The Dinosaur Fart Debate

- May 9th, 2012

sauropod

 

Dinosaurs produced a massive amount of flatulence during their long time on earth — enough to significantly affect their environment and cause global warming, according to a study by British researchers published in Current Biology magazine this week.

 

But scientists dispute the conclusion drawn by Fox News and other media outlets that the dinosaurs’ farts and belches could have caused their extinction through climate change.

 

Before we even get into the semantics of the debate, let’s back up and ask a crucial question:

 

How, exactly, do you measure the fart production of creatures that have been dead and gone for tens of millions of years anyway?

 

Well, the scientists from universities in Liverpool, London and Glasgow figured most of the hot air was produced by the long-necked herbivore dinosaurs called sauropods since vegetarians are apparently much more prone to flatulence than carnivores. (I did not know that.)

 

So they looked at the amount of methane produced by microbes in the stomaches of the currently existent herbivore species most closely related to dinosaurs — cows. (I did not know that either.)

 

According to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, the world’s current cow population produces roughly 80 million metric tonnes of methane every year.

 

Then using known data about dinosaurs’ size and population patterns, the researchers came up with a mathematical model to extrapolate dinosaur fart production 100 million years ago from cow fart production today.

 

It all sounds a bit sketchy to me, but the scientists and mathematicians crunched their numbers and — ta-da! — calculated dinosaurs were pumping out about 472 million tonnes of methane gas a year back in the day.

 

One medium-sized sauropod could supposedly cut about 2675 litres of wind EACH DAY! That’s more than two tonnes, by my calculation.

 

I’ve been bowled over by elephant farts, so I can believe it … I guess. But two tonnes of farts a day?

 

Here’s what lead researcher Dave Wilkinson of Liverpool John Moores University had to say in a statement:

 

“A simple mathematical model suggests that the microbes living in sauropod dinosaurs may have produced enough methane to have an important effect on the Mesozoic climate.

 

“Indeed, our calculations suggest that these dinosaurs could have produced more methane than all modern sources — both natural and man-made — put together.”

 

In other words, dinosaur farts made a hot, humid, stinking, fetid environment even hotter, more humid, stinkier and more fetid.

 

So was Fox News right in saying, “Dinosaurs may have farted themselves to extinction?”

 

Well, the British study doesn’t make that claim and Paul Myers, a biology professor at the University of Minnesota, dismissed the extinction extrapolation as nothing but sensationalism.

 

Here’s how he put it in his Pharyngula science blog:

 

“The researchers didn’t say that at all. There is nothing about extinction in the paper; it would have been ridiculous and I was prepared to dismiss such a claim without even reading the paper (the Jurassic lasted 55 million years, the Cretaceous 80 million, with dinosaurs farting away throughout). But the paper makes no such claim, instead suggesting that the mass of herbivores during the Mesozoic would have made a substantial, but stable, contribution of greenhouse gases to the atmosphere that may have been partially responsible for the warmer, moister climate of the era and the greater primary production.”

So we’re still left with that giant asteroid smashing into the Yucatan Peninsula 65.5 million years ago as the most likely culprit in the dinosaurs’ extinction.

In the end, speculation about whether dinosaurs farted themselves to death or just made the world a hotter, nastier place is  … a lot of hot air.

A Mark Twain Quote For Every Occasion

- May 8th, 2012

Samuel_Clemens

This all started yesterday when my friend Aaron Sands posted this Mark Twain quote on his Facebook page:

 

‎”Damn these human beings; if I had invented them I would go hide my head in a bag.”

 

Now I’m a sucker for Mark Twain quotes and I have thousands (well, maybe hundreds) of them tucked away in my back pocket so, of course, I had to counter-post some semi-relevant Twain-isms, to wit:

 

“If man could be crossed with the cat, it would improve man but deteriorate the cat.”

 

And, since I was rolling, a couple of rarer but more flowery Twain quotes:

 

“Grief can take care of itself; but to get the full value of a joy you must have someone to divide it with.”

 

“Everything human is pathetic. The secret source of humour itself is not joy but sorrow. There is no humour in heaven.”

 

“Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.”

 

Because, you see, there is absolutely no human experience from birth to death and beyond that Mark Twain has not commented on — and in phrases more robust, humourous, sad, wise, stinging and sigh-inducing than anything you or I will ever string together.

Mark-Twain--Samuel-Clemens

Twain — Samuel Clemens in real life — was a  very complicated, conflicted and sometimes downright ornery man but he was a high-performance quote machine.

