Skeptophilia (skep-to-fil-i-a) (n.) - the love of logical thought, skepticism, and thinking critically. Being an exploration of the applications of skeptical thinking to the world at large, with periodic excursions into linguistics, music, politics, cryptozoology, and why people keep seeing the face of Jesus on grilled cheese sandwiches.

Saturday, July 22, 2017

Reconsidering the junk

Regular readers of Skeptophilia know how much I respect science, and the women and men who have devoted their lives to increasing our understanding of how things work.  The curiosity, drive, intelligence, and creativity of scientists have provided us not only with stunning technological and medical advances, but basic knowledge about everything from the origins of life to the bizarre and counterintuitive behavior of the subatomic particles that make up all the matter in the universe.

Still, scientists are only human.  They make mistakes, misunderstand what the data mean, follow leads in the wrong direction.

Fortunately, science self-corrects.  It still baffles me when people think self-correction in science is a weakness; I call this the "Everything About This Could Be Proven Wrong Tomorrow" argument.  Why anyone would think that a system of knowledge that either couldn't detect errors, or else simply ignored them, would be preferable, is beyond me.

We had a great example of science's capacity to self-correct just this week, in a paper that came out in the journal Cell.  "Sensing Self and Foreign Circular RNAs by Intron Identity," by Y. Grace Chen, Myoungjoo V. Kim, Xingqi Chen, Pedro J. Batista, Saeko Aoyama, Jeremy E. Wilusz, Akiko Iwasaki, and Howard Y. Chang, of Stanford University, the Yale School of Medicine, and the University of Pennsylvania, sounds at first like something that would only be interesting to genetics geeks like myself.  To see why it's much more than this will take a bit of background explanation.

Our traits, and the traits of every living thing on Earth, arise through a pair of processes called transcription and translation.  DNA, as you undoubtedly know, is the master set of instructions for building everything in your body; but somehow, that information has to then direct our cells to produce brown hair or A+ blood type or resistance to malaria or any of a thousand different other features of our bodies.

The way it does that is through synthesizing proteins that then are responsible for guiding everything.  The synthesis of these proteins takes two steps.  The first, transcription, is a little like making a temporary copy (called mRNA) of the instructions from a single page of a cookbook (the DNA).  Then, a structure in the cell called the ribosome reads the copied page (the mRNA), and makes the chocolate cake or honey-glazed spare ribs or eggs Benedict -- whatever the instructions say (those finished dishes represent the proteins).

A diagram showing the process of translation [image courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

Our master cookbook -- the DNA in every single cell in our body -- has, according to most estimates, about 30,000 different recipes.  This gives you an idea of how genetic disorders occur -- they happen when one of the recipes has a mistake, produces too much of its final product, or doesn't get read at all.

Anyhow, back in the 1950s and 1960s, when scientists were first figuring out how all of this worked, they assumed that most of the DNA was made up of actual, readable recipes, that produced something essential for the cell.  Otherwise, why would it be there?

So it came as a bit of surprise when it was found that a significant portion of your DNA -- early estimates said it could be as much as 40% -- is "noncoding."  In other words, it's made up of recipes that don't make anything.  This noncoding DNA was derisively labeled "junk DNA" -- although why such a high proportion of our genetic material would have no function whatsoever was a considerable mystery.

I was pretty skeptical about the "junk" epithet right from the get-go.  For one thing, you'd think that stretches of DNA that had no function would eventually get scrambled by random mutations, but at least some of them have patterns (such as the tandem repeat sequences -- regions of DNA that have the same base sequence repeated over and over, and which are remarkably similar even in distantly-related species).  The fact that these patterns get preserved through millions of years of evolutionary distance indicates that changing them causes problems -- i.e., they do have some function, even if we don't know what it is.

Some "junk DNA" probably does deserve the title, of course.  We have old, damaged copies of genes floating around in our DNA, which don't ever get transcribed and simply are hangers-on from our distant ancestors.  We also have odd things called transposons, which are genes that almost act like independent life forms, copying themselves and splicing the copies elsewhere in our genomes.  (Some of those transposons are functional in switching genes on and off, but others are more like intranuclear parasites.)

