Monthly Archives: September 2011

Featured Creature Friday: The Fabulous Fossil Sharks

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I kind of have a thing for “living fossils.” Maybe it’s just because I watched Jurassic Park a few too many times in my youth, but I love the idea that there’s so much of our planet’s natural history still visible to us today, from the deep and fascinating layers of geology to the life forms that haven’t changed much in the last few million years. Some of those animals are so bizarre that they’re almost difficult to comprehend: they seem like things that couldn’t possibly exist in our world. Maybe they think the same about us.

photo from National Geographic / Getty

One of those creatures is the frilled shark, which is notable not only for its overwhelming creepiness but also because it’s one of those deep-sea swimmers that we rarely see. They’re something of a reminder to us of just how much we don’t know about our planet and the other creatures that live here. And the fossil record on these animals goes back 80 million years. 80 million years. Let that sink in for a moment while you watch this video of an extremely rare live specimen that was found off the coast of Japan:

(It’s worth noting that this shark was way outside of its habitat long before it was captured and taken to the marine park, so while I’m not a big fan of the “We have found a rare animal, let us place it in captivity!” mentality, this shark was likely already dying before it was captured.)

We don’t really know that much about frilled sharks, because of the depths at which they usually reside (thousands of feet below the surface). We do know they eat things like squid and other sharks. Their teeth are three-pronged and their fixed upper jaws (unlike the hinged ones of modern sharks) give some idea of exactly how far back the genetic heritage goes on these sharks.

photo from National Geographic / Getty

As a bonus, because personally I believe that one creepy shark simply isn’t enough, here are a few more. This is a Goblin Shark:

This thing has a mouth that practically acts independent of its body; check out how the mouth works when the shark bites into the diver’s suit (presumably no divers were harmed in the making of this documentary :D), and then how the mouth returns to its original configuration once the shark lets go. This shark is like the transformer of the sea. Or maybe I ought to compare it to Alien. Whatever, it’s freaking awesome.

My favorite freaky prehistoric shark video, however, is this one of the Six-Gilled Shark, filmed at a depth of 3300 feet:

It’s not the world’s most exciting video, and the Six-Gilled Shark doesn’t look all that different from the sharks we’re more familiar with, but this thing is massive, at about 18 feet long. (There are larger sharks, like the Basking Shark, but this one’s pretty impressive anyway.) The best part of the video is the audio though, so make sure you watch it with the sound on so you can listen to some marine scientists having a joygasm over the sighting.

Featured Creature Friday: The Cuddly Capybara

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I must say, I have been quite scandalized lately to discover exactly how many people don’t know what a capybara is. In my childhood, capybaras featured as regularly in animal lore as elephants and tigers and other exotic beasts, and as an adult I’ve found it hard to fathom that anybody else didn’t have the same experience. (I mean, obviously we don’t all have the same childhood, but how did these people survive all this time without knowing about capybaras?!) My love for capybaras came about mostly because as a child I was an avid consumer of Bill Peet‘s brilliantly illustrated children’s books, and one of my favorites was his story — based on his own life with his family’s pet capybara — called Capyboppy. (Also, I feel I should point out that as an adult I’m an avid consumer of Bill Peet’s children’s books. The man was a genius. Cowardly Clyde? Come on. Amazing.)

So, because I feel like you might be missing out on the best of all possible things by somehow failing to know what a capybara is, I want to introduce you to one of my favorite mammals. It’s much cuter than your average R.O.U.S., but is in fact the largest rodent in the world, standing 50-64cm tall at the withers. They weigh about a hundred pounds — that’s almost as much as my gargantuan dog. Good lord. They have slightly webbed feet and enjoy swimming, eating grass and water plants, and living in groups. They’re quite vocal and when they’re alarmed or excited they bark sort of like dogs.

Look at that dapper fellow. All he needs now is a monocle. And maybe a top hat. Photo by VigilancePrime at Wikipedia.

