Oh, little lab rat, in your prison,
What a sad day has arisen—
Yours, a life of serving science,
Not of resting,
You help us climb atop of giants
Through rodent testing

Tis your misfortune, some fine morning
To be dispatched without a warning
With hopes we’ll find, on close inspection
Some information
Perhaps enough so your dissection
Is our salvation

Some remedy for our diseases,
Grown from bread mold, or from cheeses:
In times of plague or killing fever
You played the villain;
It’s fitting now, you help deliver
Penicillin

Psychologists who study learning
Used your help in their discerning—
You led them through the many phases
Of their endeavors,
Teaching them, by running mazes
And pressing levers

And pictures made from careful staining,
Slicing, mounting, then explaining
Former secrets, now revealed
Through brain perfusion,
Dissecting what we know is real
From mere illusion

As we devised atomic powers—
Mushroom clouds that bloomed like flowers—
And looked at what we’d now created
With admiration
You showed us how you tolerated
The radiation

You’ve had a paw in our advances;
We blunder on, and take our chances
Faster than our contemplation,
So please forgive us;
Our lot is likely annihilation,
And you’ll outlive us.

The high plateaus we’re proud of reaching
Are ours because of your good teaching
Let’s hope these skills, which keep on growing
Through your instruction
Are for the best, not simply sowing
Our own destruction

From NPR, the story of a mouse, and the verse written in its voice:

Oh, what the hell, here it is as the mouse wrote it:

So… according to blogger, this is my 500th post. I really never would have guessed it. Einstein was right about time being relative; I have been blogging here for just over a week, or for decades, if you go by how it feels from time to time. The calendar puts it at late 2007 when this version of the blog started up. Since then, 500 posts, 129,515 visits from 159 countries (I need to work on reaching central Africa), two books (well, one and a half, really), and a line of designer swimwear worn by high-fashion models around the world. Ok, not that last bit, unless you count when they go skinny-dipping. I did design that.

It has been wonderful getting to know you. My readers are incredible people, and have made it possible for me to do some things I never would have been able to do without them (those people know who they are, and I can never thank them enough!). I would not have traded these last 500 posts for anything.

It is at nice round numbers like this that one starts getting introspective. What does the future hold for The Digital Cuttlefish? If you have any ideas, let me know. Meanwhile, a poll.

Whither The Digital Cuttlefish?customer surveys

And hey, if you are reading this, thanks! Yes, you, personally!

The Cuttlefish, clearly perplexed,
Introspected aloud (well, in text):
It’s been five hundred posts!
First, a couple of toasts,
Then the serious question: What next?

It has become such old news–this pope, that pope, embroiled in yet another sex scandal. The video that PZ linked speaks of some of what some children went through at the hands of priests, behavior which has been systematically covered up–and recent allegations suggest that the current occupant at the Vatican will be unable to deny knowledge of both abuses and coverups.

Something about the video touched a nerve–a single line, which I don’t think I’ll go back and listen for. The following is a tango; in my dream, it would be sung by Tom Waits. No one else could come close. (And yeah, I’d trade everything I ever wrote to have written just one of his songs, so *I* can’t come close either.) And yeah, writing this, in the voice of a conspirator, makes me want to go take a shower and bleach my frontal lobe.

Would you like to help the padre?
Well, we’re giving you the chance
It takes two, they say, to tango
And the padre wants to dance

We’re auditioning the choirboys
For a very special job
And you’ve come to our attention
Yes you stand out from the mob
If you’ll step this way a moment
We’ve arranged a little test—
You’ll be just fine; the padre, he knows best

This will be our little secret
There’s no need to tell a soul
We all do the work of God here
And you play a vital role

You’ll massage the padre’s stomach
While he’s lying on his back
I know you’re just a young one
But I’m sure you’ll get the knack
You’ll know when you are finished
Cos you’ll see the padre smile
And maybe you could stay for just a while…

You can hear the padre breathing
Hear him tell you that you’re good
You can take his words as comfort
You have done just as you should

