Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Werewolves and other Plagues

Halloween, with its werewolves, ghosts, and other species of undead, rustles nearer. Should we live through it, comes the time—from Thanksgiving through Christmas—of colds and flu, as we travel about and catch things, then come home and stew in the closeness of the Season. In anticipation of all this, my throat is starting to feel a little scratchy. And, what with the swine flu (sorry, pigs, I meant "H1N1"!) crouching, ready to spring, and vampires trolling the neighborhood for candy, my thoughts naturally turn to garlic.

One year, tired of getting every cold my kids brought home from school, I thought I would try raw garlic as a preventative. As with the advocates of cold baths or business school, there were plenty of folks out there with more enthusiasm than evidence touting the advantages of raw garlic as an immune-system booster. And I thought, why not? It's a natural food, and a traditional folk remedy, so certainly worth a try. I started daily knocking back several cloves of the raw, chopped or crushed, in soup or a sandwich (never on cereal!), and guess what—no colds! From Thanksgiving until at least Valentines Day, for several years in a row, I took my daily garlic. As far as I could tell, I had escaped the bane of every parent of small children. (Oh, I may have had the occasional stuffed up nose overnight, but nothing more.)

Cynics pointed out that, given the well-known metabolic by-products of garlic, I was escaping disease by keeping everyone at a great distance from me by means of B.O. My family members, though, were either stupifyingly polite or simply honest when they said that no, I didn't smell any worse than usual...

However, I am a scientist—by temperment, anyway. One year I didn't do my garlic regimen, and waited for the worst. It never came. I was also cold-free that holiday season. Since then I have employed garlic only in the usual culinary ways, and my rate of catching cold is quite low anyway. So what gives?

Somewhere or other I read about prisoners who were forced to clear away the bodies of plague victims in Paris, perhaps during the first, most fatal eruption of the Black Death in the mid-fourteenth century, perhaps during a later one. The story concerns garlic steeped in wine. Wine, of course, was the staple drink, since the water was bad. Anyway, these fellows, perhaps because of the infusions of garlic, could handle the dead and dying and not succumb themselves.

I suspect this story has a grain of truth. Prisoners were certainly dragooned into the terrifying work of clearing bodies. But did garlic save them? Well, look at it this way: they were probably eating garlic and onions—the caviar of the poor—anyway, and some of them lived. (Even the BD did not kill everyone.) The story no doubt grew (perhaps much later, through an article in the Garlic Growers Association Newsletter) that it was the garlic—after all, they were alive, and they ate garlic! The dead, who might of been equally enthusiastic consumers of garlic, were not considered...

Ah, survivor bias. We forget all about the losers, and just look at the winners as if they had done something special to be winners, then go about trying to find that something, and finally mythologize its efficacy. In fact, by and large, that something is usually just luck. It is not that winners do nothing to achieve their success. Many work quite hard, and are loaded with ability. The unfortunate fact, though, is that the losers are often equally ambitious and talented. And where good outcomes are granted to only a few—rock music, politics, paradigm-busting scientific research, business, plague survival—merit, however broadly defined, gets you only so far. Luck makes the final call.

Is this all to say that you should not work hard in your chosen field, but rather just kick back and wait for luck to kick in? Not at all. As someone said: "Fortune favors the prepared mind." No, it is simply to recognize that luck often trumps merit, so the proper attitude toward your own success is humility, and that of others skepticism. (Whether you season that skepticism with envy is your call.) Furthermore, look askance at recipes for success: they might be elevating mere contingencies that simply happened to be around when Chance touched down.

Garlic was around. Did it give life, or merely bask in the success of those that chance favored? I myself have been an enthusistic embracer of the garlic myth, which these days is encased in the natural foods myth, which is itself part of a primitivist reaction to modern life. Whether the garlic kept the colds away during the years my kids were the most contagious, and my stopping it just coincided with their no longer being that way, or my immune system never really needed it, I don't know. But just in keeping the werewolves and vampires at bay, I think it was worth it.

