent hearing. Well, I once did, anyway. I desperately want to avoid the stereotype of the hard-of-hearing old fogey who is pitied, barely tolerated, and written off as irrelevant. It is a bit more complicated than what the aging process contributes, though. Up until now I have not admitted as much, not even to myself. Confession time.

Here is an honest-to-God example of one of my more recent telephone conversations. Mind you, I was on my cell phone, inside a storage locker, inside a building, and deaf in my left ear from a recent airline flight. That said, I had the phone to my good ear....

Woman: "Hi, I'm calling from Speed's Towing. We just picked up your deceased father's car which you kindly donated to Oregon Public Broadcasting? Well, turns out we do need that Power of Attorney before we can transfer it elsewhere."
Me: "Steve's Towing? I can do that, but it will have to wait until I get back to Colorado next Friday."
Woman: "That's fine, but it's Speed's Towing. You can just mail the POA when you get home."
Me: "Ok, good. So let me get the name again, and the address."
Woman: "Speed's Towing...."
Me: Ok, I got that, Steve's Towing...."
Woman: "No, Speed's Towing."
Me: "Alright, let me spell out what I'm hearing: S-t-e-v-e apostrophe 's'...."
Woman: No, two 'e's'...."
Me: "S-t-e-e-v-e 's?"
Woman: "It is S-p-e-e-d-s. There is no 'e' on the end."
Me: "Steed's Towing?" A horsepower-themed towing company did not seem like a stretch....
Woman: "No."
Me (sighing heavily and pausing): "Ok, can I get the address at least?"
We manage to agree on the street location, city, state, and zipcode.....
Me: "Ok, let me try spelling this out one more time: "S as in Sam, T as in Tom, e-e, d...."
Woman: "No, it is S, p as in Paul...."
Me: Oh, Speed's Towing, as in going fast!
Woman: "Yes!"

I cannot believe I did not remember the name from the logo on the side of the tow truck, but I was trying to keep all the paperwork organized, so I'll stick to that story of trying not to be distracted. Meanwhile, had the woman merely said something like "Speed's, like going fast, vroom-vroom!," we might have not exhausted all the minutes on my Tracfone.

I still pride myself on being able to track down katydids and crickets from their songs, but even a few years ago a fellow entomologist was pointing out the song of a certain katydid species....and I could hear nothing. The frequency of the song was too high. Last year I found another katydid with a flashlight, and observed his wings moving at high speed, but again I could barely make out a sound.

I have some tinnitus in my left ear in particular, and occasionally it loudly asserts itself, but overall I am more bothered by external noise than I am unable to perceive it. I am wishing right now I could tune out the noisy neighbor kids who insist on shouting and shrieking during their play right outside in our closely-arranged townhouse complex. Apparently the architecture amplifies sound. Lucky us.

Most of us men will not admit it, but more than half of our "hearing" problem, especially when it comes to our spouses, stems from the fact that we are not very good at listening. It is sad to realize that as I age I care less and less about what other people have to say, much of the time anyway. There really is a steady stream of dialogue that literally goes in one ear and out the other, or vanishes somewhere in a sea of neurons in the auditory lobe, never registering in our cerebral cortex. When we are halfway paying attention, then our translation of the sentence or monologue can get scrambled.

For example, on one occasion my wife was reciting to me the hour that our upcoming airline flight would be leaving. She said something to the effect of "Our departure time is eight-thirty AM...." My appropriate and respectful response? "What about The Partridge Family?" I now have a ringing sensation in the other ear, and I may need to see the dentist, too. Honey, I'm only kidding. Honey?

Diagnosis Social Media

© SocialMediaImpact.com

Yesterday, though I had not exercised much, I found myself with a sore hip at one point when I got out of my chair from in front of my desk. I seem to be a bit better today, but I was all ready to take to social media to determine whether it was something worth getting checked out. You know, because my friends, the majority of whom did not even attend medical school, would be so helpful in making an accurate assessment of my situation. Also, everybody else does that, so it must be an acceptable form of diagnosis.

Alas, it is probably not the best idea to run to Doctor Facebook or Nurse Twitter complaining about inexplicable ailments. God forbid you go onto Instagram ER. Thanks, dude, I can't un-see that now!

