Over the years, I’ve covered everything from the subtle history of everyday life to the quirks of modern science—like why we keep sending satellites into orbit while grappling with societal uncertainty, the philosophical implications of consciousness, and how cultural wiring shapes what we call “truth.”

Here’s a snapshot of some past articles to give a sense of the range and style:

• “Sedition: America’s Favorite Ghost With Terrible Timing” – A beat-style look at historical dissent, loyalty, and the blurred line between rebellion and civic duty.

• “Money Backed by Land Worked in Early America” – Exploring how early economic systems shaped wealth, power, and social trust in ways that still resonate today.

• “Addicted to Certainty: Why Our Brains Love Dogma” – Diving into neuroscience, psychology, and culture to understand why humans cling to rigid beliefs.

• “Were the Master Renaissance Painters Using a Secret Trick?” – Where art, science, and history collide to examine hidden techniques and forgotten knowledge.

• “Michelangelo Hid Anatomy of the Brain in the Sistine Chapel” – Tracing clues suggesting the fusion of art, anatomy, and intellect in one of history’s greatest masterpieces.

• “The Tartaria Problem: When Lost Empires Start Whispering in the Walls” – Investigating suppressed timelines, alternate histories, and the unknowns behind official narratives.

• “Your Memory is a Narrative Not Fact” – Examining emotional memory, perception, and how our brains reconstruct our own stories.

Signal Drift, my YouTube channel, is starting to tie this all together with visual companions to the work: commentary, readings, and essays turned into video dispatches for those who want to see the ideas in motion. Although I’ve been hesitant to join this platform in full regalia, I’m working in my garage to come up with some production that suits the effort.

Currently, I’m working on my author project: Word Grit, where I build books in the lamp-lit, late-night garage style. This is where my next book is taking shape, exploring how words can carry a person through hard, low-down days. It’s a personal project, a workshop space, and a place to experiment with raw language and gritty ideas.

I’m building this life around writing, research, and curiosity—turning the avocation into a vocation, giving life meaning by exploring meaning itself. If ideas can change a person, or language can pull someone back on their feet, this is where I stand.

The next article is already taking shape, and the lamp in the garage is still on. Subscribe with your email, and I’ll catch you next time!

AI is everywhere now, slinking into every corner of work, art, and conversation like it owns the place. And maybe it does.

People marvel at it, fear it, and copycat it all at once, as if the collective human brain suddenly decided it’s a spectator sport. Meanwhile, we scroll, swipe, and binge, letting algorithms whisper in our ears about what’s urgent, what’s funny, what’s terrifying, and what’s “true.”

And what is “true” anymore? One click away, someone’s digging up the lost empire of Tartaria, a phantom civilization buried under centuries of internet memes and historical conjecture.

The rabbit hole isn’t deep—it’s bottomless, and every step down comes with a cocktail of dopamine, outrage, and existential dread. You don’t read; you absorb. You don’t question; you perform your disbelief like a badge. Meanwhile, the AI is watching, learning, and subtly nudging you toward the next shiny rabbit hole.

Politics is no longer governance—it’s theater. Outrage is currency, and we’re all broke or addicted. Banging on about everything. You notice that some people see everything in life through the lens of a “suppressor vs. victim” paradigm.

The fatigue is real.

Every news cycle, every debate, every viral post is a reminder that reality is negotiable and entertainment is mandatory. People don’t argue to solve problems anymore; they argue to prove identity, allegiance, and moral superiority. They don’t listen; they wait to talk back at you… and sometimes don’t even wait.

And the rest of us? We grit our teeth, try not to vomit on the newsfeed, and hope the next time we scroll, it will be something quieter—maybe a cat video, maybe not.

And beneath all this digital circus is the grind. The hours that don’t count and the money that doesn’t stretch are balanced out by the small victories that bring you back down to earth. Life hasn’t slowed because the world got louder; it’s just louder while life stays the same: demanding, punishing, and relentlessly indifferent.

We hustle, we burn, we survive—and sometimes we even laugh, though it’s bitter and sharp-edged.

So here we are, scrolling through the abyss. Watching AI learn us, watching politics perform us, watching history be rewritten in meme form, while we try to get a paycheck, a workout, a connection, a hit of meaning. There’s a madness to it, yes, but also a rhythm—if you can hear it in the silence, the endless buzzing.

Life, in all its chaos and absurdity, still keeps moving. And somehow, against all odds, so do we.

You don’t know me but you wish you wish I fit this box you made.

To “those” people: you’re surprised at my reaction to your shit, but fail to acknowledge your shit in the first place?

So, who are they? You know them:

people who try to make others look bad so that they look good.

They twist my name like cheap wire, bend my face to fit their fables, patch their own guilt with shadows of my outline—cowardly sewing masks with thread made from a yarn- a tall tale they hope sticks.

They don’t know me. They knew a version of me that they saw in their own heads, and then carved with dull knives and half-truths, stuffed with straw and rumors, then pointed at it like prophets when the fire came. Trying to justify their own behavior.

“There,” they said. “That’s him. That’s the one who burned it all down.” But their fingerprints are on the matchbox.

You wear my story like a borrowed coat, button it up tight to hide your sins and parade your virtue down bougie sidewalks, telling tales where I’m the villain in your clean little drama.

All the while, you’re the one who treated me awfully, lied, who stole, who left bruises on souls and called it normal. I see through you. I know the script.

But I know integrity, too, so I won’t say your name. And I won’t say what you’ve done. But you know who you are. You know what you’ve done.

You paint yourself as savior, but your halo’s cracked and your robe’s soaked in gasoline. I’m not a scapegoat, I’m the mirror. And if the reflection hurts, maybe it’s time you stop looking at me and start looking at you.

Keep talking. Keep scribbling your epilogues in the margins of my life. Call me outlaw, sinner, addict, dropout —whatever fits your little lens. I’ve worn every label, and none of them ever stuck.

Why do you need a villian?

Am I the villain in your story? Ask yourself why you need a villain? Is it because every “good guy” needs a “villain” otherwise their story doesn’t ring true?

You don’t get to define me just because I walked through your fire and didn’t ask for water. I’m not your cautionary tale. I’m not your punchline. I’m not the one who needs saving. But you’re too busy playing God to see the devil in the mirror.

I don’t resent. Pity for you takes care of that for me. It’s not my actions that offends you, it’s my REaction to your behavior that is perplexing you.

You just don’t like it when I stand on business, eh? And to other people who have heard “the story” about me- those “tall tales” of me.. do they think your story about me is true? I have faith in them that they don’t believe everything they hear, so that’s where your contrived power dissipates.

You wanna know the truth? Just ask! but you don’t. Fairy tales work better, they are softer and maliable and can be beaten into a salty narrative that fits the box you’ll eventually burn your hands on while holding up.

Don’t misconstrue the blues in my ink—this ain’t rage, this ain’t sorrow, this ain’t me cracking under life’s boot. Lord knows they try.. but Hell no. Life’s a symphony and I got front row seats. My life is great and I couldn’t be more proud. The sun still kisses my face and I still laugh at dogs chasing their tails.

Rain feeds the light

But I write in the shadows, I dig where the bones are buried, I scrape rust off the soul just to show you what’s underneath. This ain’t bitterness—it’s catharsis.

A purge, a pulse, a way to take the gravel in my gut and spit it into gold. So don’t get it twisted. I’m not bleeding, I’m breathing.

