Be brave, like prawn

Menu boy no be coward, like shrimp; menu boy be brave, like prawn.
-The Simpsons, Episode CABF01, "Lisa the Tree Hugger"

I took a picture of this giant freshwater prawn (Macrobrachium rosenbergii) at the Smithsonian National Zoo in Washington, DC, specifically so I could make a motivational poster for Lisa. Having completed my mission, I'm now filled with rage - it turns out that Macrobrachium and many other so-called "prawns" are not true prawns at all: they are freshwater shrimp. Some helpful Australians have provided clarification:

...there is one sure way to tell them apart. In shrimps or carideans the side plate of the second segment of the abdomen overlaps the segments in front and behind. Prawns, most of which belong to the family Penaeidae of the group Dendrobranchiata, have all the abdominal side plates overlapping tile-like from the front. A more fundamental difference but one impossible to appreciate in a single specimen is that female prawns do not brood eggs but shed them into the currents where they develop independently. It would therefore make sense to call all member s of the Penaeidae "prawns" and members of the Caridean "shrimps" and this is what most Australians do....Confusion arises when we hear Americans refer to prawns as "shrimp".

So that settles questions of anatomy, but not courage. Is there any relationship between location of abdominal segmants and strength of character? I leave that to the decapod philosophers.

Katy didn't

Lisa spotted this character at the front door to our building. It's a katydid. My best guess based on a minimal amount of half-assed research is that it belongs to the genus Microcentrum. When I saw it, I told Lisa it was a leafhopper. This was based on two critical observations:

1. It looked like a leaf
2. It looked like some kind of grasshopper

QED, right? Wrong. It turns out that a leafhopper is a completely different type of insect which hops on leaves, rather than resembles a leaf. Leafhopper are also really tiny. There goes my entomology career.


I can conclusively say, though, that...it is green.

Three-chambered peanuts!

MARSHFIELD, WISCONSIN - My friend Aaron and I were sitting on his back porch eating peanuts and drinking beer. when something totally unexpected happened: one of us found a three-chambered peanut...and then it happened six more times. I know, right? Seven three-chambered peanuts in one bag - what a time to be alive.

Angry eagle law firm

Do some aspiring attorneys dream of practicing angry eagle law, or does it just happen?

It happened in Tucson, Arizona, on Valencia Road, just west of the airport. Whether you need to sue over unlawful regurgitation or defend yourself against charges of kleptoparasitism, the Angry Eagle Law Firm has you covered. You can celebrate your assured victory across the parking lot, at the Happy Chicken restaurant.




Angry Eagle and Happy Chicken, staring each other down across the Arizona asphalt - I wonder if anyone at the zoning board chuckled when these building permits were issued.

Coordinates:
32.13412 N, 110.97922 W (WGS84)

You can see the avian showdown in Street View.

Why I hate Eastern Michigan University

Rounding out my triad of sports-related posts, I'd like to announce that I have sworn eternal vengeance against Eastern Michigan University.

Founded in 1849 as Eastern Michigan Normal School, the Ypsilanti-based school bills itself as "an extraordinarily practical, supportive, accessible, affordable and quality learning and living environment," where a "distinct mix of comprehensive academic resources, strong community initiatives, focus on education first, and nationally recognized undergraduate student research achievements set it apart." I have no reason to doubt any of this. No, my undying hatred lies in their 1991 decision to adopt "The Eagles" as their nickname. Does the world really need another generic school mascot? Within the Mid-American Conference alone, you'll find such creatively-named teams as the Akron "Zips" and the Kent State "Golden Flashes." It seems that Eastern isn't even trying.

Now, there are a number of good reasons why EMU's previous nicknames are no longer tenable:

• I can see why Normalites no longer works, give that the institution is no longer known as a "normal school" (that's old-timey talk for a teachers' college)
• Likewise, in these enlightened times, Men from Ypsi would exclude women's sports, though I can't see why "Women from Ypsi" wouldn't work.
• From 1929 to 1991, EMU athletes were known as Hurons - a name with local significance - but this name was dropped following a request by the State of Michigan that all schools in the state cease to use Native American names for mascots. Curiously, EMU's conference rivals, the Central Michigan University "Chippewas," ignored this request.
• For a short time following the above decision, EMU athletes were jokingly called the No-Names. Wonder why that didn't stick.
  

Hopefully, students, administrators, and alumni will finally realize that the answer has been under their noses for years. EMU's mascot should be the Emu! This large flightless bird, Dromaius novaehollandiae, is everything an athlete should strive to be: fleet-footed, with high endurance, and prone to occasional violence toward humans.

Take heed, Eastern Michigan University - become the EMU Emus or taste my wrath...at least until I find something else to be angry about.

Northwestern needs a new mascot

I have officially been at Northwestern University in various capacities - undergraduate student, staff member, and graduate student - for TEN YEARS. Yep, over one-third of my life has passed along Sheridan Road. That alone is a sobering thought - no question that ol' NU has been a good place to study and work, but ten years...wow.

Given the length of my own tenure on this campus, and the strong family connections (my father, uncle, and brother are alumni too), you might think that I would be an NU sports superfan, of the purple-bleeding variety, but I am not. This is for two reasons. The first is genetic - I come from a long line of sports-indifferent people, and, try as I might, I just can't get excited about college sports. The second reason, though, is a critical issue which I entreat the University to address for the sake of students past, present, and future: the mascot. Sorry, Willie - the wildcat needs to be replaced, for the following reasons.

First, let's look at the facts. The wildcat became NU's sports mascot completely by accident. Before the wildcat, NU's athletic nicknames included "The Fighting Methodists" and "Purple." I'm not a Methodist, but I'd be willing to be one on the field or in the stands. I don't know if the Wesleys were good at sports, but I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. Eighteenth-century theologians aside, "Wildcat" name comes from a sportswriter's description of a football team's tenacity in a 1924 game. It is indeed the accidental mascot.