Ironically, or certainly responsibly, the Aussies have taken measures to address this, creating "A Nurse's Guide to Twitter" to insure best practices when confronted with situations like the one friend of mine on Facebook who posted that he had just been bitten by a copperhead, a dangerously venomous snake here in the U.S. The most helpful responses were on the order of "I hope you are posting this from the hospital." Really, what is the point in a situation like that when you know you are far better off to drop the phone and get yourself to medical treatment immediately? As venomous serpents go, a bite from a copperhead is rarely life-threatening, but you can still lose a digit or something if you procrastinate. It's called "complications."

If social media were a prescription drug, or even an over-the-counter remedy, its label would include the disclaimer "results may vary," in bold lettering. Maybe it depends on who your friends are. Those engaged in the same profession, hobby, or family situation may well be able to say been there, done that regarding whatever accident resulted in the injury to your body or ego, or that of your offspring if you are serving as proxy for a younger patient.

This is not to say that there are no tangible, ultimately concrete benefits to taking the social media ambulance. For starters, it beats self-medicating. You may find that one of your local friends can attest to what excellent care they have received from Dr. X, or how well the Fix-it Clinic over on Main Street treats their walk-in patients, honors (insert your insurance company's name here), and brings you coffee while you wait. Those are probably the best kinds of outcomes we can hope for when we complain about our aches and pains.

The other kind of social media post happens when you are already under care, about to undergo a surgical procedure, or facing rehabilitation and other recovery-related matters. This is when your community of social media "physicians" can do no harm. We are more than happy to pray for you, offer our sincerest get-well-soon wishes, and even come visit you if that is possible and you desire it.

The real bottom line in posting our physical and psychological woes is that we don't want treatment suggestions as much as we want empathy and sympathy. Feel-good messages are what we seek in the comments under our posts. Misery really does love company, and I think it is just human nature to act on those desires. Be careful what you wish for, though. TMI (Too Much Information) is frequently shared once you start a thread like that. Do you really want to know about Uncle Joe's infected bunion in detail?

One thing most of us should do more of is express gratitude for our current good health. I am as guilty as the next person for taking my vitality for granted, thanks to guaranteed meals, clean water and breathable air, shelter, education, a relatively stable financial situation thanks to my spouse, medical insurance coverage, proximity to hospitals, caring friends and family, and a lot of other tangibles that too many people on the planet, even here in the U.S., do not have. It really is our responsibility to look out for those less fortunate, and help them reach the standard of living that we already enjoy.

Well, I better get up and move around a bit, lest my hip stiffen up again. May you all enjoy excellent health today, and every day, and have a joyous, charitable holiday season.

"Hello, Seniors!" The Economics of Aging

© Joe Heller, Green Bay Press-Gazette

Exactly what is considered "old" varies according to whether a given industry thinks it can make money off of you, versus whether it feels obligated to pay you. AARP is lowering the "retirement age" to recruit new members, while the Social Security Administration would very much like to raise the retirement age somewhere past infinity.

I remember back in the day (now I am really dating myself) when you started getting discounts, free stuff and, mostly, respect, around age 55. Coincidentally, that is where I am at currently, and none of these promised benefits is anywhere in sight. Seriously, where are the rewards for putting up with the world for more than half a century? Endurance ought to count for something, and I grew up with the notion that you "respect your elders." Today, our older generations are caricatures and stereotypes of themselves, constantly reinforced by advertising.

"Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!" is the classic interpretation of aging now. If you are a male, I suppose it is more like "Help, I can't get it up!" The point is that our society is all too eager to celebrate the negative side of aging through products, while terribly reluctant to recognize the personal and at-large hardships that older persons have overcome. If there is not a profit to be made from you or your frailty, then you are ignored. Worse yet, every effort is made to avoid obligations made to you through your employment history and government programs.

The problems with social security, for example, began to intensify when politicians began referring to the program as an "entitlement," as if those individuals who stand to gain from it are acting like demanding little brats instead of the exhausted adults they are, indeed entitled to what they, and their employers, put into coffers as a reward for time served, and to allow the next generation gainful employment in a given industry, at a given company.

