porcelainandporcupines

Archive for December 2011

Dear Scientists,

When this article was recently brought to my attention, I thought it would occasion nothing more than the 3rd in my series of Why Scientists Should Stop Fucking Around with Woolly Mammoth DNA Already. As it has been a while since last we spoke on the subject, let’s begin with a review:

1. Nature has already filled the void created by the extinction of the Woolly Mammoth, and it wasn’t with more Woolly Mammoths; which is to say – there is no place in the modern landscape for such an animal;

2. It is beyond cruel to resurrect an animal that can not survive in the wild and would therefore spend its entire existence in captivity;

3. If you were to ask 1,000 people who don’t work in natural history museums what they want out of life, none of them would answer “More interactions with Woolly Mammoths”; to bring back the mammoth is to spend an exorbitant sum of money on something that is neither necessary nor desirable to the world at large; it is to create a new New Coke for a new generation.

4. Since you are not working on anything of value, scientists who are “working” on the Woolly Mammoth “issue” could better serve society simply by becoming trainers for seeing-eye dogs. Or even garbage men;

5. There are actual issues of scientific importance that need to be addressed out there.

One of these issues, you may recall, is the Tasmanian Face Cancer. Yes, I am still moved by the plight of  our adorably ugly little friend, the Tasmanian Devil, spreading cancer amongst themselves at an alarming rate.

I know I’ve been bugging you – for years – to get on this, so you might think I would have been happy to discover this. Sure, that’s a couple months old – and horrifying, with the tumor-riddled face of a Tasmanian Devil [in all seriousness, that picture is rough; you may not want to look, and you wouldn’t be wrong] –  and it does seem to be good news:

After years of unrelentingly dire news, biologists have found a possible hope for Tasmanian devils, which are threatened with extinction by a contagious, highly virulent form of cancer.

A small group in Tasmania’s northwestern tip appears to have survived the scourge largely intact. It’s the first population to do so, and represents the first real sign — however tentative — that the beloved marsupials may survive.

Certainly, it’s good news that there are some Tasmanian Devils that are resisting the spread of the cancer. And, even considering that Tasmanian Devils who appeared resistant in the past did eventually succumb, it’s encouraging. But, I do question the idea that “biologists have found a possible hope for Tasmanian devils,” since, having read the full article, it sounds like the Tasmanian Devils did it all on their own:

The new findings describe what they [scientists] found: a population [of Tasmanian Devils] that, four years after the disease arrived, looked much as it did before, though the populations around them have been decimated. They still contract the disease, but in lower numbers, and to far lesser effect.

You want credit for what now? Honestly, I’m not seeing evidence of anything that the Tasmanian Devils didn’t do on their own. I do, however, have some concerns about what you’re planning on doing in the face of this progress:

“The best outcome would be that some devils in this population are resistant,” said McCallum. “We might be able to spread the resistant genotypes,” repopulating Tasmania with devils bred from the West Pencil Pine survivors.

Do you know what Dr. Frankenstein’s error was? It wasn’t that he made the monster wrong; it was that he made the monster. Period. Full stop.You getting involved in this situation, now that the Tasmanian Devils seem to be making progress on their own, it just seems like a bad idea to me.

Which, I know, is a complete departure from what I’ve spent years saying. And I do understand your impulse to help them; no one wants them to be cancer-free more than me, especially now that I see a resemblance between their horridly wonderful faces and my Oola’s sweet and beautiful face; (certainly, they are alike in temperament.) It’s tough to sit on your hands when something you love is dying and you think you can help. I’m sorry I was so pushy for so long, I really am. But please, let’s hold off on the spreading of resistant genotypes until we’ve given the Devils a chance to spread it themselves. You can use the time to work on other projects! Really. Anything but Woolly Mammoths, and I won’t say a word.

One of the most interesting things about being an adult is discovering that the passage of time is neither linear nor entirely consistent. Which, of additional interest, is something that first becomes apparent when you realize that becoming an adult is a process that seems to happen entirely retrospect, as you look back on previous versions of yourself and realize that, like the belief that not wearing a watch is indicative of your refusal to live life by the rules of others rather than of you’re being an asshole who’s always late, they’re just adolescent phases everyone goes through to one extent or another, and only through identifying the end of one of these stages can you pinpoint a moment where you began to mature. And though many of these moments are deeply personal there are still more that are universal in nature and, some of these – like all good things – are related to clothes.

One major shift toward adulthood is understanding that, instead of weird, Mister Rogers was really on to something with the whole changing-his-sweater-and-shoes thing when he got home. Who you are outside the house is, often and especially as you grow, someone you have to be rather than entirely who you are. But at home? Put on your cozy sweater and your comfy slippers and chill. Or put on your best heels and fanciest pearls and vacuum. It’s all you, baby; it’s your castle, regardless of gender, and that means that you, as an adult, get to set the dress code.

As freeing as this understanding is – that, despite meeting the demands of the world you do still get to be yourself – one can not learn this perhap final, lesson of Mister Roger’s before one makes what I think is probably the biggest leaps of maturation a person can: realizing that underwear and socks are the greatest gifts a person can receive.

As a child, of course, any sort of clothing, wrapped in suspiciously thin boxes whose weightlessness betrays their contents before even an unnecessary and dispiritingly silent shake, is the worst present possible. Clothing wasn’t on anyone’s wish list, it can’t be played with, and no matter what alterations may have been made to differentiate this years style from lasts, a brand-new coat will always and only ever be a coat; it’s never going to be the iCoat 5.