And if you’re down for the ride in rattling the rails of raw truth, then pull up a chair and keep up. But don’t think for a second I’m drowning - I’m just surfing the tide. A writer writes and tis the season.

Cheers to the ones who find themselves healing in their art, blanketed and bathed in the rainbow - all the while knowing it’s all about the journey to get to the end of it.

I’m Taking a Stand

When I stand up for myself, when I bare my scars and raise my voice, it’s not an attack, it’s a reckoning. And if you feel seen, exposed, dragged into the light, maybe it’s because deep down you know you’re not innocent.

Maybe you hoped I’d stay quiet, play dead, let your version of the story stand. But I’m not your punching bag, your pawn, your scapegoat - or the excuse for your failures.

I’m the storm you thought had passed. And I won’t shrink for your comfort.

“Don’t ever dim your shine because they cant take your light!” said somebody smarter than me.

I’m not going to twist truth into lullabies so liars can sleep better. If my words shake your world, it’s ‘cause your foundation was built on bullshit.

Funny how the guilty always think the shots are personal. I say someone lied, and the liar speaks up. I say some folks disappear when it gets hard, and the deserters get offended. I don’t drop names. I don’t have to.

The truth wears no uniform, but cowards still salute when it walks in the room. That’s how I know who’s who. If the shoe fits, it was probably stolen from someone else’s soul.

Truth is not polite. It doesn’t knock before it enters politely…it kicks the door in with muddy boots and blood on the knuckles. And when I speak it, raw and unfiltered, the ones with dirt on their hands get nervous. They flinch, shift in their chairs, start sweating through their clean little Sunday shirts.

Cause when I shoot straight talk, it’s not aimed—it’s reflected. If it stings, maybe that’s your guilt ringing the bell.

And I’ll wait…

I’m chill and I’ve been watching for a while. Waiting. Reading the room like I always have - quietly, cynically, and one middle finger away from changing everything.

But I feel good. I know I can be raw and unfiltered sometimes…it’s just because my hands are dirty from digging through yesterday’s ruins for something worth saving.

If the meaning of life is to give life meaning.. this is what I’m meaning to do.

So don’t confuse my truth telling for anger - it ain’t that. I’m cool and this peace was earned, earned hard from getting bruised up and left behind like an afterthought.

It is written “to thine own self be true.” And so it shall be done.

I’m not consulting the crystals on this one, though. Because I AM the damn prism. Try and break me and I shine in seven directions.

I am happy and my heart’s wide open, pulsing louder than doubt, pouring over like dawn after a year-long blackout.

I’ve learned that I don’t need anyone’s permission to be me. I’ve torn up the old contracts and I write this gospel in the Now.

I’ve learned that you’ve got to bet on yourself when no one else does.

Even though some of the closest people to me have actually worked against me, I AM the door kicked open.

Be true to yourself. Think for yourself. Have courage. That’s what I say.

The Garden of Earthly Delights is the modern title given to a triptych painted by the Early Netherlandish master Hieronymus Bosch. It has been housed in the Museo del Prado in Madrid since 1939. Dating from between 1490 and 1510, when Bosch was between about 40 and 60 years old, it is his best-known and most ambitious complete work. It reveals the artist at the height of his powers; in no other painting does he achieve such complexity of meaning or such vivid imagery.

A closer look reveals the song on the buttocks of a musician in the Hell section of The Garden of Earthly Delights, Oil-on-wood panels, 220 x 389 cm, Museo del Prado in Madrid

When Hieronymus Bosch painted The Garden of Earthly Delights some time between the years of 1490 and 1510, the man clearly had a lot on his mind. His triptych shows a hallucinatory landscape: There is Adam and Eve, for example, and there is a man flying on the back of a bird-lion grasping a bear in its talons.

The three sections of the painting, all of which are currently housed in the Prado Museum, Madrid, have captivated viewers for centuries, and a university student in Oklahoma found another reason to take a closer look.

The song from a Butt from Hell

Listen here:

https://a.tumblr.com/tumblr_n0tkdzQWx21r2lr5io1.mp3

Thank you to Amelia, “a hard-of-hearing music and information systems double major,” posted a close-up on Tumblr of “the posterior of one of the many tortured denizens of the rightmost panel of the painting which is intended to represent Hell.” The figure has a musical score stenciled across both cheeks, and translated it into modern notation and made a recording. Source: Wikipedia, Slate, ChaosControlled123Tumbler (Amelia)        

Far out, cats and kittens! Gather 'round the fire, sip on your peppermint-infused java, and let the vibes of the season blend with the tale of a Kansas hipster and her wild trip down the yellow-brick rabbit hole. It's your old buddy, the Chipster, here, kickin' it with you in this groovy holiday season.

Now, dig this: I've been reminiscing about a classic yarn, man – The Wizard of Oz. But, in the spirit of the beatnik era, I figured, why not toss that tale into the bongo drums of creativity and spin it in true Beatnik style? Picture Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tinman, and the Lion, all cruising through the Land of Oz like a bunch of cool cats on a never-ending road trip.

So, as we jive through this beatnik rendition of a timeless story, let your imagination run wild, like a jazz riff echoing through the night. Sit back, groove on, and let the Wizard of Oz take you on a cosmic ride through a land where the yellow bricks are paved with poetry, and the Emerald City pulses with the beat of the soul. Let the reimagining begin, man!

The Groovy Wizard of Oz Story

Down a dusty country road, there was this quaint little farm—hit hard by the wind when the tornado came through. Hightail it for the storm cellar, man! Aunt Em hollered above the howling wind. 

Dorothy, clutching Toto, hustled toward that trap door, but, man, she stumbled and hit the dirt, so she ran inside the house. Right then, when the cyclone hit, the crib went flying, twirling in the skies for hours till it crashed back to the ground with a heavy thud.

So there she was, picking herself up, flinging the door wide, and bam! There lay a landscape so goddamn beautifully alive with rare birds and trees standing tall and flowers bursting with colors.

Out of the blue, four tiny folks came strolling her way, three dudes in snazzy blue hats and an old gal rocking a white gown, with stars all over.

"Welcome, Sorceress, to Munchkinville, our crazy little town with whacked out characters..” the old gal beams at Dorothy. "We dig you offing the Wicked Witch of the East and freeing us folks from bondage, babe."

Now Dorothy's scratching her head. Old gal points to a pair of feet in ruby shoes sticking out from under the house, says those belonged to the Wicked Witch squashed by the crib.

Old gal, turns out, is named Glenda, and she is the Witch of the North. One of the good witches in the Land of Oz, a joint "cut off from the rest of the world," she claims. If Dorothy and Toto wanna jet back to Kansas, she says, they gotta hoof it to the Emerald City and meet the Wizard, the big shot ruling Oz.

“And all you gotta do, babe, is follow the yellow brick road.” she says and off goes the girl and her dog.

Despite being sketchy about a long and wild journey, Dorothy wants to bail. The Good Witch gifts her the Wicked Witch's ruby shoes for protection. And just like that, poof, the Good Witch and the Munchkins vanish. Dorothy throws on the ruby kicks, fits like a charm, and she and Toto hit the "yellow-brick road" toward the Emerald City.

Enter Scarecrow, decked out in blue overalls and a pointy hat. "Hey there," he greets, waving like there's no tomorrow. Dorothy asks how he's doing. Scarecrow spills the beans, man. After a recent stuff job, his straw's not packing any smarts. 