Greed has taken hold now, and there is a relentless effort to privatize social security such that once again a profit can be made off the backs of the labor force. This amounts to an employee working twice: once for their employer, doing actual labor, and second for Wall Street speculators to use retirement funds to rake in cash for those who are already wealthy beyond reason. Ironically, those who can most easily partake of the benefits of stocks, real estate, and related markets are those very CEOs and other high-ranking corporate types who employed the people they would then be exploiting through privatized social security.

Scams. Oh, the scams that are taking elderly people to the cleaners. Well, if you ask me, old folks have already seen it all, and the vast majority are skeptical of legitimate offers, let alone anything that sounds too good to be true. Not every person over seventy-five is on the verge of Alzheimer's, dementia, or some other mind-degrading illness.

What should trouble us more is the pervasive condition of neglect and physical distance between the elderly and their offspring. Our celebrated "mobile society" has stretched family ties to all corners of the country, even the globe. How can we care for those closest to us in blood relation if we are hundreds of miles or more apart? Here is where we could stand an education from Blacks (African Americans, or your preferred form of address) and Native Americans (Indigenous Peoples, or your preferred form of address). Those cultures are, traditionally, far healthier in many ways for having multiple generations under one roof, or at least next door or in the same neighborhood. Think of what our children are missing today in wisdom, love, compassion, and entertaining stories because grandma and grandpa live on the opposite coast.

There is thus nothing friendly about aging the way our profit-driven society now thinks and acts. We deprive you of proximity to your children and grandchildren as they go forth to prosper in the global marketplace. We divorce you from your savings, your ability to make your own decisions, and your dignity. You are nothing if not incontinent, impotent, or in need of personal locomotive devices, hearing aids, or new joints. Oh, and Medicare may or may not be there to help should you actually need one of the aforementioned products. After all, Medicare is just another "entitlement," you know.

My Colonoscopy

That deflating sound you hear is my disappointment over the anticlimactic experience with that medical procedure that signals the beginning of old age: the colonoscopy. Here I was anticipating something similar to the ordeals suffered by the likes of Billy Connolly, Jeff Foxworthy, and Bill Engvall. Alas, there were few fireworks, but still a little comedic material in my case.

My general practitioner referred me to the Pikes Peak Endoscopy Center, and I was surprised that they could accommodate me within the month I called them. A week prior to the procedure I picked up my "prep kit," as shown in the image above. You can't say they don't have a sense of humor, however warped.

Everyone you consult prior to your colonoscopy will tell you the procedure itself is a piece of cake, but the preparation beforehand is a nightmare. In fact, the day before, you can't have cake. You can't have anything solid. The day before that you are supposed to be on a low-fiber diet. One bonus was the discovery that Ritz crackers have no fiber! It was a good excuse to go all meat and white bread, but if you like a more varied menu it was pretty boring.

The day before is the worst, though. You have to take an inordinate amount of laxatives, in a pretty short period of time. I expected this would amount to a liquid hand grenade detonating at my anus. Not so. There were maybe one or two projectiles ejected with minor force. No volcanic elimination described by our comedian friends.

Perhaps the whole "prep" thing has evolved and improved dramatically since the 1990s. Maybe I followed the dietary restrictions better than the average Joe. Whatever. The remaining laxative effects consisted of me being unable to tell if I was peeing or pooping.

So, I get to the clinic the day of the procedure. I was treated very nicely, I must say. The nurse took me into the room, told me to undress and put my gown on so it opened in the front. I told her she'd have to tip me for that show. She laughed and corrected herself, then asked if I might like a blanket. I said that would be nice, especially if my gown was open in the front.

The anesthesiologist wheeled me, in my bed, into the operating room where the doctor and another nurse were waiting. After introducing himself, the doctor dutifully re-iterated the risks of the procedure. I think I'd prefer that they leave me in ignorant bliss. Then the anesthesiologist said "Ok, this (anesthesia) works very quickly, and you will notice a metallic taste." (He shoots the drug into the IV). Me: "E-e-e-e-w, you're right, that does taste awf...."

That was the last thing I remember until I woke up in recovery. This may be why so many alien-abduction victims are over fifty. A nurse came in and offered a selection of snack items and beverages. The "Bottoms UP Cafe" provides a variety of gourmet blends, from "Lights Out Latte" to "Wake Me Up Before You Go 'Joe'." I chose a "Moon Me Mocha."