Beyond that, however, is the plain and simple fact that clothing for a child is not a gift. Not from a parent, anyway; on the contrary, one of a parent’ s main responsibilities is to provide clothing for their child. If a family is financially equipped to give non clothing-based gifts, then clothes will be given to a child at several points during the year; coats, sweaters, underpants, whatever doesn’t fit from last year will have to be replaced. Getting clothes for a birthday or Channukah or whatever gentile holiday a family happens to celebrate , then, is not so much a gift as it is getting something you would have gotten anyway in lieu of a gift. While they may not be able to elaborate the reasons why, a child who opens a pretty wrapped box only to discover a pair of pants within instinctively feels an unsettling sense of having been ripped off.

Though clothing in general is not welcome, there is still a hierarchy of unwelcomeness in the different types of clothes that can be received: of the things you don’t want, underwear and socks are the things you don’t want most of all. Over-wear and wear-wear items can at least be seen by friends; there exists a possibility that they may be admired, yet, even if they are not, their very visibility gives the child an opportunity to express to a sympathetic audience what a terrible gift it was (i.e. “Look at this stupid coat I got for Tu B’Shevat”.)  The privacy of underwear, however – especially for girls, who spend a large part of their early years learning that the primary reasons they shouldn’t pull their skirts up above their head while they twirl around is that it leaves their underwear uncovered – denies children this outlet. Unseen, friends can’t bring it up, and as underwear is not something that gets discussed on a day-to-day basis (possible exception: underoos and how they are awesome), a child has no option but to suffer their underwear “gift” in silence.

What motivates a parent to think that clothing, especially underwear, is a good gift for their children is unknown; perhaps it’s backlash against the allowance mafia that forces them to pay their kid to do things – make their bed, clear the table- that the kid ought do anyway; maybe they’ve completely forgotten their own childhood and thus the disappointment they felt when, underneath that pretty bow, all they found was tube socks; possibly, it’s that the condition of being a parent has them so addled and overwhelmed that they can no longer remember who loves being gifted with underwear (adults) and who does not (everyone else).

What makes underwear so great a gift for an adult is precisely the same thing that makes it so terrible for a child : that it is a necessity. Unlike a child, however, who doesn’t have to spend his unearned allowance on necessities, an adult understands that underwear is unbelievably expensive. And unlike a child’s underwear, which comes packaged with several other pairs and is then appropriately priced per package, grown-up underpants are priced per pair. So that 45 dollars (if you clicked the above link above) is for a single pair of plain white cotton underpants, and that’s not even the highest end of the spectrum; longtime readers might recall the story of a furious argument had by my mother and sister caused by a pair of $80 underpants; as I never saw the garment of contention, I can’t say what exactly accounted for their very high cost, but I assume they were sentient, willing to clean your bathroom for you, and made mostly of gold.

Even at the lower end of the spectrum, underpants can still represent a sizable investment, one that has to be made again and again. Underwear is infinite for children because they will most likely outgrow it in the normal course of a year; subject to only a short year’s worth of washings, it is nearly as sturdy at the end of that time as was on Christmas day. An adult, however, discovers the sad reality that, like themselves, underwear is mortal and its lifespan is tragically short; even the most expensive and well-cared for underwear will suffer from snapping elastic and seams giving way some day. And on that day, you too will have the child’s sensation of being ripped off as, instead of buying something you really want, like a  watch or the band Hanson’s new beer (and seriously – if you somehow read about MMMhop IPA and didn’t immediately think of me and how I’d be drinking it, you and I need to sit down and have a serious discussion about priorities), you will have to spend your hard-earned money on underwear.

As though the indignity of having to take from your own paycheck for underwear weren’t enough, there is the further sad realization that buying underwear is not fun no matter how old you are. [The exception, of course, is special occasion underwear, which is tremendous fun to buy; however, another sign-post of becoming an adult is recognizing that not every day is a special occasion, underwearily speaking.] In fact, it’s even less fun when you have to go out and buy it yourself. It’s possible that gentlemen’s undergarments do not undergo the same sort of overhaul in style with the same frequency as a lady’s, but speaking as a lady, it is practically impossible to find the same pair of underwear from one year to the next. Either the style is discontinued entirely, or it’s altered enough that it no longer works for you, or it’s for some reason sold only online whereas previously you could just walk down to the store to buy it, so not only are they taking more of your money as you now have to pay for shipping in addition to the high cost of the underwear itself, they’re now also stealing your exercise. The happiness felt when a proper pair is finally found is fleeting at best, since you know, there in the back of your mind, that not just this pair of underwear but the entire phylum of style and fit it represents is critically endangered and even though its habitat is expanding every day, there is a good chance it will have vanished entirely the next time you go in search of it.

Getting underwear as a gift frees you from all of it – the expense, the hassle, the contemplation of your own mortality, the tears. It allows more of your money to be spent on things you truly want : trips to Sweden,  fancy kitchen gadgetry, gifts for your friends, tiny kittens and toys for them; and other things you really, really need to spend money on : rent, the phone bill, food, tiny kittens and toys for them.

Now is the time of year when people’s thoughts turn naturally to what sort of gifts would be most appreciated by the people in their lives. If you’re a parent, one who’s thinking underwear might be a good gift for your children, I urge you to remember : it’s only a good gift if they would otherwise have to buy it themselves. And if you – parent or otherwise – are thinking of buying a gift for me this holiday season, the boring item that I don’t want to have to buy for myself is sturdy clothes hangers; I took care of underwear on my birthday.


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