Anyhow, my point is that I've long suspected that most of the noncoding DNA would turn out not to be useless after all.  And the paper by Chen et al. has just shown us that some of what seemed to be the junkiest of junk DNA -- the introns, pieces of DNA that are transcribed into mRNA but then cut out before the process of translation -- might have a function that is downright critical.

What the paper in Cell suggests is that these introns -- the leftovers bits of RNA after they're spliced out following transcription -- could have a role in the detection of "non-self" -- i.e., the basis of our immune systems.  Chen et al. write:
Circular RNAs (circRNAs) are single-stranded RNAs that are joined head to tail with largely unknown functions.  Here we show that transfection of purified in vitro generated circRNA into mammalian cells led to potent induction of innate immunity genes and confers protection against viral infection...  These results reveal innate immune sensing of circRNA and highlight introns—the predominant output of mammalian transcription—as arbiters of self-nonself identity.
Which I think is astonishing.  These chunks of RNA, which have been compared to the full-page advertisements in a magazine article that you can tear out and throw away without losing any information, might well have a role in protecting us from infection by viruses.  How exactly they do this is beyond the scope of the current study; but just the fact that this is possible will open up huge avenues for research, possibly even leading to treatments for hitherto intractable viral infections.

So what were once derisively considered useless stretches of DNA now appear to be downright critical.  All of which brings me back to my original point; that science is powerful because it has a methodology for sifting out and correcting errors or misunderstandings.  Without that, there would be no progress -- no way, in fact, for us to discern and excise the junk in our knowledge about the universe.

Friday, July 21, 2017

Equatorial travelogue

I just got back yesterday from my expedition to Ecuador with the phenomenal birding tour company Wings, an outfit which I cannot recommend highly enough.  As I mentioned in my previous post, I love Ecuador, but with the planning and leadership of a Wings guide, this was a really special trip.

We spent most of the time near the charming town of Mindo, in a lodge called Séptimo Paraiso (Seventh Heaven).   The name is apt.  The lodge was comfortable, the food was great, and the hikes and birding were stupendous.  In nine days I saw 273 species of birds.  (If you want to get an idea of the phenomenal biodiversity of this tiny country, you should know that 37 of the species I saw were different kinds of tanager, and 43 were hummingbirds.  For comparison purposes, here in upstate New York, we have two tanagers -- one of them quite rare -- and only one kind of hummingbird.)

Of course, the birds aren't the whole reason I love Ecuador.  The scenery is amazing, largely due to the steep-sided ridges and rushing rivers of the Andes.  The weather (where I was, at least) was refreshingly mild -- 80 F during the day, down to maybe 55 F at night.

Rio Mindo [all photographs, unless otherwise marked, were taken by me]

Séptimo Paraiso sits at 0 degrees, 0 minutes, 2 seconds south latitude.  That means the front door was, give or take, 200 feet from the Equator.  We used a GPS on one of our outings to find the exact spot -- within appropriate error bars, of course -- and I took a picture of our entire group straddling it.

The four people on the left are in the Northern Hemisphere, the four on the right in the Southern Hemisphere.

Besides the avifauna, the plant life is fantastic as well.  (And the two are intimately connected; the flora are usually specialized to be pollinated by one particular bird, butterfly, moth, or bat, so high diversity in fauna usually implies high diversity in flora.)  I consider myself a fairly competent field botanist, but I was seldom able to identify plants beyond family, and sometimes not even that.  That, of course, didn't stop me from appreciating them.

"Something in the amaryllis family" is the best I could do with this one.  But it sure is pretty, isn't it?