Wash the semen from your hands, boy,
And we’ll send you on your way.
This will not last forever
You’ll be too old some day.
The padre is important
See, he’s friendly with the Pope
But little boys can always live on hope…

It takes two, they say, to tango
But only one of them can lead
He will claim you were complicit
But the padre did the deed

Wash the demons from your head, boy,
Try to send them on their way
The nightmares last forever
But you’ll never make him pay
The padre is important
See he hides behind the Pope
And little boys need something more than hope…

Now, a palate cleanser. The tango starts about 3 minutes in, if you foolishly wish to skip ahead (or click here for just the tango, but it’s music only, no video). Once he builds up a head of steam, it’s a thing of beauty:

Cuttlecap tips to Ed Brayton and PZ Myers.

When the power goes out
And I’m starting to doubt
That the house will be here in the morning
When the wind and the rain
Bring us heartache and pain
Like some biblical end-of-days warning
When the snapping of trees
Brings the town to its knees
And our courage is starting to ebb
Does it make me a dope
If my one fervent hope
Was to get myself back on the web?

****

Ok, that was a joke, not the truth. We did lose power here, for about 10 hours, which is next to nothing for a good storm. Within a stone’s throw from here (literally), they still do not have power, some 20 hours in total, and will not for a while. A short walk away finds trees toppled over power lines, with no crews working on them–which means these are small potatoes in comparison with the *real* problems. A house I pass by every day has two mature pines, just under 2 feet in diameter each, now securely embedded in the roof. One tree was uprooted (rain made the ground a bit soft), and the other snapped like a toothpick about 20 feet up the trunk. The first hit the garage; the second hit the middle of the roofline.

We can’t leave our town, since all roads have downed power lines. Or did, anyway; we had no reason to keep checking. We have food, water, and now power, and so will be offering our showers and stove to our neighbors. (Yes, I put showers first. Trust me on this.)

The forecast says I had better finish this up, because we should get hit again tonight. Within the hour it should start.

Don’t worry about me. I’ve got plenty of food & water, and a wood stove if necessary (it wasn’t for the mere overnight power loss). I like losing power, actually… which shows how incredibly well off I am, compared to so many. (Or how stupid, but let’s not go there.)

Stay warm and safe, my friends. Thank science and technology that it is much easier for us to do so than pretty much any of our ancestors.

Why do we care about poor little Spirit?
A robot is shutting down; why all the fuss?
My theory, assuming you might want to hear it—
It’s not just a bot: it’s a real part of us.

For over six years, I could wander a planet;
This rover named Spirit would act as my eyes!
Much more than suspected, back when they began it,
So, yes, I’ll be sad when the poor creature dies.

You say, “it’s a robot—it never was living!
It’s metal and silicon, lenses and gears!
Exploring the surface of Mars, unforgiving,
Controlled from a distance, for over six years!”

Of course, this is true. It’s a robot, just driving;
It just blindly does what it’s programmed to do.
But it does so where I have no hope of surviving,
And when it shuts down, then I’m blind on Mars, too.

I think it is good that the “death” of this rover
Is met with emotion—a tear, or a frown.
We all hit the off-switch, when our time is over…
I hope you’ll feel likewise when I power down.

Inspired by this post by The Astronomist, and of course the full cartoon at XKCD.

I don’t enjoy the way it feels
To run; I always bruise my heels.
But running (so I hear) appeals
To most of you, I know.
The thing I did not understand
Is, running, on the dirt or sand
Is better if I try to land
Not on my heel, but toe.

This “running” that I’ve often cursed
Is harmful, if you land heel first;
Initial impact is the worst—
Three times your weight, and Ouch!
I’m thinking now, it might be fun
To check this out, to take a run!
Just one thing keeps me from the sun—
I really love my couch!

It’s all over the news-I saw it last night on TV, today on the Beeb, and over at Laelaps (and I’m sure I’ll see more). In addition, Cuttleson just finished the book, and is a new convert.

Hey, I am a big fan of barefoot. My neighbors have caught me out getting the paper, having walked barefoot through the snow to get to the box; in summer, shoes are evil. So this is a nice finding–but I have to admit, I have seen a lifetime’s worth (or not quite yet) of ads for running shoes–enough to avoid an “I knew it all along!” response. I think the ads convinced me. But hey, new evidence, new conclusions, for couch potatoes as well as science.

