If I Were a Shar Pei, My Wrinkles Would Be Delightful

By: | May 27, 2022

This is from 2020, but who cares? The pandemic is probably still happening [Ed.: def still happening] [Ed.: how can this be] [Ed.: pls explain] so we need this perspective again. Plus, cute animal pictures. You’re welcome.

When I look in the mirror, though everything is mildly blurry, I can’t not see the signs of aging I used to think might miraculously skip me—back when I was being carded in bars (at 43!!). But there they all are, the sags and swollen bits, the divots and wrinkles, the spots and stiff (and very sudden) stray hairs. (Silver lining of the pandemic? Masks. The bigger the better.)

I know, I know…I’ve complained about these annoyances before, yadda yadda, and the denial, anger, begging, and sadness should be long over; I should just accept what can’t be changed, embrace it, even. But I’m still treading water between pissed off and pleading. Damn you, roly-poly extra-padded parts and damn you, parts that are all skin, no pad! Damn you 50+ neck, you abomination! (If you tighten up I promise to stop denying the duct tape-belly roll incident, as a public service.)

How unfortunate, too, is the fate of the nose and ears when you add time to the mix. I’d always heard they look bigger on older people because they never stop growing, but the truth is more tragic: They look supersize because gravity is a monkey that swings from every appendage, and after decades the cartilage finally breaks down and gives in to the stretch and droop. Far-reaching schnoz and earlobes like clown feet? It’s my destiny. (I’ve seen the photos of my Granny. Bless her heart.)

Meanwhile, you’d think after so many years looking at animals this would have occurred to me sooner, but here is my new revelation: The traits I hate the most in my aging self are, on other animals, friggin’ adorable. Have you seen a basset hound’s ears? A panda’s tummy? A baby elephant’s scribbly skin and a mastiff’s low-hanging jowls? Does anyone see an eagle’s beak and think “she should have gotten that done years ago”? I submit that no one has.

If I were truly brave I’d juxtapose the following images with pictures of the relevant parts on myself, but I’m choosing to leave it to your imagination. Now, try to be nice.
—

Bloodshot eyes and facial droop. Hilarious and cute! Nobody will wonder what you did last night (and then judge you harshly for mixing alcohol and Valium). No one will wonder how you’d look with a Joan Rivers skin knot at the back of your head. (Turn to tighten.) Can you believe this dog won a prize for superior ugliness. Noooo!
You are an adorable alien! The ears, the neck wrinkles–just part of your charm. You be you!
Those wiry whiskers were’t already an inch long when you first spied them jutting out from the side of your face, and look how nice and balanced they are. Plus, they actually have a function! How nice for you.
So many chins. But no need to sit lower than your camera for the Zoom call–you are a delight!
No plastic surgeon ever told you that to get rid of the eye bags he’d have to cut away a triangle of skin and then yank up your cheek skin and sew it under your lash line! Because each loop around the eye is a chapter in the tome of your amazing face! (Nice “nose,” too. Not too big. Just right.)
Your crazy brows, ear hair, and ‘stache-beard suit you, girl; don’t even think of waxing, plucking, or shaving. Nobody will point and giggle in a mean way.
What cute freckles! No need to get them checked for squamous cells!
No, those stripes don’t make your ass look big! You can get away with lines in any direction, you style maven!
Now all the other animals want ridiculously large ears, too! Because of how cute they are on you, obviously.
Those dark circles really pop! You don’t look tired and mid-life weary at all. That’s definitely not smeared mascara or last night’s smoky eye.
Fab faces, glorious fat rolls, noses like big (cute) buttons. Even the farting is adorable.
Wisdom lines. Beautiful! No need to moisturize, and no dermatologist will tell you the treatment involves a neurotoxin and a needle.
Puffy, hairy cheeks are precious! It wouldn’t occur to anyone that you are on Prednisone for some kind of weird rash!

I guess I’ll end it there.

[Thanks to UNSPLASH for the delightful photos.]

Guest post: Writing types as the Bristol stool scale

By: | May 25, 2022

Are you suffering from writer’s block? Or do your words flow a little too freely? The color, frequency and density of your writing can tell you a lot about your health! Luckily, doctors have developed a useful chart to aid in diagnosis of all writing complaints: The Bristol Writing Scale.

