Matters Of The Heart (… in a jar)

It’s all over the news–researchers at the University of Minnesota have “created a beating heart in the laboratory“. Basically, they used the protein fiber matrix from one heart, stripped of muscle cells, as a scaffold upon which to grow a new heart, using a solution of cells from another rat. Yeah. I know, all this talk about hearts is so romantic. So, in a bit of a reversal from my previous position, I return to the romantic view of the heart as the foundation of love, with a trio of little verses inspired by the heart in the jar. I can see it now… the picture above, on the front of the Hallmark card, with one of the following verses inside…

I’m new at this game,

And I don’t know your name,

But I love you, whoever you are;

My heart may be true

But it’s also brand new

I grew it myself, in a jar!

I can feel my heart grow,

So I love you, you know, 

And not like a cousin or brother;

I will give you my heart–

Every bit, every part;

If you break it, I’ll grow me another.

My heart is yours; it’s in a jar
That sits upon your shelf;
It’s happy being where you are
And not all by itself.
You asked me for a souvenir
To keep while we’re apart;
I thought a bit, and it was clear—
It had to be my heart.
And now, although my heart may soar,
It is no longer mine;
A message that forevermore
I’ll be your valentine.

A rat cadaver’s donor heart
Is stripped of every cell
The protein fiber matrix left
Looks like a ghostly shell;
This matrix, in a sterile flask,
Is bathed in rat-heart goo
With both adult and baby cells,
And starts to grow anew.
In only days, the growing heart
May beat, or merely twitch,
Then work, at roughly two percent…

Like yours, you heartless bitch.

Life’s a Bitch (and then you marry one)

From the BBC, a story about a man’s marriage to a female dog. (There is a brief video of the ceremony, too.)

An Indian man has “married” a female dog, hoping the move will help atone for stoning two other dogs to death.
P Selvakumar, 33, said he had been cursed since the killings, suffering paralysis and a loss of hearing.

The wedding took place at a Hindu temple in Tamil Nadu state. The “bride” wore an orange sari with a flower garland and was fed a bun to celebrate.

Superstitious people in rural India sometimes organise weddings to animals in the hope of warding off curses.

I offer the happy couple a toast:

Though it’s baseless superstition that has led to your position,
I sincerely hope the two of you are happy as can be.
Yes, the way is sometimes stony on the path of matrimony
You consulted an astrologer–how dare I disagree?

No I will not choose to quibble–let your bride wolf down her kibble
With the absolute support of all your family and friends.
And I hope you’re feeling better, and that every time you pet her
You’ll remember why you did this–you are making your amends.

I wish multitudes of smiles, in both Man and Doggy styles
Let the others wag their tongues–the two of you can wag your tails.
It was beautiful, not kitschy, though the bride was rather bitchy
In a world of mass conformity, it’s nice when love prevails.

Version 2.7

The “cognitive daily” blog asks: Will humans marry robots in 50 years?

Linky.

She’s my little bit of heaven, even better than real life,
She’s the version 2.7 motor-actuated wife.
When I come home from the office, she’s a sympathetic ear,
With the faintest scent of silicone I catch as we draw near.
“Here, let me take your papers, Hon, and let me rub your back;
You must have had a stressful day—come on, let’s hit the sack.”
Her lips are warm and supple, with a kiss that shows desire—
A brilliant application of a bit of memory wire.
She trembles gently at my touch, as strain-gauge sensors feel,
And as she starts to moan and gasp, you’d swear that she was real.
But she’s better than a flesh-and-blood—For one thing, she has codes
Allowing me to choose from seventeen vibration modes!
She never has a headache; there’s no in-laws to avoid;
Heck, I’ve never even had the need to change a solenoid!
She’s my little bit of heaven, even better than real life,
She’s the version 2.7 motor-actuated wife.

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Much Ado About…The Brain?

“I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.”
Much Ado, IV.i.284-285

A student at Pharyngula asks “why do we still talk about the heart?”

The sound of your voice thrills my temporal lobe,
My occipital swoons at your sight;
When we walk hand in hand, my parietal and
My prefrontal are filled with delight.

