Science Ruins Science Fiction Again

Last month, Russian researchers struck frozen science gold--an ancient lake, buried deep under the Antarctic ice sheet. Given that Lake Vostok had been isolated for probably millions of years, the Russians were under a lot of pressure (just like the lake! because it's under a really heavy ice sheet, get it?) to protect this unspoilt environment from contamination.

But what about the possibility of contaminating ourselves with stuff from the lake? As my brother pointed out,

While this is undoubtedly an exciting moment for science, all I can think of is a science fiction story in which a bacterium discovered in a place like this causes a worldwide pandemic.

To which I replied: okay, fun concept, but totally unrealistic. Then we got to talking about parasitism and co-evolution and . . . well, let's start at the beginning.

As soon as you move into another organism, you're a symbiont. Symbionts can be beneficial or harmful; the harmful kind are called parasites. So, bacteria that live in people and make them sick are technically a kind of parasite--though people often say "parasites and bacteria" the way they used to say "animals and fish." (Yes, fish are technically and in all other ways animals.)

Now, all symbiotic relationships are products of co-evolution. The parasite evolves to survive inside the host, while the host evolves to reduce the harm done by the parasite. (There are a lot of strategies for that, by the way--from making initial infection more difficult to quarantining, expelling or killing the parasite). As the host environment becomes more hostile, the parasite evolves clever coping mechanisms, and so on.

Because of the specificity of most parasite-host relationships, it's highly improbable that a parasite could survive for millions of years without its host*. And if it did survive, it would probably do so by evolving  into such a different form that it couldn't re-infect its old host.

That's why I'm pretty confident there aren't any nasty little parasitic bacteria in Lake Vostok, waiting to pounce on us.

Okay (said my brother) but why couldn't a non-parasitic Vostokian bacterium initiate a pandemic as soon as it was exposed to people? Every relationship has to start somewhere, right?

Sure, a free-living bacterium that had never encountered humans before could theoretically find its way into an unsuspecting scientist (poor Dr. Lukin!), survive long enough to reproduce, and start a new symbiotic relationship. But the environments of Lake Vostok and the human body are radically different. A bacterium (or any other critter) is much more likely to move inside an organism if that organism's internal decor is similar to the environment it's already adapted to. The 98 °C of the human body would almost certainly kill bacteria adapted to the -3 °C of Lake Vostok.

~Tangential Musing On Evolutionary Timescales~

Even if a brand new bacterium entered a human and survived, we'd probably never know about it. As a general rule, it takes a long time for symbioses to evolve, and it's very hard to study them when they're just getting started.

Imagine a cafe full of college freshman--there's probably a lot of flirting, but none of it may ever turn into a relationship. Tracking all the potential interactions, most of which will be dead ends, would be a huge challenge. Now consider that plenty of pairs of college freshman are likely to hit it off with each other, but most biological interactions that could become symbioses are nipped in the bud when one organism kills the other.

How long would it take to evolve the sort of traits that make for a proper pandemic? I don't know, but I wonder if anyone's done any theoretical modeling of this . . .

~End Tangent~

All the really scary epidemics in human history have come about through jumps between similar environments.

Human to human is the most obvious--Europeans bringing syphilis to the New World, for example. We often use the term "first contact" to refer to the meeting of colonizers with natives, which is a bit misleading, since we also use that term in science fiction to refer to the meeting of humans and aliens. The former is fraught with peril of disease; the latter, not so much.

Humans around the globe belong to the same species and are similar enough to fall prey to the same parasites. But in most speculative cases, humans and aliens belong not only to different species, but to entirely different evolutionary histories, perhaps going back to the origins of life itself. The idea of a parasite, carefully co-evolved with its host, being able to jump across such a gap as that--well, it strains my imaginer.

But what about zoonoses? Aren't those examples of parasites jumping suddenly from one host species to another? Well, yes and no. Many parasites have co-evolved with both human and animal hosts, and require both to survive. Malaria is carried by mosquitoes, but can't complete its life cycle without humans. Other zoonotic parasites, like Toxoplasma, are stuck in an evolutionary dead end if they accidentally infect a human--they can survive but not reproduce.