7. Liquid consistency with no solid pieces: Severe logorrhea. Write drunk, edit that way, too. A monograph about theoretical physics has morphed into a polemic about your ex, with a large set of quoted lyrics from The Phantom of the Opera. You have never seen The Phantom of the Opera. You, and everyone who sees your document, and in fact your entire office, will wonder what terrible crimes were committed therein. 

A stick figure sits at a merrily-burning laptop. Its thought bubble is an uninterrupted stream of nonsense. "whendealingwithNEUTRONSathigherenergySTATESmyedleftmeandallIgotWASthisCOFFEETABLEinsleepheSANGtomeindreamshecamethatVOICE...vorpisawordnowfortheflamesonthesidesofmyface..."
(Talk to your editor immediately when consciousness returns.)

6. Mushy consistency with ragged edges: The words are uncontrollable once they start. Your rant unspools with too many semicolons. Narrative structure is lost, but you do find that at some point you ate corn. 

A stick figure sits at a long-suffering laptop. The figure's glasses are upside-down. Long, ragged thought bubbles read "It is a truth universally acknowledged; That all men are created equal. Why men tho!? We are all born free; Free to eat corn and taste the sky..."
(Probably burns.)

5. Soft blobs with clear cut edges: The kind of writing done after several pots of coffee. Mildly unhinged. Potentially brilliant. Also potentially gibberish.

A stick figure twitches at a laptop with a spilling mug of coffee. The figure talks to itself of its brilliance as it writes, "O! For a muse of fire that would ascent the brightest heaven of invention! A kingdom for a stage, Princes to act!" It doesn't mean much but it sounds awfully impressive.
(Maybe light a candle if someone else needs to write.)

4. Like a smooth, soft sausage or snake: The perfect writing session. Words slip out with ease, but with just enough effort to give you a sense of accomplishment. You only have to wipe once and head off to humblebrag your word count on Twitter with a spring in your step.

A stick figure reclines, wearing sunglasses, in front of a laptop. The writer wonders if they should tweet their wordcount with #humbled? Or #blessed? They're both so, so true. They write, "it is interesting to contemplate a tangled bank, clothed with many plants of many kinds, with birds singing..."
(Add “Alert agent to await the Pulitzer nom…” to your to-do list.)

3. A sausage shape with cracks in the surface: The kind of writing of which most writing yeoman would be proud. Slightly stilted in places, and undeniably boring. But you hit your deadline. 

A stick figure sits hard at work on their laptop. No nonsense here. It writes "okay, okay. In Smith et al, 2016...sigh...the scientists collected fecal samples...(shoot)...Fecal samples...*deletes*"

(But you hit your deadline.)

2. Lumpy and sausage-like: Every sentence is an effort. Your deadline is breathing down your neck. Those outside the office may hear soft whimpering. If the writing gods smile upon you, after a few sentences, the dam will break and you will proceed to Bristol writing scale 5. 

A stick figure hunches over a laptop, perspiration beading its furrowed brow. "30 min to deadline," it huffs. "Augh. Smith et al. No. *Delete* Yeast. Does anything rhyme with. Yeast." Their feet slowly grow numb.
(Save your energy for the first edit.)

1. Separate hard lumps: Extreme word constipation. Must. Write. Word. A vein throbs in your forehead. This is the kind of writing that might have killed Elvis. 

A stick figure curls over a sobbing laptop. Sweat pours from the figure's face. Their eyes are squeezed shut, afraid to behold the page. "Bread. Bread. Bread. Bread. WHY. is. BREAD. Spelled. so. funny. ?
(Bread.)

0. The white glare of the page. The empty glare of the porcelain bowl. They are one and the same. 

A stick figure sits collapsed over a dead laptop. All is silence.
(Abandon hope, all ye who open this document.)

*Keep in mind that the Bristol Writing Scale is only a diagnostic tool, and should not be taken as a recommendation that only types four through five are indications of a future writing career. It is possible that your editor may recommend more fiber, at which point it is best to buy a subscription to the New Yorker.

Snapshot: My favorite bugs

By: | May 23, 2022
A 17-year-cicada on a branch

It’s been a year since we here in the mid-Atlantic were visited by my favorite bug and my favorite biological event: the emergence of Brood X, the 17-year-cicadas. I loved them in 1987, I loved them in 2004, and I loved them in 2021.