What was the result, you ask? Well, they did find and remove a small polyp that turned out to be benign but potentially cancerous. So, I'm cleared for now, but need to report back again in five years (instead of the ten year reprieve you get if no polyps are found).

I want to thank my doctor for being polite but insistent that I get this procedure done, and my friend Philip Kline for also being insistent. Lastly, I'd like to thank my wife for carrying me on her insurance from her workplace. Kaiser Permanente paid for the whole thing, which is as much of a relief as having the actual colonoscopy....dare I say....behind me.

The End (of the puns, too)

Hanging up the Phone

It dawned on me the other day that I do not like talking on the telephone anymore. The reasons for this are many, from technological "advances" to deteriorating hearing (mine and others), and the exploitation of the telephone for marketing purposes.

Our household land line (yes, we still have one!) receives very few phone calls directed specifically to us from friends, business associates and clients, and family. The overwhelming majority of calls are from charities telling us "We will have a truck in your area on (insert date here) if you have items to donate," political surveys, and, worst of all, pre-recorded messages also of a political or financial nature. Our favorite recurring recording begins "Fellow seniors...." Since I have been on the other end of phone surveys, I often comply with those requests if they are polite and I can understand the person asking the questions.

I do have a cell phone, and, as my wife will tell you, I loathe it. Were it not for the situation of being stranded at airports on a routine basis, I would dispense with a mobile phone altogether. I certainly don't feel the need to be "connected" at all times with the internet, or even friends or family.

I have a flip phone now because I kept accidentally dialing people with a newer phone; and I dropped the newer phone once and after that it would randomly display a useless, pure white screen preventing me from dialing out, reading text messages, etc. Oh, and even my flip phone has buttons on the side that do God-knows-what, that I inadvertently press simply by putting the phone in my pocket. My wife claims to call me, but I don't hear or feel the blame thing ring half the time.

I do call my mother every Sunday night, but I must admit that I don't always look forward to it, if only because I have to repeat everything I say at least once. Hearing loss is a part of aging, obviously, but it really becomes tiresome and frustrating trying to correct my mother's interpretation of the name of the place we spent the weekend, or whatever. But, mom does not have the internet, so I can't e-mail. She doesn't have a cell, so I can't text (and I am about the world's slowest texter anyway).

I am truly surprised, and perhaps a little disappointed, to admit that I would rather communicate by e-mail, or even Facebook messaging, instead of by phone or written correspondence. Don't get me wrong, though, I would still choose a face-to-face conversation over any of the above. I suppose that when fewer and fewer e-mails come from friends and colleagues, and politically-motivated e-mails start dominating my in-box, I may go back to the telephone and letter carrier, or cease to communicate altogether. I'm sure some people would be overjoyed by my silence.

Let's Draft Congress

Image © CNN.com

I think it was during the last presidential election, with concurrent elections of senators and representatives, that I suggested to my wife that we should draft congressmen and elect people to go fight in wars. At the time I was joking, but the idea is growing on me with every 60 Minutes story of congressional abuse of power. If we truly want a government of the people, by the people, and for the people, then we the people need to step up and into positions of leadership.

The overwhelming problem, it occurs to me, is the co-opting of our congress by corporate interests that have only the interests of profit and shareholders at heart. That status quo is more than endorsed by both the Democratic and Republican parties. We need senators and representatives more connected to the average person.

We have had outstanding public servants in the past, but many of them have resigned in disgust over the current in-fighting between political parties and their various factions. There is little evidence this will change without a complete overhaul in how we go about choosing members of congress.

I propose that from local school boards on up to the federal level, we consider drafting people into those positions. At least draft two or three candidates for each position. Law enforcement officials, mayors, governors, and the President of the United States would be elected in pretty much the same manner as they are now, with appointments to Cabinet positions at their discretion. The benefits of drafting others to serve would be many-fold:

1. No campaign costs. There would be a huge savings in campaign costs, and no need to campaign for re-election during the term you are serving. The media would be forced to do its job of researching a “candidate,” and learn that person’s values, employment history, and educational background. I should state that any person drafted would have the right to refuse service, much like jury duty.
2. Redistricting would be rendered obsolete. Both political parties frequently attempt to secure domination in congressional districts through redistricting, changing the boundaries of the congressional district to include neighborhoods heavily weighted in favor of their party. This practice would be rendered moot if we draft candidates randomly.
3. More diversity in political views. We are much more likely to get independent voices into public office by drafting people than by electing people because the current two-party system dominates through the financial backing of wealthy individuals and corporations (even certain non-profits). People who ally themselves with the Green Party, Libertarian Party, or some other affiliation, if any at all, would finally have an equal chance at getting into office. Yes, that would be a blessing or a curse, depending on one’s current affiliation.
4. The infrastructure is in place. We already have the infrastructure to make this work. We also have the flexibility to create a hierarchy in the selection process. Perhaps we would start with those registered for unemployment compensation. Certainly the unemployed would have far more empathy for the middle-class than our current “leaders.” We definitely want to limit the pool to those who are registered to vote and who have demonstrated active participation in our current political process through a consistent voting record.
5. More consensus in decision-making. I honestly believe that a body of average citizens is better at reaching a consensus on a given issue than are the elitist people currently in office (at least at the federal level). Again, I make the comparison to a jury. Sure, there are “hung” juries, but they make a more honest attempt at reaching agreement, and there are no corporate-driven agendas to fuel the fighting. The goal is justice, pure and simple. The current goal of congress is to provide security and profit to corporate interests.
6. A more literate and informed electorate. Simply the fear of being drafted to a public office and appearing incompetent may be enough to drive the average Joe into learning more about our form of government and the responsibilities it has to the citizens. Once put into play, a draft system would also demand that citizens keep up to speed on things to insure accountability of their servants in office.

This idea of a political draft is certainly not flawless, but if it even generates a discussion on how we can refine our current system and put power back in the hands of the public, I’ve accomplished my mission. Our country and its citizens are too important to allow the continued gridlock and excesses that we see in today’s government.

We cannot continue on our present course of keeping the status quo. We know the hazards of natural resource extraction, for example. Clean energy cannot wait. We know there is “equal opportunity” in rhetoric only. We know we need to set a much better example for the world, while understanding there is no shame in borrowing ideas from the states, or even other nations. We should be fearless, but not reckless, in innovation, and fund basic research to make that innovation happen.

If public service is no longer something anyone aspires to, then it is time to turn the system on its head so that it at least has a chance at commanding the respect it once did. History can repeat itself in good ways as well as bad ways.

The Tragedy of AOD

A horrible problem in the world has reached epidemic proportions without anyone seeming to notice. It is insidious, and accounts for a declining intellect, social stratification, and rampant misunderstanding. We are all guilty of spreading this contagion of the digital age, and the sooner we find an antidote the better. I am speaking, of course, of AOD, better known as Acronym Overload Disorder.

The final straw for me came on Sunday, September 23, when a good friend listed her morning bird sightings in such truncated abbreviation that I had no clue what she was talking about. That is because I am a “fringe birder,” one who sees birds as a lovely complement to the more important insects. I would never be so rude as to assume that anyone would know what I meant if I said “There goes a TTS (Two-tailed Swallowtail)!”

This demonstrates the social stratification element of acronyms. We want to be the ones “in the know,” members of the exclusive club that can refer to things in shorthand with the confidence that other members of the club will recognize what we mean (wink). It is a way to create cliques. We all know how beneficial cliques are.

I realized how tragically hip I myself had become when another good friend mistook the “LOL” in my e-mails for “Lots of Love” rather than “Laughing Out Loud.” Indeed, we can trace our dependence on acronyms to the phenomenon of texting. From there it has spread to Twitter, Facebook, and e-mails. Maybe its origins go back farther than that, though.

When did we first start referring to Burger King as “BK,” Kentucky Fried Chicken as “KFC?” I confess that I don’t use “BK” when talking about the restaurant because it always reminds me of the “BTK” serial killer (Bind, Torture, Kill). Burger King should have thought of that, actually. We call Weapons of Mass Destruction “WMDs,” as if that somehow softens the thought of bombs detonating and killing innocent people.

There is also something of a generation gap created by the fast-evolving shorthand of texts, compounded by auto correct features of “smart phones.” Parents are often mystified by the messages sent by their children. That is the point, of course. What teenager wants to be sending a “sext” with a PLOS (parent looking over shoulder)?