Capybaras are native to South America, and are a pretty important part of the food web there, providing meals for humans, anacondas, caimans, jaguars, ocelots, eagles, and probably just about anything else that likes to eat meat because seriously, these things are freaking huge. You might see them outside of South America though because, like Bill Pete, there are some people who really like to keep them as pets. Here’s one with a pretty sweet pool set-up, and here’s the same little fella going for a walk. (It’s possible I’m a little addicted to that youtube channel.) Keeping them as pets isn’t legal in some places though, and they’re pretty high-maintenance animals since they’re semi-aquatic and are wild animals and all, so don’t just run out and buy one. But if you’d like to live vicariously through somebody who does have a capybara, you should visit Caplin Rous’ blog.

Capybara reproduction is pretty standard for mammals, but there are a few interesting highlights. When the female is ready to mate, she alerts the males by whistling through her nose. (If only we could teach the females to wolf whistle, my life would be complete.) They actually mate only in the water, which I can only assume is because they’ve watched too many hot-tub-centric pornos, and then when the babies come there can be up to four in a litter. The wee ones nurse but also start nibbling at solid food pretty much right away, and they’re looked after by the whole group; capybaras believe it takes a village to raise a child.

Speaking of pups, baby capybaras are insanely cute. They’re like tiny little versions of the adults.

A baby capybara at the Paignton Zoo in the UK

Look at that baby capy. LOOK AT IT. Then watch this video of a baby at the San Diego Zoo and try to tell me your heart didn’t just grow three sizes. Just TRY to tell me that.

Now that you’ve nearly overdosed on the cuteness of capybaras, I hope that you’ll also take a look at Capyboppy next time you’re in the library or bookstore, and introduce yourself to the works of Bill Peet if you’re not already familiar. Because reading is fundamental, and even capybaras know that.

Capital old fellow! Capital!

Close to the Sun in Lonely Lands

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A few weeks ago I was on campus, shooting photos of sale horses, when I looked up over the horsey playground and happened to spot this fellow soaring around, obviously looking for tasty morsels in the pastures. I’m not good with birds — my eyesight is too poor for me to be able to distinguish any of the details that might make them identifiable — but I was with Brett, who said with convincing authority that it was a juvenile bald eagle. I just never know if he’s putting me on or not. :D

I snapped some photos with my longest lens, which wasn’t really long enough, and then I looked out toward the treeline and spotted a second bird of the exact same type. They patrolled the area together for a little bit, but by then they’d drifted too far away for me to even bother trying to get a photo.

So what do you think, interwebz? Any bird experts out there? Is it a bald eagle? I find it rather fetching, either way.

The Desolate Landscape of My Very Bald Head

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A few days ago, I shaved my head.

Actually, it would be more accurate to say that I had my head shaved. In a pub. In front of a happy and drunken crowd. With a Celtic band playing a merry tune while the barber sheered me like a sheep. All in all, I’d have to call the evening a success, because if you’re going to go out and have a few drinks and do something inadvisable, it’s surely better to be compared to a sheep than to wake up next to one.

But okay, if you must know, the experience was not at all like getting wasted and  waking up with a new tattoo… though a few of the participants were just sauced enough that it made me wonder whether they’d wake up the next morning wondering what exactly happened to all their hair. What we were actually doing was a fundraiser for the St. Baldrick’s Foundation, which is dedicated to advancing research into pediatric cancers. The rather novel approach that St. Baldrick’s takes is to have people raise money by pledging to shave their heads in solidarity with cancer patients. And for reasons that do not need exploring at this juncture, their events tend to be staged in Irish pubs, which frankly I think is genius. I also chose to donate my hair to an organization that will turn it into a wig for someone who needs it. All in all, it was a win-win. I got to help a couple of good causes, have  few drinks, and enjoy the fellowship of other people who think that getting shaved in public constitutes a good time.

In the run up to the big event, people kept asking me if I was nervous or if I’d changed my mind. Even our fabulous barber — Robert from Euphoria Salon in Durango — asked me if I was sure before he started cutting.

What have I done? And why does my head feel SO MESMERIZING?

I was sure. I was pretty sure I was going to have a really silly-looking bald head, but I was also quite sure all that hair would grow back again. I was ready to join the ranks of the bald and beautiful. My friends online and off had pledged a staggering $1,323 to see the deed done. And sure, most of the bald-and-beautiful people who came to mind were guys, like Patrick Stewart and Hugh Dillon, but Sinead O’Connor and Demi Moore had certainly proved that women could pull off the look, too. Plus, once I was bald, there would be a new kinship between us. I would be initiated into a sacred society: a society of increased light refraction and a yearning for warm hats.