The zoonoses that truly "jump" from species to species, successfully infecting and propagating through their new host, always move between similar environments. Ebola can only infect primates. Even versatile diseases like West Nile virus are restricted to vertebrates--a tiny fraction of the world's animal diversity. There's no way you're going to "catch" colony collapse disorder from a bee, or bitter crab disease from a crab.

So, let me sum up.

Likely sources of pandemics: "first contact" between groups of humans that have been isolated from each other; places where humans and other vertebrates live in close, unsanitary quarters.

Unlikely sources of pandemics: Lake Vostok, Mars.



* Modern humans (Homo sapiens) weren't even around when Lake Vostok was last connected to the rest of the world, but there were definitely early hominids.

Hourlies 2012

I forgot about it on the proper day (which also happens to be my father's birthday--Happy Birthday Dad!) and was reminded when I saw John Allison's comics. So I did it yesterday. If you want to read last year's hourlies first, go ahead, but you won't exactly miss the plot if you don't.

Another Year, Another Novel

This November was my second National Novel Writing Month, and I won again! --For the value of "winning" which is "writing fifty thousand words in thirty days." Unlike last year, however, I did not finish the story, which will probably end up in the vicinity of 80,000 words.

Also unlike last year, I had to flay myself through the last few thousand words. I felt like a wiggling kid trying to make it until the bell rings. I would force myself to write a few lines, then check my word count, then drag out another paragraph and check it again. Until finally:

Why did I have to pull words out like teeth? I wasn't tired of the plot, or the characters, or the world. On the contrary, I'm in love with them.

It's the story of four children--a Scale from the sea, a Skin from the desert, a Fur from the forest, and a Feather from the mountains--on a quest to reconcile their estranged parents, the Sky Mother and the Earth Father. While they're at it, they might be able to end slavery, defeat the pirates, and overthrow a despotic emperor--if only they can stop quarreling for five minutes.

I've been doodling these characters since high school, and I still have sketches where they're peeking out from between Modern European History vocab words. I haven't gotten tired of them in over ten years, and I didn't get tired of them in the last month. I think the problem, instead, was the worry that I hadn't done enough planning.

The more I wrote, the more I worried. I'd be in the middle of a scene, and suddenly I'd be paralyzed by the realization that I hadn't decided how Scales built their boats. Or I hadn't made consistent rules in my head for naming characters. Or I needed to put a rebel Skin camp somewhere that contradicted an earlier decision about desert geography. What to DO?

If I hadn't been in the middle of NaNoWriMo, I'd probably have stopped writing the novel and gone back to sketching maps and filling out spreadsheets. But it was November, and I had to bang out the words. And, as awful as a lot of that writing is, I'm glad that I wrote it.

Now I have fifty thousand words to rewrite, to motivate plot-knitting and world-spinning and character-sculpting. The majority of it will never be shown to anyone--be grateful!--but here's a tolerable excerpt:

 "Will you tell me a story?" Kishaio asked.

Arin snorted, scattering leaves. "Do I look like a nursemaid?"

He was hoping she would be offended, roll over and ignore him. But she looked at him steadily, and said, "It's just a story. Travelers tell each other stories, don't they?"

"Not me," he snapped.

"All right," she said, sitting up. "Do you mind if I tell one?"

He sighed. Being left alone was not an option, apparently.

Taking the Feather boy's silence for consent, Kishaio began.

*

The Earth fell in love with the Sky, and to attract her attention, he grew plants and animals, decking himself out in splendid colors, until at last she agreed to wed him. He inseminated her with the stars, and from her womb the moon were born four children. They lived with her until they grew out of childhood, and then she sent them to visit their father.

But as the children fell to earth, they were distracted by all the sights, and they decided to spend some time exploring before looking for their father. Desirous of independence and greatness, the eldest laid claim to the first land they touched--the high, majestic mountain ranges, the winds and the stones and the kingly views. "These peaks are mine," he told his siblings. "Go on, and find lands to call your own." And he spoke to a great eagle, and followed her to her eyrie, and made himself a nest.

So the remaining three walked down from the mountains, and they found themselves in thick green forests, full of cool shadows and the smell of fresh earth. The next eldest of them said, "I will take these woods for my own. Keep walking, children!" And there she met with a tall, dark stag, and ran with him through the trees, and bedded herself down in the grass.