Words have always been powerful, but the new shorthand is perhaps even moreso by literally excluding so many from the conversation, or the public discourse. I remember news broadcasts in my youth that referred to a hot topic of the day: euthanasia. I wondered what all the fuss was about regarding children in China. Today, I don’t even have a reference book that I can refer to for acronyms because they are created almost daily.

Obviously, this trend toward truncated language is a symptom itself of a society that puts a premium on speed, hurtling ever faster into tomorrow. That may be the biggest tragedy of all. We need to take time to slow down, observe where we are personally and as a species. We don’t need everything, right here, right now. We certainly don’t need to know every little detail of your day, Twitterholics. We’re losing sight of what things are truly important as everything becomes trivialized through social media.

RU RFLYAO yet? Oh, sorry, that’s “Are you rolling on the floor laughing your ass off, yet? I rather hope not. Remember, this addiction to abbreviations is an illness. That is why I am contemplating founding a non-profit aimed at curing our society of AOD. You can begin sending money now, if you like. I will happily see to it that funds are dispensed in the most effective manner possible, ASAP.

Weird Bird News

How convenient for my blogs that this week in “News of the Weird,” by columnist Chuck Shepherd, there should be a story about ”bugs” and a story about birds. The headline “Slut Birds” was enough to start me laughing before I read another word:

”A team of researchers led by a University of Connecticut professor, writing recently in the ornithology journal The Auk, declared the local saltmarsh sparrow to be America’s most promiscuous bird, in that 95 percent of the females hook up with more than one male during a mating season. The likelihood that any two chicks in a nest had the same father was only 23 percent, and in one-third of the nests, all chicks had different fathers. The researchers hypothesized that the frequent flooding of Connecticut’s marshes destroys so many nests that non-choosy females have gained an evolutionary advantage. (A wren in Australia and a parrot in Madagascar are said to be comparably promiscuous.)

Hm-m-m, I wonder what excuses the slut wren and parrot were using, since "flooded nests” is already taken.

Actually, I don’t know if thatstory is as weird as the one I saw tonight on 60 Minutes that included a story on Arlan Galbraith, former president of Pigeon King, International. Galbraith touted the future of pigeon farming, claiming that pigeons would replace chickens in our collective poultry diet. He was persuasive enough to get plenty of investors and farmers on board in Canada and the United States, before “fear mongers” brought PKI to bankruptcy in June, 2008. Those “fear mongers” were people like David J. Thornton of CrimeBustersNow who saw through the charade and revealed PKI for the Ponzi scheme it truly was.

It never ceases to amaze me how gullible people can be or, on the other hand, how incredibly convincing con artists can be. Maybe folks should have gotten a clue from the PKI headquarters being in Waterloo (Ontario), or that Galbraith was targeting the Amish in particular. Well, until my credit union is exposed as a con game, that is where all my “investments” will be.

The Animals We Are

After the Kaufman Field Guide to Mammals of North America was published, it occurred to me that every mammal field guide I am aware of makes one glaring omission: it fails to include our own species, Homo sapiens. This may seem irrelevant, but stay with me a moment and see if I don’t make some thoughtful arguments.

I talked to Kenn Kaufman briefly about this, and his opinion is that people already recognize their own species, so there is no need for a redundant identification entry in a field guide. Fair enough, and the idea does seem ludicrous when one thinks of it that way. I know that I personally have never mistaken a human being for any other kind of animal, even sports team mascots in costume.

My point is something else entirely. We collectively do not consider ourselves part of the animal kingdom, and that is a huge mistake. It is why we ignore climate change, are slow to address pollution issues, and why we are so insensitive at times to other species. Ironically, those very same anthropocentric and self-centered attitudes we have confirm our animal nature.

Every species acts to maximize its own reproductive potential and minimize its mortality factors. Every species wants to eliminate other species competing for ‘its’ resources, and is vulnerable to habitat destruction. Sound familiar?

Ok, fine, you say, but how exactly could you even illustrate a field guide entry for Homo sapiens without having to slap a “Parental Advisory” sticker on the cover, or face lawsuits over racism. Simple. You render each gender as a silhouette, and maybe include faces of different ethnicities as well. I think it would be a good idea to help remind ourselves how diverse our own human family really is anyway.