The obvious next step would be me and Hugh Dillon — because since we’re both bald, we’re totally tight now — forming a bald-headed detective agency and fighting crime together.

But failing that, I knew I’d at least get an evening’s entertainment out of it, and anyway I’d been reliably informed that if I went to this pub I’d be able to get a shepherd’s pie (and it was delicious, by the way).  I was committed. And I haven’t regretted it. I watched a steady stream of brave souls — some with more hair to lose than others — take their turn in the chair, and it was crowded enough that you practically had to fight for your chance to be shaved. There were people getting shaved who’d only just signed up on the spot. It was a madhouse of the best kind. I finally got my turn in the chair and Patrick Crossing played on in the background like I had my own personal theme music while Robert took the clippers to my head. And when it was all over, I didn’t feel like I’d lost anything. Together we raised $5933 for St. Baldrick’s, but just as importantly, we addressed the important problem of cranial ventilation.

I hung around and watched some more of the shavings, took a ridiculous cell phone photo of myself and sent it to some of my friends, and then facing an hour’s drive home again, I made my way back to my truck. The moon was ridiculously huge in the sky and I sang along to The Swell Season all the way home and was very bald and very happy.

Since then, I’ve learned some important things about being bald. Well, buzzed anyway. Like for instance, when you step out of the shower and the cold air hits your head it feels kind of like your entire scalp has been covered in a thin layer of Icy Hot. It’s surprisingly pleasant. Your head will be cold but you will also find it surprisingly difficult to put on a hat because suddenly your scalp is nothing but sandpaper-like friction. Also, people are going to want to touch your head. They won’t be able to help themselves. (I’m fine with it, but I do charge $1 for the experience.) And regrettably, you will not magically transform into G.I. Jane or discover your inner Spartan warrior just because you got rid of your hair, which frankly I find kind of disappointing. (I’d been standing at the mirror and practicing my “This. Is. SPARTA!” all week.)

I’ll be glad to have my long hair back… in a few years time, which is how long my hair takes to grow. In the meantime, I’m enjoying the change (I’m a changeaholic, and just shaving my head is probably an easier change to adjust to than, say, shaving my head and moving to a Tibetan monastery to find my inner zen), and I’ve got to say that I’m loving the increased airflow.

Many thanks to Sharon Tiesdell Smith for taking these fab photos of me and my new baldness! Her blog is awesome, go there and read about her adventures with her awesome horse!

Book Review: The Murder of Helen Jewett

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By crazy random happenstance, I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately revolving around all of the biggest news of the 19th century. It’s all fascinating, really… the culture, the intrigue, the world-changing events and main attractions. And it’s truly remarkable how the biggest news of any previous era can be completely lost within a single generation. Now of course we’re accustomed to the 24-hour news cycle, and the way that the media conveniently forget yesterday’s shocking revelations in the face of today’s celebrity scandals. But in the 1840s, it probably defied belief for the people of America that anyone would ever forget the murder of Helen Jewett.

Of course, Helen was only one woman in a long line of sensationalized murder victims in American history, but her story exploded into the public consciousness — thanks to the rise of the penny press, the moral reform movements of the day, and the high-profile trial of her killer — in a way that hadn’t been seen before.

These days we’re accustomed to all the trappings of modern law enforcement. We all know a thing or two from watching CSI and we believe in the power of profiling, but in 1834, when Helen Jewett was murdered in a New York City brothel and her body set alight, nobody knew what a psychopath was, and they certainly didn’t have the knowledge of forensics to tie the killer to the crime. Still, the circumstantial evidence against the accused killer was strong, and the web of intrigue between them was compelling. And thanks to the high-profile nature of the crime and the public’s continued fascination, even after the jury had reached its verdict, author Patricia Cline Cohen had plenty of written history to draw from in the writing of The Murder of Helen Jewett. The result is a fascinating glimpse into an incident that might otherwise have been lost to the march of time.

Digging deep into every aspect of the crime and its coverage — from the social acceptability of prostitution to the weaknesses of the moral reformers to the history and characteristics that made Helen Jewett who she was — Cohen reveals a staggering amount of information not just about the crime, the victim, and the perpetrator, but also about the society that was equal parts enthralled and repulsed by the unfolding story. While a historical tale that goes into quite this amount of detail would usually run the risk of becoming mind-numbingly pedantic, Cohen’s narrative is engaging from the first word to the last, and the story that she relates is as enthralling now as it was to the public in Helen Jewett’s time.