My empty stomach is so shrunken a clove of garlic’s like a chicken. But still I live! I drink this wine and eat these fiery squabs of mine, while many others, better fed, I’ve gathered by the wagon load and trundled to their common graves. Perhaps, with only garlic cloves and vile wine to wash them down, they might have seen another dawn.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Who Could Love Me?

I just had an argument with my mother and sister about Health Reform, that baby that seems to be stuck in the Congressional delivery room. So, as with any difficult birth, we prepare for the worst while still hoping for so much...

Anyway, I should never have gotten into it with them, since it was only moments before they were trashing the health insurance industry. They were not being uniquely perverse: almost everyone blames private insurance for our country's health woes. (After all, we get outraged at our insurer who refuses to pay for a $50K surgery with a marginal success rate. Why don't we think it legitimate to ask the surgeon to lower his price?) The basic mantra is: Other countries have successful, cheap, nationally-funded, guaranteed health care. Why can't we?

I don't know. The United States is the outlier in so many ways, some good, some bad. But the plaint above has a lot in common with that of many teen-age boys (of whom I was one):

i'm covered with acne i've got bad breath so i'll never ever get a date. of course not. but still... maybe, just maybe, some girl— a pretty, pretty girl, too— could love the inner me. which is, unfortunately, kind of a horny weasel and not all that great...

So why can't we have a decent health care system, like all those other countries do? There could be many reasons. And perhaps we can change. But maybe it's just that we're ugly and don't really deserve it.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

The Fire (or Ice?) Next Time...

“
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice...
”

For a long time I was a global warming cynic, but not in the usual way. Oh, sure, we were heating up the planet with our CO2 spewings. But from my perch in the Chicago area I said, "So what's wrong with that? We could use a bit of a warm-up. Warmth is life, cold is death, right?" While it was true that sea levels would rise, and various human and non-human ecosystems would suffer, with great disruptions in agriculture and many extinctions, it seemed to me that on balance, after the readjustments (by other people than me, and also other species than my own) things would be better. Siberia and Canada would offer vast new areas for farming, and more species would flourish in the new warmth than in the old not-so-warmth. After all, life was doing great things in the distant past when it was really warm.

What they were calling bad was actually good. But it was not that which made me cynical; I could see their side of things, after all: good or bad is largely a matter of opinion, and it does matter where you're standing (in Bangladesh, the Sahel), and "in the long run we're all dead" by the time those readjustments have come into play. And so forth. No, what really got me was this smarmy air-headed attitude, totally dominating the discussion, that we broke it, so we can―and should!― fix it. Thus...

We're really really sorry for having binged so long on fossil sunlight, and will never ever do it again. And, we're agreed: for the desert nomads, the sub-tropical farmers, the polar bears, the coral reef communities, the beach houses in Malibu, we have to make amends, make it better, keep the old world going in the old way...

Can do!

Crank out the cap-and-trade certs, crank up the windmills, go to Kyoto, use that bully pulpit to keep everyone on message. Keep the Africans away from their coal reserves; shame the Indians and Chinese into clean industry; put our own CO2 where the sun don't shine. And give loads and loads of dough to those that look as worried as we are about the issue...

Sounds great, doesn't it? It's a plan: multi-fronted, energetic, straightforward, technologically intensive, and environmentally on the side of the angels. Alas, it hasn't the chance of a snowball in the Jurassic.

I can hear you thinking, at this point, that I've chosen to call myself "cynic" when actually "weak-kneed defeatist" might be closer to the mark. But I can be both! Hear me out.

Whoops, look at the time! Lest I try your patience and my own powers of concentration, I'm going to call it an entry. But very soon I will re-visit this issue: after all, Global Warming and what we should do about it costs most of us anxiety, if nothing else. And maybe, in my small way, I'll be able to free up your mind, so you can spend your worry currency on something else...

