Catch a stingray by the tail….

What to say about Steve Irwin? His death was one of those half-shocking, half-not kinds of deaths, wasn’t it? There’s first the “Oh my God, the Crocodile Hunter died!”, followed by the inevitable, “Well, given his choice of occupation, no wonder.”

We used to watch his shows a bit when we had cable, but since we moved to Buffalo and abandoned cable, Irwin had pretty much fallen off our radar. He did get a bit overexposed a few years back, but I always admired his adventurous spirit and his adoration of nature: take Jacques Cousteau and make him into someone you’d want to hang out with, and you had Steve Irwin.

Death is a strange thing, though. Many people go in a normal, even “hum-drum” kind of way, but some people die in a way that does nothing but confer upon them some kind of legendary quality. If we were to all get deaths that match up somehow with our lives, then of course Steve Irwin would die at the hands of some animal in the wild. Of course Amelia Earhardt would vanish in an airplane. Of course Richard Halliburton would die in a mishap while trying to sail an authentic Chinese junk across the Pacific.

Or, taking fictional characters, of course Captain Kirk would die after defeating a bad guy in a fist fight on a remote planet.

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Light-years ahead of his time!

Via Lynn Sislo, I’ve just read one of the most jaw-droppingly ignorant articles on science that I’ve ever encountered. It’s so ignorant that I can only wonder just how this writer manages to get his pants on in the morning, and how he manages to type his columns given that his fingers must be in constant pain, what with the constant dragging of his knuckles across the floor. You can read the whole thing, but here are a couple of morsels to chew on:

According to Bryson, the first recorded attempt to date the creation of heaven and Earth was made in 1650, by James Ussher, archbishop of the Church of Ireland. Hardly wishy-washy, Ussher pegged the exact time and date: noon on Oct. 23, 4004 B.C.

By what may be no coincidence at all, the family Bible that my grandmother inscribed to me almost three centuries after Ussher includes a time line, dating the creation of heaven and Earth in Genesis to 4004 B.C. Ussher’s calculation is considered a joke in the scientific community, but seems to be gospel truth, according to standard Bibles.

Hmmmmm. None of the three Bibles I own include this timeline, probably because everyone has now realized that Ussher was full of it.

Even the Big Bang theory doesn’t explain how life began because the gasses required for the Big Whatever-it-was don’t include elements required to form and sustain life.

Yeah. The more complex elements were formed later on. Scientists know how this happened.

As another cosmic example, take black holes, which are formed of matter so dense that even light can’t escape. That’s why we can’t see them, and the fact that they’re invisible is the proof that they exist.

Because, of course, the only way to tell something exists is to see it.

Even though we really don’t know who wrote the Bible, that gospel has stayed pretty much the same through many translations. But the gospel according to science seems to change almost every day.

Is this guy suggesting that maybe there exists a language such that, were the Gospels to be translated into that tongue, then in those translated Gospels, Jesus would escape the Crucifixion and move to Rome or something? What an absurd thing to say.

And here’s the single best line from this article:

How long, exactly, is a light-year? The columns of this newspaper aren’t wide enough to accommodate all the zeros required for one light-year in calendar years.

Oh, holy shit. I mean, really: Holy Shit with a Cherry On Top.

This guy’s whole “argument” is basically that science is hard to understand, while religion isn’t. He keeps coming back to the notion that the numbers science deals with are fantastically huge! Science is too hard for him, apparently — but just from reading this article, his problem isn’t that it’s too hard for him, since anything is too hard if you don’t know a thing about it.

When I was in college, there was a course called “Foundations of Science” that was required of every student. The course’s intent was to simply give a very basic level of scientific literacy: what scientific method is, a bit of history and philosophy of science, a bit of simple lab work to see how experimentation is done, and so on. The course was team-taught by ten or so professors from the various science departments, and each week there would be one main lecture for everyone in the course followed by two or three meetings a week of smaller “discussion classes” that were each monitored by a single one of the professors.

I actually found the course mainly enjoyable, but a lot of my fellow students didn’t like it on the “Why should we know about this” grounds, and I even heard that one professor who was teaching the course actually said to her students, “I don’t like this course because there’s no reason why you kids should have to know the philosophy of science. It has nothing to do with your lives or the careers you’ll be pursuing, unless you’re going to be scientists.”

I couldn’t believe that a professor of science would say such a thing. It has long scared the hell out of me that our scientific literacy is sinking at a time when our civilization is becoming more and more dependent on science to function. At the very least, a scientifically-literate populace wouldn’t elect a bunch of creationists to a state school board, as Kansas did.

It scares me to think that people can know so little about science that they can write articles like this one, get them published, and influence others with them. We’re a society that is slowly taking to the stars, communicates through a giant network of computers, faces some potentially severe problems with our energy sources — and gives newspaper space to a guy who thinks a light-year is a unit of time.

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Sentential Links #64

It’s that time again….

:: T minus two months or so until we have to name a baby girl, and I can promise you it won’t be “Emmillie” or “Graiyce” or “Wrooth.” (I wonder what Mr. Jennings thinks of the popular new name, “Nevaeh”? Personally, I think that name is about as stupid as anything I can think of. All the amazing names in the Bible, and we’ve got to start spelling shit backwards?)

:: Of course, “Nevaeh” is an order of magnitude sillier even than Remington, simply because it takes an linguistic epiphany that would embarass a stoner (“Hey dude — did you realize that butter spelled backwards is … rettub?” “Duuuude.”) and forces some poor kid to live with it until they die. (Just Googled “Nevaeh” on a whim. Hey, we can go lots of places with this! Like, “Hey, did you hear about the recent mystery novel manuscript found amongst the writings of JRR Tolkien? The killer kept saying Rodrom!”)