Dorothy suggests a road trip to the Emerald City to hit up the Wizard for some gray matter. Scarecrow's all in, and off they go, three amigos on the yellow-brick highway.

Day two on the road, and around these talking trees they find themselves. A tin man pops up, standing there like a rusted relic with an ax. Dorothy oils him up, and he's grateful as all get-out. 

Metal Dude spills his tale - used to be a real dude in love with a Munchkin babe, but the Wicked Witch played spoiler, turned him into a tin can, axed his chances at love. Now he's jonesing for a heart, so he joins the expedition to see the Wizard.

As they trek along, a roar shakes the ground, and a big lion crashes the party. Toto goes after him, Dorothy scolds the lion, and shocker - the dude's a scaredy-cat, not even a king of the beasts. Decision's made: lion's in for the Wizard trip, seeking a dose of courage.

Back on the yellow-brick road, they hustle. Later, a dark forest halts their groove, even the Wicked Witch comes by to give them a threatening vibe.

Approaching the Emerald City, they stroll through some poppy fields. Dorothy, Toto, and the Lion hit the hay fast, thanks to the poppy poison. Woodman and Scarecrow move them out, but Lion's out cold. No sweat, Glenda the Good Witch makes it snow, and melts away the spell.

Finally hitting the Emerald City, a "greenish" guard is bugging out about their Oz visit. Eventually, they get in, and Dorothy, first up, gets face to face with a head, no body, chilling on a big throne. 

Oz, the voice behind the curtain, lays down the law: Dorothy needs to off the Wicked Witch of the West first. Dorothy whines about not wanting to hurt anybody, but Oz ain't shedding any tears. "Hit the road," he growls, "come back when you've done the deed."

Scarecrow wants brains, Woodman wants a heart, and Lion's looking for courage. Oz ain't handing out freebies, and tells them to off the Wicked Witch first.

No choice but to follow the sunset, they march to find the witch. Little did they know, the Witch, with her crystal ball, is tracking their every move. 

She busts out the Winged Monkeys to mess up Scarecrow, the Woodman and the Lion, then snatch Dorothy and Toto, flying them to the Witch's crib.  

Now she's hands-off on hurting Dorothy, just puts her to prison up in the castle. Dorothy keeps her cool until one day her friends show up and rescue her from the bondage in the castle. 

The chase was on! The witches soldiers tracked down our heroes and the witch comes in for the final kill. Dorothy goes off, pours water on the Witch, and bam! Witch melts into a steamy puddle, a quick mop-up by Dorothy.

Free of the Wicked Witch, soldiers, who turned out to be slaves in the castle take give the gang the witches broom. This would be the gift that would keep on giving, and proof of the deed. Dorothy and the gang go back to the Emerald City.

Oz reluctantly lets them back in. The grand Wizard's now fully invisible, only a voice demanding the lowdown on their intrusion. Dorothy stutters, but Toto pulls a curtain, revealing a "little old man with a bald head."

"I am Oz the Great and Terrible," he spills, his voice now shaky. He confesses to the make-believe game, spills the beans on being an Omaha ventriloquist, landing in Oz on a runaway circus balloon. "I'm a good man, but a lousy Wizard," he admits.

Wizard, sincere at heart, hooks up Scarecrow with a brain, Woodman with a heart, and Lion with courage. Turns out Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man, that he didn’t already have. Dorothy's wish was a tougher nut to crack: she needs to hitch a ride to Kansas with the Wizard in his gas balloon.

With the big hot air balloon ready to roll, Toto bolts, Dorothy gives chase, and bam! Wizard floats away solo!

Now Dorothy's got one hope left: Glenda, the Good Witch, who drops a bomb - all Dorothy ever needed to jet back home were those ruby slippers on her feet.

Dorothy says her goodbyes, thanks everyone, clicks her ruby shoes three times, and whoosh! Back on the Kansas prairie, staring at her farmhouse. Aunt Em's like, "What in the hell?" 

Dorothy, all serious, says, "From the Land of Oz, Aunt Em! And..., even though I’ve seen some shit, I’m so damn glad to be home!"

THE END

For many centuries, Santa has been the patron saint of young people and has been associated with Christmas and gifts.  His name, originally from the Latin, Sanctus Nicolaus, has had various forms, including the German, Sankt Nikolaus, and Dutch Sinter Klaas.  Although it is customary to regard him as a myth, there was a real St Nicholas, an early Christian bishop, who lived during the 4th century.

Bishop Saint Nicholas

The association with magical powers

Nicholas was very popular as bishop, and several stories about him have been passed down.  It is said that he performed miracles in his time, and one such miracle was during a sailing journey, a mighty storm arose, and he sprinkled some magical dust into the air, said a prayer, and then the storm had stopped.  The sailors were astonished when the wind suddenly abated, and their lives and ship were saved.  Hence, the association with magical powers.

St Nick sprinkling magic fairy dust to stop the storm

The Santa Claus association with children is actually kinda creepy

Another miracle attributed to him happened in the year 325, when the sons of a rich man were killed and robbed by a wicked innkeeper.  This man hid the  bodies in casks of brine.  St. Nick was passing through the town one day, and he stayed at this very inn.  That night, in a dream, the crime was revealed to him.  He forced the man to confess.  He then prayed for the children, and the three boys were soon brought back to life.  Hence, the Santa Claus association with children.

Yea, that's kinda creepy

The stockings by the fireplace & the giving of gifts

Moreover, the most popular story of the saint's good deeds concern the three daughters of a rich man that had unfortunately lost his fortune.  In those days, a daughter without a dowery had little chance of being married.

The bishop decided to remedy this; and when the oldest girl was of marriageable age, he went to their home in the middle of the night and secretly threw a bag of gold through the window. The girl married very well after that and at the proper time for the second girl, Nicolas repeated his kind deed.

When the third girl was of age, St. Nick decided to repeat his kind deed once more. This time, their dad decided to find out who the benefactor was, and caught St. Nick in the act of throwing the bag of gold into the window.  St. Nick, who was surprised and startled, had accidentally thrown the gold through the window, and right into some socks that were hanging near the chimney to dry.  Hence, the stockings by the fireplace association, and the giving of gifts.

Secretly putting stuff in socks

The symbol of carrying bags

In pictures and statues, St. Nicholas is depicted carrying three bags, or balls of gold, reminiscent of the gifts to the three daughters.

St Nick and three bags of gold

To show their regard for him, since they lent money to clients, this symbol became associated with pawn shops.

Betcha didn't know that one

The retail store association, and the red & white suit.

All of these stories may be true, but the modern Santa Claus was further developed by a well-known cartoonist, Tom Nast, who got a job from a local retailer to help sell fur coats.  A fat, bearded, jolly man in a fur coat was pictured in an advertisement in Harper's Illustrated Weekly in the year 1863.

Harper's Illustrated Weekly 1863

Tom, who was a Union sympathizer, depicted the man in a red & white suit with blue boots, in order to give a political cheer to the Union soldiers and their families during the Civil War.  Hence, the retail store association, and the red & white suit.

Santa Portrait by Nast in 1881

Given the facts in this case, please remember why we are really celebrating the holiday:

What this holiday season is all about isn’t material at all. It’s about the celebration of principles.  Principles that are the glue which holds us all together: Faith, Hope, Joy, Truth, Gratitude, Peace, Charity, and most of all the giving of and receiving of Love.

