Thus Explaining Why, Last Time Lunar Weight Was Dumped, We Got Really Into Tangrams

Pattern-forming behaviors are a response to perceived lack of control, according to a study in the new issue of Science. One could argue that pattern-forming behavior as a consequence of lack of control causes pattern-forming behavior in scientists, but one might run the risk of appearing pedantic. Or worse, of being meta, a label which doubtless will get applied to poor LW by the legions of schemers and manipulators that work towards our downfall.

That wasn't exaggeration for the sake of topical humor. We really are that fucking paranoid monomaniacal. We blame the meds, and also the enormous burden of being such transcendent examples of a human animal.

But back to the matter at hand. According to the press release, "researchers showed that individuals who lacked control were more likely to see images that did not exist, perceive conspiracies, and develop superstitions."

The research, performed on bunnies bunny-like undergrads, employed six different tests to see how perceptions changed in response to lack of control—generally speaking, a carefully planned activity meant to frustrate (though, in the universal case of undergrads, the researchers coulda just searched students' bags before the kids left the dining hall). The frustrated subjects were more likely to see identifiable objects in pictures of static, ascribe success or failure to supernatural or ritual causes, and assume that there are things going on behind their back.

In other words, a bunch of Psych 100 students were fried by a damp preteen, but not before they posted some crap about having a secret crush to their MySpace and told everyone to pass it on or no one would ever have sex again and kitten Jesus would cry and then finished with their woman 'cause she couldn't help them with their mind.

And how was news of this finding reported? With, naturally, endlessly referring to the economy.

Except the Chicago Tribune, which naturally referenced baseball, proving once and for all LW's hypothesis that Harry Caray is L. Ron Hubbard.

(for further details, check out the .PDF transcript of an interview with the study's lead author, Jennifer Whitson, from Science's homepage. It's great reading, except for the crap bit where she talks about "pitchers and batters being very superstitious ... . But you didn't see outfielders being that superstitious." Jenny, love, if you were told in Little League that you were an outfielder but not a batter, it was a grievous insult.)

{from the Type A's at ScienceNOW}

Agassi Couldn't Clone a Sheep, Could Probably Still Beat Us Up

What is it about science and coolness that just can't seem to coagulate? Like oil and water, the two have been diametrically opposed seemingly since the beginning of time. Historically speaking, I think the rift developed somewhere around the time the church shunned scientists and general "thinkers" for positing that the universe wasn't earth centric. As we evolve and change, the same battle remains, albeit with less pyrotechnic penalties for losing. Where it once manifested as the Ionian philosophers challenging the clergy, it now takes a fresh form, as a new girl at tennis camp struggling to fit in with the hip, hard-edged, rough-ridin' American tennis players.

NOVA recently introduced us to Yoky Matsuoka, a girl who once labeled herself an airhead to fit in but went on to become one of the world's most preeminent neurobiologists. The story centers on Yoky, her incredible achievements, and especially her plight to become culturally accepted.

I found this to be a struggle I can identify with in many respects. I'm a former tennis zealot and once-closeted science geek who shunned an engineering major in favor of a much more swanky art studio title. Sure, I got the look down. My DIY shirts are one of a kind [possibly because you did them yourself —ed] and I'm quite sure my pants have faded to reflect a perfect shade of trendy indifference. But as the sun sets and I lay my vinyl to rest, I don the glasses of ridicule to watch Cosmos and drift into dreams of the Library of Athens.

I have a profound respect for science, scientists, logic and experimentation, but I can't help but wonder why, in all this battle to uncover the secrets of the universe and the harmony of the spheres, the hard sciences have failed to attempt to alter the harmony of the social spheres. Yoky is making great advances building the perfect robotic hand, and other scientists are planting electrodes into the brains of monkeys so robotic limbs can be controlled purely by monkey thought (I can see the headlines now: "Amputee Monkeys Able to Fling Poop Once Again" and "Indefatigable Monkey Arms Work Typewriter but End Up Writing MacBeth"). Aren't we coming one step closer to controlling someone else's thoughts? And if so, will we use it to our advantage?

It's my understanding scientists are a generally passive breed. Eddie Izzard does a nice bit about an evil giraffe, and the concept of an evil herbivore in general and I find the same sense of absurdity attached to the term "evil scientist". Other than the mad scientists of lore, buried deep in a basement bedazzling that the final rhinestone on their robots brow of hatred I get the sense that science is a pretty friendly community. But is it a unity created only by a mutual lack of belonging to the "other," or rather a mutual understanding about the eventual domination of the scientist breed? Perhaps it's more sinister than I ever imagined. Sure, common folk currently know Angelina Jolie's babies' names without ever having seen the Phoenix spacecraft photos, but when scientists are the puppet masters, will happenings in Second Life make headline news, and Spore consistently outsell Grand Theft Auto?

