Under cover of darkness: the hideous clothes we wear

(When the lights came on, I realized how hideous we looked.)

My wife returned from Target yesterday with a number of items for the house and for our grandkids.  My eyes glazed over as usual as she went through her prideful display of each one.  How is it that women can get such pleasure from the items they buy at a store and men could care so little?  I hate shopping of any kind, but I even hate the stuff other people bring home when THEY go shopping.  I hate even hearing about the shopping experience.  I don't care what's on sale at Best Buy, or that you can now buy mangoes at Wegmans, or that they are out of size 8 Jessica Simpson boots at The Gap (but you can buy those boots on this website). In short, I normally view the things you can buy at any store as a non-event.  But then, last night my eyes were opened and my brain was stimulated by an interesting observation.

As I walked past our bedroom door on my way to the den, I happened to see what looked like a giant Smurf in there.  It turned out to be my wife, which is fortunate cause we are the only people who live in the house, who was sporting some new pajamas she had bought that day at Target.  I mean, blue is my favorite color, but such a large dose all at once was jolting.  But as I was laughing until I cried, my wife made me look down at the pj bottoms I was wearing.  They were this god-awful looking scotch plaid that you would never see anyone wear in daylight unless they were carrying bagpipes.  What the heck?  (As an example of the kind of merchandise I am talking about, click on the title of this essay).

I guess the manufacturers of nightwear think they can make any garment out of any color in any design and get away with it.  The customer knows that almost no one will see them in the thing anyway, so they go ahead and buy it.  What a vicious cycle.  Undiscerning clothiers and undiscerning consumers coexisting in a symbiotic relationship that endures only because there is no light.  Turn on a bedside lamp or wait until the sun rises and the whole charade is exposed for what it is.  Ugly clothing sold for a profit and bought by people who think it is all right to wear ugly clothing under cover of darkness.  But some consumers know what they are doing, because I have seen them hide the nightwear from other nearby customers under their other purchases at the checkout counter.

Even if you realized later how ugly the nightwear was, who would bother to return the item to the store?  What would you tell the clerk at the Customer Service counter?  The nightgown is too red, or the pajamas have too many stripes, or the blue and the brown pattern clash.  "What the hell lady!  Why did you buy this hideous thing in the first place?"  So no one ever returns these items, because they would be embarrassed to admit they once liked them.  The manufacturers think that what they are producing is fine with the consumer, because the return rate is so low.

To change this horrific pattern of "ugly in-ugly out", I suggest the following.  All of us need to gather up our ugly nightwear and take it all en masse back to the stores from which they came.  I don't care if you bought the item five years ago and you have worn it a thousand times.  Walk right up to the Customer Service counter, pile the wad of ugly material in front of the clerk, and demand your money back.  I further suggest that we all do this on the same day so as to create a media frenzy and get proper publicity for this worthy cause.  I think May 1 would be a good date for this "Return Your Ugly Nightwear Day".  It should be an annual event to allow those consumers who "slipped" during the preceding year, and bought more ugly stuff, to get out from under their careless purchases.  May 1 (May Day) is an appropriate day for this important event.  It is described in Wikipedia as "International Workers' Day, or Labour Day, a day of political demonstrations and celebrations organized by the unions, anarchist, and socialist groups".  Long live the proletariat in their ugly nightwear!

I sold my trumpet on eBay today

(Goodbye old friend.  There was a brass-full of memories in this trumpet.)

It was exciting at first.  I listed the starting bid at $275.  Bids began to come in immediately.  $311. The inquiries also began: "Are there any scratches or dents?  Can you send me more pictures?  How much to mail it to Spain?  How much to Germany?"  I put my trumpet on eBay for 7 days, and it was turning out to be a long week mentally.  Initially, I just wanted to get rid of it, but by Day 4, I wasn't so sure.

The instrument was a Conn Constellation, made in Elkhart, Indiana.  After extensive research on the internet, I concluded it was a model 28A, built in 1959.  My mother bought the horn used from my trumpet instructor Max Beck for $200, which was a princely sum for our family in 1962.  But the trumpet I had used in high school in the early 1960s had been lugged around the country by my wife and me for more than 40 years.  I tried to play it once or twice during that time, but my lip was gone and I didn't have the energy to start over with the lip building business.  My son tried it for a while when he was young, but it didn't take.  It was apparent that if I kept the memento, it would never be used by me.  $411.  What to do with it?  It makes a lousy door stop.