Apparently cicadas sometimes get confused about how long 17 years is, and I’ve heard of some stragglers coming out this year, but I haven’t seen one. I hope most of them read the calendar correctly and their babies will be back (for me to love them) in 2038.

I’ve been reliving the 2021 emergence through my phone’s feature where it shows me pictures from this day last year. If you’d like to join me, here are all the cicada posts I wrote last summer.

Photo: Helen Fields, May 2021

Battle of the Bay: A mild argument that ends with mint lemonade

By: | May 20, 2022

Helen and I argued about the Bay Area back in 2017. I mostly love it, she mostly does not. So, how have I not been there since late 2019?! (You know how.) I’m going back this weekend and I’ll see how the 2022 Bay compares to my happy memories and/or Helen’s less happy ones.

*

Cameron: Dear Helen, the last time I saw you was in Berkeley, and it was 2012 (really that long ago?!) and you were sad. You said you hated Northern California, and then I was sad, because I love it. And so I also knew I wouldn’t see you last month at WCSJ in San Francisco. I missed you! So let’s argue about it.

Helen: Oh man, that 2012 trip was truly, epically bad. Except for the part where I got to see you. I just reread my journal for that weekend to make sure I remembered the full terribleness. It included: being cold all the freaking time, because why is it always so dang cold indoors in California; losing my phone; and having my Kindle stolen right out of my hands. I was sitting there looking at it, and suddenly this pair of hands appeared in front of me and it was gone. And I didn’t feel like I got much out of the narrative journalism conference that we were there for. I already didn’t like Northern California, and that weekend was really the nail in the coffin. I don’t think I’ve been back since.

Cameron: I go there a lot. I grew up there, and a lot of my favorite people still live there. And I just–I don’t know–I just love it. I feel happy once you can see the Bay (at least, after the traffic–so I feel happy once we get on 580). I love it when the fog rolls in, I love cold days hiking in the hills and walking in Berkeley neighborhoods to look at wisteria and persimmons and beautiful old houses. I love all of my funny memories of high school in Oakland, and all those memories seem very close to the surface because many of the places I associate with them are still there (while most of the associated angst is gone). I love eating, and there are so many good places to eat. And I just love people there. I had such a good time being on BART and watching people and watching them watch each other.

Maybe some of this love is because then I get to leave–some things that might be annoying (like BART) if you live there can be funny when you don’t have to deal with it every day.  But you lived there, too, didn’t you? You don’t feel nostalgic when you go back?

Helen: Aw, now I feel like a mean old grumpypants! Hating your beloved Bay Area! I did live there, yeah. I was at Stanford for two years, which is down the peninsula from San Francisco an hour or so, then a year in Santa Cruz, which is on the north side of Monterey Bay. I imagine I’d feel all pleasant and nostalgic if I went back to either of those places. I liked those tall palm trees at Stanford, and the barking sea lions that I could hear from my desk at Santa Cruz. When I was in grad school, I used to love going up to San Francisco for parties. There were lots of exciting people. I dated a surgical resident for a bit, and later a litigator. A friend of a friend wrote part of a musical about skateboarding, and I recorded some of the songs. It was an exciting time.

But sometime between 2003 and now I fell out of love with all of it. Now when I think of the Bay Area I think of being cold and anxious and everything smelling like pee and pot.

Cameron: Oh no, that sounds awful! I mean, I have memories of things smelling like pee and pot, too. They’re just lots of other smells in there, too. Jasmine at night, wet conifers, eucalyptus, patchouli, Zachary’s pizza, bay leaves, Cheeseboard pizza, morning-after-the-party beer smell, high school gym smell, Fondue Fred’s fondue smell, chaparral smell, Arizmendi Bakery pizza smell. I’m noticing a hot cheese theme here.

I was going to look up something about smells and memory, to see if we could somehow realign your smell memory so you could safely travel to Northern California, but look what I found: an article you wrote on this very subject! So I don’t have to tell you that some researchers have found that the formation of smell-related memories peak around age five, even though visual and verbal cues tend to trigger memories from our teens and twenties.