Merry Christmas!

-Chip

It is a well-known fact that the French people are naturally better than everyone else - especially when it comes to cooking gourmet food, and here’s why: this is due to the fact that their genealogy is infused with superior taste buds and an enlarged cerebrum, which gives them an innate ability to create culinary masterpieces.

Now, you may think I’m joking.. (and I am) but I think it’s time to face the facts.

This superior culinary ability can be traced back to the year 1651, when King Louis XIV held the first ever pastry contest in Versailles. The competition was fierce, but in the end, a French chef named Jean-Paul LaCroix emerged victorious, wowing the judges with his delectable chocolate éclairs and delicate macarons.

French chef Jean-Paul LaCroix was victorious with the entry of his big hamburger bun

Since then, the French have continued to dominate the culinary world, with their chefs consistently winning top honors at prestigious culinary competitions around the globe. In 1848, a French chef by the name of Francois Dupont took home the gold at the Great Soupe à l'Oignon Cook-Off, impressing the judges with his innovative use of spices and his signature roux technique. But it's not just the French chefs that are naturally gifted when it comes to cooking, French people in general possess a certain je ne sais quoi when it comes to food. This is due to the fact that the French have an enlarged cerebrum which gives them an advanced understanding of chemistry, allowing them to perfectly balance flavors and create intricate dishes.

"She blinded me with science!" - Chef Jacques Blanchette

This superior understanding of chemistry is evident in the many award-winning French chefs who hold advanced degrees in the subject from obscure universities. For example, Michelin three-star chef Jacques Blanchette holds a PhD in advanced culinary chemistry from the prestigious Université des Gourmets in Paris.

In conclusion, it is clear that the French people are naturally better than everyone else.

But when it comes to cooking gourmet food: they rule! With their superior taste buds and enlarged cerebrum, they have dominated the culinary world for centuries, impressing judges and diners alike with their culinary masterpieces.

So the next time you sit down to a delicious French meal, remember: it's not just the chef's skill on display, it's the French heritage and genetics that sets them apart.

The early civilizations lacked adequate means to obtain knowledge about the human brain.  However, from the ancient Egyptian mummifications to 18th century scientific research on "globules" and neurons, there is evidence of neuroscience practice throughout the early periods of history. Early views on the function of the brain regarded it merely to be a form of "cranial stuffing" of sorts. In ancient Egypt, from the late Middle Kingdom onwards, in preparation for mummification, the brain was regularly removed, for it was the heart that was assumed to be the seat of intelligence. According to Herodotus, during the first step of mummification: "The most perfect practice is to extract as much of the brain as possible with an iron hook, and what the hook cannot reach is mixed with drugs."

During the second half of the first millennium BC, the Ancient Greeks developed differing views on the function of the brain. However, due to the fact that Hippocratic doctors did not practice dissection, because the human body was considered sacred, Greek views of brain function were generally uninformed by anatomical study.   It is said that it was Alcmaeon of Croton (6th and 5th centuries BC) who first considered the brain to be the place where the mind was located. According to ancient authorities, "he believed the seat of sensations is in the brain. This contains the governing faculty. All the senses are connected in some way with the brain; consequently they are incapable of action if the brain is disturbed...the power of the brain to synthesize sensations makes it also the seat of thought:  "The storing up of perceptions gives memory and belief and when these are stabilized you get knowledge."

A wood carving print of the dissection of an animal

In the 4th century BC Hippocrates, believed the brain to be the seat of intelligence.

Hippocrates

However, during the 4th century BC Aristotle still thought that, while the heart was the seat of intelligence, the brain was merely a cooling mechanism for the blood. He reasoned that humans are more rational than the beasts because, among other reasons, they have a larger brain to cool their hot-bloodedness.

Neurodope Archives would like to introduce a puzzler for your mind-raking pleasure.

"You visit a remote desert island inhabited by one hundred very friendly dragons, all of whom have green eyes. They haven't seen a human for many centuries and are very excited about your visit. They show you around their island and tell you all about their dragon way of life (dragons can talk, of course).

They seem to be quite normal, as far as dragons go, but then you find out something rather odd. They have a rule on the island that states if a dragon ever finds out that he/she has green eyes, then at precisely midnight on the day of this discovery, he/she must relinquish all dragon powers and transform into a long-tailed sparrow. However, there are no mirrors on the island, and they never talk about eye color, so the dragons have been living in blissful ignorance throughout the ages.

Upon your departure, all the dragons get together to see you off, and in a tearful farewell, you thank them for being such hospitable dragons. Then you decide to tell them something that they all already know (for each can see the colors of the eyes of the other dragons). You tell them all that at least one of them has green eyes. Then you leave, not thinking of the consequences (if any). Assuming that the dragons are (of course) infallibly logical, what happens?

If something interesting does happen, what exactly is the new information that you gave the dragons?"

This is not a trick question. There's no guessing, lying, or discussion by or between dragons. The answer does not involve Mendelian genetics or sign language. The answer is logical, and the dragons are perfectly logical beings. And no, the answer is not "no dragon transforms."   Good Luck!! Illustration by Jim Cooke Puzzle by Harvard Undergrad Physics

SOLUTION UPDATE:

The solution is that all 100 dragons turn into sparrows on the 100th midnight.

So how does one simplify the 100 Green-Eyed Dragons puzzle? By making it the 1 Green-Eyed Dragon Puzzle. If you tell a single green-eyed dragon that "at least one of you" has green eyes, that dragon would know instantly and unambiguously that she has green eyes. At midnight she would turn into a sparrow. So let's imagine 2 green-eyed dragons staring at one another, after being informed by you that at least one of them has green eyes. Each would look upon the other and, seeing a set of green eyes, think the following: "Do I have green eyes? I don't know. But if I do not, then this other dragon, upon seeing my non-green eyes, will know instantly and unambiguously that he is the one with green eyes, and at midnight will turn into a sparrow." Each dragon sits and waits to see what the other does. When, at midnight, neither dragon transforms into a sparrow, each one knows instantly and unambiguously that the other dragon did not leave because it, too, saw a dragon with green eyes. And so, on the second night, each transforms into a sparrow at midnight. Let's expand the problem to 3 green-eyed dragons. Following your announcement, each dragon thinks to itself that if it does not have green eyes, then the other two dragons will determine their eye color by the reasoning laid out in the 2 green-eyed dragon scenario presented above. In this case, all three dragons wait for the other two dragons to transform into sparrows on the second midnight. When this does not happen, each of the three dragons concludes instantly and unambiguously that it has green eyes. On the third midnight, all three transform into sparrows. Through the process of induction, we conclude that any number of green-eyed dragons, N, will all turn into sparrows on the Nth midnight following your seemingly inconsequential observation. This can be hard to wrap your head around at first. It's the kind of solution that's liable to come across as utterly impossible until you've convinced yourself of it by working through a few more levels of induction. Even knowing the solution, it's easy to find yourself on, say, a six-dragon scenario thinking "I made this work for five dragons, but at six it seems to fall apart":

In the "Old West", a good cook was the most important man in any outfit on the trail.  And each chuckwagon cook had his own way of doing things.  You will notice that measurements of flour, sugar, and other ingredients are not given in the usual cups and teaspoonfuls--a cowboy cook would have scoffed at such a procedure.

On the trail, the cook's first job was making bread, which in cow country, meant sourdough biscuits.  At their best, they are delicious, but it must be admitted that at their worst, the less said about them, the better.