We did have more than a few truly stunning birds, of course.  Three of them that stand out in my mind are the rare Scarlet-bellied Dacnis, which our guide said we were really amazingly lucky to see:

[image courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

The Torrent Duck, which is somehow able to swim upstream in rivers that would easily knock a grown man off his feet:

[image courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

And a Crimson-mantled Woodpecker that positively modeled for the camera:

[image courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

One of the difficulties of birding as a hobby, however, is that it does not cater to late risers.  I consider myself something of a lark, but after six days of getting up at four in the morning, it was beginning to wear on me a little:

Me in the lounge at Séptimo Paraiso, waiting for some kind soul to bring me a glass of wine and rub my aching feet

The altitude was also a bit tricky.  On day trips into the highlands, all of us became breathless after even brief walks uphill.  The highest we went was 14,400 feet, at Papallacta Pass, but it was foggy and spitting rain (and windy and about 35 F), so I didn't get any pictures.  I did get a few nice shots of Yanacocha, at 13,200 feet:

I'm hoping that all of this hiking around up in the mountains will translate to better endurance for running here at home.  We'll see how that goes.

Anyhow, all in all it was a fantastic trip.  To end this, here are a few things I learned about Ecuador on this trip:
  • The Ecuadorian people are, by and large, some of the nicest, most generous people on Earth.  Despite my toddler-level Spanish (more on that in a moment), I was greeted everywhere by smiles and waves. 
  • That said, if you put your typical Ecuadorian behind the wheel of a car, watch out.  Passing zones, lanes, speed limits, and even stop signs are considered gentle suggestions at best.  Horns are used to communicate a variety of things, such as, "Hi," "Get the hell out of my way," and "My car has a horn."  The last full day of birding, I was with a guide named Jorge, who is a friendly young man who laughs a lot and has an encyclopedic knowledge of South American birds, and who turns into a complete lunatic when he turns the key in the ignition of his truck.  (He crossed himself every time he got into the driver's seat.  I'm not sure if I was supposed to consider this a good sign or a bad sign.)  He was the one who drove us up to the aforementioned Papallacta Pass.  He gave me a big grin as he turned off the highway onto something that barely qualified as a road.  I can say honestly that of the ten scariest things that have happened to me in my life, seven of them happened in the next half-hour.  We drove steadily uphill on narrow dirt roads with potholes the size of lunar craters, large stretches of which had a rock wall on one side and a hundred-foot drop (sans guard rails, of course) on the other.  I think I left permanent finger dents in the door handle of Jorge's truck.
  • If you are going to travel in a country with 250 different species of hummingbirds, don't wear a red shirt.  Hummingbirds consider humans in red shirts to be enormous flowers.  You will spend the entire day dodging small, brightly-colored, feathery projectiles, and trying not to scream like a little girl.
  • Bring enough cash along.  Neither my credit card nor my bank access card worked in the Ecuadorian ATM machines, for reasons I still have yet to figure out.  (I had called and notified my bank about my trip prior to leaving, so it wasn't that they thought my card(s) had been hacked and put a stop on them.)  This put me in the uncomfortable position of having to purchase things only at places that accepted credit cards, which was about 5% of the places we went.
  • The food is amazing.  They have fresh fruits whose names I could barely pronounce, but which are beyond delicious.  I also had ceviche that has my mouth watering just remembering it.
  • My one big regret about this trip is that I didn't put some time into learning more Spanish.  I don't ever want to be That Guy -- the American who goes abroad and expects everyone to speak English and do things the way they're done back home.  The Ecuadorians were remarkably gracious about my pathetic mangling of their language, however; my last day in Quito, I got a grinning thumbs-up from a waiter after ordering a surf & turf, a glass of red wine, and a bottle of mineral water at a restaurant, all in Spanish.  I'm sure he was on some level humoring me, but still, it was nice.  So if you go to another country, spend the six months before you go learning some of the language.  It goes a long way.
Anyhow, there you are -- a brief travelogue of a wonderful country.  I know I'll be back.  You can't do justice to a place like this in just one or two short visits.

I'm thinking a few years would do the trick.

Saturday, July 8, 2017

Bird is the word

Dave Barry once quipped, "There is a fine line between a hobby and a mental illness."

In my case, that line is a little blurry sometimes.  My dad used to say about me that I was the type of person who would test the depth of a river with both feet.  I'm fascinated with genealogy (at latest count, my family tree database contains almost 115,000 names).  Since getting back into running last year, I have done ten 5K races and try to run or cycle every single day.  I've been passionate about music since, no lie, I was three years old.  And then there's birds...

