07Jan / 2010

Careers in Science: Sentimental Meteorology

The sentimental meteorologist lies in bed reading a book about weather, wondering how many other sciences are expected by people to be wrong as much as they are right, and whether that means it’s a good job. He wonders about the most visible representatives of his profession, television weatherpersons, and how they often seem to be the comic relief on the news team — you have the anchorpersons, the sportspersons with the Frida Kahlo eyebrows, and the weatherpersons cracking jokes. As if the anchorpersons are chosen to physically represent journalistic integrity and authority, the sportspersons athleticism and a fascination with statistics, and weatherpersons science itself — a little goofy, a little aspergerish. People you could imagine forgetting their spouses at a rest stop.

The sentimental meteorologist is reading a book about weather because he wants to finally understand what causes fog. The book discusses every type of weather in detail, except for fog.

What is it about fog, the sentimental meteorologist wonders.

Also, why was a cat sleeping under his pillow last night? What’s up with that? This makes him wonder if cats are a vector for lice in humans, and if humans can get ear mites.

And then everything itches.

Rest stops. The sentimental meteorologist would never forget his spouse at a rest stop, probably. Or a kid. Probably depends how tired he got.

The sentimental meteorologist wonders whether he should have studied optics or something, because of this: he has this idea right now that literature sucks because books contain the wrong light, or none at all. They lack the beautiful light of real life: the changing light of a baseball stadium open to the sky during an evening game, the light of supermarkets, sunrise and dusk, fog. The blue glow of television at night seen from the street by a lonely man. A campfire. A chemical factory burning down. A blinking cursor is no match for these things. Sunlight on snow. Oncoming headlights on high beam. A copy maching copying while left open. The immigration line at an airport at night. Restaurant windows at night in the rain. A squall. Heat lightning of a summer night while the family is out late, burning the brush pile and talking. A car with one headlight. A warning light on your dashboard you’ve never seen before when you’ve just emptied out your savings account. A strong flashlight held to a child’s hand in a dark room, a strong flashlight held in your mouth. Street lights coming on irregularly, or going off, or both. The light native to certain places, like Provence, or the Low Countries, or where the sentimental meteorologist lives. Hazy summer light, clear winter skies, light before a snow: black clouds, bright along the horizon. Natural light, manmade light. A lit apartment seen from a dark apartment. A woman in the bath tub at night seen by whispering boys outside. The light in a church. The light at a funeral not in a church. A light dimming and dying like a pen going dry.

The sentimental meteorologist tells himself that he has the feeling that his soldiers are massing along the border of a country and will invade soon and everything will be okay, but he doesn’t know what country.

Maybe he should have studied geography.

Everyone says fog is caused by water vapor in the air. Duh, thinks the sentimental meteorologist. But how does it get there, in the case of fog? Warm water and cold air? Cold water and warm air? Can’t be the latter, water is usually colder than air, right?

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10Dec / 2009

Careers in Science: Zoosemiotics

The cat was chirping.

She was telling the zoosemiotician something, but it was heavily contextual, so he had to stop what he was doing, whatever that was, something with a pen and a Moleskine that looked like a guy fisting a wasp while Juliette Binoche watched, and observe the cat more closely.

The cat was chirping and looking at the front door, so the zoosemiotician opened the door and the cat went out. Three more came in, so he fed them.

It was like a story problem. One cat goes out, three come in, how many are eating? Two, because one has a thing whereby he won’t eat with the other cats unless you watch.

Obviously not hungry enough, was the zoosemiotician’s diagnosis. He was depressed. He had been reading about how stupid people are. That is, he had known it for a long time, that people are stupid, but god. He had made the mistake of reading about Fox news pie charts that were nonsense and Fox news survey results that added up to 120%, and he had watched that video where that guy interviews Palin supporters and not a single one can name a single actual Palin policy. Even accounting for bias and editing, it was a chilling thing to watch.

The zoosemiotician thinks, the Dunning-Kruger effect goes further towards explaining modern society than any other single explanation of anything.

The zoosemiotician’s wife comes into the kitchen. He offers her coffee.

“WTF is that in your journal? It looks like a guy fisting a wasp.”

The zoosemiotician chirps. His wife opens the front door.

A cat comes in.

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16Sep / 2009

Careers in Science: Noetical Hydrology

Does the tear absorb the ocean or does the ocean absorb the tear? This question is the domain of the noetical hydrologist. Taking a walk along the creek with his younger daughter, the noetical hydrologist finds himself discussing death and grief with her. “I watched you when grandpa died,” she says. “I read in a magazine how long it takes to get over the deaths of various people – friend, parent, spouse, grandparent, and we were both right on the money. I needed about four months. Eight months for you, I think. You always used to be funny. Then you were so sad. Then, afterwards, you were funny again, just not quite as funny as before.”