I wanted to learn how to play violin;
I also wanted to swim.
I queried the maestro, who told me flat out
My chances were frankly quite grim:
A musical instrument gets in the way
And they don’t perform well, wet;
And as for tone, some soggy notes
Are all you’re gonna get.

But one accommodationist
Was there to give me hope:
He said they were compatible,
And not to give up hope!
So I’m in the pool, most every day,
With violin in hand;
I practice my scales till my fingers prune up,
But I guess I don’t understand—

It just doesn’t sound like a violin sounds,
And it’s harder and harder to swim!
I’m starting to think that the maestro was right
And I’m wishing I’d listened to him!
There are times when two things simply don’t go together,
That’s the story I’ve come here to tell—
You can play a violin under the water;
You simply can’t play it too well.

Confession: I love David Letterman.

His first show after 9/11 was the first time I could let myself cry for that particular tragedy, even though I knew people… never mind, it’s complicated. But I, like so many people, were just torn apart, and were trying to be strong, or angry, or sad, or compassionate… it was too much.

I know that there are many who have been more deeply touched by tragedy than I ever have. I am extraordinarily fortunate, by any measure whatsoever. Funny… that doesn’t mean I don’t get my heart ripped out. When Dave gave his post-9/11 speech, I sobbed. Alone in the room, wanting to mourn, needing to be strong, when Dave asked “Does that make any God-damned sense?”, my chest heaved with the sorrow I had refrained from expressing.

Since then, I have donated blood for him. Yeah, I know, it is lame, but I know he probably can’t donate any more, since his surgery, and I donate whenever I can, so whenever I have the chance to designate a donor (not always, but sometimes), I donate blood for Dave Letterman.

This is the first I have admitted it (not even to him). But it’s true.

And now.

Haiti, by conservative estimates, has at least 100,000 dead. 9/11 was peanuts compared to this. Once again, religion comes a distant second to nature.

And there’s Dave, again. “Welcome Late Show viewers – we need your help“. Understatement, I should think. The link is to the World Food Programme. If you have not yet donated, then get off your ass and donate. If you already have donated… thank you… and consider another donation. Most of us (I make this assumption based on internet access) could donate pretty much all of this month’s income and be better off than any of the folks in the devastated regions of Haiti.

But.

If I, or anyone, asked for something like that, we’d (deservedly) get nothing. So… I am here to remind you that even ten, even five, even one dollar, is that much more than they would have otherwise. The average person in Haiti earns less than a dollar a day (depending on which source you believe, it can be less or considerably more), so even a small donation will go a long way.

So. If you are looking for some way to donate… there’s one link. But, frankly, at this point, you’ve probably seen half a dozen reputable places–scienceblogs has had several posts with links, there is always the Red Cross, or you could even try Google.

Just in case I am the straw that yadda yadda yadda… donate now. People are dying. Donate now.

And… thanks, Dave.

No verse today. You want verse? Go donate, then complain.

Sarah Palin’s joining Fox—
Vox populi gets one more vox
So bar the doors and check the locks
Cos Sarah’s back in town!

She gets to be the tea-bag muse
And share with us her folksy views,
The fair and balanced right-wing news
When Sarah’s throwin’ down!

We’ll get to hear the old refrains,
And newer bites, as Sarah strains
To show us that she’s got some brains-
She’s worthy of our notice.

And just as fun, we’ll see some try
To back her up, to justify
Her ever-growing long good-bye,
And flog her run for POTUS!

She’ll join the ranks of Bill and Glenn
The strutting cocks will gain a hen
They’ll rant and rave, then say “Amen”
To punctuate their chatter.

She went rogue at the voting booth
And lost, but now the foxy sleuth
Has found a job that needs no truth-
On Fox, it doesn’t matter.

NPR reports that Sarah Palin is joining Fox “News”. I wish her a looooooooong career there.
NY Times also–the comments at their “Media Decoder” blog are delicious.