On Competence

John Wick, supremely competent at killing people

When a society uses a suite of technologies that a single adult can master in his or her lifetime—building a house from scratch, farming, spinning cotton, making medicines, having babies, hunting, fishing, singing and dancing—then it is possible to attain a high level of competency in nearly every major task an adult may be called upon to do.

In the highly specialized western society in which I live, this is not the case. Most of us are completely inept at most things. I cannot build a house, or farm, or fish very well, or sing or play any instruments or do virtually anything well except write. I needed expert help to have my babies and my one attempt at spinning cotton, in the Peruvian Amazon, brought my audience of skilled indigenous people to tears of helpless laughter. Most of us are in this boat. If we can program software, we can’t make a good omelet. If we can make a good omelet, we can’t repair a lawnmower or pass a history test or do even a cursory tango. Most of us suck at most things.

Despite the toll that division of labor has taken on our individual competence in most realms, our admiration for competence is undiminished. We are impressed with people who can weld or make their own beer or do that thing with a frying pan where you flip everything by tossing it into the air. Our cinematic heroes are usually hyper-competent: James Bond, Sherlock Holmes–even the endearingly sociopathic John Wick, who has efficiently killed more than 300 people in his three films.

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All Hail the Diatom

Millions of years ago, there they were. Floating around, taking in the sights as much as a single-celled organism can, turning carbon dioxide into oxygen, supporting the food chain—diatoms did all the things that they still do now. And then, they died.  

When they died, they drifted down to the bottoms of lakes and rivers and the ocean. Their silica-packed cell walls remained and piled up, over time becoming chalky deposits called diatomaceous earth.  

They’re still out there, of course, the diatoms, doing all those helpful things for us. But today it is the shells of their former selves that I praise and thank. Diatomaceous earth has saved my sanity more than once. It is known to fight pests by drying up their exoskeletons. It also can be used to filter important liquids, such as drinking water, wine, and beer. Diatoms were there for the pinworm incident. They were there for the beer that I needed to drink after the pinworm incident. And now, they are here for my strawberries.

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Abstruse Goose: Witch Hunt

Our boy, Abstruse Goose, has gone missing again. We sympathize: anyone posting anything on the regular is bound to run dry sooner or later. (The exception of course is the People of LWON.) Anyway, luckily AG has left an archive of cartoons, some of witch turn out to be timely.

https://abstrusegoose.com/597

Conversation: Erik Plays Chess with Squirrels (UPDATED*)

One day Erik and I were chatting happily about birds and birdfeeders, all sweet reason and collegiality.  Then he said he’d found a squirrel-proof birdfeeder. And the conversation turned dark. Words were said in haste. We eventually calmed down enough to state our cases in a pleasant, civilized manner.

[NOW WITH UPDATES. See below*]

E: It’s a question of thumbs. I have them and squirrels do not. Thus, I believe that I will prevail over these horrible hairy creatures. I mean, okay, technically squirrels have little thumb-like digits. But they are gross, so they don’t count.  

A:  We completely agree about the nature and character of squirrels.  Where we disagree is over whether thumbs make any difference. Squirrels are smarter than we are.  Can we instantly calculate the distance, velocity, and gravitational drag necessary to leap from one tree to another and nail it every time?  We can not. So when you tell me you have a birdfeeder that squirrels can’t outsmart, I can place no faith in your account.

E: Technically I have three birdfeeders. And a plate of rotten bananas that the internet says attracts waxwings. And while, yes, the local squirrel seems to access them with ease, that’s about to change. We put people on the moon. Not me personally, but my species did. Do you see any acorns buried in the lunar dust? No, you don’t. I’m confident I can beat a squirrel. FYI – there are SO many good videos on YouTube.

A:  Internet videos are not evidence.  I have been collecting evidence for decades.  I hung a birdfeeder on the branch of a full-grown maple, strung a thin wire from a high branch to the feeder, maybe 50,000 feet of wire.  Squirrels went down it headfirst, like up/down was the same as across, made no difference to them, and ate all the birdfeed.