As the week progressed, the memories associated with that old brass thing came flooding back to me.  I remember going over to Steve Wyandt's house, where he played drums and I played my trumpet.  We would listen to records of Louis Armstrong or Jonah Jones first and then we would play and try our best to sound just like them. I remember practicing in the upstairs bedroom where my brothers and I grew up on Rice Avenue, where my mother made me play for an hour a day.  That was the deal if she was going to pay for private lessons.  The first time I played those black marks on the page that represented notes, and realized that I knew the song I was playing, was magical.

I was a pretty good trumpet player at Lima Senior High.  I sat first or second chair in a 15-member trumpet section all three years in concert band.  I was a squad leader in the first line of our 96-member marching band.  I played in a swing band called the Swingphonettes; we played at some high school dances, much to the disappointment of the student body.  What's the problem?  I didn't see what Paul Anka had that we didn't have.  I was good, but I wasn't the best.  In concert band,  I'll never forget watching Delores Taylor, who was the best trumpet player we ever had, play the trumpet solo in Haydn Trumpet Concerto in Eb. (For a fantastic rendition of this moving concerto, watch Wynton Marsalis play this at Wynton Marsalis plays Haydn Concerto).  I felt pride as we accompanied her.  What made her performance all the more unbelievable was that Delores wore braces on her teeth.  Ouch!  $456.45.  

Being in the first line in marching band had its advantages.  You were right behind the majorettes--I  remember those legs as though I was still that horny adolescent boy.  I remember the hot practices in August behind the high school (which is now gone), and our hazing of sophomores entering the band for the first time.  How green they were.  I remember the ranting and raving of our emotional band instructor Bill Stein.  Man, could he get angry.  I remember Norman Meyers yelling words of encouragement at me from the second line as we took the field on a crisp autumn evening during the pre-game ceremonies.  It was Friday night and the stands contained thousands of the town's football fans.  I remember the lush green grass under our feet as we played the national anthem in front of that huge flag. 

I remember concerts in the high school auditorium, and bus trips to other schools and the feeling of being a "visitor" on their field, and the competition at Sectionals.  How nerve-wracking.  I remember all the camaraderie, the competitiveness, the hard work, the satisfaction, and the legs.  Those memories were rich and by Day 5 of the eBay cycle I was ready to bid on my own trumpet. $493.  Management denied me this option.

As we moved into the final hour of bidding on Day 7 for the most valuable childhood possession I ever owned, my emotional attachment seemed to dissipate as the trumpet with which I had spent so many hours transformed merely into an object I was selling.  $532.50.  $537.50.  Sold to the gentleman from Florida!  And so it goes. We buy, we use, and we sell.  We are born, we live, and we die.  It is a law of nature.  Nothing mysterious about it.  But I was exceptionally thoughtful and silent on the ride home from the post office.

Robert Penrod Gavin: Is benevolent behavior outdated?

(The same in any language?)

Robert Penrod Gavin only lived a month past his 41^st birthday.  My father never knew we went to the moon, never heard of Vietnam, never knew I graduated high school, never saw his sons’ wives, never knew his grandchildren, never used a computer or cell phone, never knew that Kennedy was assassinated, and probably never paid more than 25 cents for a loaf of bread.  He did not live long enough to bury his own father, and when he died he left a 40 year-old widow with three sons aged 9, 11, and 14. 

It has been nearly half a century since my father died, and yet his words and actions echo through my head as though he were sitting on my shoulder: work hard, be honest, wash up and brush your teeth regularly, serve your fellow man, treat your family with love and respect, never fight, and do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  He lived these words literally, but I also remember, when I occasionally caught him in a minor violation of one of his own rules, how he replied defensively: “Tommy, do as I say, not as I do.”  I had been enjoying his violation of his own rules a little too much.  He hated smart alecks, because he viewed smart aleck remarks as rude, and you were never allowed to be rude to anyone, ever.