Second, I, one who knows nothing about sports, can name three big schools who are also "Wildcats," and probably more fittingly so:

• University of Kentucky
• University of Arizona
• Kansas State University

I've never been on the campus of K-State, but I can say with confidence that at least Kentucky and Arizona deserve the mascot more than Northwestern. The mountains around U of A's main campus in Tucson are home to bobcats and moutain lions. As far as UK goes, I don't know of any wild felids roaming the streets of Lexington, but I assure you that there are plenty of wildcats in the backwoods of the Bluegrass State. The closest thing that I've seen in Evanston are Lisa's four-legged hellions (which live off-campus) and the occasional skunk.

Moving into the land of opinion, nothing about NU really says "wildcat" to me. Why not pick something that taps into our history? Failing that, why not pick something unique or maybe a little off-the-wall? One needn't look far for inspiration. Consider some of the other school mascots out there. In the Big Ten alone, we have Badgers and Boilermakers. West of the Mississippi, you'll find Jayhawks, Cornhuskers, and Sooners. On the west coast, we have the Oregon Ducks, the Oregon State Beavers, and two gems from the University of California system - the Anteaters (UC Irvine) and, my favorite, the Banana Slugs (UC Santa Cruz). With the notable exception of the Anteaters, all of these tap into local history, culture, legends, or remarkable fauna. UC Irvine gets special dispensation because anteaters are pretty awesome even if they're not native to southern California. The bottom line is that there's no excuse for overusing sports mascots. I'm watching you, Spartans, Eagles, Tigers, Hawks, and Bears.

In the spirit of constructive criticism, I offer some suggestions for a replacement mascot.

• The Purple Monkeys
• The Jaywalkers
• The Flying Frances Willards¹
• The McLean Stevensons²
• The Prophets of "See, in 1851, this was considered the northwestern frontier, get it?"
• The Fighting "Steven Colbert is an alumnus and that makes us all a little cooler by extension"-s

Join me in writing the board of trustees on this critical issue. The time is now. Go U Purple Monkeys!

---

¹ Founder of the Women's Christian Temperance Union, one of the leading forces behind Prohibition. Probably a real party animal.
² Alumnus McLean Stevenson played the fictional University of Illinois alumnus Lt. Col. Henry Blake on M*A*S*H.

Announcing my new favorite sports team

My new favo(u)rite sports team is the Salmonbellies lacrosse team of New Westminster, British Columbia - a suburb of Vancouver.

How did this happen? Hypertext!

Dances with Wolves was on AMC the other day. I thought I recognized one of the actors from Northern Exposure. A quick search showed that I was correct (it was Floyd Red Crow Westerman, who played the recurring character "One Who Waits"). That should have been satisfaction enough, since I'm genetically impaired in my ability to recognize actors. Since I never know when to stop, though, I moved on to an article on Mr. Westerman's Northern Exposure cast-mate Elaine Miles, who played the doctor's secretary. That article contained a link to the Native American name controversy, which, in the section on Canadian terminology, linked to an article on Chinook jargon, the lingua franca of the old Pacific Northwest. Chinook jargon contains the word "hyak" or "hyack," meaning "fast" or "hurry," which became the nickname of the fire department of New Westminster, British Columbia, which is home to the Salmonbellies, one of Canada's oldest prfessional lacrosse teams.

But the greatest link of all came from the 'Bellies web site, where they link to their sponsor, Canadian Beaver Buzz Energy Drink. Nothing says "energy" like a scowling aquatic rodent with pupil-less eyes.

It's also worth noting that the New Westminster Fire Department "Hyacks" set off a 21-anvil salute every May as part of the Victoria Day festivities. Let the anvils ring, eh?

It's the Minnesota pickle

This is all Lisa's fault. The first time she sang a few bars of the Gedney pickle jingle, I was confused - Gedney brand pickles are not distributed here in the former Blagosphere. The second time she sang it, I became obsessed.

Dancing Pickle Warning: do not listen to this dumb song.

Gedney,
It's the Minnesota pickle.
Get me a Gedney
It's the Minnesota pickle.
Bring out more Gedney,
It's no ordinary pickle.
You betcha, Gedney -
It's the Minnesota pickle.

Buy them in New Ulm,
St. Cloud, Duluth, and Montevideo,
Rochester, Blaine, and even
Waaaay up in Warroad.

Gedney
It's the Minnesota pickle
They're good to...Gedney
It's the Minnesota pickle.
They taste good, Gedney,
It's no ordinary pickle.
You betcha, Gedney -
It's the Minnesota pickle.

The Gedney jingle contains a pickled road trip idea. Just for fun, let's have a look at how that trip might proceed from New Ulm, in south-central Minnesota, to Warroad, on Lake of the Woods, only 35 miles from the northernmost point in the conterminous United States. For the extra briney bonus factor, let's visit each place in the order in which they are mentioned.



It's interesting to compare different routing algorithms. The total length of the routes suggested by Google Maps and Microsoft MapPoint are within 75 miles, or about 6%, of each other. Away from the Interstate system, Google seems to prefer US highways while MapPoint seems biased to state roads.

For example, both direct us from Blaine to Warroad via Duluth, but the Google Maps route sends us north on US-53 through the Iron Range to International Falls and then west, while MapPoint directs us on state roads past Upper Red Lake to Rainy River. In this case, I think my preference would be to follow Google through the mountains.

Likewise, both algorithms suggest traveling between Montevideo and Rochester via the Twin Cities, but Google suggests US-212 over MapPoint's preferred SR-7. Personally, I have to side with MapPoint on this one, because Lisa and I were married just off SR-7 in Excelsior.

