Science! Yay!

A few years ago, a friend of mine denied the legitimacy of climate change science. “The science isn’t in yet,” he declared, as if the science of anything is ever completely “in.” To a science skeptic, guys in lab coats come up with elaborate theories and then stop what they’re doing, declaring victory with the pop of a champagne cork and the acrid smoke of wet-tipped cigars.

Years later, these scientists continue to rigorously test theories, collect data, and adjust their prognostications accordingly – consistent with an evolving, and improving, understanding of the natural world. The ones who specialize in climate science continue to discover that, not only were their original assertions correct, but things are progressing more quickly than previously thought. They base these assertions on evidence, and if you need non-math-based evidence that’s grounded in simple observation, take a trip to northern Canada and ask a polar bear what the real estate market is like in his corner of the world. If you can find one who’s not struggling for purchase on a melting sheaf of ice, then you get a golden ticket, and can watch Willy Wonka make chocolate bars.

I’m not a scientist, but I play one on a blog. And it’s distressing to me that enough people are anti-science that it now qualifies as an actual movement. Where did this sentiment come from? Do people bristle at the idea of a smarty-pants telling them about the intricacies of the world around them? It’s healthy to maintain a certain level of skepticism, and no sane person would argue that one should just accept what they’re told at face value. But theory, research, experiment and data collection are all public endeavors; it’s not like there’s a mysterious Grand Science Pooh-bah that periodically wanders into the town square, steps up to a podium, bellows “The earth is round!” and then walks away without further explanation. Although that would have made for a great Rocky & Bullwinkle cartoon.

Perhaps the problem is a lack of public humility. People can’t stand the possibility that they’re not the experts – it’s schoolboy rebellion writ large, and has all the charm of a bare-knuckle noogie.

A sad fact is that many of those who dump on fields like biology and physics reap the benefits of those sciences daily – without ever knowing it.

I’ll give you an example of the kind of thing I mean. In the early part of the 20th century, a German patent clerk named Albert Einstein – he of the electric-socket hair-do – stumbled upon the theory of special relativity, which established that no object with mass can move faster than the speed of light. Like all theories, the scientific community had to rigorously test it before accepting it as true, and in order to do that, they had to figure out how to manipulate photons, those wave-like particles that carry light. They were successful, and through decades of testing, they were able to confirm the veracity of Einstein’s predictions. But in learning to control photons, they also paved the way forward for a little technological innovation. They called it the television.

And where would we be without that ubiquitous invention?

Again, nothing should be taken at face value, and everything should be questioned. But hard-line science doubters continuously benefit from silicon-chip technology that keeps them glued to their phone apps, satellite technology that keeps them from getting lost, and medical technology that keeps them alive. They only reject science when it flies in the face of previously held beliefs – that the earth isn’t warming, for instance. Meanwhile, penguins in sandals and floral-print shirts are scoping out condos in Honduras.

Perhaps the most oft-used anti-science argument is that theories are constantly fluid and evolving, subject to change from the latest batch of information. What they fail to understand is that this is science’s great strength. Look at it this way: Say something or someone who claims to never be wrong – like Fox News pundit Bill O’Reilly – tells you the sky is green. They claim to be infallible, and you’ve never seen the sky, so you take their word for it. But then one day you walk outside. Nothing but blue skies. Do you continue to believe O’Reilly, who remains steadfast in his claim, or do you adjust your belief based on what you’ve now seen with your own eyes? Consistency has value, but when it becomes stubbornness, it can obfuscate what’s real. If our understanding of what’s real seemingly evolves from week to week, it’s because we always know a little bit more than we knew the week prior. Like a prediction emerging from the murky innards of a Magic 8 ball, our understanding of the universe surfaces slowly, its secrets revealed bit by tantalizing bit. That’s what makes it so fun to follow.

It’s a nerdy interest, and a nerdy defense of it. But a lot hinges on the state of the public’s trust in these nerds. Just go to the zoo and ask a polar bear. Soon enough, it’ll be the only place you can find one.

Bleeding Me

Sign #257 that you’re a hopeless nerd: Frequent nosebleeds. As telltale signs go, it ranks right up there with Star Wars figurine collections and a lack of shame whilst attending medieval fairs. Also, using the word “whilst.”

I’ll try to avoid, as much as I can, direct mentions of nosebleeds themselves, since there’s a chance it might make some readers squeamish. Can’t say I blame ‘em – we’re talking about bodily fluid gushing from a face. There’s a reason why, when punched in the sniffer in one of his movies, Sylvester Stallone merely wipes away a trickle with his shirtsleeve and continues mowing down generic henchmen in a Vietnamese jungle. The bullet-and-shrapnel-ravaged bodies of bad guys are perfectly palatable for movie audiences, but a bloody nose? That’s just gross.