This last-mentioned obsession is what is taking me away from New York (and from Skeptophilia) for ten days.  I'm leaving tomorrow morning for my very favorite place in the world, the highlands of Ecuador, for a hiking and birding expedition into the cloud forests.  Our home base will be Mindo, a little town northwest of the capital city of Quito, which I visited last time I was there (fifteen years ago), and which to this day is the most beautiful place I've ever seen.  I've been a lot of places, but Mindo is one of the only ones that I truly, honestly could happily move to permanently and never look back.

Among the birds I hope to see are the Golden Tanager...

... the Flame-faced Tanager...

... the Violet-tailed Sylph...

... the Masked Trogon...

... and the Purple Honeycreeper.

[all images courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

Along the way, I hope to hike through some beautiful places and make some new friends.

So anyhow, I'll see y'all when I return on July 20.  I'll post some of my own photographs -- none, I'm sure, as nice as the ones above -- but at least enough to give you an idea of what this spectacular corner of the world looks like.

Until then, Dear Readers -- keep hoisting the banner of skepticism, and keep sending me ideas and topics for future posts!

Friday, July 7, 2017

Hey, you, get offa my cloud

Along Cayuga Lake, near where I live, is Milliken Station Power Plant.  On cool days its smokestack can be seen topped with a plume of steam.   Nearby is Portland Point, a renowned Devonian fossil-collecting site.

It was the fossils that brought a ninth-grade Earth Science class there, some years ago, which I had been asked to help chaperone.  The kids were all happily mucking around in the shale, looking for fossils, when one young lady -- who was known not to be overendowed with brains -- looked over at the nearby power plant smokestack, and said, wonder in her voice, "So that's where clouds come from!"

There are times when my natural compassion and my tendency to guffaw at people who say stupid things do war with each other.  I think I didn't laugh at her, but it was an effort.

But lest you think that this lack of understanding about concepts like "water vapor" and "condensation" is limited to this long-ago student, allow me to introduce you to Diane Tessman.  Now, Diane doesn't think, as our student did, that clouds are manufactured in Ithaca, New York and then exported all over the world.  No, that would be ridiculous.

Diane Tessman believes clouds are manufactured by UFOs as camouflage.

At first, I thought her claims were a joke, intended to make fun of the whole UFO/alien coverup crowd.  Sadly, it is not.  She has written an entire article in which she describes how alien spacecraft produce clouds to hide within or behind.  These are not oddly-shaped clouds, Ms. Tessman says; no, they are ordinary, puffy white cumulus clouds, because hiding behind an oddly-shaped cloud would call attention to the UFO instead of hiding it.

[image courtesy of photographer Michael Jastremski and the Wikimedia Commons]

By this point, you're probably asking yourself: if they don't look any different, how can I tell a UFO cloud from a regular cloud?  Answer: you can't.  You just have to watch a bunch of clouds, and wait until the camouflage slips and you see a UFO.

It's kind of an odd camouflage, when you think about it.  Picture yourself as the alien captain, on a mission to conquer Earth, and there you are, sitting inside a cloud, just drifting along with the other, non-UFO-generated clouds.  You can't change direction or speed, because it's not like the cloud is going to come along with you.  It means that whatever your mission was intended to accomplish, you'd better hope that it was downwind of your current position, and not needing attention any time soon:
Alien First Officer:  Captain!  We're off course!  We're supposed to be bombing New York City, and we're drifting the wrong direction! 
Alien Captain:  *slams fist into his palm*  Drat!  There's nothing we can do about it!  We've got to stay inside this cloud, and the wind is blowing the wrong way!  Where can we float over and bomb into rubble? 
Alien First Officer: "On this course, our next possible target is..." *consults map* "...Newark." 
Alien Captain:  Dammit!  That won't do!  No one will be able to tell!
Of course, Ms. Tessman says, we also have to consider the possibility that clouds may not just be camouflage; it's possible that clouds are naturally generated by "dimensional travel."

Whatever that means.