Oh, and take note: Stop #4 is pronounced "Monta-video." Video, as in Betamax. Observing the local pronunciation will avoid a faux-pas, which, after all, would put you in a real pickle.

Two snippets from work

1) The new accounting assistant goes by "Stacy," but her full name is "Athanasia." Avoid, avoid, avoid making jokes about the Arian heresy until I get to know her better.

2) Yesterday, several of us were eating our lunches together in the conference room while watching Arrested Development on Hulu. Professor D. walked in just as Jeffrey Tambor's character said, "The doctor said there were claw marks on the inside of her womb!" referring to the reluctant entry of Tony Hale's character into the world. Awkward.

Angry eagle taxes

This one's for Cousin Nancy:
Mr. Angry Eagle wants to do your taxes.


In this case, "angry eagle taxes" refers to tax preparation by an angry eagle, not taxation of angry eagles. I'm not aware of any state or federal taxes on disgruntled raptors. If there were, I imagine somebody would organize a mass bird-drowning in Boston Harbor, and that just doesn't seem right.

Seen in Shawano, Wisconsin. Sadly, the sign is not visible in Street View. You'll just have to trust me.

Lake Superior catnip

Work recently took me to the twin cities of Hurley and Ironwood, in Wisconsin and upper Michigan, respectively. We finished the job in the allotted time (important because we depended on the others' equipment for a substantial part of the job), so to celebrate, we ate an enormous dinner and drove a few miles north to a beach on Lake Superior. One member of the team suggested it would be fun to build a fire on the beach, and thanks to the availability of driftwood and partially burned logs from previous visitors' fires - and my new Estwing Long-Handled Camper's Axe (best purchase ever) - we soon had a cheery blaze. It was that fire that led to our meeting Jay.


As the fire crackled under twilight skies, a young man approached us and said, "Hi there, mind if I utilize your fire?" as he produced a can of Bush's Baked Beans from his bag. I wasn't sure what he meant by "utilize" our fire, but we assented and invited him to sit. After all, anyone who carries baked beans with him couldn't be all bad.

The bean-bearer, who identified himself as Jay, announced that he had just pedaled ninety miles from Tomahawk, Wisconsin to the beach we now shared, and that he was on a journey around the Great Lakes with no destination in mind. His journey had begun somewhere in Tennessee, and he had been wandering northward, alternately working as a farmhand and traveling by bus, train, or bummed rides. The bicycle, he said, was a "recent acquisition."

As the beans warmed, Jay sat down and took out some smoking materials and rolling papers. Before I realized what he was doing, he preemptively assured me, "It's not what you think - I mean, it's not the herb that you think it is." He lit the rolled product from our fire and continued: "It's not weed. It's, um...catnip. Yeah. It gives you a real mild buzz."

That's right - catnip. I chucked and said, "Well, it seems to work on cats," but he quickly corrected me, pointing out that "cats take it in a different way." Indeed. He offered the catnip joint to anyone who wanted to experience it. He seemed slightly disappointed that there were no takers. One of our group asked if smoking-grade catnip tastes like cat-grade 'nip smells. The answer was a definitive "no," without any elaboration.

By this time, the sun had set and the beans were out of the fire and the can cool enough to hold. Jay grabbed his beans, thanked us for the use of the fire, and disappeared into the darkness with his catnip stogie.

Happy trails, Jay. May no one harsh your mellow.

World's largest badger statue

On US Highway 45, just north of Birnamwood, Wisconsin, there lies a force of unspeakable power.

That's right - the world's largest badger statue. Look upon my unblinking mustelid zombie eyes, ye mighty, and despair!

I first chanced upon this beast last June while driving through western Shawano County in a driving afternoon rainstorm. Due to the weather and the threat of being run down by a speeding log truck, I didn't stop to take a picture.


Ok, that was a lie: I didn't stop because I was afraid it would eat me.

This time, I was emotionally prepared and blessed with favorable weather. I also did my homework: according to the writeup at RoadsideAmerica.com, the statue was constructed by the owner of the Badgerland Gas Station which previously occupied the site. In its glory days, the badger was 40 feet tall. Now, the Badgerland Gas Station has become the Northern Exposure strip club, and the badger's body is gone, leaving only disembodied head and menacing claws lording over the signs promoting exotic dancers and a "full liquor bar."

Coordinates: 44.99043°N, 89.20450°W (WGS84)


View Larger Map

Advice from Kenny Rogers

You probably know these lyrics to the well-loved Kenny Rogers song, "The Gambler":

And the night got deathly quiet,
And his face lost all expression.
Said, if you're gonna play the game, boy,
You gotta learn to play it right.

This is a lesson in the importance of proper use of commas. Without the comma after "game," the listener might think that The Gambler was admonishing the narrator (and, by extension, us) to train himself in the proper use of Nintendo's vintage-1989 handheld game console. That is,

...if you're gonna play the Game Boy,
You gotta learn to play it right.

I thought I'd be clever and cobble together a picture of Kenny Rogers playing Tetris, but a quick search revealed no fewer than five pages already dedicated to this line.

• gameboyright.ytmnd.com
• gameboy101.ytmnd.com
• playitright.ytmnd.com
• playthegameboy.ytmnd.com
• gameboyplayitright.ytmnd.com

Humbled! And by the Internet, no less! Bah.

Things I did before noon today

1) Got pooped on by a garter snake (Thamnophis sp.)

Don't give me that look, snake. You know what you did.

Jobs I want: bison tranquilizer-er

Here's another job inspired by television. I'm watching a show on Animal Planet about the bison of Yellowstone National Park. The program follows a crack team of National Park Service biology commandos as they study bison migration in and around the park. I couldn't find a photo of an NPS warrior-biologist in action, so I stole the image at left from Parks Canada¹. Part of the study involves attaching tracking collars on the animals. This requires the following five-part plan:

1. Locate bison.
2. Shoot bison in ass with tranquilizer dart.
3. Take blood samples and attach collar, all while watching for curious four-legged passers-by.
4. Inject bison with wake-up juice.
5. Run.