But was my father right that we should all follow the honest, hard-working turn-the-other-cheek philosophy (I will refer to this from now on using the shorthand, HHWP)?  Should we follow what sounds like good advice, at least to those who follow some form of the Judeo-Christian tradition?  Certainly the advice about personal hygiene is still sound.  But, for example, is it better to work hard or work smart, or is it even better to just be really clever?  Is it better to always turn away from confrontation, or is assertiveness, maybe even aggression, often necessary and valuable?  Did his advice only apply to lower-middle class families who had little chance of being anything else?  Maybe it was good advice during the decades of the Great Depression and WWII, but has outlived its usefulness since then.  Does his advice make sense in the social environment of the new millennium? 

It may be that society wants everyone to behave according to the HHWP, but this then creates the possibility for clever individuals to behave more selfishly to take advantage of this naïve behavior of the masses.  Maybe my father was just a fool, even during the time he lived, by working hard and being brutally honest while many others were not. 

Perhaps the HHWP made sense centuries ago, because in those days we lived in relatively small communities where everyone knew everyone else, and your behavior was constantly being monitored.  This was the environment in which my father lived as a boy in Northwest Ohio.  If you did not conform, you were shunned, or even banished from that society, which in a much earlier time must have meant almost certain death in a hostile world full of predators and enemies.  Maybe our tendency to be somewhat “benevolent” toward those around us is one of these current burdens.  That is, HHWP worked when individuals were surrounded by genetic relatives, but it is an ancient behavior that is much less adaptive when you are surrounded by a community of non-kin, as most of us are in developed countries today.

I never questioned these precepts until the past decade of my own life, but my examination leaves me unsure whether my father’s advice should be followed explicitly.  I instructed my own three children according to the “Penrod Rules”, but have I done them a disservice?  Will they conclude, or have they already concluded, that I am foolish and out of touch with the social tools that are needed in the modern community of near anonymity?  I must ask them the next time we are together.

The phoebe and the porch light

 (An Eastern Phoebe with an insect.  Is it the same bird nesting on my porch light year after year?)

Each year in late March, Eastern Phoebes (Sayornis phoebe) return to my property from having spent the winter as far south as Mexico.  Today, they returned.  I can always tell, because the male sings incessantly when he returns, and his favorite song perch seems to be at the corner of our house next to our bedroom.  The singing starts just before it is light, so spring phoebes and DrTom are on the same schedule, fortunately.  I love early morning.

Bird migration has always fascinated me.  I have been more interested in why birds migrate, than in how they do it.  The answers to the how question are truly astounding, and there are many good summaries of this.  Much of the early pioneering work on this topic was done at Cornell University by Bill Keeton, who used homing pigeons as his model.  And the Germans Kramer, Sauer, and Wiltschko are important.  Depending on the species, they might use visual landmarks like rivers during the day, or they use the sun’s location, or they navigate at night by orienting to the stars, or they use the earth’s magnetic field.  Bobolinks (Dolichonyx oryzivorus), for example, contain small deposits of an iron compound called magnetite in their skulls.  This is presumably used to detect the weak forces of the earth’s magnetic field to help them migrate between North and South America.

Eric Bollinger and I published a number of papers in the 1980s on Bobolinks and the behavior known as breeding site fidelity, or breeding site faithfulness.  This is the tendency of individuals to return to the exact location where they bred the year before.  It turns out that this is a common phenomenon in migratory songbirds: adults often return to the exact location where they bred the year before, but their babies rarely return to the place where they were born.  In Bobolinks and most songbirds where this has been studied, adults tend to return to the site where they bred the year before if they were successful in producing babies at that location.  If the nestlings had been eaten by a snake or a skunk, for example, or the nest was destroyed by farming equipment, then those adults tend not to return to the same location the following year.  It appears there is a simple Darwinian algorithm operating in those pea-sized brains: if I was successful in producing offspring, return; if I was unsuccessful, do not return.

So, every year since 1980 we have had a pair of Eastern Phoebes near our home.  But the observation is more remarkable than that.  Phoebes originally nested on ledges beneath an overhang, probably rocky cliffs.  Houses, however, are a great substitute, because of the overhanging eaves and the existence of some kind of platform beneath that overhead protection—like a window ledge.  At our home, phoebes almost always use the light fixture next to the front door.  (They also use a window ledge on the back of the house.) This is convenient for me, because every morning during the breeding season, I step outside, reach my hand up and into the nest, count the number of eggs or nestlings by feel, and then resume drinking my Cafe Britt coffee (which, by the way, you can buy on this site).  Although I have never formally studied phoebes, this would make for pretty easy field work.  The bottom line is that nearly every year, the nest over our light fixture successfully fledges 4-5 young.