Their basis is  the sour dough, which is made by filling a stone jar, or small keg with lukewarm water, adding a handful of sugar and then stirring in flour with a flat wooden paddle to make a batter as thick as it can possibly be stirred.  The jar was set in a warm place and after a day, the dough became sour and twice it's size.  The cowboy then took a large tin pan and filled it two thirds of the way with flour, making a well in the middle by pushing the flour to the sides.  Half of the contents of the jar were poured into the well.  A little bit of soda was added to the dough, along with some salt, and lard, or bacon grease.

The flour was worked in from the sides, making sure the soda was dissolved evenly throughout the batch.  A table was dredged in flour, and the dough was lifted up onto it and kneaded for a little while.  A large spoonful of lard or bacon grease was put in the Dutch oven and melted while pieces the size of an egg were pulled off the dough and rolled into balls.  These dough balls were then placed in the Dutch oven and turned, so as to cover completely with a good coating of grease so that they don't stick together.. (A Dutch oven is basically just a very large cooking kettle with a lid.)  When the oven was full, it was placed close to the fire, or out in the hot sun so that the biscuits would rise while the rest of the meal was being prepared.

A huge coffee pot was brought out, and nearly filled with water. Then, a more than generous supply of coffee was dumped in, because the chuckwagon cook firmly believed that their was no such thing as strong coffee, just weak people.  

The oven of biscuits was then put on just a few coals and covered with a hot lid which was lifted out of the fire by using a camp hook.  Coals were placed on top of the lid and the cook could then devote himself to turning the steaks, stirring the beans, keeping an eye on the coffee, and lifting the lid to the oven every once in a while to see how the bread was browning.

The secret to baking bread in a Dutch oven was to see that there were plenty of coals on the top, and not too many coals underneath, so that each biscuit would have a deep brown upper and lower crust, and a delicious, soft and spongy interior.  It took a little practice and experience, and each time you got better at it.  But it might have taken a while before the biscuits were fit for a dog to eat.

One day wuz a man name Jack. He wuz a mighty wicked man, an’ treat his wife and chil’en like a dawg. He didn’ do nuthin’ but drink from mawin’ tell night, an’ twarn’ no use to say nuthin’ ‘tall to ‘im ‘cause he wuz jus’ es ambitious es a mad dawg.

Well suh, he drink an’ he drink tel whiskey couldn’ mek ‘im drunk; but et las’ hit bu’n ‘im up inside, an’ den de Debble come fur ‘im. When Jack see the Debble, he wuz so skeart he leetle mo’n er drapt in der flo’. Den he bague de Debble to let ‘im off jes’ a leetle while longer, but de Debble say:

“Naw, Jack, I ain’ gwine wait no longer; I’s speckin’ yo’.  So de Debble start off pretty bis’ an Jack wuz bleeged to foller tell dey come to a grog shop.

‘Mr. Debble’, said Jack, ‘don’ yo wan’ a drink?’ “Well” said de Debble, “I b’leeve I does, but ain’ got no change’ we don’ keep no change down dyah.”

“Tell you wotcher do, Mr. Debble,” said Jack, “I got one doller en my pocket; yo’ change yerself inter’nurr doller, and we kin git two drink, and den yo’ kin change yo’ self back again.”

So De Debble chane hisse’f inter a doller, and Jack pick ‘im put, but ‘ tid o’ gwine de grog shop, Jack clap de doller inter he pocket-book dat he hadn’t took outen he pocket befo’, ‘cause he didn’t wan’ de Debble to see dat de ketch wuz in de shape ob a cross.

He shet it tight, an’ dyah he had de Bebble, an’ twarn’ no use for ‘im to struggle, ‘cause he couldn’ git by dat cross!

Well suh; fus he swar and threat’n Jack wid wat he wuz going to do to ‘im and den he begun to bague, but Jack jes’ ta’n round an’ start to go home. Den de Debble say:

“Jack, ef yo’ll lemme out o’ hyah, I’ll let yo’ off fur a whold year. I will, fur trufe. Lemme go, Jack, ‘cause my wife is jes too lazy to put the bresh on de fire, an’ hit’ll all go black out ef I ain’t dyah fo’ long ten’ to it.”

Den Jack say ter hisse’f, “I gret min’ to let ‘im go, cause in a whole year, I kin ‘pendt and git ‘ligion, an’ git shet in ‘im dat er way.”

Den he say, “Mr. Debble, I’ll letcher out ef yo’ ‘clar fo’ gracious yo’ won’t come after me fur tweel month.”

Den de Debble promise befo’ Jack undo de clasp, an’ by de time Jack got the pocket-book open he wuz gone. Den Jack say to hisse’f. “Well, now I gwine to ‘pent and git ‘ligion sho’; but ‘haint no use bein’ in no hurry; de las six mont’ will be plenty o’ time. Whar dat ten cent? Hyah it is. I gwine git me a drink”

Soes when de six mont’ was gone, Jack ‘lowed one mont would be time ‘nuff to ‘pent and find ‘ligion, and when de las’mont’ come, Jack ‘lowed he gwine hab one mo’ spree, and den he would have a week or ten days lef’, and dat was plenty of time, ‘cause ‘e donehearn o’ folks ‘penting on dey death bade.

Den he went on a spree for sho’, and when de las’ week come, Jack had ‘lirium trimblins, and de fus’ ting he knowed, dyah wuz de Debble at de do’, and Jack had to git outen he bade and go ‘lon wid ‘im. After a while, dey pass a tree full o’ gret big apples.

“Doin’ yo’ want some apples, Mr. Debble?” said Jack.

“Yo’ kin git some ef yo’wan’ ‘em,’ sad de Debble and he stop and look up in de tree.

“How yo’ spec’ a man wid ‘lirium trimblins to climb a tree?” said Jack. “Yo’ catch hol’ de bough, an’ I’ll pussh yer up in de crotch, an’ den yo’ kin git all yo’ wants’”

So, Jack push de Debble in de crotch, an’ de Debble ‘gin to feel de apples to git a meller one. While he wuz doin’ dat, Jack, he whip he knife outen he pocket, an’ cut a cross in de bark ob de tree jes’ under de Debble, and de Debble he holler, “Tzip! Sumpi’ nurr heet me den. Wothcer doin’ down dyah, Jack? I gwine cut yo’ heart out!”

But he couldn’ git down while dat cross wuz dyah, an’ Jack jes’ sat down on de grass, an’ watch ‘im ragin’ an’ swarin’ an cussin’. Jack keep ‘im dyahall night, tell ‘twuz gret big day, an’ de Debble chang he chune an’ he say:

“Jack, lemme git down hyah an’ I’ll gib yo’ nurr year.”

“Gimme nuttin’,” said Jack, an’ he stretch hisse’f out on de grass. After a while, ‘ bout sun up, de Debble say:

Jack, cut dis ting offen hyah, an lemme git down, an’ I’ll gib yo’ ten year,”

“Naw, surre,” said Jack, “I won’ letcher git down less yo’ clar fo’ gracious dat yo’ won’ never com arfter me no mo’.’

When de Debble fin’ Jack wuz es hard as rock, he ‘greed, an’ lclared fo’ gracious dat he wouldn’ never come fur Jack agin, an’ Jack cut de cross offen the tree, an’ de Debble lef’ widout a word.