 

When he wasn’t lighting up a cigar or pouring down a bottle of whiskey, he was writing (or saying) something memorable.

 

Everyone thinks of Twain as the novelist who wrote The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and a few other widely read works of fiction.

 

That’s, in part, because Clemens was part of an early pseudo-cultural door-to-door salesman network (sort of like Encyclopedia Britannica later) that put Mark Twain books on every farmhouse bookshelf from Tonawanda to Topeka to Tacoma in the late 19th Century.

 

That calls for another quote:

 

“My books are like water; those of the great geniuses are wine. Fortunately everybody drinks water.”

 

But the vast majority of Mark Twain’s writing was non-fiction — essays, pamphlet diatribes, journalism (he owned a Buffalo newspaper for a few years and wrote a substantial part of its content), and endless letters.

 

Most people don’t know that Twain earned much of his income as one of the most famous public speakers of his era. Twain visited Toronto on several occasions but, to the best of my knowledge, he made only one formal stage appearance here.

 

On Dec. 8, 1884, Twain appeared on a double bill with his pal, New Orleans author George W. Cable, for an evening of readings and conversation at the now-long-gone Horticultural Gardens Pavilion (in what was to become known as Allan Gardens because financier and businessman George Allan had donated the property).

Horticult-Gardens-Pavilion

The place was packed — jammed to capacity with many disappointed, shivering spectators left hanging around in the cold outside the pavilion doors.

 

Twain killed ‘em — he read two unpublished stories — but he also disappointed them — he didn’t read his famous Jumping Frog story or the fence-painting scene from Tom Sawyer, which everyone wanted to hear.

 

Of course he left ‘em laughing with his hilarious, off-the-cuff ad-libs.

 

That calls for another quote:

 

“It usually takes me more than three weeks to prepare a good impromptu speech.”

 

You see, Mark Twain has a quote for every possible occasion.

 

He’s the guy who came up with some of the zingers that are so classic you thought Moses brought them down from the mountain with the Ten Commandments. For example:

 

“The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

 

“There are lies, damned lies and statistics.”

 

and

 

“Golf is a good walk spoiled.”

 

So I thought it was time to pull out that wad of crumpled paper from my back pocket and transcribe some — just some — of the wonderful sayings for which we can thank the brilliant, diabolical, heavenly mind of Sam Clemens AKA Mark Twain.

 

Whenever a situation leaves you speechless, just run through this list and pick out the quote that fits the occasion.

 

These quotes have an organic order of their own but are not arranged in categories because — son of a gun — Twain even has a quote for this situation:

 

“Ideally a book (or blog list) would have no order to it, and the reader would have to discover his own.”

 

So dig in and enjoy…

 

The more you explain it, the more I don’t understand it.

 

Let us make a special effort to stop communicating with each other, so we can have some conversation.

 

Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect.

 

All generalizations are false, including this one.

 

Loyalty to the country always. Loyalty to the government when it deserves it.

 

Get your facts first, and then you can distort them as much as you please.

 

Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities. Truth isn’t.

 

Facts are stubborn things, but statistics are more pliable.

 

Truth is mighty and will prevail. There is nothing wrong with this, except that it ain’t so.

 

You can’t depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus.

 

The man who is a pessimist before 48 knows too much; if he is an optimist after it, he knows too little.

 

When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.

 

If man could be crossed with the cat, it would improve man but deteriorate the cat.

 

A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way.

 

There are times when one would like to hang the whole human race, and finish the farce.

 

The human race is a race of cowards; and I am not only marching in that procession but carrying a banner.

 

Grief can take care of itself; but to get the full value of a joy you must have someone to divide it with.

 

Everything human is pathetic. The secret source of humour itself is not joy but sorrow. There is no humour in heaven.

 

The human race has one really effective weapon, and that is laughter.

 

Humour is mankind’s greatest blessing.

 

Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.

 

Lord save us all from a hope tree that has lost the faculty of putting out blossoms.

 

Barring that natural expression of villainy which we all have, the man looked honest enough.

 

Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear — not absence of fear.

 

Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.

 

Giving up smoking is the easiest thing in the world. I know because I’ve done it thousands of times.

 

Cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education.

 

Don’t go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you nothing. It was here first.

 

Familiarity breeds contempt — and children.

 

My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it.

 

Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company.