Now, I have never banded the phoebes at my house, and this is unfortunate.  I am missing a lot of the biological story, because I do not know if these are the same individuals that return to my property each year.  But for 28 years, phoebes have nested on this light fixture and yet these birds probably live only a few years—they can not be the same individuals during all of that time.  This means that new birds sometimes settle near my house, start looking for a suitable nest site, see the light fixture under that overhang, and a “CFL light bulb” goes off in their little head.  (Research has proven that light bulbs in bird heads are fluorescent and not incandescent).  Each succeeding generation of phoebes spots that nest location and simply can not resist it, in spite of the fact that every time we enter or leave the front door, the attending adult is flushed off the nest.

As you can see, my original interest in site fidelity has blended with a fascination for this incredible innate focus by the bird on a suitable resource, in this case a nest site.  I am sure that exactly the same consistency and skill go into locating and capturing food—phoebes mainly eat flying insects like moths.  Many thousands of years of natural selection have honed these abilities into a razor-sharp performance, which ensures their survival and successful reproduction.  For me, spring has not really started until I hear that simple, yet distinctive song of the phoebe.  My coffee is ready, so all I need now is this year’s nest.

Is life better with cell phones or is it just different?

(Electronic stuff.  Is life better or just different?)

My previous blog criticizing cell phones caused me to reexamine a question about which I have long pondered.  Are we better off with the invention of modern conveniences like cell phones or is life just different?  This is an extremely complex question, and one should not answer this glibly.  It seems to me that the only way to approach this problem is by using a cost-benefit perspective.  Let's return to the cell phone example. 

Cell phones allow us to communicate with other people and their electronic devices from almost any place at almost any time.  We can not only make voice calls, but we can send text messages that sit there until the receiver responds, and send photos.  With the "smart" phones, you can connect with the internet, and there are thousands of applications that can be downloaded that provide music, games, other forms of entertainment, and tools that range from determining what elevation you are at to helping you identify birds in the field.  Basically, you can send more information faster than ever before.  Very kewl, and extremely useful at times.

What about the costs?  Most people probably pay more per month than they would for their land line, cell reception is not as clear or as reliable as a land line (we need more frickin towers on more hills?), and the recent 10-year study released by the World Health Organization demonstrates that prolonged cell use increases the chances of developing a brain tumor.  One noted neurosurgeon, Dr. Vini Khurana, believes that worldwide there will be more deaths from cell phone use than from cigarette smoking, given that 3 billion people use cells.  Children, in particular, are warned not to use cell phones for long periods of time.  There are 330,000 vehicle accidents per year due to cell phone use while driving.  But other studies do not find a link between cancer and cell use.  So, innocent until proven guilty, or should it be guilty until proven innocent, like the FDA treats prescription drugs until rigorous tests prove otherwise?

In my originally question, I used the word "better" - is life better with a modern convenience like a cell phone or is it just different?  To answer this question, someone has to define the word "better", and I will leave that to you.  Is my life better because I can listen to music on my commute to work on the train rather than reading a book, or watching people, or talking to the passenger in the seat next to me? 

I've been picking on cell phones lately as the example du jour.  But you could replace the words cell phone with plastic bags, indoor carpeting, gasoline, automobile, prophylactics, shoes, rubber bands, or antibiotics.   Many, but not all, of these items results in a short-term benefit for the individual who uses them at the cost of degrading the greater environment for everyone else.

If, in fact, we could agree that life is mostly just different, not better, with some inventions, then the cost-benefit analysis begins to take a modified form.  Is it worth this "difference" to use a cell phone but to increase your chances of developing a brain tumor?  Is it worth this "difference" to be able to carry around water you bought in a store if it increases the plastic load in our landfills significantly?