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Once-Feral Cat

This cat is celestial. Brought to the house on a sled down a snowed-in road, he arrived in the deepest winter I’d seen in years. Fresh from a shelter, he entered our home wide-eyed, a couple years old, sniffing everything. My girlfriend said he was perfect.

The year before had been hard. We’d lost four cats, each a stray that stopped in. Understand, we did our best to keep them before they vanished. Eaten, no doubt. I wrote about them here.

In rural country, most outdoor cats mean meat for wild carnivores. The wiliest survive, while the rest of the barn cats are picked off by birds of prey, eaten by coyotes, bobcats, mountain lions, squashed while running across a back road. You don’t get too attached to barn cats. Some aren’t named for ten years or more.

This one was from a shelter, not a feral that came sniffing around and decided we were the better option. Once we got records we learned he had, indeed, been a neutered feral from a mesa near where we live, traveled to the shelter an hour away just to come back home.

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The day I tried to love ticks

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This post originally appeared in 2016, but now that my morning ritual involves picking at least one fat tick off the dog, I figured it was time for a reprise.

There’s a certain category of mundane but distinctly unpleasant discovery: The blueberries you just mixed in your oatmeal explode mold into your mouth at 6 a.m. You read that Donald Trump won the Nevada Republican caucuses. You roll over in bed to find a tick lodged midriff-deep in your shoulder, wiggling about with a tenacity that suggests she plans to spelunk all the way through to your lungs.

“Fortuitously, the antibiotic you take prophylactically for Lyme disease is also the one you take to treat Chlamydia,” the doctor tells me cheerfully a day later when he checks the bruised and swollen bite and gives me a prescription. I stare at him, wondering why he thinks I need this information. It’s unlikely that I’ve got Lyme. Though local incidence is going up, Oregon saw only 44 reported cases in 2014 and Washington generally gets fewer than 30 a year – with just zero to three stemming from local ticks. But the fact that odds are in my favor fails to cheer me as I pluck tick after ever-more-engorged tick from my dog over the next several days. They’re small and hide well in her fur, so unless they pop out of her ears and stroll calmly across her face (some do) I can’t seem to find them until they’re attached and on their way to becoming fat and shiny as coffee beans.

Their emergence is, of course, just as much a sign of spring as the lovely purple grass widows my friend Roger and I had been out looking for when tickmageddon started last Saturday. By tick 10, I started to wonder: Aside from their reputation for transmitting more diseases than any other blood-sucking arthropod, why shouldn’t I find a way to appreciate ticks, too – from a safe distance away? Maybe I could even learn to love them a little bit.

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The Marshes of America’s Space Program

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Liftoff of Space Shuttle Discovery on STS-70, July 13, 1995. Credit: NASA

Last week, on my visit to the Moon rocks, I walked across a bridge topping a marsh. To my right were tall grasses emerging from a long, thin body of water, bending toward the east. To my left was a space shuttle perched on a 747. I heard waterfowl piping and chirping, but I couldn’t see them in the already-humid morning haze. I could see the Saturn V, the biggest rocket ever built, the one that took people to the Moon. 

The incongruity of the scene was so incredibly disarming: A glistening natural scene interrupted by tall, skinny bombs made to throw people and machines off this planet.

But then I realized I’ve seen something like it before. Johnson is another of NASA’s marshes. A liminal space for people of liminal minds.

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Your birthday is bad for you

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I know a guy who doesn’t have a birthday. Andy* was born in the Moroccan desert. His parents were nomads. There were no smartphones in the 1960s and a nomadic tribe didn’t have much use for the Gregorian calendar. And when it came to recalling the exact day and month of Andy’s birth, there were higher priorities.

Twenty years later, planning to move to Switzerland, he needed a national ID. Thanks to some artifact of Moroccan bureaucracy, he found himself with a state-issued birth certificate that listed only a date – 1969, his best guess at the year of his birth.

When he arrived in Switzerland, he needed a driver’s license. Because of the mismatch between required fields and available data, the compromise was an ID with the birthdate 0/0/1969. If you believe the science around birthdays. maybe that was the best thing that ever happened to him.