I'm pretty sure that the person who pulls the tranquilizer dart gun trigger is called a tranquilizer-er. As best I can tell, the appeal of being a bison tranquilizer-er is fivefold:

• Self-reliance. Ain't nobody going to help you in the case of mechanical failure or repeated gorings. It's just you and your hand-picked team of stone-cold, hard-core, devil-may-care wildlife biologists against 1500 pounds of groggy bovine.


• Development of dart gun sniper skills. Now that I think about it, the combination of cross-country skiing and precision shooting might appeal to Lisa's Finnish heritage.
  Note to self: book non-refundable winter travel tickets and investigate dart gun license requirements.
  


• Having The Handbook of Wildlife Chemical Immobilization on your bookshelf and not having to explain it. I love obscure how-to literature.
  


• SCIENCE! Come on, what is biology if not poking and prodding large wild animals? Put your microscopes away, kids; we're going to learn something even if it kills us by goring and trampling.
  


• Clarity of purpose: shoot bison in ass, do science, run away. That's the best reason to get out of bed this side of averting alligator attacks.
  

---

¹ Stolen from this article on a Parks Canada wildlife veterinarian. Read it in French if you prefer.

Caption contest: Mr. Toad

Mr. Toad (Bufo americanus) invites you post a caption for this photograph in the comments.

Capea

Remember that time that Alex and I totally fought a bull?





Salamanca province, Spain - June 26, 1998.

Mr. Hogan

When I was a sophomore in college, I went on my first overnight field trip with the engineers from the lab where I worked (and still work, though fortunately my job description has changed since then). I traveled to far northern California with two engineers, both named Dan, to repair and update instruments on two scour-endangered bridges. We flew to San Francisco, where we were to catch a turboprop commuter plane to Medford, Oregon, where we would rent a car and drive back across the California line to the bridge, which was outside the city of Yreka (pronounced "why-reekah"). I write "would" because things didn't quite happen as planned.

We arrived at SFO without incident. After the Dans and I enjoyed a lunch of the airport's finest clam chowder, we took the shuttle bus to the commuter terminal to await our flight to Medford. About five minutes before the flight was to begin boarding, Dan Hogan announced he was going to go to the bathroom. Dan M. and I looked up from our books and nodded. Five minutes passed, and boarding began. We began to wonder where Hogan was - was he ok? Jumping to the worst likely conclusion, we wondered if he had a horrible allergic reaction to something and passed out in the bathroom, so Dan M. went to check the bathroom while I waited by the gate to see if Hogan came out to board the plane. When the final boarding call came, there was still no sign of Hogan anywhere. We asked the airline gate agent if Hogan had boarded the plane, but she was apparently prohibited by law from telling us who did or did not board. At that point, the plane pulled away from the gate.

We were now zero-for-two, having both lost an engineer and missed our flight. Since there was no sign of Hogan anywhere in the terminal, we concluded that he somehow sneaked past us and boarded the plane for Medford. Dan M. and I decided to take the next available flight to any point north and proceed from there. We flew to Chico, California, rented a car, and drove north to Yreka. Eventually, we were able to make contact with Hogan by relaying calls through University Travel Services (back in the dark ages, cell phones didn't travel all that well - remember roaming?). He had in fact boarded the flight to Medford, exactly as planned, and while we had cursed Hogan for ditching us, it became apparent that it was we who had screwed up by not getting on the plane. In the end, the three of us converged on Yreka and the rest of the trip was generally successful.

The remarkable thing about all this is that Hogan had managed to sneak past Dan M., who had gone to check on him, and then past me as I was watching the gate area. Mr. Hogan was not a man who moved quickly, ever. To this day, I don't know how this was possible.

The final outcome of this episode was the establishment of our lab's Permanent Rule Number 1: if there's a plane, get on it. Every man for himself. While it applies everywhere, and to modes of transportation other than commercial aviation, it applies doubly at San Francisco International.

Mr. Hogan passed away on Friday after a short illness. He was 66 years old. His last official activity with our lab was leading a student group on a tour of some major transportation infrastructure projects...in San Francisco.

May God bless Mr. Hogan's memory, and give us all the wisdom to get on the plane.

De-motivational thought for the day: June 17

Dwight:	I can't do this.
Michael:	That's because you're incapable of doing it, because you don't know how, because you have no skills.

"Dwight's Speech," The Office, season 2, episode 17

Dare to dream: banjo

I wish I could play the banjo. I can't, so here's a bunch of banjo-related stuff instead.

The BBC just ran a story on the banjo's west African roots. In less enlightened times, the origins of the instrument were deliberately obscured for racially-motivated reasons; finally, the nameless folks who brought this angels' instrument into the world are getting some credit.

Dilbert (September 27, 1994) postulated that one can determine one's rank in an organization by what the boss does while making you wait.



This has happened to me; though, to be fair, it should be pointed out that my boss at the time was already an accomplished banjo player.

I love the sound of clawhammer banjo found in bluegrass music. I wondered, though, how some of Bach's works for unaccompanied string instruments would sound on the banjo. Now I know. Thanks, Internet!

---

Prelude: moderato from Suite #1 in G major for solo cello

---

---

Prelude from Partita #3 in E major for solo violin (starts in earnest at 1:20)

---

---

Double: presto from Partita #1 in b minor for solo violin

---

---

Badinerie from Suite #2 for flute & orchestra

---

Good advice

Seen in Boulder, Colorado, February 2009.