On the other hand, if everyone in your community, or neighborhood, or profession adopt this new device and you do not, are you then at a significant disadvantage relative to your peers or competitors?  Maybe these devices result in life being "better" for the individual only after nearly everyone else has already adopted the thing.  It would be tough to be successful selling real estate if you had no phone when all the other agents did. But if no one had them, maybe life would not be any worse off for anyone.

I think the original question here would be a great topic for high school or college essays.  My perspective almost always comes from thinking about the trade-off between the quality of life for individuals versus the environmental cost to society generally, and there is almost always one.  What do you think?

Walk a mile in my shoes

(These shoes now reside in Paris.  Ignore the mismatched socks; that was just an absent-minded professor thing.)

The heavy, tight-fitting leather shoes were hurting my feet something awful, and I couldn't take it anymore.  So I removed them as soon as we disembarked from the subway near our room, and set them in an obvious place on the sidewalk against a building.  I walked the remainder of the distance to our room in my socks.  I suppose this was the first time an American had ever left a pair of perfectly good shoes on the sidewalk in the 16th arrondissement (the Trocadero section) in Paris.  My feet felt better instantly and I felt liberated generally.  Nearly barefoot on a Parisian sidewalk, and I didn't give a damn.

About a year after this, I was in Kenya for an international meeting in Nairobi.  After the meeting, I went on a little safari to the Maasai-Mara, where I stayed in a small tent camp.  On this trip I took a pair of sandals, to wear around the camp, and some high-top hiking shoes for daily excursions onto the savanna.  My Maasai guide and I hit it off right away; he knew all the birds in the area, and I wanted to know them all.  But during my two days with him it was obvious that he coveted my sandals, which he saw me wear to dinner each night.  When I was about to leave on the third day, I made a gift of the sandals to this young guy, who was extremely pleased to receive them.  He promised that if I ever returned, one of his wives would fix me a nice dinner.  Sounded good to me, as long as the dinner did not consist only of cattle blood.  By the way, if you have any good recipes using this "food", please pass it along.

Then, last month in Costa Rica my feet developed a rash that would stop the bulls in Pamplona.  I was convinced it was due to the Crocs I had been wearing, and they weren't very comfortable anyway.  However, I admit that the Facebook group that I had only just discovered titled "I Don't Care How Comfortable Crocs Are, You Look Like A Dumbass" was haunting me. I seem to have a deficiency when it comes to buying footwear that works for me.  So I gave the Crocs to the cleaning lady at the Hotel Herradura in San Jose.  They were nearly new and I didn't want to just toss them in the trash.  Bon appetit, or I'd guess you'd say bon chaussures.

So, three pairs of footwear left on three continents during a 3-year period.  I had become a one-man TOMS shoes' representative.  Although I was feeling a bit like a poor-man's philanthropist, I was more taken by the kind of story I might tell about this behavior.  Of course, the idiom that came to mind was"walk a mile in my shoes".  But that is an invitation for someone to see the world from your point of view or station in life, and literally wearing someone else's shoes does not accomplish that at all.   Ironically, given that people in the countries I visited wanted to own MY shoes almost allowed me to walk a bit in their shoes, if you catch my drift.

I suppose it is not a coincidence that we focus so much on footwear.  After all, you could walk around without a shirt or pants or dress if you really had to.  You might be embarrassed, but you can physically do it.  But try walking around Paris or San Jose or the tropical savannas of Africa barefooted and your physical metal would be sorely tested.  In other words, shoes may have become a method of making a fashion statement in the modern, affluent world, but it is damned practical to have some protection on the bottom of your walking tools.  I have stated this before but, after spending time in agricultural areas of tropical America, I have never looked at a banana or a cup of coffee without deep appreciation for the human sweat it took to produce those commodities.  Similarly, I will never look again at the choices in my shoe collection with passive disdain, even if the selection of the day makes me look like a dumbass.

Hay fever and the evolution of pollination

(This woman is enjoying a good sneeze thanks to anemophily.)