My interest in the subject is personal. (Nosebleeds, not Rambo.) I’ve been getting them since I was a child. There was a period in grade school when they were so frequent, my family and I had a whole system down: Handful of tissues, cold towel on the back of the neck, recliner kicked back at a 45-degree angle, California Raisins on the stereo. By the end of “Heartbreak Hotel,” the worst would have passed, and I could continue gluing together my pasta collage with nary but a small wad plugging one nostril. Once the source of an undefinable shame, these episodes became so old-hat that the embarrassment abated, only to be matched years later when I admitted in a column that I like the California Raisins.

Problem is, they never quite went away. I was under the impression they were supposed to. Like crying jags and a preoccupation with baseball cards in bicycle spokes, nosebleeds were supposed to abate by the time my voice started crackling like a cellophane wrapper. They’ve become far less frequent – one or two a year now instead of every other week – but no less random, sneaking up on me with the stealth of a slipper-footed cat burglar.

So why do I still get them? Why does anyone get them? Well, a little research reveals that, for most us, it’s inevitable. According to Medical News Today, most of us will have at least one nosebleed at some point in our lives, and it’s mostly due to the design of our faces: The human nose is rich in blood vessels, and because it’s right in the middle of the face, sometimes things just happen. Sometimes it’s spontaneous, and sometimes the Viet Cong clocks Stallone in the schnoz with an empty rifle. Which explains why he sounds like he simultaneously has a cold and is drowning in a giant vat of syrup.

The primary causes of the spontaneous variety are a little gross, so I’ll spare y’all a full-on descriptive explanation, what with the mucous membranes and all. But Medical News Today says these are more common in children, and I haven’t been a child since I was at least 25.

That leaves a rather alarming list of alternative causes. One of them is liver disease, which can interfere with blood clotting; a deviated septum is another. Having been to the doctor for a checkup recently, I feel I can safely rule these out, as well as dry climate (the New England climate tends to be humid), and “excessive use of illegal drugs, such as cocaine.” As rock-and-roll as it would be to have a life-destroying cocaine addiction, the most dangerous thing I’ve ever put up my nose is decongestant nasal spray.

Then there’s excessive nose-blowing. That I am guilty of, and it stands as the most reasonable explanation. As if there weren’t enough reasons to avoid colds during the winter, I now have to worry about them causing unwanted bleeding from a head cavity.

What I’ve learned, and what I’ll pass on to those of you also prone to nosebleeds, is that if you’re feeling stuffy, ease back on the blowing. Don’t overdo it. Sure, it’s unpleasant, and you’ll dry out your lips and throat breathing through your mouth, but look at the bright side: You’ll sound just like Sylvester Stallone. And won’t that be a boon.

Midwinter blahs

Well, here we are. The cold, gray days of January. They wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t come on the heels of a festive and celebratory season, filled with lights and colors and cookies shaped like the chalk outlines of murder victims. The sudden absence of the holiday vibe – and its accompanying seasonal spirit – leaves a vacuum, and what are we left with? This blandest of months, a monochrome wasteland filled with the sounds of shovels scraping against ice-pocked concrete. I say, from now on, we celebrate the holidays in June. That way, when they’re over, we’ve still got a full two months of heat and sunshine to look forward to, and come December we can all curl up in the hollow of a tree and hibernate until peoples’ lawns reappear.

The problem is that we live in northern New England, and northern New England winters are made primarily for skiers, snowmobilers, and that weird snow creature from “The Empire Strikes Back.” Sledding is an option, but the good folks who manufacture plastic sleds usually make them in sizes better suited for 12-year-olds than gangly, awkward muppets like myself. I’m 6’4”, maybe a hair under. Me in a sled is like Shaquille O’Neal in... well... a sled. It doesn’t work, is what I’m saying.

How many among us are in the same boat? If you’re not super tall, then perhaps you’re enjoying your golden years, and have long since retired your fantasies of barreling down the Rotary Park hill in an inflatable tube. Or maybe you’re recovering from an injury, and even an activity as innocuous as ice skating could trigger a bodily reaction that turns you into a pile of sore bones in an aching flesh bag. I’ll give you a minute to get over that disturbing imagery.

To the non-X-Games competitors among us, that severely limits our recreation options. We’re consigned to the Great Indoors, and after our fifth straight game of Canasta, it can get a little tricky finding ways to pass those frigid evening hours.

Fortunately, I offer this blog primarily as a public service. (Just roll with it.) To that end, here’s a compilation of activities that might make your winter a bit less depressing, presented in a handy bullet-point format – because I care about you, the reader. And me, the writer, who has to finish this so he can watch "Breaking Bad.".

And away we go!

• Card/board games. Okay, so this one’s a bit on the nose, but I’m still gettin’ warmed up, okay? This may not be an option that appeals to the younger demographic, necessarily; you don’t see a whole lot of teens and tweens moving pegs around a cribbage board. It’s not edgy, nor does it involve technology that would have made colonial settlers burn us at the stake. But hey, try playing a raucous round of Crazy Eights and tell me it’s not a party. (Important tip: Drink first. Forgot that part.)