The whole thing is kind of spooky, isn't it? How many times have we had nice picnics on beautiful summer days, and lain on blankets looking up at the peaceful white clouds sailing by?  Now, you have to wonder how many of those clouds hid evil aliens, spying on us, waiting until we fall asleep so they can steal the oatmeal-raisin cookies we brought for dessert.

At this point, some of you may be questioning Ms. Tessman's credentials.  If so, they're provided at the end of the article.  She states that she is a former public school teacher; one can only hope that her subject wasn't physics.  She participated in many projects with MUFON (the Mutual UFO Network), and after many years discovered that she had a personal reason for her interest; while under hypnosis, she discovered that as a child she had been visited by, and had "shared consciousness with," an alien being called "Tibus."  Tibus has apparently provided her with such vital information as the fact that hurricanes are dangerous and it's a problem when a nuclear power plant explodes.  Considering Katrina and the meltdown at Fukushima, I think we can definitely all agree that Tibus knows what he's talking about.

But mainly, I'm glad that we now have an explanation for clouds other than Milliken Station Power Plant.  Because frankly, given the demand for clouds in places like the Amazon Rain Forest, it's been hard for Milliken Station to keep up with production quotas.  It's a relief to know that all we have to do is to send some UFOs down there to do "dimensional travel," and there will be clouds aplenty.

Thursday, July 6, 2017

Basing education on research

If I have one major beef with the education system in the United States, it would be its steadfast refusal to use the latest research on how people learn to guide instruction.

As an example, consider how we teach foreign language.  In most public schools, foreign language instruction starts in middle school (ours doesn't begin until 8th grade).  Study after study has shown that age of acquisition is inversely correlated with final language proficiency; put simply, the older you are when you start learning, the poorer your eventual understanding of the language is likely to be.  (For a great summary of the research, check out this article by David Birdsong of the University of Texas - Austin.)

Has that changed how we teach language?  Not in most school systems, it hasn't.  Empirical research in neuroscience never seems to outweigh such considerations as "we've always done it this way" and "that's the way it was taught when I was in school" and "it would be too expensive/inconvenient."

And then, with no sense of irony, we question why students don't come out of school proficient.

So I have no particular optimism that a recent bit of research will change anything, although hope springs eternal and all that sort of stuff.  According to a report by the AmGen Foundation and Change the Equation, which are two groups that advocate for STEM education, American students in general are fascinated with science -- but dislike science classes.

Considering my own field, biology, the numbers are especially dire.  73% of the students questioned said they're interested in biology -- and after all, what's not to like?  Biology is all about sex, struggle, competition, and death, so if you like Game of Thrones, loving biology should be a no-brainer.  But a dismal 33% of students said they like biology class.

Why?  Because science classes in general, and biology classes in particular, usually fall back on learning from textbooks and worksheets, which were cited by these same students as their least favorite (and least successful) methods for learning new concepts.  Real-world, hands-on experiments, field trips to actual research sites and laboratories, and being able to choose the topics on which they focus are all cited as being factors that would make class more interesting -- but which are infrequently used in class, at least by comparison to book work and vocabulary worksheets.

[image courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

I'm sure that part of that is that it makes fewer demands on the teacher.  Labs are not only expensive for the school district, they are a considerable time-sink for the teacher to set up and break down.  Even more expensive and time-consuming are field trips; the district not only has to pay the bus driver to get the kids to and from the site, but pay for a sub for the teacher's other classes.  In my case -- given that last year my intro bio classes represented only half of my teaching assignment -- it would also entail my getting lessons together for my other classes that could be administered by a sub in my absence.

Unsurprising that most teachers minimize these sorts of things.

This, by the way, is not meant as a criticism of teachers, or at least not solely; we're incredibly busy, and some days I have to carve out a few minutes from the demands of my schedule just to get a chance to pee.  It's no wonder that we cut corners and economize with activities that are easy to administer and grade.  But the fact remains that these time-expensive (and often money-expensive) activities are the ones students like the best -- and engagement almost always equals improvements in learning.