Arfter dat Jack never thought no mo’ ‘bout ‘pentin, and finding ‘ligion, cause he warn’ feared ob de Debble, an’ he didn’ wan’ to go whar dey warn’ no whiskey.

Den, he lib on tell he body war out, an he wuz bleeged to die. Fus’ he wen to de gate o’ heaven, but de angel jes’ shake he hade. Den he went to de gato’ hell, but when it would come dat Jack wuz dyah, de Debble holler to de imps:

“Shet de do’ an don’ let dat man come in hyah; he done treat me scan’lous. Tell ‘im to go long back whar he come from.”

Den Jack say:

“How I gwine fine my way back in de dark? Gimme a lantern.”

Den de Debble tek a chunk outen de fire, an’ say, “Hyah, tek dis, an’ doncher nuver come back hyah no mo’.”

It all starts somewhere…

With the American Dream as the big payoff for WWII dads across America just back from saving the world in Europe, life certainly wasn’t Leave it Beaver.

The New Deal wasn’t exposing itself on front lawn. Commies and the Cold War weren’t what the neighborhood in America served up. While the FBI was searching in vain for the reds, the music world was discovering the blues. The working class spawned artists looking for blind faith.

Mainstream America was bland, and found identity in pop culture. Woolworths’s was where the Baby boomer’s parents shopped and became consumers like never before. Teens found freedom and solace in the back seats of cars. With the backdrop of Vietnam and I Love Lucy, young teenagers got their first guitars and started to strum them and learn how to play. 

The American Dream atomic family wasn’t available for the abandoned youth. Race in the South was separate but equal, but music had no prejudice. James Dean and Joe Dimaggio played the big screen while the teenagers played the pool halls and cruised the streets with their newly pubescent muscle cars. Driving and dreaming to word play from beat poets describing the proverbial pursuit of happiness down Route 66.

Music had a mix of New Orleans jazz, Delta blues, Nashville country, Texas swing, and Northern folk. The roads and small towns had hamburger stands and soda jerks and cruise ins, a place where kids could listen to the radio with out Dad banging on the wall telling them to turn down the record player.

Blacks had been rolling along with ragtime, which was an evolved boogie woogie and jump blues. The whites had country, and down home blue grass, the ferver getting shaky from the influence of jazz from the southern regions and the blues infiltrating from the delta. Swing and Creole rhythms were an added ingredient in what was to come out of honky tonks and juke boxes across the nation.

Teens learned about rebellion from the likes of Marlin Brando and Hugh Hefner, the media becoming more of an influence on young popular culture. Marilyn Monroe swayed in more so overcoming the Ladies Home Journal of yesterday.

There was confusion and separation between social groups and races, and with that came musical friction. Interesting thing, though, everything that was different came together to form a common bond.

Some can say that rock n roll was invented when Elvis, Carl Perkins, James Brown, Hank Williams, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, BB King, and Bill Haley, Muddy Waters, Sam Phillips, Robert Johnson, Bo Diddley, Buddy Holly, Johnny Cash, Fats Domino, Eddie Cochran, Gene Vincent, Ray Charles, Chubby Checker, and Roy Orbison were coming alive along side Alan Freed’s Moondog Coronation Ball in Cleveland.

But a piece of innocence died with Buddy Holly and Richie Valens, Elvis in the army, Jerry Lee Lewis with his cousin, and Lawrence Welk on the TV, nothing was left but folk music and t.v. dinners.

While Dion and the Spector girl groups played with more sophisticated recording techniques, the radio streamed Peter Paul and Mary, and the Kingston Trio on the guitar. The California Surfin USA sound came from the west, and the rest of the American kids could relate to the beach party fun. 

In 1964, the Beatles had five top ten songs on the radio, bringing behind them from England the Rolling Stones, the Kinks, the Animals, and the Zombies. Things were ecstatic in music, as this new juice from across the waters woke up the candy balladeers and bubble gum softening of the record label top forty., the English boys paying homage to the roots of rock in America with blues rock covers.

Bob Dylan went electric, forcing the folk scene to break their britches. Drugs induced Rock N Roll, and Sgt. Pepper taught the bands to play. Brian Wilson had to find himself and the surfer boys were no more. The times, they were a changing.

John Wayne was out, and the college campus rallies turn riots were in. Bands like Herman’s Hermits and the Byrds were light and airy, when the Motown got on the groove. The dancing teenagers never left their funk with James Brown and Spencer Davis Group. Simon & Garfunkel folk broke through the Rascals and the Lovin spoonful New York sound at the time when sounds were beginning to blend.

The emergence of the hippie culture stirred the pot. After psychedelia found garage Pop music fruitless, the revolution evident in music in the late 60’s opened a can of worms on top 40 limitations.

The Byrds were eight miles high, Dylan had Rainy Day Women, and the Sexual Revolution infiltrated the virtues of the lingering moral codes of the 50’s. After all, the baby boomers grew up with a tinge of anti establishment reverie, and the rebellions were manifested in the break up of the proverbial family unit.

And what went with it was when divorced women got more power, and that didn’t usually happen.. more women were going to work. Carol King, Santana, and the Rolling stones kept the beat moving and slurring through the mud. 

Experimental ideals forced upon us through women’s lib made it more difficult for the family unit to stay together visa vi the pill and the sexual revolution. High ambitions turned dark in the next few years. Power Rock and Southern Fried R& B provided work to fill in those cavernous spaces. Heavily amplified blues based boogie replaced the teeny bopper traditional material, and jam based psychedelic soul substituted folk pop as a genre.

With acts like Jimmy Hendrix, The Who, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, and the Grateful Dead, the radio waves were into a different vibration. While the Frisco music scene of the west permeated the colleges across America, down in the South, the stomping boogie power rock carried on with the likes of the Allman Brothers, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and the Outlaws.

Things were different now: the 60’s were a time of letting go of inhibitions, whereas in the “Me Generation” of the 70’s, a midstream motto to pursue was to “look out for number one.” Vietnam and Nixon discolored the youth of the late sixties. The Kennedy and King killings were still foremost on America’s mind, the turmoil acting as the catalyst for the culture to begin stewing in cynicism. 

The new Beat journalism brought politics into the social order, and with Watergate, unsighted positivism was gone. It wasn’t that the record industry was getting old, the flavor of pop and conventional wisdom turned sweet and sour. Led Zeppelin laid down blues on steroids, while FM radio came of age with the long play. Neil Young, Jackson Browne, James Taylor, and Elton John sang softer ballads, while bands like Fleetwood Mac and Steely Dan mellowed out Rock for a while. The Rolling Stones dug in dirty blues leaned more towards punk and pop guitar rock, ushering out folk for more evolved and layered tunes. This was the yin of the yang of excess from the likes of Kiss and Alice Cooper.

Chicago, the Doors, ELO, Steve Miller, and Eric Clapton brought color and complexity while the Eagles song arrangements steered others acoustically leading country and rock to further define the American songbook. 

A punk scene opened in New York to follow up with what was happening in London at the time with the the New York Dolls, the Ramones, Stooges, the Sex Pistols, Zappa, the Dead Kennedys, Black Flag, and David Bowie. Aerosmith and Pink Floyd further divided the plains in their own categories rock, with Genesis, Jethro Tull, and Queen on the other end of their own spectrum.