The two youngest walked and walked, and they found many miles of forest, and many mountain ranges, but these lands were closed to them, for the winds whispered allegiance to their elder brother, and the trees owed obedience to their elder sister.

At last they came down into wide, empty lands where the sun beat fiercely down (as though their mother cried: Remember! Remember to look for your father! but they had already forgotten) and the rocks were starkly colorful, surrounded by swirling sands. The elder of the two smiled. "I like this land, little sister," he said, and when a glittering snake-queen drew her patterns in the sand, he began to follow her.

"But what place is left for me?" cried the one remaining. Her brother paused, and flicked his tongue at her kindly.

"Run over my sands, little one, and keep running. I feel that you will find the vastest kingdom of us all."

So she ran over the sands, far from the forests and the mountains, until the sand gave way to splashing water. This was not the cold alpine lakes of her eldest brother, nor yet the rustling streams of her sister. This water was wide and deep and salty, studded with specks of land like tiny jewels, and when the youngest child plunged into it, she found a paradise of fantastic creatures. The largest fish in the sea, himself like a small island, bowed to her, and offered his milt for her eggs.

And so the four Peoples of the earth were formed.

*

When Kishaio finished the tale, she lay back down and smiled at Arin.

"You're not a bad storyteller," he said grudgingly. "But it's a ridiculous account of creation. Did you make it up yourself?"

Kishaio looked surprised, and shook her head. "That's how we all tell it, in the Sea."

"It doesn't make any sense! How could they have forgotten their father when they were standing right on him?" He thumped one hand on the ground. "The children didn't have to look for the Earth Father--he welcomed them onto himself.

"He divided his country among them, giving the mountains to the eldest, the forests to the next, the sands to the third, and the sea to the youngest. The Earth was happy to have his children with him at last, and he gave them food and water, and materials to build homes with. So they were grateful to their father, and forgot their mother, far away above them.

"The Sky Mother wept with joy to see her children grown, and sorrow to have lost their love, but her tears only sank into the ground and watered their crops. She beat her sun down upon them, begging them to look up, but they only saw how the light helped their food to grow. Finally the Sky made a voice, as best she could, a wind that blew down across the land and called to her children to remember her.

"But the children's father had grown jealous, and wanted to keep them all to himself. So he took with wind of the Sky Mother's love and used it to whip up fierce waves in the sea, so the Scales grew afraid, and tied up their ships and huddled in their houses. The wind stirred up dust storms in the sand, so the Skins had to lock their doors and shut their windows and cover their faces with cloth until the dust passed. It tore down trees and branches, so the Furs ran in fear and took what shelter they could. Of the four Peoples, these three were all too afraid of what their father had done with the wind to hear their mother calling them home.

"Only the Feathers heard their mother's voice in the wind, and they spread their wings and took to the air to fly home to her. But their father pulled on them with all his strength, and they could not break free, so they soared restlessly, caught between Earth and Sky, ever longing to return to their mother but unable to do so.

"And thus do the four Peoples remain entrapped by their father's will."

Satisfied that the record had been set straight, Arin looked over at Kishaio, and saw that she had fallen asleep, her head pillowed on her folded hands, her breathing soft and even.

"You slippery little Scale," he said after a minute. "You just tricked me into telling you a story."

Can Jellyfish Do Math?

I suspect we'd all agree that jellyfish as we know them on Earth cannot do mathematics. But don't go away, because what I actually meant to talk about are jellyfish-like aliens that may exist on a distant planet. That's cool, right?

Yesterday I went to a talk at SETI. Yes, the Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence is still on, and they have free public lectures on Wednesdays, with complimentary Nutella sandwiches. True! And delicious! This week's lecturer, John Stillwell, talked about ET Math.

Really.

The idea that math is some kind of universal language we could use to communicate with sentient life elsewhere in the universe has percolated out of nerd-dom into popular culture--and who knows? It could be true. But, says Stillwell, it may not be a trivial task to recognize alien mathematics. He illustrated this point with a couple of examples of curious, non-intuitive, roundabout bits of mathematics developed by our fellow humans right here on Earth.