One I'd like to look at more closely is "being able to choose topics on which students focus."  Author and behavioral scientist Daniel Pink, in his amazing talk, "The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us," identifies three factors that improve engagement in both the business world and in schools: mastery, purpose, and autonomy.  Mastery is the good feeling we get from becoming better at stuff.  Purpose is feeling that what we are doing is important.  And autonomy is self-direction.

A combination of the three, Pink says, makes work and/or school far more pleasant -- and far more productive -- than the usual carrot-and-stick approach of grades and awards (the stick, of course, being failure and censure).  And I would argue that we in schools achieve mastery pretty well, purpose only infrequently, and autonomy barely at all.

We certainly encourage getting better at stuff, and (however effectively) do our best to make students improve their skills and understanding.  As far as purpose, think about what we tell students when they ask, "why do we have to learn this?"  I know some of us are able to give good answers to that, something beyond, "It's on the test" or "it's part of the curriculum" -- but even when we try to articulate why our class is important, we often do it so ineffectively that students don't believe us.  So much of what we do is disconnected enough from any real-world application that it honestly is hard to see how it connects to anything students are going to be asked to do after they graduate.

But the worst of all is autonomy.  Other than (some) choice in what classes they take, students almost never have any real, meaningful choice in what or how they learn.  I have heard of exceptions -- one school I know of teaches all of the core subjects in the context of "modules" (and before any teachers bristle at the use of the word, these are not the same "modules" used in the Common Core).  Each year, students choose four modules, two per semester, from a list of a dozen or so -- topics like "Oceans, Rivers, and Lakes," "Machines and Mechanization," and "Exploration of the World."  Each one builds in all of the subjects -- to take the first as an example, the topic of the watery part of the world incorporates biology (aquatic organisms and food webs), chemistry (the composition of fresh and marine water), physics/earth science (how bodies of water drive weather), English/writing (reading articles on the topic and writing summaries or responses), history & geography (the use of bodies of water for exploration and travel).

If you want the ultimate expression of how autonomy can generate success, though, consider schools in Finland -- ranked year after year at the top of every measure of school success there is.  But rather than my telling you about it, take an hour and watch The Finland Phenomenon (the link is to the first quarter of the documentary).  The students there are given huge amounts of autonomy with regards to how they learn the concepts and processes in the curriculum, and are tested only infrequently -- and yet, they consistently outperform our micromanaging, test-happy public schools here in the United States.

Of course, the problem is that in order to make this kind of change would require a complete restructuring of schools -- and retraining of teachers.  The fact is, classes designed around autonomy, purpose, and mastery require dedication, excellence, and (most importantly) time from the teachers -- and time is what even dedicated and excellent teachers are usually short of.

But we've got to do something, and maybe a good start would be listening to the research instead of saying, "we've always done it this way."  After all, it's hard to argue the point that we aren't doing a very good job of turning out well-rounded, confident critical thinkers now.  Certainly there will be adjustments and growing pains and setbacks if we do such a total revamp of the educational system.  Finland's switch from a U.S.-style, top-down, worksheet-and-test system thirty years ago wasn't without some bumps.

But considering what they have now -- and what we have now -- we don't have much to lose by trying.

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Time is running out

Today I was going to tell you about the conference of exorcists meeting in Poland to tackle the worldwide problem of vampires, but a much more pressing issue has arisen that I need to discuss while I have the time.

The issue is that time is speeding up.  I'm sure we've all noticed this.  It's becoming harder and harder to get everything done that needs doing, and there just seem not to be enough hours in the day.  Well, according to a story that popped up in my news feed today... there aren't.

