The other day, I was on Wikipedia trying to look up the name of those sparkles that happen when you sneeze too hard (which happen to be phosphenes, by the way). Then the magic of Wikipedia links happened, and check this out. Eigengrau. Also known as brain gray, it’s a shade of dark gray that the brain perceives when no light is entering the eyes. Your nerve cells still fire at a baseline level even when they’re receiving no input. Cool, huh?
Category Archives: Cool Science
IM IN YR LOOP UPPIN YR VAR
I’ve been putting off learning computer programming for years. It never seemed like something I needed to do – I’m a biology person, not a computer person. It’s my job to go look at stuff under a microscope and see if it’s glowing green or crawling out of the dish yet. If I needed something calculated, I could always get Excel to do it, or go find a computer person and make them do it for me.
But the modern era has finally caught up to me and I need to learn UNIX and Perl so I can handle some large sets of DNA sequences in the lab. The experience has felt something like being airlifted into Japan with nothing but a granola bar and a compass. But it could have been worse. I could have needed to learn one of these languages:
Oh, by head.
Noooooooo!
This one, on the other hand, makes an odd amount of sense:
I CAN HAS VAR?
Good Point
I would never have thought about this fact about electronics, though it seems obvious after the fact. How many sci-fi writers have made this blunder about their robot characters?
Though technically Helix doesn’t need air to survive, he just needs it to function. I’m sure he’s got some sort of thing that makes him shut down if his chips overheat. Then they’d cool (albeit a lot more slowly than normal) via radiant energy.
From the webcomic Freefall.
Vampire Carrying Capacity
There is a scholarly paper making the rounds of the Internet (“Cinema Fiction vs. Physics Reality,” by Costas J. Efthimiou and Sohang Gandhi) that claims to have disproved the existence of vampires using math. Their central claim is that, if a vampire needs to feed once a month, and every vampire’s victim becomes a vampire, the vampire population would increase geometrically and the human race would be wiped out in a couple of years.
Everybody knows that vampires don’t turn their victims every time. That would be as ridiculous as … as vampires actually existing. Well, anyway. In this essay, I was going to rebut their argument with some more math, but I discovered it’s already been done. Brian Thomas does a wonderful job of explaining the population ecology of vampires and humans in Sunnyvale (“Vampire Ecology in the Jossverse,” easily Googleable), and he uses much more advanced math than I could ever muster. Oh, well. Go read both papers. I have only a few notes to add, and all I have to invoke is a little algebra.
There seem to be two major feeding strategies among vampires. As far as I can tell, nobody’s named the strategies, so I’m just going to call them “grazers” and “gorgers.” Gorgers are kind of like your pet snake – they can go for weeks without food, and then they go and drain all the blood out of a human body. Grazers suck peoples’ blood, but they don’t kill them while they’re doing it, and presumably they have to do it more often.
Since vampires don’t exist, I have absolutely no facts to go on. All the numbers that I’m using I have had to pull out of thin air. The only real number I have is this: the Red Cross says that a healthy adult can lose a unit of blood (half a liter) every eight weeks without suffering any ill effects.
Say one of your grazing vampires needed a unit of blood every night to “survive.” He’d need, as an absolute minimum, fifty-six humans to give the first human enough time to recover before coming back to feed on her again.
One vampire to every fifty-six humans and the Red Cross would be pissed.
But in light of those numbers, one vampire to every thousand people or so starts to sound pretty reasonable. A small town like Northfield could support a coven of 17 or 18.
For “gorger” vampires, the math is a little different. Here we’re not concerned with how much blood a person can lose without getting hurt, but with how many people are dying. Say a gorger vampire needs to consume one victim every two weeks. A vampire like this would increase the annual death rate of a population by 26. What the vampire needs, then, is a population big enough where that increase in the death rate won’t get people suspicious.
Remember those lovely population histograms from the Elves? Birthrate/deathrate calculations are going to come in handy again. In a nice Western country where the life expectancy is around 80, 1/80th of the people have to die each year to keep the population constant. So a population with an annual death rate of 26 would have x * 1/80 =26 or 2080 people. But wait – if a vampire moved into a population of 2080, the death rate would double. The local townsfolk would be knocking on Buffy’s door in no time. Let’s multiply that by a hundred. In a city of 208,000, there are about 2,600 deaths a year. Add a vampire and the death rate would go up to 2626. Such a vampire could plausibly manage not to get caught.