• Troll people on the Internet. Back to technology, but this one’s fun – although admittedly a little mean. For those of you unaccustomed to the ways of Internet message boards, trolling is basically a high-tech version of messing with peoples’ heads. This is how it works: You sign up to a message board under a safely anonymous screen name, and look for the one dude who takes everything way too seriously – maybe he’s still sore about the results of the last election, or he’s defending a disgraced athlete, like Tiger Woods. You drop a provocative comment – “Tiger’s a man-slut!” – and sit back and watch as he becomes breathlessly engulfed in rage. If this makes you feel like a terrible person, here’s an important tip: Drink first.

• Turn household items into musical instruments. Tried this one in first grade, and it’s a hoot. You can make a guitar out of a cereal box and rubber bands, a kazoo with a comb and wax paper, and a drum kit with Tupperware and some pots and pans. If you can figure out a way to make some bass tones, chances are you and your family already have more musical chops than the backup band for Justin Bieber.

• Cool Whip container floor hockey. Self-explanatory. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Alas, though the list of indoor activities grows with each cabin-fever-inducing moment, we’ve reached the time for goodbyes. Stay tuned to this space for more intermittent suggestions on how to not snap mid-February and start yodeling in your skivvies in the middle of Main Street. I hope you’ve enjoyed our guide to winter sanity, and if you haven’t, here’s a tip for next time: Drink.
It’s always helped me.
 

The tux rule

Why do boxing announcers wear tuxedos?

This might seem like a trivial question, but those are kind that often get lodged in the brain like some kind of psychic splinter. I mean, here’s a sport in which two lumps of meat are encouraged to beat each other about the face, and the ringside announcers are dressed like they’re about to serve champagne at the White House correspondent’s dinner.

This isn’t a phenomenon you see in any other sports coverage. Bob Uecker, who Johnny Carson once dubbed “Mr. Baseball,” doesn’t wear a tux when he’s sitting in the booth calling Milwaukee Brewers games. Hell, even the so-called “classy” sports events, like Wimbledon and the Olympics, are business causal, occasionally warranting the kind of garish blazers worn by 1970s cocaine enthusiasts.

Yet boxing, which paved the way for such culturally enriching fare as the Ultimate Fighting Championships, somehow warrants a plethora of penguin suits. Vexing, to say the least.

It’s a silly thing to get fixated on, I’ll admit that. But fortunately, modern society has been gifted with a tool perfectly suited to handle such pointless and banal curiosities.

To the Internet!

An exhaustive search – and by “exhaustive,” I mean I typed a query into Google – doesn’t turn up much, unfortunately, leaving us with a lot of speculation and conjecture. On Yahoo! Answers, a guy with the screen name “Austin B” takes a stab at it, saying, “I think that boxing events used to be pretty formal events and they wore suits because that was the appropriate attire and it has just carried over to today.”

Touche, Austin B. A sensible argument. When you think about it, most major boxing events take place at fancy hotels or casinos, where even the blackjack dealers look like they could totally take your daughter to the prom. But that doesn’t erase the fact that all this pageantry is centered around a sport that would be illegal if the combatants were roosters. Wearing a tux to call fights is like wearing a ballroom dress to host “Survivor.”

Unsatisfied, I mined the ‘net for a deeper truth. By which I mean I clicked on the next search result.

That led me to a short commentary piece by professional ring announcer Mike Markham, who gigs at both traditional boxing and mixed martial arts events. Markham prefers tuxes for both sports, and claims to own several, as well as a pair of spats, because, he said, “you just never know.”

Right.

Again, Markham points to the “traditional” nature of boxing as a reason to wear a tux, and adds that formal wear “sets the tone,” saying, “(It) lets everyone know you are serious about what you do and have taken the time to at least dress the part.”

The implication here is that nobody would realize he was serious about his job if he was merely wearing a standard suit. I’ll remember that the next time I have to cover an event at York County Superior Court in Alfred; think Justice Brennan would mind me settling into the jury box with a prim black bow tie and a tray of caviar?

Look, I’m not ripping on boxing. (Much.) Granted, I’m not much of a fan – they call it the “sweet science,” but to my untrained eye, that science involves tip-toeing around a ring and taking intermittent swings at the air for twelve rounds. But fictional treatments of it in movies are always a gas (think “Rocky,” “The Fighter,” and “Cinderella Man”), and unlike professional wrestling, boxing has the distinct advantage of being real. It requires athleticism and genuine skill, even if that skill is focused on turning your opponent’s face into a mushy ground beef patty.

Still, tuxedos? The only other times you see them are at proms, weddings, swanky soirees, and Michael Buble concerts, usually on Michael Buble. None of those activities involve alarming amounts of blood – unless of course the marriage is ill-conceived, the prom a disaster, or Buble does a cover version of Slayer’s “Angel of Death.”

So boxing’s an event. Fantastic. So was my tenth birthday party, and the fanciest garment there was a Dick Tracy T-shirt. So take heed, boxing announcers of the world. It’s time to loosen your ties. By which I mean, chill out already.