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

You Don't Want to Know!

If you would, in your manners, be right,
and, conversing, bring only delight,
you'll not ask for the truth
(a blunder uncouth),
which just forces a fib or a fight!

So...

  • Don't ask a waiter what's in a sauce.
  • Don't ask your doctor how long you've got.
  • Don't ask your divorce lawyer whether you're in the right.
  • Don't ask your teen-age daughter whether she's had sex.
  • Don't ask your teen-age son...anything.
  • Don't ask your father about the war, his love life, or global warming.
  • Don't ask your mother if she loves you more than she loves your brother.
  • Don't ask your dog whether he's been rolling in shit.
  • Don't ask your cat where he's stashed his latest kill.
  • Don't ask anyone what they think of bankers, the economic recovery initiatives, or the health care system.
  • Don't ask a long-time friend whether you've gotten old.
  • Don't ask your spouse whether anything you do is irritating.

...and so on.

I admire the way you've used tact
to forge a societal pact:
as big fibs and small lies
are life's pleasing disguise,
you all happily take them for fact.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Mea Culpa?

"Finish all your dinner, dear. Remember, millions of people are starving in China."

(1950's guilt trip)


What if we actually succeeded in eating all the carbon dioxide we make, and the planet heated up anyway?

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

What he's saying is...

David Foster Wallace addressed the graduating class of Kenyon College in 2005, and committed suicide in 2008. The latter act has, retrospectively, given the former a significance it would not otherwise have had. Commencement talks are usually as perishable as wedding toasts, and for similar reasons―should they survive―take on ironical color over the years. This particular talk actually went viral, I suppose because of the following:

It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master. And the truth is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull the trigger.

Poor DFW! Some Stephen Covey, some Anthony Robbins he is. (Whoops! Was.) Ah, the irony. Or, worse: how pathetic.

But, no, I think not. Irony is found in a―sometimes subtle―disjunction between assumptions and actuality, patheticness (yes, there is such a word) in a patent disjunction between ambition and actuality. If the Upbeat-Speech-and-Later-Suicide were an ironic arc, then DFW would have been, in the speech, an inspirational speaker who, by his suicide, showed he never took his own advice. If the USaLS were simply pathetic, he would have believed that those stretching exercises for a healthy mind could cure his.

But neither color really sticks: in fact DFW knew he was walking in the darkness, and his own case was far more desperate than these freshly-scrubbed grads would know. His advice was pretty much what it seemed to be: how can you enlarge your mind in a world that has made adulthood a series of trivial trials and petty annoyances? But remember:

Again, please don't think that I'm giving you moral advice, or that I'm saying you are supposed to think this way, or that anyone expects you to just automatically do it. Because it's hard. It takes will and effort, and if you are like me, some days you won't be able to do it, or you just flat out won't want to.

DFW was asking these normal kids to take their perceptions out for a stroll, or even a vacation, once in a while. But he very well knew that at some point his own terrible master might make him climb Mont Blanc in his pajamas. For the moment he let that go, and simply spoke of sanity and kindness in a world that conspires against them.

The bushman treks many a dusty mile
intent upon the spoor of a giraffe.
He does not think about his weary life,
but slowly trots with an expectant smile.
However, should the missionary’s wife
have waiting by the wayside food and drink
he might just stop and munch a spicy roll,
and that subversion of his single goal
might wake him from his trance and make him think
about the empty end of all his strife.
Then all his living ties break link by link
as easily as that. The sun would sink
and throw his shadow as he stood there still;
the moon outline his figure on the hill.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Coughin' Nails

...
They used to smoke in their cars,
rolling the windows down and letting their red nails
hang out, little stoplights:
Stop now, before the green
comes to cover up your tall brown bodies.

(from My Aunts by Meghan O'Rourke)

Well, we know you're our niece and all, Mag:
we indulge you your rant on the rag.
But the next time you mus'
primly criticize us,
just think twice, and then light up a fag...