Notice that the gorger model supports a much lower population density than the grazers – one individual in a city of 208,000, instead of 17 in a Northfield. And there’s the fact that a gorger’s victims would be dying under highly mysterious circumstances – it’s hard to hide all those dessicated corpses. A gorger vampire would have to limit herself to people who won’t be missed, which would drive the vampire population density even lower. There are many questions left unanswered about the grazer strategy, too. How likely are people to notice a fang-shaped hickey and waking up light-headed in the morning? Still, if you’re a vampire, it pays to be a grazer.
What do Inkheart, the Turing Test, and viruses have to do with each other?
Here’s one that’ll bust your noodle: it looks like fictional characters could pass the Turing Test. Imagine that we’re text-messaging each other, and I answer all your questions as one of my favorite imaginary people, like Lyra Belacqua. Our conversation might go something like this:
Interviewer: Hello, Lyra.
Lyra: How do you know my name, then?
Interviewer: Well, I–
Lyra: What is this place? You’re one of them Gobblers, en’t you?
Lyra: Where did I learn how to type?
Theoretically, this could go in indefinitely. I’m using all the intelligence of my brain to convince the interviewer about Lyra’s intelligence. It only breaks down when I reach the limits of my knowledge about Lyra or we run into some logical inconsistencies due to the fact that she’s from another dimension. You can see that that second problem happened pretty fast, but maybe somebody skilled enough (Lyra’s creator?) could fool the interviewer every time. Are we supposed to conclude that imaginary people are intelligent? Where do they keep their brains?
I’m bringing up the subject because it’s so compelling for writers such as myself. One of the common experiences for a fiction writer, across all genres, is that it feels like one’s characters are alive. My characters are like the most wonderful imaginary friends; I don’t write their dialogue, I just let them talk. And this experience doesn’t have to happen to just authors. Some characters have captured the public attention so thoroughly (like the Tin Woodsman, for example, or Harry Potter) that they can live independently of their creators. But if characters are intelligent, then we writers are all psychotic. We’re all multiple personality disorder cases with a bunch of knights and talking dragons bopping around in our heads. And some days, that’s what it feels like.
Maybe the best way to look at this is to go back to what the Turing test was supposed to prove in the first place. We tend to regard it as just a sentience test. But the grand old man Turing himself introduced the idea with a sort of parlor game where both a man and a woman pretend to be women. Somebody runs typewriter-generated messages between them and an interviewer (if only he’d known about Instant Messenger!). If the man wins the game by convincing the interviewer that he’s the woman, Turing says we can conclude he’s got a pretty good understanding of gender. Likewise, in the more famous version of the test, if a computer is smart enough to convince an interviewer that it’s smart, it must be pretty smart. Okay. So far, so good. So, if an interviewer becomes convinced that Lyra Belacqua is a real person, then
Lyra Belacqua must be pretty smart.
I must be a pretty good actress.
Which is it?
Here’s what I think, anyway. Characters are particularly good memes. Those are those ideas that can hop from head to head, taking on lives of their own. (Yes, kind of like LOLcats, but more sophisticated than that.) Viruses aren’t alive, but they can hijack the machinery of a cell in order to act like they’re alive and reproduce. Characters aren’t intelligent; they’re “personality fragments” that can sieze hold of a person’s imagination and act like they’re real. Lyra uses my brain (with my permission, I hope!) to answer the interviewer’s questions. And there’s a plot idea in that. What if there is a character whose personality is so virulent that his author goes nuts?
Peptides are kind of like proteins…
“Dr. Perricone’s revolutionary program utilizes the biggest breakthrough in antiaging medicine in years, protein-like substances called peptides and neuropeptides.”
From The Perricone Promise, a hot new diet book published by a dermatologist.
Please tell me the biochemists aren’t the only ones rolling their eyes at the above. Peptides ARE proteins! Itty bitty ones. It’s significant to note there was an advertisement for Dr. Perricone’s special peptide brews on the last page.
The Future is Now
But that’s not where the real news happened last night. In a television first, one of CNN’s newscasters appeared on the show via hologram. I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited for somebody to use real live holograms to communicate. Probably ever since seeing Star Wars. FTL and sentient computers cannot be far behind.
P
The Things You Find on Wikipedia…
Dinococcus radiodurans is a kind of bacterium whose name means “terrible berry that withstands radiation.” How cool is that?
I wish my name meant “terrible berry that withstands radiation.”
Insultingly Stupid Movie Physics
I came across this website while I was doing research for an article about the Matrix. It’s good. Really good.