:: I think you have to have loved someone to write a song about them. I loved Jessica. To a degree, mellowed by distance, time and life, I still do. (Or to write poetry.)

:: Law of Modern Warfare #001: When you bomb people for their own good, they never, ever get your point in the way you hope.

:: Cats are, after all, very cool.

:: It’s the regular media—the MSM as they appear to like us to call them—who are obsessed with the idea that blogs are all about politics and nothing but politics, and this is not just unfortunate in that they are depriving themselves of some excellent and entertaining reading on movies, books, music, science, and life in general, on the job and in the home and on the farm and out in the woods and in the mind; it’s potentially disasterous for us, the bloggers, and for our readers, and for the still inchoate art form known as blogging.

:: These are books that opened my eyes, or spun me upside down, so that the stars were underfoot and the trees were dangling from a green sky like monstrous feathery stalactites.

:: An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty, a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures, but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion. (Not actually written by the linked blogger, but click through anyway to see who did say this.)

All for now. Back next week.

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Congratulations, Bucky.

You made the national news, at least on the MSN front page.

Now the police are searching for a suspected cop killer. Folk hero, my ass. Bucky Phillips is a piece of human excrement, whether he shot those state troopers or not. This is all his doing. His family and his cheerleaders in the Southern Tier, as far as I am concerned, are accessories to murder.

But at least Phillips is likely to get his wish. I will be astonished if he is taken alive. And I don’t really care, just as long as he is taken. And soon.

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Sunday Burst of Weirdness

Move over, George Lucas. Stand down, JRR Tolkien. Have a seat, Guy Gavriel Kay. Grab some bench, John Williams and Hector Berlioz and Sergei Rachmaninov.

I have a new hero.

Oh, and bonus weirdness: there was an episode of Friends where Ross gets on a train for upstate NY, hoping to run into a girl or something like that (been a while since I saw it), and he falls asleep and wakes up to see that the train is pulling into Montreal, or something like that. Well, this girl goes one better: she fell asleep on an airplane, and when she woke up, she’d made a round-trip home again after failing to wake up to disembark at her original destination. Oops!

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Repent, Harlan! said the Ticktockman

So I’m reading John Scalzi just now, and I see that he’s a bit upset that the big news out of the recent WorldCon isn’t the Hugo win by Robert Charles Wilson for Spin (which I might read sometime, or I might not — hey, is it a space opera?) but rather “a certain science fiction writer being a public jackass at the Hugo ceremony”.

Well, it doesn’t take much awareness of the SF community to figure out who made an ass of himself; I sighed and said to myself, “Gee, I wonder what Harlan Ellison did now”. I figured maybe he showed up with the only existing manuscript of Last Dangerous Visions, hucked it into a trash can, and then set it on fire. Either that, or he publicly groped a prominent female SF writer.

So it was the latter: he groped Connie Willis, apparently. On stage. In front of, well, everybody.

Patrick Nielsen Hayden‘s take on this is exactly right:

Just as with George W. Bush’s now-famous uninvited shoulder-rub of German Chancellor Angela Merkel, the basic message of Ellison’s tit-grab is this: “Remember, you may think you have standing, status, and normal, everyday adult dignity, but we can take it back at any time. If you are female, you’ll never be safe. You can be the political leader of the most powerful country in Europe. You can be the most honored female writer in modern science fiction. We can still demean you, if we feel like it, and at random intervals, just to keep you in line, we will.”

Apparently Ellison has apologized. Maybe it’s enough, maybe not. But behavior like this needs to be squashed like a bug, every time it happens.

(And of course, this post is mainly an excuse to use as a post title a pun on the title of one of Ellison’s most famous stories. What a geek I am….)

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Beasties ahoy!

This ought to be up PZ Myers’s alley: the blue-ringed octopus.

Cute, isn’t it? This little creature’s venom can kill an adult human in minutes; its distinctive blue rings are not visible until the octopus is about to attack; and it illustrates Yoda’s famed maxim that size matters not. The blue-ringed octopus is about the size of a golf ball.

More linkage from the MeFi thread wherein I learned about this little beastie.

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And now the easiest part of the coach’s job: the cuts!

The Buffalo Bills finalized their 2006 roster yesterday. Daimon Shelton makes the team, which was to be expected after the amazing prowess he displayed last season in third-down and goal-line situations. Ahem.

Also making the team is safety Coy Wire, signaling that the Bills remain committed to maintaining a strong presence of “Meh” on their roster.

Stay tuned, sometime this week, for my annual kickoff of football-related postings. It’s almost time for a whole new season of bitching about the Bills’ O-line, the New England Stupid Patriots, Joe Theissman’s babbling idiocy, and more!

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Bum bum bum BUUMMMM….

It’s just wrong, folks.

I love John Williams as much as anybody, but I can’t get behind this new theme he’s written for Sunday Night Football on NBC. I just can’t do it. The music itself is OK — listen to it — but hearing that, I think of droid armies on the march against the Jedi or a Nazi convoy trundling along a desert valley while Indiana Jones tries to overcome them on horseback. I don’t think of football.

Now, this isn’t Williams’s fault, of course, and I don’t think any composer could cause my brain to associate some new piece of music with football. I don’t make too many strong connections between music and something in the concrete world, but this is one of my few such associations: this music is football. Not John Williams, not Jerry Goldsmith, not anything else. (Well, maybe Hank Williams Jr. But that’s it.)

Are you ready…!

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