The article, entitled "Is Time Speeding Up?", contains the following paragraphs:
Einstein’s calculations showed that the closer an object comes to the speed of light, the slower time passes.  Scientists have done experiments that prove Einstein’s theory to be correct using clocks moving at different speeds. 
The opposite then must be true that as our speed decreases, time speeds up.  Researcher Greg Braden confirms this, he says that the rotation of the Earth is slowing down, and time is speeding up.  Evidence for his assertions comes from the Schumann Resonance.  The Schumann Resonance is like the Earth’s heartbeat.  It is the Extremely Low Frequency (ELF) of the Earth’s magnetic field. In the 1950’s, when the Schumann resonance was discovered, it was recorded to be an average of 7.8 Hertz.  It has been stable for thousands of years; but now, according to Swedish and Russian researchers, says Braden, it is an average of 12 Hertz.  This means that the normal 24-hour day feels like a 16-hour day.
Okay.  I mean, my only question would be, "What the fuck?"  The Schumann resonance is an atmospheric phenomenon, an electromagnetic resonance caused by lightning discharges in the ionosphere.  And even if the frequency of the resonance is increasing (which I could find no credible evidence of in any case), there's no way we could know if it's been stable "for thousands of years," because it was only discovered in 1952.  And anyway, why would this have anything to do with how fast time is passing?

That doesn't stop "researcher Greg Braden," who says that if you think that's amazing, you ain't seen nothin' yet:
Eventually, Greg Braden says, the Earth’s rotation around the sun will stop and start rotating in the opposite direction...  Braden says that when the Schumann resonance hits 13 Hertz, time will speed up to infinity.  The outcome of this has been explained as those living at this time will experience a shift in consciousness.  There will be no ‘separation’ between this mortal existence and the spirit realm.  Some call it ascension.
Some also call it "bullshit."

Anyhow, I decided to do a little research, and it turns out that this is only scratching the surface of the "accelerating time" theory.  There was one post from a guy whose proof that time is speeding up was that the clock in his bedroom is running fast.  Another said that he knew time was speeding up because he used to be able to say "One Mississippi, two Mississippi," and keep up with the seconds ticking on his clock, and now he can't.  But by far my favorite commentary I found on the topic came from a guy who evidently thinks that time is like a giant cosmic game of tetherball.  He gives this convoluted explanation of a ball hanging on a string tied to a rotating pole, and as the string winds around the pole, the ball spins faster (i.e. time speeds up), and the string gets shorter and shorter and the ball spins faster and faster and then finally SPLAT the ball hits the pole.

At that point, he says, "the Galactic Alignment... with the heart of the galaxy will open a channel for cosmic energy to flow through the earth, cleansing it and all that dwells upon it, raising it to a higher level of vibration."

So at least that's something to look forward to.

[image courtesy of photographer Robbert van der Steeg and the Wikimedia Commons]

Interestingly, the whole subject has even permeated discussions on physics forums.  In one thread I looked at, titled "Universe Expanding or Time Speeding Up?", there were a bunch of woo-woos who blathered on for a while about the expansion of the universe and how time would have to speed up to "compensate" for the expansion of space, and so on, and finally one reputable physicist responded, in some exasperation, "Most of the responses above are gibberish.  No one has even asked the question, 'Speeding up relative to what?'  General Relativity established that time passes at different rates in different reference frames, but these posters seem to think that time as a whole is speeding up -- which is a meaningless proposition, since there is nothing outside of time against which you could detect such a change."

Well. I guess he told them.  Of course, it won't make any difference, because people who think this way are never going to believe some dumb Ph.D. in physics when they've got the whole internet to rely on.  Besides, this physicist is probably a reptilian alien Man-in-Black from the Planet Nibiru who is part of the Bilderberg Group and works for HAARP, and is trying to spread disinformation.  You know how that goes.

So anyway, that's today's heaping helping of pseudoscientific absurdity.  I think I'll wrap this up, because (1) if I read any more websites like the ones I had to peruse to write this, my brain will turn into cream-of-wheat, and (2) I'm running short on time.

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Oil prophecies

The Texas Sharpshooter Fallacy is the practice of picking out the data points, after the fact, that support whatever your claim is.  The name comes from the story of a guy traveling across Texas.  He sees an old barn with bullseyes painted on the side, and in the exact center of each bullseye is a bullet hole.  The guy sees two old-timers leaning against a fence near the barn, so he stops to talk to them.

"Who shot the holes in that barn?" the guy asks.

One of the old-timers says proudly, "I did."

"That some pretty fancy shooting.  You must be good."

The old-timer is about to reply when his friend chimes in, "Nah.  He's a lousy shot.  He got drunk one night, shot some holes in the side of his barn, and then painted the bullseyes around them."