ANCIENT GREEKS AND THE FOURTH DIMENSION

Start with an elementary principle of arithmetic: that multiplying numbers together doesn't depend on the order in which you multiply them. To wit:

2 x 3 = 6
3 x 2 = 6

This rule can be generalized by considering any numbers a and b. Using the algebraic tradition of snuggling two numbers close together to indicate multiplication, we get the commutative law of multiplication:

ab = ba

It may seem preposterous to even try to prove this basic rule. After all, it's obviously true.

But it actually matters how you prove it to be true. Euclid in ancient Greece thought of a and b as the two sides of a rectangle, and the product ab to be the area of the rectangle. Obviously, it doesn't matter which number is which side of the rectangle--the area will still be the same.

You can multiply three numbers together by moving into three dimensions. With three sides, the product is the volume of the cube.

But it stops there. Humans live in three dimensions and have a very hard time visualizing anything more than that, so the ancient Greeks simply did not believe you could multiply more than three numbers together.

That's what Stillwell said, anyway, and he wrote a book about the history of math so I guess I'll take it.

Over the centuries since Euclid, humans have come up with at least two additional ways to prove that ab = ba, without needing rectangles or cubes. Both alternative techniques are extremely weird, and, although I was able to grasp the basics while Stillwell was talking (he's a good lecturer!), I've decided not to try to explain them here. Instead, I'm only going to babble about their relevance to aliens. And jellyfish.

ALIEN PROOF #1: PROOF BY INDUCTION

Humans are highly visual creatures, and we're really good at visualizing things in our heads even if we don't see them with our eyes. But there's no reason aliens would be like that. What if aliens found our ideas about rectangle math just awfully difficult to comprehend?

Well, there's an utterly non-visual way those aliens might still be able to prove that ab = ba.

It starts with a German high school teacher named Hermann Grassmann who moonlighted as a Sanskrit scholar--he translated the Bhagavad Gita, among other things. He came up with a method of thinking about arithmetic that required no visualization at all. It was later rediscovered by this guy Peano (pronounced like the instrument!) and named for him, so poor Grassmann got short shrift.

I don't think his high school students really appreciated him, either. Peano (Grassmann) arithmetic is rigorous, brilliant, and totally non-intuitive. You can use it to prove that ab = ab, but first you have to redefine addition and multiplication in terms of successor functions. At that point, I suspect most fourteen-year-olds would throw up their hands in despair. And probably most jellyfish, too. So let's try something else.

ALIEN PROOF #2: PROOF BY PROJECTIVE GEOMETRY

Stillwell argues that one of the reasons our human concept of geometry is rigid is that we have rigid bones in our bodies. A squishy, soft-bodied creature might not think in such angular terms as rectangles and cubes.

But any creature that knows about light will be able--indeed, forced--to think in straight lines. Light travels in straight lines, which is the whole basis of perspective, including our remarkable ability to look at a square tile at the far edge of a floor, where it's all squashed and thin, and still see it as a square.

The trick to perspective is that parallel lines always meet on the horizon. When drawing straight lines in perspective, based on this rule, you come across some interesting coincidences. Coincidences, as Stillwell explained them, where three points just happen to fall on a single straight line, for no apparent reason.

But there is a reason; in fact, there's a rule. Pappus' hexagon theorem claims that for any six points, three of which lie on one line and the other three on a different line, you'll always have one of these coincidences.

It's kind of hard to explain with just words, so check out these two visual explanations.

What's even more difficult to explain is that you can actually use this theorem and these points and lines to do arithmetic--to add and multiply numbers together. And once you're doing that, you can prove that ab = ba through purely perspective-based geometry.

Thus, this image:

is a sort of proof that ab = ba, and as friendly a way for ET to say hello as anything else we could imagine. So keep your telescopes peeled!

WELL MAYBE NOT JELLYFISH BUT HOW ABOUT OCTOPUS MATH?

Given Stillwell's idea that Alien Proof #2 might be good for boneless jellyfish-style ET, I had to approach him after the lecture and introduce myself as a marine biologist. Here's what we talked about, and what I've been thinking about ever since:

In looking for all the diverse ways that aliens might do math, Stillwell has restricted himself to humans. But exobiologists are always using the weirdest Earth creature they can find to guide their search, whether it's a primate or a scallop or a bacterium. Why shouldn't exomathematicians do the same?