Maybe instead of trying to convince you about Northern California, you and I should just go into a time machine, and we can be five, and I can take you to lots of fun places in the East Bay. Children’s Fairyland, the Adventure Playground, the big concrete slides at the Cordornices Park and the one behind Chabot School. There’d be all sorts of things we could smell there.

Helen: Oh my goodness. I remember writing that story–it was really interesting! I would absolutely time travel with you back to Northern California at age 5.

I’ve been thinking – the times I’ve gone back to the Bay Area in the last decade have mostly involved the neighborhood around the conference center in San Francisco, which is completely charmless, and my ex-boyfriend’s godfather’s house in Berkeley, which was cold and where I was always nervous about whether his family liked me. And having my stupid Kindle stolen shook me up a surprising amount.

If I think back to my 20s…I did really like Stanford and Santa Cruz. But I was always cold. People seem to think the weather is a plus in California, but I hated how I couldn’t just wear a sundress on a nice day, because the temperature would drop so much after sunset that I’d need sweatpants and a fleece. I never did figure out how to dress. And the buildings are underinsulated. And the extreme differences in income seem particularly noticeable in the Bay Area. And the horrendous commutes.

I feel like this is really a Bay Area problem I have, by the way. I have spent less time in other parts of Northern California but generally found them quite lovely.

Is there any place you totally hate?

Cameron: I’ve been trying to think—I’m not sure about whole towns, there are several hostels that I have very negative feelings about. I do not like it when places are oppressively hot. But you know, the only time I’ve been to DC, I️ didn’t love it, and it wasn’t even that hot. It was a traveling companion mismatch plus exhaustion. The only things I️ remember are going to the new (at the time) Holocaust museum and successfully using my fake ID at a bar in Georgetown. What do you think–should we arrange a good-memory exchange of our home bases?

Helen: Yes please! Hating my town is basically a national pastime, and I just love it here. And we’ll serve you alcohol! No fake IDs required!

Cameron: And then maybe we can visit Ann, or she can come to DC, and we can make mint lemonade, too. (Or maybe mix them together?) We’ll be that much happier, no matter where we are.

—

Image of the Bay Bridge by Flickr user Howard Ignatius under Creative Commons license

Carcass Cam

By: | May 18, 2022

This winter, having resolved to become better acquainted with our wild neighbors, I bought a trail camera. We’d been renting a cabin along a creek in the Arkansas Valley, and mink and foxes occasionally scuttled past our sliding backdoor. Who knew what other faunal wonders were traversing the property under cover of darkness? When I strapped the camera — a CamPark T20, for the curious — to the picnic table in our yard, however, I captured nothing more exotic than rabbits:

Fortunately, I didn’t have to search far to find a more target-rich environment. Our neighborhood abuts the San Isabel National Forest, and, soon after we moved to the valley, Elise had stumbled upon a bizarre mule-deer graveyard on a forest road a mile from our house. Scattered morsels of ungulate — tufts of hair, bleached scapulae, disembodied hooves — carpeted the floor of a piney draw near the road. Who, exactly, used this gruesome glade as a dumpsite wasn’t clear: Hunters dropped carcasses there in the fall, presumably, and highway maintenance personnel likely disposed roadkill year-round. (A fresh carcass seemed to turn up once a week.) Whatever its provenance, the muley graveyard was obviously a prime place for a wildlife camera. I resolved to document our local necrobiome, the cast of creaturely characters that congregated around the dead.

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Science Metaphors: Caustics

By: | May 16, 2022

That photo there was a lucky shot. I was sitting on the couch minding my own business and looked up, and the sunlight had hit the glass vase and the water in it and had gone nuts with optics. It went right through the tulip petals so that for me, sitting there, they were translucent — which is Latin for, light went right through them. It made reflections on the dish of the trees outside the window. And then the light got fancy and made those brilliant streaks. They’re called caustics.

Caustics aren’t really what the title says, a science metaphor, a word whose meaning in science is a metaphor that inadvertently helps us poor beings live our lives — like tidal locking, or resonance, or scale mismatch. But the word, “caustics,” is pretty and a little poetic; so the title not so much a lie as an extrapolation of metaphor into general poetry.

Caustic is kaustikos, Greek for burning. I’ll bet where that bright streak hit the table, the wood was warm. Acid is caustic, humor can be caustic; both burn.