Perhaps this is all hulaballoo and we're all much too smart to go about changing a social order, and (almost) everyone knows that. At this point, it'd probably be easier to create a race than to alter the existing one anyway so let's say fuck it and assimilate, knowing that we've got a winning hand. [Get it? 'Cause Matsuoka does prosthetic limbs? It works on two levels! —ed] And let's elect a scientist to office while we're at it. There a stretch for ya. A campaign based entirely on algorithms, and all the Bionic Fundraising Monkeys you could dream of.

{from NOVA, like it ain't no thang}

Roadrunner Renders Humans Petty-Flops

The Roadrunner Supercomputer: a 133 million dollar fuck you to all dumb-as-coyote humans? We who spend our menial lives devoted to computing human dilemmas, only to pick up a few spare tires in the process? It's one thing to perform an ungodly amount of operations per second, predict weather patterns and nuclear whatnot, but does it really have to rub it in that we're slowly writing
ourselves (as a species, not as a blog collective) out of the picture?



I like to imagine the machine operating with a very Betty Boop sensibility. It bounces up and down and while computing, conveyer belts traveling from each hub transfiguring puppy to light bulb, light bulb to Abraham Lincoln, Lincoln to flan. Then it hits the last hub, steam pours out of every opening, and one very stubby, stressed man stokes a fire as another, similarly stressed man rides a bicycle, and a long white sheet of paper comes out reading, "Yep—We're Fucked."

But I fear there's a decided lack of bicycles involved; forgive me for sounding cliché sci-fi/Colbert, but is this the beginning of the robot race? Sure, it's all for the benefit of humanity, but can't we just make 'em a little slower, buy ourselves some time? I can see Machiavellian CompuPower [TM, motherfuckers] escalating just as fast as the battle at Fort Sumpter did. It's only going to take one engineer to program a robot in his likeness and then the robo-cat's out of the kevlar and we're all itching for our own. Soon we'll be our own tamagotchis. How is it that we can have a self-loathing society that eats anti-depressants like candy, yet we're chomping at the bit to replicate ourselves?

So, for those interesting in marketing or making a buck, I invite you to take part in my business venture—The International Robot Registry (NYSE: IROR). We'll give you a little personality test, and write your name in a book (with archival ink, of course), and in 10 million years you'll be happy to know that a robot will be made to look just like you. And—if we finally get a handle on cryogenics—you can even hang out with it!

I feel that I've fallen victim to my own version of the aforementioned Betty Boop sensibility. Taking a nice tale of a Roadrunner supercomputer and flipping it into a Life 2.0 marketing scheme. Your move, Roadrunner. I got ACME on my side.

{from the Los Alamos National Laboratories website, because, gee, a fucking nuclear bomb wasn't scary enough}

Mister Wizarding: The Science of Subway Stalking

This morning, as Mr. Wizard was slowly rolling in his grave, the L train wasn't rolling at all...

You know that one person you fall in love with on the subway or bus every morning? That random person you've never seen before, can't stop looking at, and swear you'll see again the next morning and maybe someday talk to but then you never see them again or if you do you've already forgotten what they look like and are already staring at some other poor wage ape?

Did this blog just get on Hollabacknyc or what?

Anyway, while you're being a hungover AM creep, try this: rather than directly (or even furtively) staring at the person, look at their reflection in the window. The next part really only works on an elevated train or at a platform, since the tunnels tend to be too dark, but still: look at their shoulder—that perfect shoulder, waiting for you to rest your head on it, if only they'd realize...!—and then try to look through their shoulder and observe the world beyond the window.

Got it? Good. You can see that cold, hostile, uncaring world beyond them, full of toil and pain and loneliness. Yippee!

Now stare at the reflection of their face and try to do the same thing. Way, way harder, isn't it? In fact, if the train is moving and their face keeps shifting around in the glass, it's almost impossible; you keep snapping back to them.

LW's totally unscientific hypothesis as to what's going on: It's known that the brain has an entire visual perception system dedicated to facial recognition, not so much to shoulder recognition. So when you're staring at this person's face, it's not the dreamy pools of chocolate wonderment that are their eyes that keep snapping you back, it's the power of a whole chunk of your perceptual system suddenly engaging. It's more valuable to your brain to keep track of this face, with it's corresponding cues that you're potentially about to get attacked, laid, fed, or arrested in case your crush is a transit cop and smells the Captain in your Starbucks, than to look at billboards and awesome-circa-1972 tiling, so it's far more difficult to shift your plane of focus.

It's another one of those cases where your brain doesn't give a rat's ass what you, whatever and wherever this "you" is, actually want. It's kind of a vertiginous, creepy feeling (so there, you can sort of empathize with your subject) to realize you have far less control over your own cognition than all that 3rd-grade self-affirmation jabber would have you believe. You probably can't be president, and you sure as hell can't look through that face in the glass.

Then try bringing this whole train (har!) of thought up with said stranger. Guaranteed sex.

{Our next Mister Wizarding: demonstrating electrostatic repulsion through pepper spray.}