April and May are my favorite months in upstate New York, because overt biological activity returns to the landscape. It is also my most miserable time—I suffer from allergies to pollen. My eyes water and itch, my nose tickles and runs, my throat is scratchy, and I sneeze a lot. I can take medicine but it makes me sleepy, and if I have to drive, being drugged is a bad idea. I am not alone. Approximately 20-30 million Americans suffer from outdoor allergies, mostly plant pollen. Although I have never been tested for the specific pollen to which I am allergic, I am pretty sure that maple, oak, ash, and possibly pine cause my problems, based on which flowering trees are in abundance near my house every year. I am also very allergic to grass pollen, so I simply stay out of meadows and hayfields during mid summer.

The enemy of those of us who suffer from allergies to plant pollen is “anemophily”. We all learned that flowering plants produce pollen, which is equivalent to sperm in vertebrates. The pollen must reach the plant carpel, or female part, of the plant so that the DNA in the pollen grain can join the DNA from the female gamete found in the ovule to produce a seed. We know that some plants are self-fertile, but others require that the pollen from the male structure get to a female flower elsewhere on the same plant, or to another female flower on another conspecific individual in the landscape. In some species, like aspen, you have male trees that produce only pollen, and female trees that produce only female flowers. So pollen often has to find a female flower of the same species somewhere in the landscape many meters or even hundreds of meters away. Most plants rely on insects, bats, or birds to move pollen from point a to point b, but about 20% of plant species rely on wind for pollen transport; this form of pollen dispersal is called anemophily. And those plants are the problem for hay fever sufferers, because their pollen is in the air to enter our eyes and nose.

Plants with showy, colorful flowers are always used in those television commercials that advertise an allergy medicine. You know the ones. The woman wants to garden, they show her walking through a yard full of black-eyed susans, Echinacea, lupine, and penstemon, and the scene implies that all those flowers are causing her itchy eye problem. Wrong! Plants that have large, or colorful, or aromatic flowers evolved those structures to attract some animal that can see or smell those characteristics. Those tend to be the plants we put in our gardens, because humans simply enjoy the sight. Plants did not evolve those beautiful structures for our enjoyment. Natural selection has responded to the potential suite of pollinators that existed out there. In fact, the tremendous diversification of flowering plant species coincides with the diversification of insect species during the Jurassic about 190 million years ago, although there is controversy surrounding the cause and effect of plant-insect evolution.

The plants that cause our problems are wind-pollinated, and they have small, inconspicuous flowers. How many of you know what a grass flower looks like? You need a compound scope to see them. But when they are at their peak flowering, if you hit the spike that contains those flowers, a small dust cloud of pollen will billow into the air. If I walk through such a field for 10 minutes, I need to reach for the Benadryl.

I have never suffered from hay fever in the tropics, however. This is curious, because there are many more plant species near the Equator than in upstate New York. But maybe that incredible diversity is part of the explanation as to why I am symptom-free in Costa Rica. There are many species, but it seems that the number of individuals in each of those species in any given location is not so great. The chances of a wind-blown grain of pollen landing on the female flower of another individual of the same species would seem to be low, or even remote, and not very efficient. If plants were selected naturally to develop a flower that attracts a particular species of fly or beetle or hummingbird, which visit to collect nectar or even pollen itself, that mobile organism is much more likely to visit another flower of the same species, probably within minutes. Many, but not all, of these animal pollinators are real specialists, and tend to visit only one species of plant. This is a much more focused system than relying on wind, which works just fine in the forest around my house where I have dozens of maple and ash and pine trees per acre, for example. (The story gets a bit more complicated. Red maple, which I have always thought caused my allergies, has small, red flowers. They are wind-pollinated, but they are also visited by bees. The fact that they are red suggests that they are not strictly wind-pollinated).

So now you have something to think about. It is fun to look at a flower and attempt to hypothesize what pollinates it. But also, the next time someone complains about their hay fever symptoms and points an accusing finger at the large yellow flowers growing along the side of the road, you can give a little fake sneeze and smile knowingly to yourself.

What if the last face you ever saw was David Schwimmer's?

(Would it be satisfying or pleasurable, or would it bring closure to your life, if David Schwimmer's face was the last image you ever saw?)