 

God made the Idiot for practice, and then He made the School Board.

 

Good friends, good books and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life.

 

I can live for two months on a good compliment.

 

When your friends begin to flatter you on how young you look, it’s a sure sign you’re getting old.

 

Wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been.

 

It is better to deserve honours and not have them than to have them and not deserve them.

 

I was seldom able to see an opportunity until it had ceased to be one.

 

You can’t depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus.

 

History may not repeat itself, but it does rhyme a lot.

 

If the world comes to an end, I want to be in Cincinnati. Everything comes there 10 years later.

 

It ain’t those parts of the Bible that I can’t understand that bother me, it is the parts that I do understand.

 

It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.

 

The more things are forbidden, the more popular they become. (Twain wrote this long before Prohibition was introduced in the U.S.)

 

There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.

 

It is better to take what does not belong to you than to let it lie around neglected.

 

We have the best government that money can buy.

 

It could probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no distinctly native criminal class except Congress.

 

Suppose you were an idiot, and suppose you were a member of Congress; but I repeat myself.

 

Only one thing is impossible for God: To find any sense in any copyright law on the planet.

 

It is by the goodness of God that in our country we have those three unspeakably precious things: freedom of speech, freedom of conscience, and the prudence never to practice either of them.

 

For in a Republic, who is “the country”? Is it the Government which is for the moment in the saddle? Why, the Government is merely a servant—merely a temporary servant; it cannot be its prerogative to determine what is right and what is wrong, and decide who is a patriot and who isn’t. Its function is to obey orders, not originate them.

 

Prosperity is the best protector of principle.

 

The lack of money is the root of all evil.

 

All you need is ignorance and confidence and the success is sure.

 

It was wonderful to find America, but it would have been more wonderful to miss it.

 

The very ink with which history is written is merely fluid prejudice.

 

I don’t give a damn for a man that can only spell a word one way.

 

Substitute “damn” every time you’re inclined to write “very”; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.

 

The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.

 

Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is lightning that does the work.

 

Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself.

 

The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.

 

Only kings, presidents, editors, and people with tapeworms have the right to use the editorial “we.” (Professional athletes take note)

 

What a wee little part of a person’s life are his acts and his words! His real life is led in his head, and is known to none but himself.

 

Hockey Night In Canada — Not

- May 5th, 2012

I am so ticked off by the asinine NHL playoff schedule.

 

How ticked off am I?

 

I’m so ticked off that I’m sitting here at a computer on Saturday night writing this screed of (what I hope is) virulent turpitude aimed at the bottom-feeding, arse-licking NHL powers-that-be rather than out doing something culturally beneficial and/or personally stimulating.

 

I feel like Charlie Brown lying flat on his back after Lucy pulls the football away.

 

Why?

 

Because — like a complete rube-idiot-Canadian-optimist — I just assumed there would be an NHL playoff game on Hockey Night In Canada tonight (Saturday night).

 

Oh sure, they blew it last weekend, but I figured they would work out the kinks and get it right by this weekend.

 

So I didn’t even bother to check the TV schedule before settling in to enjoy that wonderful brand of hockey we call the playoffs. I figured it would be Rangers and Caps tonight, an enjoyable series.

 

Well, bowl me over and f*** me with a footstool (as one of my Facebook friends likes to say). Was I ever wrong.

 

I’m not even going to waste my time looking to see when the Saturday and Sunday NHL playoff games are actually scheduled this weekend. I already know this — they aren’t being played when they’re SUPPOSED to be played.

 

Which is at night. Especially on Saturday night.

 

Football (both kinds) is/are played in the afternoon. Baseball is played in the afternoon. Tiddlywinks is probably played in the afternoon.

 

NHL HOCKEY IS PLAYED AT NIGHT.

 

What will it take to get that through your thick, NFL- and MLB-envious brains, you toad-like, cretinous, bottom-feeding, arse-licking  NHL footstools?

 

I give up. You are past redemption.

 

I know you want to expand (NHL speak for “stay alive”) in the U.S., but do you really have to alienate and obliterate every Canadian hockey tradition and ingrained NEED?

 

Oh you foul, befouling, unmitigated NHL disaster monkeys..

 

Before I wander aimlessly out into the night, all I can do is leave you with a parting curse from my dear friend, William Shakespeare:

 

“You scullion! You rampallian! You fustilarian! I’ll tickle your catastrophe!”