The noetical hydrologist’s daughter says this to him. The sun has set and the sky is glowing above the cornfield while clouds gather for a rainy night. The noetical hydrologist wonders, is she wise beyond her years or am I just dull? Neither, he decides. She’s the way she belongs, as is he.

Does the tear absorb the ocean or does the ocean absorb the tear?

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02Feb / 2009

Careers in Science III: Astheniology

As luck would have it, the astheniologist’s daughter is diagnosed with pneumonia right before a big test and has to spend the holidays at home, both messing up her academic schedule for the rest of the year in a big way, and stealing a holiday season the prospect of which had sustained her through the first part of the year.

As luck would have it, her parents just got new sofas, so at least she has a new sofa upon which to recline.

As luck would have it, the astheniologist’s back went out right when the sofas were to be picked up, meaning the astheniologist’s wife and her father had to do the heavy moving. The astheniologist took a professional interest in this, and filmed the first segment of the moving, his wife and father-in-law getting part of the old sofa which was still in good enough shape to save up the stairs to the daughter’s room on the second floor.

The astheniologist saw the humor in this, as did his younger daughter, his wife and father-in-law less so. His elder daughter, the one with pneumonia, wisely abstained.

The new sofas, though, that had to be carried in after the old sofas were removed, the new sofas both came in a single piece – unlike one of the old sofas, which could be broken down into two pieces for easier moving. The new sofas were both a lot heavier, too.

So the astheniologist went rapidly from the hysterical barking of orders to holding the heavy end and visualizing the nerves extending from his spinal column, out between two lumbar vertebrae and down his leg, mere microns from being put out of action by whatever it was that was making them tingle already, while his wife and father-in-law did god-knows-what at the other end. Argued semantics or something.

According to the astheniologist, see, it is a good idea to know beforehand precisely how you are going to get a large, heavy piece of furniture up some stairs and around a corner and through a door, through an entryway and around another corner and through another door before you pick up the piece of furniture, and not stand on the stairs trying to fit it through the doorway, each of the three persons involved pushing in a different direction and shouting.

According to the astheniologist, this is how it is done:

You move the cabinet out of the entry way, otherwise the large piece of furniture in question won’t fit past.
You stand the large piece of furniture on end at the top of the stairs, turn it 90 degrees so it goes through the door the skinny way, not the fat way, and carefully shove it through bottom end first, not vertically, since it is longer than the doorway is high.
Then, you carry it through the entryway horizontally.
Then you stand it up again for the next door, turn it 90 degrees so it can go through the door the skinny way, not the fat way, and push it through bottom end first, but very carefully, because the people holding the high end are standing with their backs to the cellar stairs, and it is important to avoid them sliding down the stairs head-first, on their backs, with a large piece of furniture atop them.
Then you carry the furniture horizontally to its final destination, or place it on a blanket and slide it.
Was that so hard?

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15Dec / 2008

Careers in Science, III: Thaumatology

As luck would have it, the thaumatologist is diagnosed with viral pneumonia for the holidays, necessitating a change in plans at every level of magnification.

On the plus side, the thaumatologist’s parents just got two new sofas, so the thaumatologist can flop on new furniture for the next four weeks.

On the minus side, the thaumatologist and the thaumatologist’s sister had to listen to their father, who has an out-of-order lumbar disc, try to organize their mother and their grandfather to move the sofas: 1.5 old sofas out, 0.5 old sofas upstairs to the thaumatologist’s room, 2 new sofas in, until he finally gave up and took an end of a sofa, which however didn’t stop him yelling things like, No, turn it so it goes through the door the skinny way, it’s too wide to go through the fat way, or, No, your end first, not my end first, or, You’re pushing me down the cellar stairs, and other common bulky furniture-moving phrases.

The thaumatologist is probably happy the weekend is over and she has the house to herself for a while.

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12Dec / 2008

Careers in Science, II: Acarology

(We did algedonics yesterday)

The acarologist has probably a pound of the little sonsabitches in his hypoallergenic pillow alone. He can’t hear them but he knows they’re there, and pounds more in the hypoallergenic mattress. Thank god they don’t have wallpaper or a carpet. His daughter coughs at the other end of the hall. She can’t sleep because being horizontal makes her cough, and she refuses to sleep sitting up. He thinks of all the jobs he never would have survived had he been as picky. What time is it, eleven. His wife said she’d be home at midnight. What the name of pere ubu are the kittens doing out in the hall? And who thought the pulsating sleep light feature on the ibook was a good idea? If he squints his eyes shut tight in the darkness, and then opens them real fast and wide, he can see blue rings that look as if they were scratched into film emulsion.

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11Dec / 2008

Algedonics

The algedonicist stood crookedly at his desk, caught by a spasm not in the process of standing up, but rather in the process of having just stood up. He waited for the firing in his lower back to stop and observed his posture: left leg straight, normal, but pelvis so twisted his right leg was on tiptoe – leg? foot? – to even things out. The only science, this. Tiny increments of wow, oh boy.

Wow; oh boy.