The distribution map would, obviously, cover most of the planet. Illustrating habitat might be more difficult. We vary from highly urban to remote wilderness, and colonial to tribal to isolationist.

The bottom line is that we need to celebrate our “animalness” as much as we do our separateness from nature. Maybe even more so in this day and age of sustainability and professed environmental awareness. What better way to nudge us in that direction than to have our own entry in a field guide, right next to squirrels, bats, wolves, whales and dolphins?

To be an “animal” should cease to be an insult, too. What else would you want to be? A fungus? I don’t know, maybe I am way out of line. Given the conservative political climate, I’m surprised there has not been a movement to change our scientific name to Hetero sapiens.

Giving Blood

I gave blood yesterday at the local Red Cross. I try to make a habit of it, but still find it an irregular exercise in samaritanship. Not enough folks donate, though, and my blood type is highly coveted, so I do what I can. Maybe people don’t know what to expect when donating, and so they are fearful? Allow me to share my own history of experiences and allay any trepidation.

Like most guys, I like to think of myself as fairly tough and at least somewhat pain-tolerant. Fear of fainting or otherwise appearing weak and fragile kept me from donating until I was in my thirties. I was on a temporary job assignment when a couple women co-workers asked if I’d like to go with them to donate blood. I decided I might as well give it a try. They told me that as long as you eat a good healthy meal beforehand, you are not likely to even become light-headed. True enough.

I don’t have a fear of needles, but you do get put through the ringer before you even get to that point. Every time you donate you face a battery of tests including blood pressure, body temperature and, ironically, a prick to your finger to get blood for testing your level of iron. Too low in iron and you can’t donate. The most daunting of all, though, is the litany of questions you must answer.

I suspect that one reason women might not donate is because you have to admit you are over 110 pounds, the minimum weight for female donors. Men face even more ego-deflating questions after “Do you feel well today?” I sometimes find myself reduced to tears when I answer “no” to questions involving my international travel history (non-existent) and, worst of all, my sex life (or lack thereof). I don’t participate in risky behavior with drug addicts, prostitutes, or other men, here at home or abroad; and I don’t sport any tattoos or body piercings (with no plans to be incarcerated, either). How boring am I?

Once it is determined that you really are a mouse and not a man, you are ushered to the room where they do the actual blood-letting, er, taking. You get to recline in a comfy chair, and then recite your name, address, and social security number for the umpteenth time. A technician swabs your arm with iodine (provided you assured the staff you are not allergic to that substance), and an effort is then made to find a vein in the crook of your elbow. That reminds me to do more arm curls at the gym….

Eventually you are encouraged to “look away,” if you need to, so as not to see the medical equivalent of a sewer pipe headed your way. I’m kidding, of course, it really isn’t that bad (or that big). I feel more pain from the stupid finger prick for the iron test. After the insertion of the needle there is little left to do besides gently roll a toy ball in your hand to keep the juices flowing.

When you have passed a pint, the little machine beeps, alerting the technician to disengage you, but not before about three additional vials of blood are taken for testing. Even though you were honest in how you answered the ream of questions, no chances are taken when it comes to blood-borne diseases, and so the vials will be used to test for those.

Finally, you are bandaged and given post-donation instructions that include no rigorous exercise for the next 24 hours, and more than your usual intake of non-alcoholic, non-caffeinated beverages (read “water”). Then you are sent to the canteen for recovery and refreshments. Yesterday I donated “2RBC” or “double reds,” and responded accordingly at the canteen, downing two juices and eating two snacks.

One other thing used to bother me about donating blood: You don’t get to choose who it goes to. Yes, you can help save a life, and it might be a baby, or a cancer patient. It could also just as easily be a drunk driver who wrapped his car around a utility pole, or a gang-banger who got himself shot. Maybe your blood will go to that guy from the Jackass show. You just don’t know. Notice that it doesn’t stop me from donating just the same.

Late-breaking

This just in: A raccoon’s butt was sighted this morning in a tree outside Holdsworth Hall on the campus of the University of Massachusetts in Amherst. Authorities declined to arrest the animal for indecent exposure. Passing humans were alerted to the dozing raccoon by a pair of crows that were squawking madly.

Said spectator Eric Eaton “I was hoping it was a hawk or an owl or something exciting like that. Bummer.” Get it? Bum-mer?