Now, I'm not suggesting than any non-human animals are doing calculus, but they do have to solve problems, and some of them are extremely good at it. So wouldn't it be interesting to look at something boneless here on Earth, something that is also highly visual, like, say, an octopus? How does it solve problems? How does it calculate where to put an arm in order to grab a rock, how does it determine whether it can fit through a given hole?

Stillwell seemed quite receptive to this idea, and a short discussion with him and another questioner delved briefly into fluid dynamics and topology. After all, many of the problems jellyfish or octopuses have to solve are related to calculating or predicting water flow, both in their environment and in their bodies. And problems like the "how do I get in that box" and "can I fit through that crevice" are quite topological in nature.

Finally, Stillwell mentioned homotopy theory. While I was pleased to note that my mathematician brother actually works on homotopy theory and even tried to explain it to me once, I confess I didn't quite understand the connection. What do you think, Mike: homotopy theory? topology? alien math? ehhh?

And then, of course, there are the SETI goofballs who just had to bring up aliens living in regions of space-time where the very fabric of mathematics might be different. Stillman graciously acknowledged the point:

"I didn't talk about the possibility of ba not equal to ab, but that's very important as well."


Major hat tip to Terry S. for alerting me to the lectures and the associated abundance of chocolate hazelnut spread.

How To Become A Cephalopodiatrist

I receive a fair number of communiqués from passionate cephalopod-lovers, some as young as I was when I first fell for an octopus, others in grad school and beyond. They ask all kinds of wonderful questions and, because the questions are so wonderful, it sometimes takes me a very long time to compose suitable replies.

Most commonly, these correspondents are in high school or college, with questions pertaining to education and career. How can I study cephalopods? What classes should I take? Where should I go to grad school? What careers can I have?

I am utterly charmed by these queries, because they are so familiar. I have wondered many of the same things over the course of my development. Of course, I'm far from finished developing and can hardly pretend to have all the answers, but I am happy to share the answers that I do have.

So I've decided to write up a FAQ.

Q: Where can I go to study cephalopods?

A: I wish I'd been clever enough to figure this out earlier: you can study cephalopods anywhere, even in a lab where no one else is studying them. All you have to do is convince everyone that a cephalopod is the right system to answer your research questions.

Want to gaze lovingly into an octopus' eyes? Go to a vision lab or an evolution lab, and tell them about the amazing convergence between cephalopod and vertebrate vision. Love to jig for squid? Join a fisheries lab and point out that squid fisheries are rapidly expanding to take the place of collapsed vertebrate fisheries.

But if your heart is set on joining a cephalopod group--and I can't blame you, since we cephalofreaks are pretty hilarious in high concentrations--then here are some places to start.

In the US: Michelle Nishiguchi and Margaret McFall-Ngai both study symbiosis in the world's cutest squid; Roger Hanlon looks at deviant cephalopod behavior; Brad Seibel does X-TREME squid; David Scheel plays with the gentle giant pacific octopus; Roy Caldwell covers warm tropical cephalopods, and of course my own almus pater, Bill Gilly, focuses on Humboldt squid.

Around the world: In Australia, Natalie Moltschaniwskyj researches the growth and ecology of modest-sized squid, while Steve O'Shea in New Zealand rummages around for very big squid. Spain's Ángel Guerra wrote a whole book about giant squid, and Japan's Tsunemi Kubodera took the first in situ video of the beast. Japan is also home to squid baby-maker Yasunori Sakurai. In Mexico, César Salinas-Zavala supervises all kinds of squid work and Unai Markaida crosses from coast to coast and from octopus to squid.

All of these people are crazy in one way or another (or several). See below for advice on matching your crazy to theirs.

This list is in no way exhaustive. To find more, go to Google Scholar and search for scientific papers about your favorite species or topic. (Flamboyant cuttlefish? Self-mutilating octopuses?) Scour the web for information about the authors--or just e-mail and ask directly if they're taking students/technicians/volunteers.

Q: Should I get a master's degree or a Ph.D.?