Baseball

My family has been utterly apathetic about sports for three generations, and I'm largely faithful to that tradition. However, I began to follow baseball in 2003 thanks largely to my then-roommate's interest in the Chicago Cubs and their exciting but ill-fated pennant race of that year. In listening to many games and attending my share of games at Wrigley Field, The Metrodome, Fenway Park, Miller Park, Busch Stadium, and The Great American Ballpark, I've concluded that the following have no place in baseball:

• Booing a pitcher for trying to pick off a runner. No matter which team is pitching, this is not cool. In fact, booing in general should be reserved for only the most heinous on-field crimes, or maybe off-field events such as a player's moving to a rival team due to free agency.


• Corollary: booing any player on your own team is not ok, unless he just ate a puppy on the field or something similarly awful. A batter repeatedly chasing bad pitches or two outfielders colliding and dropping a routine fly warrants a disappointed "ohhh" or an aggrieved "come on, man," but not booing.
  


• The Wave. It looks stupid in a diamond-shaped ballpark. Leave it for European soccer hooligans. This counts doubly for the ancient temples of baseball such as Wrigley Field and Fenway Park, where The Wave ought to be grounds for immediate expulsion.
  


• The words "offense" and "defense." I believe the words you're looking for are "batting" and "fielding." "Pitching," too. Admittedly, I'm no authority in the subject, and "offense" and "defense" aren't strictly wrong, but they just seem ill-suited to baseball.
  


• Jumbotron messages telling the crowd to "make some noise" at critical moments. If you were paying attention to the game, you'd know when extra cheering is appropriate. If you're not paying attention to the game, why are you there?
  


• Leaving early if your team is losing. Maybe it's okay to leave early if your team is being crushed and it's raining really, really hard. Worse yet, some people leave early even when their team is winning - presumably to "beat the rush." Why did you bother coming to the game at all?
  


• Crying. There's no crying in baseball.

Lest this be solely a series of complaints, I'll conclude with my favorite baseball moments.

• Once, at the Metrodome, Lisa kicked another fan in the head while getting into her seat. The kick was an accidental tap against the noggin of a gentlemen seated in the row ahead of us, and she apologized profusely. He laughed it off and joked, "now you owe me a beer." Later, Lisa actually did buy him a beer, and the surprised gentleman tipped his cap, his faith in humanity no doubt restored.
  


• The Miller Park Sausage Race is the best break-in-the-action entertainment ever. Grown men wear costumes representing various meat products and run around the field.


• Any time the Cubs play a night game on the west coast while Lisa and I are driving to Minnesota. Thanks to the joy of AM radio propagation at night, we can pick up WGN all the way to the Twin Cities. Regardless of the team's performance, Cubs radio broadcasting is top-notch. Also, Lisa loves Ron Santo.
  

Mini-possum

Lisa and I saw this yesterday while walking down a residential street in Evanston.

It's a baby opossum, Didelphis virginiana! This minuscule marsupial was just a few inches long - note the blades of grass for scale. We heard some rustling and a strange whistling or squeaking sound under a bush near the sidewalk, and there it was. Perhaps surprisingly, 'possums are pretty cute when they're little.

When I was about ten, a 'possum briefly took up residence in our garage. It relaxed on the workbench, apparently confident that its scrofulous visage and toothy jaws glistening with methatherian drool would keep most anyone at bay. The beast eventually left the premises on its own.

Amazingly, there are at least two non-profit organizations dedicated specifically to 'possums: The National Opossum Society and The Opossum Society of the United States. The web site of the latter features an animated GIF of a 'possum wagging its tail; they also sell 'possum earrings. Too bad I learned about this right after Lisa's birthday.

Whoa.

Rex tremendae majestatis,
qui salvandos salvas gratis:
salva me, Fonz pietatis.

I crack myself up.

Strong men also cry

Two summers ago, I got misty-eyed when I saw a Johnsonville Brats commercial on television. I was really excited for a trip Up North, and, as best I can tell, the televised sausages brought with them the knowledge that summer's consummation was nearly at hand: soon, I would be savoring Sheboygan County's best-loved pork product as loons wailed in the distance.

I feel no shame in weeping tears of joy over broadcast bratwurst. Strong men also cry, Mr. Lebowski; strong men also cry.

Ne plus ultra

So that's what Shel Silverstein was talking about.

A slippery slope

That I am at least mildly obsessed with natural history is well established. I relish opportunities to watch the various types of macrofauna I might encounter, whether in the wild or at a zoo.

Lisa's fear: "Honey, I'm afraid you're becoming a birder."

I'm not a birder, I'm a guy who likes to watch birds. But I acknowledge that I'm on a slippery slope.

• I now own two books which cover the identification and basic natural history of the birds of the Hawaiian Islands (more on the book problem later)
• I may start to attend Chicago Audubon Society meetings - this is because they help manage the Forest Preserve site where I work
• The prospect of starting a "life list" of critters I've seen in the wild has crossed my mind more than once

I recently bought a new camera (a Canon Powershot SX110 IS) and I'm completely in love with it. The optical zoom is fantastic. The photo at left shows the result of my first opportunity to play with the new camera: a northern cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis) high up in a tree. I estimate the base of the tree was about 50 feet from me.

The picture was taken in late March at the Dwight Perkins Woods, a Cook County Forest Preserve District parcel in northwest Evanston. It's less than two miles from my home, but I had no idea it existed until very recently. Anyway, the Perkins Woods is a remnant of the "Big Woods" that once stood throughout Evanston.

Just last weekend, I went a little crazy at the Chicago Botanic Garden. I got a few fantastic pictures of a common grackle (Quiscalus quiscula) and an American robin (this familiar passerine is saddled with the unfortunate binomial Turdus migratorius).