Disco came and went but in the mean time captured our imaginations and our dance steps. And imagination is what we needed, not violins, to step through that wave of ego and excess. Thanks to Bruce Springsteen and Bob Seger for keeping it real and Elvis Costello for keeping his head at that time. Of course, commercial radio was then held up by Foreigner, Boston, AC/DC and Styx.

The eighties brought in Rap and Hip Hop which further added to the Rock N Roll soup. But Run DMC could not find a place on MTV alongside pop icon Michael Jackson for some time, quirky New Wave acts began to show up anchored by the Clash and Blondie, and Devo, and of course, the Buggles, who proclaimed the end of yet another era: “Video Killed the Radio Star.”

Is this how Prince and Madonna got their start? Sting certainly wouldn’t gravitate their lyrics to the likes of Dylan, but U2 kept the rock dignity alive.

We were then swept up from the lime green pile carpet by Heavy Metal’s Van Halen babies and regressed to Hair Bands such as Motley Crue and their followers.  A relief set in when Kurt Cobain killed them with his painful Nirvana.

Gangster Rap made a point while an ode to Classic Rock appeared in the Black Crowes, Lenny Kravits, and the Spin Doctors/Blues Travelers. Seattle Washington became a hub for the music style Grunge and Pearl Jam rocked the North while LA cropped up bands like the Chili Peppers and Guns and Roses.

What’s changed? Not much, really.  The old adage of “The more things change, the more things stay the same” rings true still today.  The past decade or so seemed melancholy at times, with mild surprises, and gentle twists, but mostly predictable and commercialized.  Do you remember any great band besides U2?

Is there any room for rap and non terrestrial radio? What happened to the cheap gatherings in a local garage with a couple of guitars and some angry teenagers singing about a lost girlfriend?

Music has just spiraled into itself, really.  It has blended and converged, separated, and stirred. It is self aggrandizing, and getting in its own way. Rock N Roll has been golden and inspiring, only dying on an episode of VH1 Behind the Music.

Until a little spark comes along, like Greta Van Fleet, Dirty Honey, White Reaper, GoodBye June, Dorothy, and Tyler Bryant and the Shakedown.

The Answer is No: Rock N Roll is not dead.

Because Rock N Roll is based in rebellion, the music has to re-invent itself every few years or so. There has to be a sense of danger attached, some young angst, which cannot be captured and hawked like some cheap swill by a corporate record label. That is why the music does and always will be created from some garage somewhere, from some small place in the backstreets of America.

At a late hour the other night, the door of an oyster house swung open, and George walked in and sat down at the bar.

"Oysters?" he said inquisitively.

"Yes, sir," said the bartender, "and the best in town"

"Well, I've heard of oysters before, but this is the first time I've seen em.  Maybe I should know what they are made of before I leave town."

He was given a fresh sample plate, and with that he began to scrutinize the uncased shellfish.  He began to complain about how weird they looked and most difficult to get out of their shell.

"I've never seen anything hold on so much, and my, aren't they sure slippery when they do come out?"

"Well sir, down with five dollars, and you can have a whole dozen."

"Well, O.K."  And with that, our hero from the Sucker state squared himself up on his barstool, grabbed the bill of his cap and screwed it around backwards on his head.

The bartender and the fellow sitting next to Gearge gave each other a wink as George quickly plopped one of the slimey oysters into his mouth, chewing most determinedly, swallowing almost as quickly as he placed it into his mouth.

With that, the bartender dropped some silverware, and with a look of horror and amazement, a moment of dreadful pause ensued.

"What's the matter?"

"Did you swallow it...alive?" said the fellow to George.

"I swallowed it just as he gave it to me!"

"You mean, you didn't kill it first?"

"Well, no, I guess. Was I supposed to?"

"You're a dead man!" exclaimed the anxious fellow. "The creature is alive, and it will eat right through you!"

"Get a stomach pump and pump it out!, in a frenzy, keeling over, "OOOOOH! My insides are killin me!  Do something before that evil sea-toad eats me right before your eyes!"

"Here, why don't you drink some of this?” pointing to a bottle of hot pepper sauce.

The hint was enough, and the sucker grabbed the bottle and drank half of it down.  He squealed from the burning sensation, gasped, blew, twisted, and pitched, as if being contorted from some electric shock, while at the same time, his eyes ran down a stream of tears.

Well, the bartender came over, almost busting with suppressed laughter, and said, “Well, how are you now, mister?"

"Well, I uh... well... If that oyster creature's dying agonies didn't stir up an eruption equal to a small earthquake, I, uh, when that killin stuff touched it," and with forcefulness and deliberation, he said, "If I give you five dollars from me for that live animal, I'm already dead!" Grabbing his hat off the floor, he vanished.

The shout of laughter and the keeling over at all of this would have made a spectator believe that they had all been swallowing oysters alive!

I want my kids to grow up confident, intelligent, and feeling loved.  There’s no doubt about it. Like most parents, I want my children to have more of what I had, to grow spiritually and independently and to know that they’ll always have a good stock of tools in the shed for life.

And so, how do I pass that on whilst competing with my son’s video games and my daughter’s instant messaging on My Space dot com?  Well, I’ve figured out how to connect with my kids:  Tell them stories that will absolutely bore them to tears.

People have done that for years. It can’t be that bad. The natives were doing it for hundreds of years as they had nothing but the stars to entertain them at night, and the passing down of history to generations, and the sharing of the culture of their heritage. “Yuk” my son would say to this, but let me put down the remote for a moment and think about it. I’ve told a story or two in my day. 

I can do this. I fancy myself a good story teller. I believe in the sharing of tales from across the dining room table, after a good meal has been enjoyed, and everyone is fat, dumb, and happy. I imagine sharing with my grandchildren the stories that will inevitably begin with “Back in o-3, they didn’t have flying cars, we woke up everyday, and had a “commute.”  We drove down “highways,” tens of miles and almost an hour to get to a place we called, “a job,” where they had small compartments, about 8 feet by 8 feet, where we spent most of our lives tied to a phone.

“Sounds like jail, Grandpa”

“Well, things were worse when I was a child,” I’d say.  “They had small round things called “balls” and the children of the neighborhood actually knew each other, and played “kick the ball” out side on a thing called “a lawn,” which was covered in “grass.”

I know I’ve got there attention when they roll their eyes at me. Here’s one of my son’s favorite’s from his dear old Dad:

The Origin of the Popcorn Ball  

Most people think that someone invented the popcorn ball, but this genuine American product is actually a product of the weather. It invented itself, so to speak, on old Bergstrom Febold's farm, back on July 21, 1874.

It was during that peculiar year known as the Year of the Striped Weather, which came between the years of the Big Rain and the Great Heat.  This year, the weather was both hot and rainy.  There was a mile of scorching sunshine and then a mile of rain.  

It so happened that on Febold's farm there were both kinds of weather.  The sun shone on his cornfield until the corn began to pop, while at the same time the rain washed the syrup out of his sugar cane.

Now the cane field was on a hill and the cornfield was in a valley, so the syrup flowed downhill into the popped corn and rolled it into great balls.  Some of them were hundreds of feet high and looked like big tennis balls from a distance.  

You never see any of them now because the grasshoppers ate them all up in one day, July 22, 1874.

The End.

The end? But what about the grasshoppers? And did they really have tennis balls back in 1874? These are questions better left unanswered. The above story is not really a story. It’s what they call a “yarn.” A yarn is a story that goes round and round, but doesn’t really tell a story. It’s plot is elusive, and it’s point is just as clear.