A: Whoa there, tiger. Are we talking about grad school? Have you read Piled Higher and Deeper? If not, go browse the comic archives until you've obtained a sobering perspective on the grad student lifestyle. I'll wait.

Still think you want to go to grad school? Okay, then, I'll answer the question--it just depends on what you want. When I started looking at grad schools, someone told me that if you're sure that you want a Ph.D., then go for it. Do not stop at a master's degree, do not collect two hundred (thousand) dollars of student loans. But, if you're not sure that you want a Ph.D., or if you're sure you don't want one, then a master's is for you.

In my case, I was accepted to two grad programs: I could go for a master's with Roger Hanlon at Boston University (at the time, BU had a joint program with the Marine Biological Laboratory where Hanlon works; it has since dissolved) or I could go for a Ph.D. at Stanford with Bill Gilly. I visited both labs, and loved them both. What to do?

Well, there was one pretty obvious difference: I would have to pay for the master's, whereas Stanford was offering to pay me for the Ph.D. And although I was intrigued by the idea of living on the East Coast, I adore California. The scales were tipped. I did the Ph.D.


Q: How do I choose the right lab/advisor?

A: Grad school can be wonderful. Grad school can be miserable. While much of the difference can be made up by your attitude, it helps to give your attitude a good starting point. Please, please, please do not underestimate the importance of picking the right lab and advisor! As Don Kennedy wrote in Academic Duty (which I've quoted before):

The graduate student's experience depends heavily on the good will and conscientiousness of a single mentor. . . . The experience is often lonely and may be profoundly alienating. Yet at its best, with an inspiring and compassionate mentor, it can be positive and even transforming.

Advisors come in many flavors: from distant to micromanaging, from predictable to mercurial, from affectionate to abusive. The best thing you can do is spend time in the labs you're considering and observe your potential advisor's behavior. Take current and past students out to dinner and get them talking. What do they love? What do they hate? What do they wish they'd known ahead of time?

I can't say, "Look for an advisor that has X, Y, Z qualities," because every student is different. Some flourish under micromanagement; others wilt. Some thrive on conflict; others fall into insecurity and despair. Listen to what the advisor's students have to say, and then put yourself in their place. Would I enjoy that interaction? Would I want something this advisor doesn't give?

Know thyself, as the ancients say. What you are looking for from grad school? One student I know deliberately chose an abrasive situation in order to develop thicker skin.

Is it working? Yes it is!


Q: So would you recommend Stanford/Hopkins/Gilly to someone who wants to study cephalopods?

A: It depends what aspect of cephalopods you want to study! There are better destinations for tropical octopuses, for example, or for squid-bacteria symbioses. Right now the Gilly lab is rather bullish on Humboldt squid, but there are always some market squid projects going on, and Gilly loves neurobiology so there's bound to be some of that in the corners. For my research, I managed to cover squid genetics, embryology, biomechanics, and oceanography--there's certainly opportunity to diversify.

This brings us to another key recommendation: it's all well and good to love cephalopods (they are so loveable!) but if you can figure out what it is you love about them, you stand a better chance of making a good match in labs, advisors, and research projects. Which brings us to . . .




Q: How do I choose the right thesis project?

A: In my opinion, you probably don't. Not the first time, anyway. You'll bumble around, thinking you've found the most brilliant project ever which will win you a Science paper and a Nobel prize (not to mention a degree)--and then it won't work. This process can be iterated indefinitely.

It's a natural progression. Keep reading, keep thinking, keep talking. Talk with your advisor, but also with all the other mentors you can get--anyone more experienced in your field--professors, post-docs, government scientists, aquarium scientists, park rangers--when you're looking for advice, cast a broad net! Eventually you will find the right project.

In my case, it wasn't so much finding the right project as realizing after several years that I was already working on a few projects that could become my thesis. That's not how it works for everyone, but if you have chosen the right lab & advisor, I dare to suggest that the thesis will follow, one way or another.


Q: How is the job market for a cephalopod fanatic?

A: Hahahahaha. Next.

Okay, for serious, let's consider this. Many people feel drawn to a particular career: a pilot, a doctor, a physicist. But many others are more drawn to a particular interest: video games, for example, or cephalopods. Those of us in that category have to wrestle with the question of how to turn an interest into a career.