You’ve seen caustics. They’re the brilliant streaks flashing around on the bottoms of swimming pools and shallow rivers. Light at sundown during dinner goes through a wine glass and makes a caustic on the table. And astonishingly, caustics are out in space. I’ll get to that in a minute.

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The Scarlet Letters

By: | May 13, 2022

This essay originally ran in 2011. Back then, the Hubble Space Telescope was the exemplar of non-Earth astronomical observation. Its successor, the James Webb Space Telescope, launched in December 2021. This anecdote, however, might be timeless.

In 1984, David Soderblom was a new hire at the Space Telescope Science Institute in Baltimore, and one day he got to thinking. STScI was—and still is—the science and operations center for the Hubble Space Telescope, which was then scheduled to launch in 1986. Soderblom suggested that a memento of some sort be aboard the space shuttle delivering HST into orbit—something, he recently told me, “to tie Hubble the man to Hubble the telescope.”

His first thought was a pipe. In photographs, Hubble always seemed to have a pipe pinched between his teeth, even when observing at the eyepiece of the 200-inch Hale telescope on Palomar Mountain—or at least when posing at the eyepiece. Soderblom contacted Allan Sandage, the onetime assistant of Hubble who, upon Hubble’s debilitating heart attack in 1949 and death in 1953, became his de facto heir at the Mount Wilson and Palomar Observatories (now the Carnegie Observatories) in Pasadena. Sandage told Soderblom he had a better idea. What about the photographic plate with which Hubble had made the discovery that essentially began modern cosmology: that our vast menagerie of stars is not alone but is, as we now know, merely one among billions of galaxies clouding the universe as far as even HST would be able to see?

This anecdote was part of an STScI press release distributed at this past May’s meeting of the American Astronomical Society, in Boston, to accompany a presentation of a series of observations by Hubble-the-telescope commemorating this discovery by Hubble-the-astronomer. But, as Soderblom and I found during a conversation a couple of weeks ago, there’s more to the story.

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loss

By: | May 11, 2022

The pandemic is over. Not really, but according to Delta Airlines and Anthony Fauci and just about everyone else, it seems, it’s time to move on. So one evening, when some friends suggested we meet up for a drink at a dive bar, I went. It was against my better judgment, but like a good little lemming, I wanted to do what everyone else was doing. I did not have a good time. People were too close and too loud and there was no ventilation and I was irrationally annoyed with the people who were having fun.

For the next few days, I was just really fucking angry, and I didn’t know why. It took me about a week to figure it out: I was disappointed with all of us. I didn’t know how we were, yet again, pretending like things were fine when they were not fine. I don’t know what I expected, but in the darkest days of isolation, or when we were marching in the streets, I really believed we’d come out of this a society changed for the better. This is naive, I know; I would’ve called it naive then, too, but I needed the hope to get by. And most of all, I wanted closure. A “COVID is over” parade? A national holiday, where the president would provide words of comfort and encouragement? (I’m thinking the president’s speech in Independence Day, but about microbes, not aliens.) A pizza party? Surely someone smarter than me could figure this out.

But COVID ends with not a bang, but a whimper. There’s no triumphant end, but rather, a brash and unceremonious giving up, all of us throwing up our middle fingers at COVID, as if our exhaustion would make it go away. So many people have lost so much, and yet, there’s no time, space, or money to process it. There’s been no public acknowledgment, no memorial.

One night, I couldn’t stay asleep. Around 2am, I started thinking about loss — the losses my friends and all the people I’ve interviewed over the last two years have sustained, all the turns of phrase in our language around losing things. I wrote down everything that came to mind in a note on my phone, and this is the (unedited) result.

loss

lose your parent
lose your grandparent
lose your child
lose your pet
lose your job
lose control
lose your mind
loser
lose the story
lose face
lose the weight
lose it
lose faith
lose your nerve
lose patience
lose your keys
lose an hour
lose yourself
lose your shirt
lose your lunch
lose your touch
lose touch
lose it
lose your temper
lose out
lose your bearings
lose your cool
lose your footing
lose your marbles
lose your train of thought
lose track of time
lose sleep over it
lose the plot
lose the thread
lose touch with reality
lose your way
lose count
lose your appetite
lose your home
lose your place

Photo credit: Pixabay