Napping away is apparently no day at the beech (or maple, or oak, or whatever kind of tree it was in) for raccoons, and after being so rudely greeted by big black corvids, is it any wonder it was mooning human onlookers?

By the end of the human workday, the raccoon was waking up, grooming itself, and finally showing its face. No word yet on what the animal had for dinner. Stay tuned for further developments.

The Dust Bunny National Wildlife Refuge

I am not a messy housekeeper. Instead, I am promoting biodiversity. Hey, where will all those molds and mildews go when disinfectants have scoured everywhere else? Why not spare the dust mites the vacuum, at least for awhile? We are helpless to exclude nature completely from our lives anyway, so acceptance may be in our best mental and philosophical interest.

Obsessive-compulsive personalities need no help in exaggerating the threat of “germs” and other health hazards, real or imagined, but the rest of us need substantial coaxing. The commercial media are only too happy to oblige, bombarding us with advertisements for all manner of caustic chemicals, air filters, and disposable cleaning gadgets. Since by themselves microbes are relatively innocuous, they must be digitally morphed into something more menacing, anthropomorphosized into growling, English-speaking monsters that make overt threats to life and limb. It would be comical were it not so crass.

Perhaps I am blessed with a good immune system, but I have decided that the threat from bacteria in the bath and kitchen is grossly overrated. As an entomologist, I have known for a long time that cockroaches are, at least at normal population levels, little more than a cosmetic nuisance, a reminder that you are leaving too many crumbs about, and not doing the dishes frequently enough. I approach fast food restaurants with far more trepidation than I do my own crusty basin and range. At my present apartment in Tucson, Arizona, a Mediterranean house gecko once happily devoured the German cockroaches. How cool is that, having a food chain on the premises that does not involve you and the refrigerator?

Mind you, I am not one to live in total filth. When the opportunity to entertain others presents itself, I do make an effort to cull the herds of dust bunnies that normally roam freely. As stewards of real estate indoors and out, we do have an obligation to “wildlife management.”

It is not a stretch to consider a dust bunny a living creature. They seem to reproduce quickly, lending a serious argument to the theory of “spontaneous generation.” They even come with their own parasites, as it were: dust mites. There are at least two types. One feeds primarily on the tiny flakes of dead skin cells that we humans (and our pets, also) shed constantly. The other dust mite preys on the former dust mite.

My bathroom tends to breed its own flora and fauna. Molds and mildews are rather problematic, even in an ostensibly dry climate like Tucson’s. Still more astounding, I have found that tiny creatures called springtails regularly appear in my shower. These are certifiably moisture-loving organisms. I would not have thought that even daily showers would create such a hospitable habitat for something so dependent on water. Oddly, I rarely see moth flies, those ubiquitous little flying furballs usually seen perched on the side of the bathroom sink, or a wall. Their larvae develop in the residue of the drain trap, and probably do a better job of preventing clogs than any dose of Draino. Now and then I see root gnats, little black flies that inevitably commit suicide by diving into the soapdish.

The kitchen must be domestic ecosystem central. After all, it is where the food is prepared. I am constantly astonished by the ability of mold to overtake refrigerated bread, invade the last dregs of the sour cream and salsa, and almost instantaneously rot a tomato. I love bananas, but must share them with the pomace flies (“fruit flies” to most folks, but a different creature entirely) that hover around the bunch. Knowing that these flies have contributed greatly to our fundamental understanding of genetics makes it easier to tolerate their appearance at breakfast.

As my rent goes up annually, and my wages stagnate, it occurs to me that it may be time to seek public assistance. Considering the menagerie of organisms I sustain and manage, it seems that compensation is due. Perhaps it is time to apply for federal recognition of my apartment as a wildlife refuge. Depending on your definition of “dependent,” I could probably take a tax write-off already.

I am convinced that if more people felt honored to host a diversity of living things in their own homes, sheds, yards, gardens and garages, then there would be a collectively different attitude towards biodiversity in general, one that embraced all manner of creatures. A true reverence for life does not exclude things that are ugly, or mischievous, or that are simply products of our own fears and biases. Removing the stigma of an untidy abode, a weedy lawn, or a yard planted with mundane but native flora would go a long way to improving the health of the Earth as a whole.