If you love video games, you can get a job in retail, selling them. Or you can get a job creating them, as an artist or an engineer or a programmer or a writer. Or you can write about them, chronicling the industry, critiquing the work of others. And there are probably other options as well.

Similarly, if you love cephalopods, you can raise them in a public aquarium, or in a commercial fish store. You can go into research and study cephalopods in academia, or at a museum, or in the non-profit sector. You can make beautiful cephalopod-themed art.

Or you can write about cephalopods--which is the route I took when I realized academia didn't suit me.

Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still.

- Henry David Thoreau

Circus of the Spineless #65

Old-time circus sideshows knew how to capitalize on the human fascination with anything bizarre, disgusting, or taboo. Times have changed, and audiences are no longer comfortable plunking down cash just to stare at midgets and full-body tattoos. But who can deny that the fascination is still there?

So let us turn to the rest of the animal kingdom, where gross is normal and anatomical absurdity is par for the course. Welcome to the gen-u-ine, three-ring. . . 

Sixty-Fifth Circus of the Spineless!

Step right up, ladies and gentlesquid! Today and forever only, the Circus of the Spineless is ABSOLUTELY FREE! That's right, there is no charge for you to come and admire the best of the beasts!

But be warned, if you find yourself falling in love with our spineless friends: hunting invertebrates can lead to a complete loss of dignity. Wanderin' Weeta points out that oily ooze and dead weeds are hazards of the job if you want to get up close and personal with pretty little anemones and tube worms. So if you're not up for it, sit back and let us bring the invertebrates to you!

Ring One: FREAKS!

image from wikimedia commons

Let's start with the giants. Dave Hubble's ecology spot brings us Britain's biggest fly--the Hornet Robberfly. Despite their impressive size of over an inch and their disturbing resemblance to hornets, these chaps are quite scarce and may be a conservation concern.

But the big insects of today are nothing compared to the big insects of yester-era. Back in the Carboniferous, griffenflies reached wingspans of TWO FEET! The Dragonfly Woman explains why these giant dragonfly ancestors could never survive in the modern world--which may elicit relief or grief, depending on how you feel about dog-sized insects.

No sideshow would be complete without a Fat Man. Or a Fat Ant? Certain individuals of honeypot ant, called repletes, serve as swollen storage tanks for the rest of the colony. Wild About Ants shares some beautiful images of a species of honeypot ant native to Tuscon.

Next, along the lines of the Bearded Woman, we have the Lobster Crawfish. How can a woman grow a beard? How can a crawfish possibly be called a lobster? Check out Miriam's taxonomic breakdown over at Deep-Sea News for the surprising answer (to the second question, not the first).

Further paradox can be found in the Flightless Grasshopper at Anybody Seen My Focus? The appropriately named Eastern Lubber Grasshopper may not be able to fly, but it has some very handsome coloration to show off on the ground!

Finally, combining the contradiction of an animal that refuses to conform with the repulsive beauty of a totally transparent body is the Deep-Sea Swimming Cucumber. Real Monstrosities describes how this cucumber defies cucumer-hood by elevating itself off the seafloor, then showing off its entire digestive process for all to see.

The swimming cucumber also has a fancy skin-shedding trick up it sleeve, which brings us to . . . 

Ring Two: WORKING ACTS!

image from Rebecca in the Woods

You know what's incredibly gross and freaky? Insect metamorphosis. Yup. Year after year, uncounted caterpillars build body bags for themselves, digest their tissues into an unidentifiable slurry, and generate a new adult body.

When the adult emerges from the cocoon, its body is still bloated with the gooey remains of the deconstructed caterpillar, called meconium (yup, same name as fetus feces). Too heavy to fly, the adult has to excrete this material before it can take to the air. Anybody Seen My Focus? was "lucky" enough to view this voiding event in a newly emerged Luna Moth.

Even insects that skip out on cocoon construction do some pretty weird things. Ever seen an exuvia? That's the cast-off exoskeleton an insect leaves behind after every molt. Rebecca in the Woods caught a beautiful shot of a dragonfly's exuvia, right next to the newly fledged grown-up.