Am I doomed to slide from "a guy who watches birds" to to "a birder?" Unless the City of Evanston establishes a slothpital or some kind of municipal tapir sanctuary, it seems likely that birds will become the primary source for my natural history fix. I'm going to write my alderman about that.

Math agnosticism

Here comes another rant inspired by a Calvin and Hobbes strip - this one ran on March 6, 1991.

I'm not a math atheist, but I am a math agnostic: math may or may not exist, but there's no way to know, and it doesn't affect my daily life.

Perhaps surprisingly, this attitude has only rarely impacted my engineering career thus far. When something comes up that I don't understand - which occurs often - I'm often willing to accept it as a deus ex machina solution that magically brings everything to a tidy conclusion. My father, a man both smart and wise, pointed out that this is indicated on process flowcharts by the symbol TAMO - "Then A Miracle Occurs." Sounds good to me!

Maybe that means that rather than adopting a systematic math theology, I, like so many others of my generation, identify as "spiritual, but not religious."

Arboreal skunks and other surprises

Three things blew my mind while watching "Is that Skunk?" on the PBS program Nature.

1. Spotted skunks (Spilogale spp.) commonly climb trees to forage and hide.
2. Skunks are not members of family Mustelidae, the weasels, as was long thought. Apparently skunks compose their own family, Mephitidae.
3. Skunk spray is highly flammable. Significantly, this was reported by an organic chemist rather than a field researcher.
   

Bonus: "For these orphaned skunks, Jerry is acting in loco parentis. However, many would call him just plain loco." Oh, Omniscient PBS Narrator, you're so clever.

Pi

My algebra teacher gave extra credit to students who would memorize pi to one hundred decimal places or some other ridiculous precision. This Toothpaste for Dinner cartoon pretty much says all that needs to be said about that.

Knowledge brings fear

Before I took classes in soil mechanics, I wasn't afraid of liquefaction. Before I took a materials science class, I wasn't afraid of creep - there was no such thing as deformation under constant stress; if it was holding now, it would hold forever. I knew the concept of fatigue¹, but I didn't lose sleep over it before I understood the effect of stress concentrations and stress corrosion.

I wonder what else I'll learn to fear during my engineering career.

---

¹Don't let anybody tell you that bending a paper clip back and forth until it breaks is an example of metal fatigue. When the paper clip is bent that way, it deforms plastically; by definition, fatigue occurs within the elastic region.

Muskrat Love

My skills as a critter enthusiast ("amateur naturalist" sounds way too pretentious) have finally proven useful to humanity. At work yesterday, one of my colleagues got a report from his wife that there was an unusual critter swimming in the creek next to their home. She thought it might be an otter. I decided that a river otter (Lutra canadensis) in a shallow Chicagoland creek would be highly unusual, though not inconceivable¹, so I asked if she could send me a picture². This is what she sent:



It's a muskrat! Oh, excitement!

The muskrat (Ondatra zibethicus) is one of my favorite local critters. Curiously, muskrats are not closely related to beavers, in spite of the superficial resemblance and similar habits. While they are both rodents, muskrats are most closely allied with voles and lemmings, while beavers' closest relatives are the pocket gophers and kangaroo rats.

I learned only yesterday of the song "Muskrat Love," made popular by The Captain and Tennille in 1976. It seems elicit strong reactions in people - it was a Top 40 hit, but was also placed high on CNN's list of the worst songs in popular music. Apparently you either you love it or it. At this point, frankly, I'm just confused by it.

The utility of muskrats, however, transcends even the music of the mid-seventies. According to the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Detroit, muskrat is considered "fish" rather than "meat" for the purpose of observing meatless Fridays during Lent. Legend holds that this custom dates back to a priest ministering to trappers in southeast Michigan during the early 1800s who found that trappers' families were going hungry without meat during Lent. The priest reasoned that the aquatic muskrat could be considered "fish" and not "meat," allowing the faithful to obtain needed protein without breaking their Lenten vows. A 1987 opinion by the bishop of Lansing held that this "immemorial custom" was acceptable under canon law; perhaps more importantly, the bishop was unimpressed with the gastronomic value of muskrat, declaring that "anyone who could eat muskrat was doing penance worthy of the greatest of the saints."

---

¹In December 2007, commuters leaving Union Station in downtown Chicago saw otters along the South Branch of the Chicago River.

²Sending a picture of a critter for me to identify constitutes implied oral consent for me to redistribute the picture. This means you, Major League Baseball!

Flags: State of Colorado

My ridiculous travel schedule has afforded another opportunity to reflect on the flag of the state in which I am currently sitting - this time, I'm even sitting in the state capital.

I like to think that the prominent C flying over the state house in Denver represents not only "Colorado" but "centennial," since the state entered the Union during 1876. While Colorado is widely known as the Centennial State, the notion that this figured into the flag design is pure conjecture. Still, the flag is attractive and distinctive. It's even featured in the design of the state highway signs - the only state to do so, though Alaska and New Mexico incorporate elements of their flags into their highway markers.

Colorado's official animal symbols - living and extinct - are superb; they're so fantastic, in fact, that I'll forgive the legislature for using the word "animal" when the mean "mammal." With that in mind, let's start with the official state mammal, the Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep (Ovis canadensis). In addition to their spectacular head-butting ability, I admire the ability of an animal weighing up to three hundred pounds to balance on precipitous slopes.

The official state fish is the greenback cutthroat trout (Oncorhynchus clarki somias), a beautiful subspecies of the cutthroat trout (so named for red slash marks on the lower jaw) found from the Rocky Mountains west to the Pacific. The Centennial State is not alone in its admiration for these handsome fishes; the Lahontan cutthroat trout (Oncorhynchus clarki henshawi) is Nevada's state fish¹. Anyway, it seems that the once-common greenback cutthroat was severely affected by human activity and was feared extinct until intrepid biologists found relict populations in a few backcountry streams in Rocky Mountain National Park. There are plans to reintroduce the greenback to waters in its former range.