The whole thing comes up because of a link sent to me by a loyal reader of Skeptophilia yesterday with the comment, "Hoo boy.  Get a load of this."  The link was to the homepage of the Zion Oil and Gas Company, whose raison d'être is... well, let me give it to you in their own words:
When first visiting Israel in 1983, I believe that God gave me a scripture (I Kings 8: 41- 43), a vision (Oil for Israel) and, as a Christian Zionist and New Covenant believer (Isaiah 65:1), the calling to render assistance to the Jewish people and Nation of Israel, and to aid them in the Restoration of the Land by providing the oil and gas necessary to maintain their political and economic independence.

Zion is a testimony and a journey of faith, which began for me when I was saved, or born again, in January 1981.  This testimony is based only on God’s faithfulness to the Jewish people and the Nation of Israel (Genesis 17:1-8). 
Both of which are covenant promises and will come to pass (1 Kings 8:56; Isaiah 25:1) and not because of my faith.  It is God’s purpose and will for my life to discover the oil of Israel (Isaiah 46:9-11; Exodus 9:16). 
I was saved by faith.  It is a gift of God (Ephesians 2:8,9; Romans 10:8-9). 
Jim Spillman came to Zion Temple in Clawson, Michigan in February 1981 and taught on “The Oil of Israel“; by faith I believed it and The Great Treasure Hunt.  God used Jim Spillman first in my life to deposit the vision for the oil in my heart.
Yup, you read that correctly.  The CEO and founder of Zion Oil and Gas, John Brown, started his company because he thought he was anointed by god to find oil for the United States and Israel.  Not only that, he uses the Book of Genesis, and the account of the Great Flood, to tell him where to drill:
God creates this.  He provides the money and the place where to drill. Now why we haven't got the oil yet, I don't know.  I have never drilled one oil well I didn't expect to find oil...  He talks specifically about the land of Joseph and the blessings of the deep that lies beneath.  It doesn't say specifically oil, but there's a huge possibility it could be, let's put it that way.
In fact, the motto of the company is, "Geology confirming theology."  (If you want more in-depth information about Brown and his company, check out the article about Zion on RationalWiki.)

The only problem is that Zion's batting average so far is... zero.  They've drilled four wells in Israel, at great expense to their stockholders, and every one has been a dry well.  The result: $130 million down the drain, and a 90% loss of their stock's value on NASDAQ.

[image courtesy of photographer Eric Kounce and the Wikimedia Commons]

Unsurprisingly, given the mindset of people who would fall for this in the first place, this zero return on investment has not been as discouraging as you'd expect.  One of them, one Andy Barron of Temple, Texas, was quoted in the above-linked article as saying, "Well, I used to have a lot more money in it than I do now.  The stock I bought has tremendously decreased in value over time.  But with my belief that God is in charge of all of it and it's all his anyway, I think the upside of betting on God is pretty good."

Another supporter, Hal Lindsey (whose name may be familiar from his cheery End Times books The Late Great Planet Earth and Satan is Alive and Well on Planet Earth), said that even though things haven't gone well, they're about to, and furthermore, that's an indication that the world is about to end.  "Zion Oil right now is on the verge of discovering oil," Lindsey said.  "[It is a sign that] we are really on the very threshold of Lord Jesus's return."

So that's using a prophecy to support an oil drilling operation that has had zero success, and claiming that supports a different prophecy.  Which should win some sort of award for pretzel logic.

But you can bet if Zion does strike oil at some point, John Brown and his pals will shout from the rooftops about how this proves the prophecies and the Great Flood and his company being blessed by god and whatnot.  Thus the Texas Sharpshooter Fallacy that I started with.  Given long enough, you can find incidental support for damn near anything, especially when you choose to ignore all of the failures.

Anyhow, that's today's exercise in wishful thinking.  All of which supports the idea that even though religion -- in at least some circumstances -- can be a decent guide to moral behavior, it's a lousy substitute for science.  Oh, yeah, and caveat emptor.  Not to mention "a fool and his money are soon parted."