Want to give it a read? I have a copy to give away! Mind you, I’m a lover of used books (and a devotee of paperbackswap.com) so this is not a shiny new copy, nor is it sponsored by anyone anywhere. I just like passing along books after I’ve read them. If you’d like a go at winning a free copy of The Murder of Helen Jewett, just leave a comment below  letting me know you’d like to read it, and I’ll choose a winner at random. Make sure you leave some form of contact information, like an email address or blog link, so I know how to get in touch with you!

Featured Creature Friday: The Silky Anteater

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Friends, I believe I promised you something cute and fluffy after the horror of the tongue-eating louse. And I don’t ever want you to feel like I’d fail you (except when I do). So this week I have a fabulous little featured creature for you: the silky anteater.

It’s the smallest of all the anteaters, measuring in at just over a foot long and weighing less than 400g. It lives in the treetops of South American rainforests and eats ants — a lot of them, up to 8000 in a day. One of the things I like about anteaters is that they eat ants. I’m sorry, E.O. Wilson, but while I recognize that ants are remarkable social organisms, they also make my skin crawl, and as you know that is grounds for extermination. (I’m just kidding, E.O. Wilson. ILU. Call me.)

The silkiness of this particular anteater is also pretty interesting, because it’s protective rather than simply luxurious. Its fur makes it appear, when it’s curled up and sleeping in the top of a tree, to be a silk cotton tree seed pod rather than a delicious anteater, which helps it thwart the hawks and eagles which hunt it. Anyway, there’s nothing about the silky anteater that is particularly fascinating or frightening — at least not moreso than any other cute and fuzzy creature — but it is, as promised, cute and fuzzy. Just look at that face. LOOK AT IT.

That’s the silky anteater’s idea of a defensive posture, by the way. When it’s threatened it lifts its crazy-huge claws up in a boxing posture and is all, “I’MMA CUT YOU, MAN!” While making a cute squinty face. It’s like the silky anteater isn’t even trying to avoid ending up immortalized in some sort of Japanese anime cartoon. Mostly it looks like it’s doing yoga.

You like that one? How about this one? How about this fuzzy sleeping squinty-eyed son of a… mother silky anteater?

Cuteness accomplished. Don’t you feel better now? Look at its cute fuzzy head and prehensile tail! And the little claws! And the big claws! And I wonder if there’s ever a time it’s not squinting!

A Shaved Head… For the Children.

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I suppose I should point out a few things right off the bat: I’m not usually a very altruistic person. And I don’t really like children.

There, I said it. At the risk of sounding like Scrooge McScroogeypants, it can fairly be said that I am typically focused on my own survival, and that I find children to be strange, alien organisms who exist in a world that is beyond the scope of my understanding. That’s not to say that I won’t help a friend in need or that I wander the streets looking for children to terrorize, but I’m not usually big on things like contributing to fundraisers or, for instance, babysitting. (Woe betide the person who thinks I should look after their children. Seriously.) So it’s a bit out of character for me to be doing what I’m doing: participating in a fundraiser for childhood cancer research. By shaving my head.

If you'd like to sponsor my new Sinead O'Connor look, please click on the image above to go to my participant page at St. Baldrick's!

As fundraisers go, shaving one’s head strikes me as particularly punk-rock, and since I occasionally experience a strong urge to shave my head anyway, it kind of seemed like the universe was sending me a message when I saw that my local Irish pub was holding a St. Baldrick’s fundraiser, and that they were looking for volunteers to have their heads shaved to raise money for charity. I dithered a bit, but the idea had snared me. My little niece has been in hospital getting a tumor removed and I’ve been waiting to hear whether she’s going to need chemotherapy, unable to really do anything to help from halfway across the country. At least this way I could do something to feel like I was contributing, like I was standing with my family and all of the people who have to deal with this. I consulted a few friends to make sure I hadn’t gone crazy, and then I signed up. On September 17th, I’ll be headed to The Irish Embassy Pub to have my hair shorn right off, and I’ll also be donating my hair to an organization that uses it to make real-hair wigs for those who need them.