Colorado is lucky to have one of the best-known dinosaurs as its official state fossil. Stegosaurus lived in Colorado during the Jurassic Period, before the rise of the Rocky Mountains for which the state is now famous. One prominent specimen was discovered by high school students from Cañon City, west of Pueblo. Moving on to scaly critters with us yet today, the state reptile is the western painted turtle (Chrysemys picta bellii), a handsome shellback found throughout the state.

There are many more awesome things about Colorado, from the subtle beauty of the high plains in the east, to the sudden rise of the Front Range, to the blooms of the short alpine summer, but these will have to wait. Read more about Colorado state symbols from the state's Department of Personnel & Administration web site.

---

¹ When I checked the list of Nevada state symbols to confirm my suspicion, I found that Nevada's official state mammal is the desert bighorn sheep (Ovis canadensis nelsoni), closely related to the Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep of Colorado. I don't know who's copying whom, but it's a good thing that Utah separates the Centennial and Silver States, preventing them from bickering like siblings in the back seat of a station wagon.

Gummi lobsters, or how I know my mommy loves me

Last Christmas, my mother gave my brother a bag of - I'm not making this up - gummi lobsters, which she found on a business trip to Boston. I freaked out, because, come on, gummi lobsters! But alas, there were no sugary crustaceans in my stocking. I was visibly upset by this trivial omission.

Fast forward twelve months. On Christmas morning 2009. I unwrapped seven ounces of gummi lobsters. To accommodate my year-old thirst for gooey red arthropods, Mom had paid more for shipping than the candy itself cost. Moreover, she upped the ante by also leaving a package of gummi penguins and 1.9 pounds of Swedish fish under the tree. Inspired by her example, my brother and his lady friend gave me gummi centipedes, imported from Hungary. Who knew? Clearly the work of the finest Magyar gummi artisans.

It doesn't end there, though. In 2004, I drove to Colorado with my mother and grandmother to see my aunt and uncle. At some point, my mother found a bag of elk jerky. Then - then - she hid the elk jerky for SIX MONTHS so I could open it up on Christmas morning.

And that's how I know my mommy loves me. Happy birthday, Mom!

Nihil sine nomine

...that is, "nothing without a name."¹

We name things in order to be able to speak precisely. Often, names themselves tell as a little bit about the item in question. Sometimes, names are just names. Sometimes, the meta-information contained in a name can be downright misleading, whether through a somewhat-arbitrary naming process, misuse of a term, or another mechanism.

Biology is an area where many names are helpful but others are misleading. This goes back to the basic rules for naming something. Essentially, in the understanding of this non-biologist, the first published name for a new species sticks forever. This is why we have a species of ancient whale named Basilosaurus, ("king lizard," saurus meaning "lizard"), which is in fact not a lizard at all but an marine mammal. For that matter, the word dinosaur ("terrible lizard") is a little misleading, because modern understanding shows that dinosaurs are distinct from lizards (who, with snakes, form the clade Squamata, which I think comes from the Latin word for "scales"), as they diverged in the Permian period, 299-251 million years ago. Since the dinosaurs at least superficially resembed lizards, thought, I'm willing to forgive that.

Likewise, vertebrate paleontologists and dinosaur enthusiasts of all ages are stuck with the division of dinosaurs into the clades Saurischia ("lizard-hipped") and Ornithischia ("bird-hipped") based on superficial resemblances of the pelvic structures. Confusingly, though, birds - themselves extant dinosaurs - are descended from the "lizard-hipped" line. I understand that we have to follow the rules of nomenclature (i.e., first published name sticks), but...arrg! This is when a biologist will tell you, "It's just a name."

It doesn't end with biological nomenclature, though.

In the spirit of sweeping generalizations, I will state that all of my early difficulties with algebra can be traced to quadratic equations. "Why is an equation with an x² term called quadratic?", my young self wondered. "Quad- means 'four!'" Since I couldn't find a satisfactory answer, I (foolishly) rejected further study of the matter².

In spite of my difficulties with math, I pursued a career in engineering. One might expect engineers to be as precise with language as they are in technical matters. If so, one will be disappointed. Some sub-disciplines are better about this than others. For a variety of (mostly historical) reasons, geotechnical engineering is one of the worst offenders. The use of terms and symbols is so inconsistent among different authors that a common textbook, An Introduction to Geotechnical Engineering by Holtz & Kovacs dedicates several pages to variations in nomenclature.

What really grinds my gears, though, is when engineers (and others) refer to particular quantities and factors by their commonly-used symbols rather than by name. "Estimate E based on N," I've heard. Come on, man - these things have names for a reason. Use 'em. "Estimate Young's modulus based on the standard penetration test blow count." That may sound dirty, but at least it's precise.

Sometimes, usage causes the original meaning of a word to be distorted. "Bilingual," for example. A person who is bilingual speaks (at least) two languages. Bi- means two. Increasingly, though, I hear "bilingual" used to describe persons who don't have a good command of English. In reality, those individuals may be monolingual, bilingual, trilingual, or know even more languages - just not English. For that matter, Lisa has worked with children with language delays in whose homes languages other than English are primarily spoken. These children will, hopefully, grow up to be bilingual - but right now, these children may not have a good command of any language or languages.

It seems that the commonly accepted term for persons (especially schoolchildren) learning English as a language other than their first is "English language learners." Fine - that seems straightforward enough. But don't use "bilingual" to describe someone who doesn't speak English. In addition to being inaccurate, it's awfully anglocentric, especially in a country that has no de jure official language.

I better stop here before my name becomes "whiner" or worse.