— from Henry IV, Part 2

 

 

 

This is crazy, stupid and dumb — but not a big deal

- May 5th, 2012

 

Look, I can’t stand this torture any more. I’m a broken man, whimpering and soiling myself in a corner.

 

I’ll talk, I’ll spill the beans, I’ll tell everything.

 

Just don’t make me listen to any more of this crap about Daniel Dale, boy hero, saving democracy by throwing all his valuables on the ground and running away when confronted by the mayor of Toronto — someone he knew and who knew him, someone who had a lot more than Dale had to lose by doing something stupid (granted, doing something stupid has never been an impediment to Rob Ford’s strategic planning), and someone who would probably drop dead of a coronary if Dale had just run around in circles, barking like one of Peter Worthington’s corgis or pit bulls or whatever they are.

 

So a lead reporter for the largest newspaper in Canada gets caught doing his job — checking out the physical lay of the land on a patch of public property (or thereabouts — you have to go and walk around and poke around before you really know what’s what) the mayor of Toronto wants to buy from a public body affiliated with the municipality in which he is King Kong (unless it involves public transit, of course).

 

So freaking what?

 

So what if it was 7:30 in the evening (broad daylight in my books) or 10:30 p.m. or 2:30 a.m., for that matter?

 

Dale was standing on public property, minding his own business ie. the public’s business by prying into Ford’s private business ie. his home turf.

 

Dale had a right to be there. In my books, anyway.

 

If he was willing to be run off his legal personal rights by an enraged, overweight, heart-palpitating dingbat twice his age, then that’s his business. But please don’t make this dink a hero for being terrified by the Great Ninny.

 

Of course the Star loves it. Any newspaper worth its salt loves the publicity, increased circulation (computer clicks now, I guess) and adrenaline rush of a head-to-head battle with the powers-that-be, however soft and squishy their powers may be.

 

My dear friend Siobhan Moore, a professor of journalism now, once clobbered a Hell’s Angel in either the head (official version) or nuts (private version) with her camera to get away from a much dicier situation.

 

She ran, of course — and got away to tell the tale, too — but she held on to her (dented) camera the whole way. She didn’t throw it on the ground and plead for mercy from a hulk. There’s much to be said for the solid heft of an old-fashioned, copper-bodied Nikon Pentax.

 

I guess it would be hard to K-O Rob Ford in the nuts with a super-slim cell phone. But don’t give the guy your phone and tape/voice recorder just because he’s yelling at you and “cocking his fist.” (When was the last time you heard that expression? Siobhan Moore would have already clocked  for real anyone wasting enough time to “cock” his or her fist.)

 

All of this may sound like I’m advocating some kind of macho, vigilante journalism.

I’m not.

 

And I’m not advocating that journalists put their lives on the line to get the story. I’m not.

 

But neither of those scenarios apply in this case.

 

You’ve got a young reporter sniffing around a possible story (and, be it ever so small, one I think we should all keep an eye on) and you’ve got a harassed mayor feeling like his simple sanctum of respite is being invaded.

 

When a neighbour alerted Ford that a “prowler” was snooping around the periphery of his property, Ford went rushing out to confront the threat.

 

And suddenly he was face to face with a mousy little reporter he knew well — and disliked — from City Hall.

 

At that point, Rob Ford’s “cocked” hand should have come down: There was no longer an obvious physical threat to his family and home from an unknown prowler. But there was a lot of anger and resentment and tension swirling around and the fist stayed “cocked” for too long.

 

Dale should have done a better job of dealing with an angry mayor straight up, stood his ground and told the mayor to obey the law. In my opinion, anyway. But he didn’t. He cowered and cringed and ran — without his cell phone or recorder.

 

At this point I have to turn it over to my old friend Peter Worthington, the toughest and gentlest man I know:

 

“When confronted, journalists don’t usually yell for help, drop their camera and recorder, and run away. Maybe when facing a mob in Somalia, but not when a Toronto mayor catches you snooping. Unless you’re a Star guy, that is. Star icons like Bob Reguly, Jocko Thomas and Ray Timson must be rolling in their graves.”

 

By the way, when you see the repeated mentions of Daniel Dale being a recent National Newspaper Award recipient, here’s what he won the NNA for:

“Short Features: Winner: Daniel Dale, Toronto Star, for a story of guilt associated with seeing a toonie that someone had dropped on a subway car floor.”

 

I’m sure it’s a wonderful story but I really think Daniel has to cinch his saddle a few notches tighter if he wants to butt heads with the big boys at City Hall.