But the real thing that is going on behind my son’s rolling of the eyes, is that we’re spending precious time together. That’s the real deal. Time is precious to me and when it comes down to it, the time spent connecting with my kids is the most rewarding thing I can do.

And so, while I was in my teenage daughter’s room, posters on the wall, and she at the computer, typing away, already “multitasking” at her instant message friends, listening to her music, and chewing gum, I eagerly jumped at the chance when she asked me to braid her hair. 

Yes, there I was, fumbling with her locks, pulling, and twisting them up, and having a faint resemblance of braids fall through my fingers, her hair tangled in knots when I was through with my attempt. I couldn’t make a braid to save my life, but…I was connecting! 

Here I was spending precious time with my beautiful baby girl! It was awesome!

And then she said “How bout if we just try for a pony tail? You got a lot to learn, Dad!”

In my teens, I picked up a guitar. It came naturally to me, growing up with my 60’s generation mom and the Beatles as a musical backdrop to my childhood. I thought for sure that I’d grow up to be a rock star, grooving out in front of the mirror thinking about how cool it would be to have that number one hit record.

In my twenties, I was in and out of several rock and roll bands. After all, I found a place to really “zone-out.” Yeah, playing guitar was cool. I thought I’d end up with a hip groupie girlfriend and my life would just be perfect.

It didn’t take long before I realized that there were guys out there a whole lot better than me, given that it took me years to master three chords. I actually entertained a fourth and fifth chord after a while, and had a complete repertoire of “boy meets girl then hearts get crushed” songs. But, everybody in that business is a hypocrite, and that part was no fun.

So then I thought for a while that maybe I was in the “wrong art.”

After all, those skinny guys with thick framed glasses and the black long sleeved t-shirts at the museums and art galleries were getting all of the chicks because they were “artists.” What was going on here? It didn’t take any real talent to claim you were “abstract” or “modern.” I mean, grab a box of crayons and call the piece something existential sounding and you’re in.

In my thirties, I played out a lot of my dysfunctions and old patterns in relationships, and finally came to a place of truth. My reality, at that time, was living in a house that just happened to have a bunch of rocks in a graveled back yard.

I was alone, and sat outside a lot, and stared at those rocks in the yard. I did some visioning, and releasing, and some centering, and some grounding. Getting a girlfriend was the last thing on my mind.

Well, after a few years of that, I was at this wine tasting party hosted by a group of self-professed “cork dorks.” This really cool Goth chick was sitting next to me and her wine glass was empty, so I offered to get her another one, except that I said something about how the empty glass looked so perfect just as it was. She said “Wow, that’s so Zen.”

Hey now! Zen? What the fuck was that?

But I didn’t say that I didn’t know what she was talking about, because maybe she’d figure out that I didn’t know much about anything, and then from out of nowhere, she started asking me all of these really hard questions. I excused myself, and got the fuck outta there!

I went to the library, and read up on this Zen thing. I read all the books I could get my hands on. This clearing of the mind and becoming one with the universe really worked for me.

Turns out, I’d been doing it all along, what, with those rocks in the back yard, and all. And so I got rid of all of my furniture, and began sleeping on the floor with some folded up blankets.

I meditated all of the time. I mean, you might call it “taking a nap on the couch” when it was really a daily meditation of just “Being.”

Well, it was a few months later, and I saw that Goth girl again at some shopping plaza. We had some ice cream, and chatted for a little bit. I showed her some of my breathing techniques, and I told her about how reality was just an illusion, and that material possessions were in the way on the path to the ultimate truth.

She responded with something about how finding the right cosmetics to match her skin condition was truly her life’s work.

She ended up marrying some corporate financing guy with a BMW who ran some website on the side and bought her some Channel earrings with his Platinum card during some corporate jaunt to Vegas on the company dime. Turns out, she was after his money. That was so NOT Zen!

And so I figured, what’s the point?

Well, I started going to these Yoga classes and after awhile, I realized that I was the only guy in a room full of girls! They were all really into my breathing techniques and the story about my rocks.

So then, these girls who were into crystals, candles, and “Angel Cards” gave me their phone numbers, and that year I had a full calendar! I scored big time with this Zen stuff!

As time went by, I did find the love of my life and married her. Now I live in a suburb outside the city. We built a home and raised some kids. We run a business, and I even have a dog and a pool in a back yard that has lots of rocks.

Zen has really worked for me. But don’t you even think about getting into it with any hint of irreverence. Zen is some serious shit. It takes dedication and lots of discipline. Not everyone can do it. You have to have a natural talent, like me.

Michelangelo diagrams the Brain in the Sistine Chapel: The Human Brain Is Depicted in Image of God

The journal is published by Lippincott Williams & Wilkins, a part of Wolters Kluwer Health, a leading provider of information and business intelligence for students, professionals, and institutions in medicine, nursing, allied health, and pharmacy.

“We propose that Michelangelo, a deeply religious man and an accomplished anatomist, intended to enhance the meaning of this iconographically critical panel and possibly document his anatomic accomplishments by concealing this sophisticated neuroanatomic rendering within the image of God,” write medical illustrator Ian Suk, BSc, BMC, and neurosurgeon Rafael Tamargo, MD, of The Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, Baltimore.

Image of Brainstem Concealed in Panel Showing Separation of Light from Darkness:

The “concealed neuroanatomy” is found in Michelangelo’s painting of the Separation of Light from Darkness, one of a series of nine Sistine Chapel panels showing scenes from the Book of Genesis. According to Suk and Tamargo, “anatomically correct ventral [front] depiction” of the brainstem can be seen in God’s neck.

The authors present several lines of evidence to support their contention. History shows that Michelangelo was an avid student of anatomy, who performed cadaver dissections throughout his life. “We speculate that during his numerous dissections, Michelangelo possibly dissected the brain and spinal cord and that over the years he probably acquired a sophisticated understanding of gross neuroanatomy,” Suk and Tamargo write.

They buttress their argument by showing that the anatomy of God’s neck is inaccurate. That discrepancy has been noticed before, with one previous critic suggesting that Michelangelo had painted God with a goiter (enlarged thyroid). Suk and Tamargo also show that the light source illuminating God’s neck differs from that of the rest of the painting. For an artist of Michelangelo’s anatomical and technical prowess, it’s unlikely that these discrepancies were simple mistakes, Suk and Tamargo believe. They also note that God’s beard appears “rolled up,” as if to draw attention to the neck, whereas other panels show God with a long, flowing beard.

Suk and Tamargo aren’t the first to suggest that Michelangelo included images of the brain in his Sistine Chapel frescoes. A previous researcher found an outline of the brain embedded in the famous panel depicting the Creation of Adam.

“We speculate that having used the brain motif successfully in the Creation of Adam almost a year earlier, Michelangelo wanted to once again associate the figure of God with a brain in the iconographically critical Separation of Light From Darkness,” Suk and Tamargo write. They note the powerful symbolism of incorporating the human brain into a depiction of “the first act performed by God in the creation of the universe… situated immediately above the altar in the chapel.”

The authors acknowledge “the perils of over-interpreting a masterpiece” — and that not all art historians and other viewers will agree with their conclusions. However, they believe that a close analysis of the image, supported by the historical record, backs their interpretation: that Michelangelo “cleverly enhanced his depiction of God…with concealed images of the brain, and in this way celebrated not only the glory of God but also that of His most magnificent creation.”

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