But from the insects' point of view, molting is a yawn--after all, everybody does it. More specialized tricks include chemical defenses, like the nasty smells produced by harvestmen. Dave Hubble notices that the nymphs of certain bugs might mimic harvestmen in appearance, and wonders if they're trying to convince predators that they smell just as bad? A curious question indeed!

Popping back to dragonflies for a moment, Anybody Seen My Focus? found at least one species, the Halloween Pennant, that has the remarkably ability to ride out rainstorms. 

Is it just me, or is this circus unduly dominated by insects? They're certainly not the only invertebrates with clever sideshow tricks. At Deep-Sea News, Miriam explains how female argonauts build shells for buoyancy and babysitting. Her post prodded me to dig up some old video of these open-ocean octopuses, which I posted at Squid A Day.

Female argonauts make graceful shells, while male argonauts deliver their sperm with detachable arms, bringing us to the third and final ring . . . 

Ring Three: HOOTCHIE-COOTCHIE SHOW!

image from Kim Jinsuk

Let's start out tame. Who wants to get mooned by a dragonfly over at Focus?

Now for the graphic stuff. You've been warned.

Invertebrate sex made major headlines last month, with the discovery in Bleeker's squid that smaller males make bigger sperm. At Squid A Day, I pondered the evolutionary implications of flexible sex, while Dr. M at Deep-Sea News explained that there is more than one way to impregnate a squid.

When cephalopods are such big news, you can't expect me to shut up about them right away. Fun fact: male cephalopods, big or small, squid or argonaut, have a specialized sperm delivery arm called a hectocotylus, in addition to a penis.

This is, of course, one of many reasons that cephalopods are awesome. Insect sex organs are usually quite simple by comparison, but damselflies are the exception! Male damselflies apparently aspire to cephalopod-level awesomeness by developing secondary genitalia. Dave Hubble explains the structure and use of male mating hooks in the Common Bluetail.

Mating hooks are one thing, but what about . . . a mating needle?

No joke! There are numerous invertebrate species, from bedbugs to snails, in which the male simply stabs his organ indiscriminately into the female's body, delivering his sperm hypodermically. Um, OW! Dr. Bik at Deep-Sea News discusses this disturbing trend in nematode worms.

The inevitable result of mating is, of course, spawning, and ichneumon wasps surely have the ichiest spawning tactic of all. Some female ichneunoms deposits their eggs in a living host, which is consumed from the inside out when the ich eggs hatch. Um, EW! Dave Hubble takes on the tricky task of identifying a female ichneumon.

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That's all, folks! Check in next month for the Sixty-Sixth Circus of the Spineless, and send your submissions winging, crawling, or swimming over to kzelnio at the gmail. Also, let him know if you'd like to host! Thanks, Kevin, for carrying the spineless torch high!

Subconscious Scrapbooking

I'm a dreamer. I mean that in the literal sense, in that bizarre movies play in my head while I'm asleep.

They say everyone dreams, but a lot of people forget as soon as they wake up. So perhaps I'm just a dream-rememberer.

It's not always a great thing. Sometimes I have nightmares that leave me depressed or anxious for the rest of the day. But the vast entertainment I derive from the other dreams is ample compensation. Some of my best memories never happened.

It's hard to translate, though, from dream-space to real-space. Sometimes I'll dream a beautiful song, and I'm sure I'll be able to write down the words and hum the tune as soon as I get out of bed . . . but it's not possible. It feels like Lucy trying to recall the story in the Magician's Book just after she finished reading it: "How can I have forgotten? It was about a cup and a sword and a tree and a green hill, I know that much. But I can't remember and what shall I do?"

All this is just a prelude to explain that whenever I can glean some shreds of a dream and render them in real-space, I'm inordinately pleased.

As you can probably guess, I had one of these lovely, fun dreams last night, and as soon as I woke from it, I staggered out of bed, grabbed a piece of paper, and scrawled a little sketch and a few words. It was a page from the scrapbook of a princess I was helping to rescue.

Later in the day, that sketch and those words were enough for me to re-create the page, with the help of Google image search and the Gimp. And here it is:

To be honest, I found it very moving.