My thalamus and hypothalamus know,
Without anyone having to tell ‘em,
That I’m head over heels, and it certainly feels
Like I am to my poor cerebellum.

Hippocampally organized memories tell
Of the way people look and admire us;
It’s like walking with god, but that’s really the odd
Way I feel my right angular gyrus.

My amygdala swells with desire for you,
But with rage and fear? Nope, nada.
My pulse will race, and my breath keep pace,
Thanks, medulla oblongata.

Master Shakespeare, speaking through Beatrice, might
Have nearly said it best:
“I love you with so much of my brain
That none is left to protest.”

How do I love Thee?

Pharyngula linked to this site–http://www.godlovesyouforever.org/christian_poems.htm

It is horrid. Utterly horrid. In the way that traffic accidents are horrid, and fascinating, and you cannot look away. The following poem is inspired by one on that site, entitled (no, seriously) “Jesus and I will be very awesome and beautiful”. Really.

Mine is just a little bit … different.

How do I love Thee?

Jesus, Lord, with all my heart
I love Thee more than life
More deeply, from the very start
Than husband’s love for wife.

More deeply than a child’s love
For parent or for pet;
How deep my love, for You above,
Has not been fathomed yet.

There is no sacrifice, I know,
For which I am not willing
There is no place I would not go,
Your love is just so thrilling

It breaks my heart to see you there
Nailed up upon the cross
Those soulful eyes, that tousled hair,
Oh, what an awful loss

If I could hold Thee in my arms,
Annoint Thy wounds with balm;
I’d gladly suffer any harms
To make Your life more calm.

I’d softly stroke Your aching head
Massage Your weary back
I’d lay You gently in my bed
If energy You lack.

I’d kiss Your forehead, then Your lips,
And then Your holy chest—
With lips, and tongue, and fingertips,
I’d do what I do best.

Because I love Thee, O my Lord
I show Thee this affection
And thus, I pray, Your strength restored,
You show Your resurrection

Then fill me with Your love—for I
Am just your humble vessel
And, if you want, then we could try,
For fun, a gentle wrestle.

You know, of course, I’d let you win
You’ll always be on top;
If loving You, Lord, is a sin
I still don’t want to stop.

So Halleluiah! Praise Your Name!
I’m singing (sometimes humming)
The world was blessed when first you came,
And with your second coming.

And I, myself, am doubly blessed
That heaven’s my reward
With all my heart, deep in my breast,
You know I love You, Lord.

Eulogy for Gary Aldridge

Posted on Pharyngula, 10/10/2007

We gather here to eulogize
The Pastor and the Man
Old Gary Aldridge, often wise,
Though not his latest plan.

A member of the Christian nation,
Friend of Jerry Falwell,
His last attempt at masturbation
Didn’t go at all well.

For fifteen years, he’d preached the word
A Southern Baptist minister
His death–now, is it just absurd
Or something rather sinister?

How does a person come to wear
Not one wetsuit, but two?
(Although, I know, I should not care
I’m curious–aren’t you?)

I tend to think that, years ago,
He spied a rubber glove,
And wondered “Should I–well, you know–
When God and I make love?”

He tried it on, and found a tube,
Half hidden on his shelf,
Of KY–smiled, and murmered “Lube
Thy neighbor as thy self.”

And minutes later, hard at work,
He felt a little odd
Was this a sin, or just a quirk?
He talked it out with God.

“Is what I’m doing here a sin?
Or is my pleasure Thine?
Is this as bad as skin on skin?
Lord, please, give me a sign!”

So God produced a pamphlet: “Your
Vacation in Aruba!”
And pointed out–right there, page four–
The wetsuits used for SCUBA

See, God’s not really how you think
A deity might be
He’s got a wicked bondage kink
(Just ask His son, J. C.)

So Gary died, not steeped in sin
But following God’s plan;
So straight to Heaven–come on in!
And bring the wetsuits, man!

A story, sure, but it may yet
Explain what happened then.
The moral is, please don’t forget:
Your safeword is “Amen”.