 

And I think that great puffball Rob Ford needs to loosen his saddle a few notches before he explodes into mushroom dandruff.

 

Sex Secrets Of The Royals, Part 4 (Queen Victoria)

- May 3rd, 2012

Victoria

This creeps me out, just saying it, but I think it’s something we have to face and accept: Queen Victoria was a bit of a nymphomaniac.

 

I know, I know, it’s hard to reconcile the public prudery of the woman who gave her name to an age of straight-laced rectitude with the private passion you have to assume is associated with serious lustfulness.

 

But the facts speak for themselves. And, actually, Victoria speaks for herself too — in private correspondence and in some prurient passages from her diary that weren’t ripped out and burned by one of her image-protecting daughters after Victoria’s death in 1901.

winterhalter_1843_victoria

Known as “the secret picture,” this languid, sensual portrait of the 24-year-old Victoria by Franz Winterhalter was a birthday present to Albert from his wife in 1843. Albert kept the painting in his private chambers and it has only recently been seen by anyone outside the Royal Family and their attendants.

 

Victoria was just 20 (although she had been queen for more than two years) when she proposed to her German cousin, Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, in the fall of 1839. Yep, Victoria popped the question, not Albert.

 

They were married in February 1840 and Victoria immediately began popping out the nine children she and Albert would have over the next 15 years.

victoria_royal_family_01

Now there’s nothing wrong with having nine children (if you can afford them and have the patience to put up with that much cacophony) but there’s ample evidence to show Victoria preferred the act of creation to the process of child rearing.

 

After her youngest child, Beatrice, was born in 1857 the 38-year-old queen was warned by her doctor, Sir James Reid, that any more pregnancies were too dangerous. “Oh, Sir James,” wailed Victoria, “Am I not to have any more fun in bed?”

 

Victoria-and-Albert

Right from the beginning of the marriage, Victoria was enthusiastic in the bedroom and generally considered the sexual aggressor in the relationship. One passage in her private journal rhapsodizes about “heavenly love-making.”

 

And she wasn’t shy talking about it — even to her prime minister.

 

Here’s what Victoria had to say in a letter to her first PM, the libidinous Lord Melbourne, about her wedding night:

 

“It was a gratifying and bewildering experience… I never, never spent such an evening. His excessive love and affection gave me feelings of heavenly love and happiness. He clasped me in his arms and we kissed each other again and again.”

 

I just can’t see the present Queen writing such a letter to her first prime minister, Winston Churchill.

 

Elizabeth-smile

As the family grew, Victoria had Albert install a complicated automatic lock system on his bedroom door that could be activated by a bedside switch. Why? So that any impromptu lovemaking would not be interrupted by prying children.

victoria-albert-children

After Albert’s early death at age 42 in 1861, Victoria went into a long period of deep mourning and seclusion.

 

She only began emerging from that black period when Albert’s gamekeeper ghillie from his Scottish estate at Balmoral was brought to Osbourne, her house on the Isle of Wight, to act as the queen’s personal groom.

Ghillie-John-Brown-and-Victoria

Rough, foul-talking John Brown — “fascinating Johnny Brown” to Victoria — had an established, casual relationship with Victoria from their time together in Balmoral but once he was in Osbourne, the two became inseparable intimates.

 

They spent most evenings drinking Begg’s Best whiskey while Brown told his queen dirty stories. Then they retired for the night to adjoining rooms.

 

Victoria’s daughters were known to jokingly refer to Brown as “Mama’s lover” and, in the late 1860s, rumours began spreading — with some published in republican journals — that Victoria had secretly married John Brown.

some-of-queen-victorias-dogs

Although Victoria addressed Brown as “darling” in letters, it is unlikely she married the man and even more unlikely — almost impossible — that the queen secretly gave birth in Switzerland to a daughter fathered by Brown, as other gossip of the day suggested.

 

As for letters, Victoria carried on a very saucy, flirtatious correspondence with one of her later prime ministers, Benjamin Disraeli, who wrote romantic poetry for her.

 

But there is tantalizing postscript to the Brown marriage rumours.

 

When Victoria died in 1901, she was buried according to her own precise instructions: In her wedding dress (much let out) with a plaster cast of her beloved Albert’s hand — plus a photo of John Brown, a lock of Brown’s hair, several of his letters … and his mother’s wedding ring in her hand.

 

Go figure.