I had a very upsetting moment on a recent flight from Costa Rica to the states.  We were flying over the Caribbean when I looked up at the tv monitor above my seat and noticed that a rerun of the sitcom "Friends" was showing.  At that moment, David Schwimmer, one of the main actors in that series, was on the screen.  I had no earpiece so I had no idea what he was saying or what the scene was about.  At that exact instant, the plane hit some turbulence, the fuselage shook from side to side, and I had one of those fleeting thoughts in the air when you wonder if this is the time.  You know, "the" time when the plane goes into the ocean and you have to remember where the flotation device is actually located, even though you have been told its location by airline crews about 500 times.  But worse, what if the image of that goofy, forlorn face of David Schwimmer's was the last thing I was ever going to see?

This scenario occupied me for the next few days.  Maybe we should be more careful about what we observe, just in case it is the last image your brain ever registers.  I have labeled this the "Schwimmer effect"----the fear that the last image you see in life is something unsettling, ugly, unpleasant, or goofy.  Image if you had a fatal heart attack immediately after watching Anderson Cooper crying over a dead cat on CNN, or you were hit by a Mack truck shuffling across the street while looking at a pic of your ex-girlfriend still lingering there on your cell phone, or you drowned at the beach after startling Pee Wee Herman while he was urinating behind a sand dune wearing a Speedo suit and flip-flops.  These examples just prove there is a hell on earth.  You don't have to die to go there.

On the other hand, what if the last image David Schwimmer ever saw was that of DrTom?  You know, he heard about this blog, he came to this site, he was disturbed about what I had to say, he had a heart attack as he scrolled to the top of the page where there is a picture of me sitting on a horse, and he died.  Would the "DrTom Effect" be any less damaging to him than the "Schwimmer Effect" would be to DrTom?  These are questions worth pondering in Philosophy 101 this fall at institutions of higher learning around the world.  In fact, it would be informative to see a list of images created by respondents that they consider defining their "Schwimmer Effect".  Feel free to offer some suggestions in the Comments Section below.

So what should we do to avoid the "Schwimmer effect"?  Watch only National Geographic specials on tv---rivers, mountains, and polar bears.  A brief look at the Miss America contest is probably ok, as long as Rosie O'Donnell is not the host.  If you go to the movies, a flick like "Happy Feet" is good--mostly animated penguins.  Only use real trees at Christmas, not aluminum.  And if you must read blogs, read Huffington Post or DrTom.  And think only pure thoughts.

The symbolic chairs of Cornell and Costa Rica

(A Costa Rican rocker on the left and a Cornell chair on the right.  Which one holds the better memories?)

I returned home from Costa Rica this time with a rocking chair in a box.  If you have ever visited that incredible country, you have seen them in all the tourist shops for about $200.  It is a wooden chair frame of guapinol (Hymenaea courbaril), with seat and back made of leather tooled with Costa Rican scenes.  I always thought it was a handsome chair, and functional, but dreaded getting one back to the states.  But this time I bit the bullet and brought it home as checked luggage.  I love those chairs, and I look forward to using it in my home.

On the other hand, there is the wooden chair I could have gotten for free when I retired from Cornell University a couple of years ago.  This is the customary "going-away" gift for retired profs.  Some companies give their retirees a watch; Cornell gives you a chair.  Both gifts seem, well, stupid to me.  Does a retired 65-year old need a timepiece to know when to get up in the morning, when to eat dinner, or when the next meeting will begin?  And the Cornell chair seems to say, "go home, sit down, and read a magazine".  I just don't like either image.  So I refused the Cornell chair and asked for a small flat-panel tv instead, to which my department chair agreed after consultation with the administrative HQ in the "colonel's" office.  (The command and control structure of most universities is directly analogous to that of the chain-of-command found in the U.S. military, which I had the pleasure of enduring for three years.)

So I thought about my refusal of the free Cornell chair and the purchase of the Costa Rican chair quite a bit over the past two weeks.  Why is one repulsive to me and the other appealing to me?  There is nothing physically unattractive about the beautifully polished and spindled Cornell chair; something else is at work here.  As is so often the case, I think it is all about memories.

I spent nearly 30 years at Cornell, but the bond never really took.  This is exceptionally weird for me, because I normally develop a deep attachment with every organism and every habitat and most places with which I have ever spent significant time.  The Cornell campus is beautiful, but the place is an institution, and it is like most institutions.  It is somewhat unyielding, and dogmatic, and all business; it just happens that education is the commodity being marketed.  It is about results, and budgets, and beating out the competition.  Its weapons are public relations, a corporation-oriented Board of Trustees, and lobbying at the state and federal level. It is shiny on the outside, but stiff on the inside--just like its chair.  No matter how long you sit in its chair, its shape never changes, and it becomes uncomfortable.  In time, the shine wears off.  Whenever I was away for months at a time doing research or on a sabbatic leave, I never missed the place at all, not once.  Old faculty at a university die at their desks, alone.