---

¹ Not to be confused with Nihil sine numine, "Nothing without Providence," or "Nothing without the Divine Will," the state motto of Colorado. In the mineral-rich Centennial State, this is also sometimes heard as "Nothing without a new mine."

² I have since learned, albeit from a non-authoritative source, that the name "quadratic" for second-degree polynomials comes from the Latin quadratus, meaning "square", because the variable is squared.

On the human condition

A few weeks ago, some friends and I watched the 1996 classic Beavis and Butt-Head Do America. It was then that I was reminded that Beavis's caffeine-fueled alter ego, The Great Cornholio, neatly - nay, poignantly - summarizes the human condition.

Cornholio constantly seeks T.P. for his bunghole. Yet, by his own admission, Cornholio has no bunghole.

Are you threatening me?

Flags: State of Maryland

I'm going to take advantage of a special opportunity to write about the flag of a state in which I am currently sitting.

The flag of the State of Maryland is one of my favorites. It features the combined arms of the Calvert and Crossland families, ancestors of the Lords Baltimore, for whom the state's most populous city is named. I like the flag because its is distinctive, instantly recognizable, and steeped in the state's history.

A glance at the listing provided by the state archives reveals that Maryland has an awful lot of state symbols. Sure, many states have an official bird, mammal, or song, but the Free State has an official crustacean (the blue crab, Callinectes sapidus Rathbun), dessert (Smith Island Cake), exercise (walking), and horse (Thoroughbred). Oh, and did I meantion that the official state sport is jousting? How sweet is that? The Old Line State was the first to adopt an official sport, and they picked a doozy. I have yet to meet a Marylander who practices the state sport, though, so let me know if you know one. If it were up to me - and most citizens will probably be thankful that it is not - close gubernatorial races would be decided by a winner-takes-all jousting match.

The official state reptile is the diamondback terrapin (Malaclemys terrapin). This noble testudine is perhaps best known as the mascot of the University of Maryland College Park. I'm endlessly amused that Maryland fans often abbreviate "Terrapins" as "Terps." I also enjoy their "Fear the Turtle" athletic campaign.

Maryland is a land of geographical oddities, both natural and artificial. The state has no natural lakes, largely because it was not reached by the Pleistocene glaciation (see the Maryland Geological Survey lakes and reservoirs page for more information). West of Chesapeake Bay, the state is bounded on the north by the Mason-Dixon line and on the south by the Potomac River, except for a small section where the District of Columbia lies in between. As the Potomac snakes northward near the town of Hancock, the northern and southern borders converge until the state is less than two miles wide. Road nerds will also note that Hancock is the eastern terminus of Interstate 68.

Today, while visiting my cousin and her family in Calvert County, I was pleased to eat a rockfish sandwich. Rockfish (Morone saxatilis), known in other parts of the Union as the striped bass, is the official state fish. It is also delicious.

Flags: State of Alaska

"Alaska’s flag–to Alaskans dear,
The simple flag of a last frontier."

In honor of the 50^th anniversary of Alaska's admission to the Union today, let's have a look at its fine flag. The "Eight Stars" exhibit (PDF) of the Alaska State Museum will tell you everything you need to know, but here's an executive summary: The flag was designed for the Territory of Alaska in 1927 by a 13-year-old boy named Benny Benson. His entry was the unanimous winner of a territory-wide competition among schoolchildren in grades 7-12. The eight stars represent the constellation Ursa Major (a.k.a. "The Great Bear" or "The Big Dipper") and the North Star. The blue background represents the northern sky and the forget-me-not, an Alaskan flower.

Details: Historically, Alaska struggled to find its place in the United States. After the purchase of Alaska from Russia in 1867, Alaska was designated as a military district. It wasn't until 1912 that Alaska became a United States territory with an elected legislature. Even then, the United States Congress had the right to override the actions of the territorial legislature. Due in part to the federal government's ignoring of Alaska, the territory fell into an economic depression in the 1920s while the rest of the country was relatively prosperous (though we all know how that ended).

During a 1926 visit to Washington, DC, territorial Governor George A. Parks visited the Post Office building, where the Postmaster General pointed out that Alaska was not represented in the display of flags in the building's rotunda because the territory did not have a flag. In response, Parks arranged for the American Legion to organize a flag design contest for the territory's schoolchildren. 142 entries were submitted, and Benny Benson's elegant design was selected unanimously; fortunately for Benny, his design was not disqualified due to his misspelling of the word "strength" in the narrative submitted with the design, as he had feared it would be. The flag later inspired the poem "Alaska's Flag" which later was set to music to become the official state song.

Alaska's flag is one of my favorites because of the elegant simplicity and powerful symbolism of the design as well as the compelling story of its origins. The flag is beloved by citizens and played a role in the Territory's quest for statehood, which was finally realized with President Eisenhower's signature on January 3, 1959. However, the sweetness of Alaska's state symbols doesn't end there. The state's Office of Economic Development site describes them all; I will comment on a few below.

The official state bird is the willow ptarmigan (Lagopus lagopus), a member of the grouse family. Legend has it that the founders of the town of Chicken, Alaska wished to name the town after the large numbers of ptarmigan observed in the area. However, they couldn't agree on how to spell it, so they named it "Chicken" to avoid embarrassment.

Alaska is so big it has to have two official state mammals. The state land mammals is the moose (Alces alces). I'll save my moose-related comments for another post, but my own encounters with Alaskan moose were pretty fantastic. The state marine mammal is the bowhead whale (Balaena mysticetus). Apparently the walrus lobby wasn't very strong in Juneau. The bowhead makes lots of interesting noises, though.

Speaking of Juneau, Alaska is the only state in the Union without some kind of official-looking state capitol building. The state legislature chambers and the governor's office are in the former Federal and Territorial Building, an Art Deco office building completed in 1931.