Quite a few people have already told me I’m brave to do it. I don’t really see it that way, though I can see how it would be a big sacrifice for most people. (And I expect it really won’t help my odds with dating. :D) But I figure it will grow back, and I’ve never been all that attached to it. For most of my childhood and young adulthood, I had very short hair, to the point where when I told hairdressers how short I wanted it, they typically insisted on checking with my mum first to make sure I wasn’t going off the reservation. Long hair isn’t generally a good idea for me — it brings out my compulsive, hair-twisting, ends-chewing side — but I grew it out essentially so that people would stop calling me “sir” or asking me whether I was a girl or a boy. (I am not even kidding you right now. Apparently I’m super-butch. Maybe one of these days I’ll write a blog about my gender-related traumas.) I’ve never really known what to do with it — being a girl isn’t my strongest skill — and it’s never really felt like something that I did for myself.

I guess that’s what really appeals to me — aside from the obvious helping-kids-with-cancer part — about actually shaving it all off. I have grown attached to it, and consider it my best feature (it’s so luxurious and curly and curly and luxurious!), and when it all grows back again (we can rebuild it! Better! Stronger! Longer!), this time it will be entirely my idea. It will be because I want it back, not because I feel like I ought to grow it out to make my life easier. And while I’m working on that — and all my self-esteem issues, I imagine — I plan to indulge myself with sweet hats for the bald phase, and sweet new hair accessories for when it gets longer again.

I’ll post again with some photos of my bald cranium when the deed is done, and together we can point and laugh heartily, as I suspect I’m going to turn out to be one of those people who looks truly ridiculous when bald. Until then, if you’d like to make a contribution to help fight childhood cancer and you want to sponsor having me shorn like a recalcitrant sheep (this is an Irish-themed event, after all :D), please make a donation to help me reach my $1000 fundraising goal!

Featured Creature Friday: The Tongue-Eating Louse

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I threw you an easy pitch last week with the Kakapo. It was cute and fluffy, as promised, and the worst thing it does really is shag the heads of eminent conservationists. But now that we’ve gotten that out of our systems, I think it’s time to return to the world of general horror and creatures that will keep you up at night, dreaming the sort of dreams that make you stop breathing and occasionally wet yourself. And the place you need to look for that sort of experience is of course in the water, which as far as I can tell is occupied by nothing but animals that want to make you cry like a little girl. (I know what you’re thinking. Dolphins, right? Dolphins are made out of fun and joy! Well, dolphins murder things for fun and also they’re baby-killing rapists, so there’s that illusion shattered. You’re welcome.)

photo by Matthew R. Gilligan, Savannah State University / public domain

Luckily, in times like these, there’s Cymothoa exigua: the tongue-eating louse. It is exactly what it the name implies: it is a parasite that eats tongues. But it’s worse than that. Oh, friends, it is so much worse than that. Because what it does is it takes up residence inside a fish’s mouth (by crawling in through the gills), kills the fish’s tongue (it actually drinks all the blood from it and the tongue atrophies; the louse doesn’t actually eat it), and then it attaches itself to the stump and pretends to be the fish’s tongue. And the fish, poor bastard, doesn’t appear to know any better; because the parasite is attached to what remains of the tongue, it can actually use the thing like it is a tongue. It’s the only known parasite that actually functionally replaces a host organ. You’d think that maybe it would use this advantageous new position to take a cut of the fish’s food, like some sort of a louse mafia, but no… it’s feeding on either the fish’s blood or its delicious fish mucus (whatever fish mucus is). Now I don’t know about you, but as far as I’m concerned that makes this thing the most psychopathic parasite ever. If it could talk, undoubtedly the only thing it would say is, “It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again!”

That’s about all there is to the tongue-eating louse. I don’t have any interesting reproductive facts or fascinating tidbits for you. It pretends to be a fish’s tongue. Really that alone is quite enough.

If you enjoy these features (and who doesn’t enjoy a good tongue-eating louse?) I want to point you to an excellent blog: The Proceedings of the Ever so Strange. They’ve even got a blog about the tongue-eating louse with even more horrifying pictures! The things they post about there are ever so strange, and extend to more than just creatures, so even when it’s not Friday you can learn something terrifying about your world!