On the other hand, Costa Rica is the only place other than my own home for which I feel true homesickness when I am not there.  I love the people, the food, the music, the climate, the biological diversity, and the spirit that is Costa Rican.  The country is beautiful, and friendly, and mysterious.  It is stable, and practical, and inventive--just like its chair.  The leather becomes soft and pliable with time, and it molds to the shape of your body.  Old Costa Ricans die while dancing with friends and family. 

The stark memories of my place of employment transferred to their parting gift, so I refused it.  The fond memories of the other place transferred to the functional product made there, so I bought one.  And so it goes throughout life.  Associations and memories influence decisions and conclusions about the experiences we have had, and tend to guide us through whatever is next.

Estonian, the root language of Homo sapiens

(An international gathering of young people discussing important issues in Estonian.)

I made the most amazing discovery on this vacation to Costa Rica.  Two weeks ago I had the pleasure of playing poker at the Adelante Hotel with several locals, including four Estonians.  The Estonians built and run this particular hotel along the Pacific Coast of Costa Rica.  During the game, there was Spanish, English, and Estonian spoken interchangeably throughout the night.  After 4-5 hours and 5-6 rums I actually thought I was picking up on the lingo that is indigenous north of Latvia and south of Finland in the country called Estonia.

But then today, I was listening and trying to converse with my 2-year old grandson, who says some words an adult speaker of English would recognize, but mostly it is a hodge-podge of words and sounds that make no sense to me whatsoever.  He is obviously sure of what he is saying, and it is frustrating for him to get little or no reaction from most adults when he blathers.

My grandson was in the pool and I was sitting nearby when I decided to talk to him in unknown words to me, but what sounded to me a lot like the language I had listened to for hours at the Texas hold'em showdown at the Adelante.  To my surprise, my grandson lit up like a candle, began gesticulating to me from the pool, and vocalizing loudly, and had an expression on his face that said "finally, someone understands me". I believe he even winked knowingly at me, although at his age a gas-induced grimace looks about the same as a wink.  We jabbered back and forth for 5-10 minutes before it occurred to me.  He was speaking Estonian!

I had discovered the solution for which linguists had been searching for centuries.  All human babies, whether from Africa, or South America, or the Bronx are born speaking Estonian.  It is only after years of hearing the language of the country into which they are born that they forget the beautiful tongue that comes so naturally to them and they struggle to begin speaking French, or Russian, or English.  Estonian babies, of course, do not have to learn to switch to another language.  The young people I played poker with spoke at least three languages.  Of course they do, they did not have to start all over at age two by abandoning one language they already knew.

Did you ever wonder why babies enjoy the company of other babies so much?  They usually love going to some kind of child care and seeing others of their ilk.  It is because they can, at last, converse with someone in this world.  I am sure they talk over issues important to them about their home lives---whether they like strained peas or carrots, whether they need to wear those papery diapers as much as their parents think they do, or whether being the middle child is really so bad.  Just think if Estonians opened up child care centers all over the world.  There would be a flow of information between the adult and the baby generations the likes of which humans have never seen.  The only danger might be that non-Estonian babies would never want to give up the language that already works for them.  But perhaps, in time, seven billion people would be united under one language.

I think the solution to world peace, for achieving personal harmony in one's life, and for eliminating all sorts of interpersonal problems might be alleviated if we all learned to speak Estonian.  We would instantly find an ancient connection, and a personal familiarity, that goes back to the cradle or even the womb.  The world would be as one mass of contented 2-year olds who all speak the same language.  It would have to lead to a general feeling of well-being in the world.  Can you imagine a group of 2-year olds telling each other they are going to nuke Juan, or embargo Jana, or prevent Jane from joining the United Nations?  Of course not.  So get out that Rosetta Stone cd of the Estonian language and start studying for world peace, verb by conjugated verb.