Wired Mesh

The Secret Lives of Food Scientists

Somewhere in an anonymous industrial park outside of Cincinatti, scientists are experimenting in laboritories with machines like the gas chromatograph and the mass spectrometer, working late into the night to create... the Sour Cream and Onion Pringle! No, really. If you've ever wondered how such mass-produced food products as McGriddles and SweeTarts have a consistent texture and flavor, then look no further than the growing field of food technology. This compelling Time Magazine article traces the development of such foods, from the brainstoming that goes into developing new flavors (Squid Pringles for Asia! Ketchup Pringles for Canada!) to the "flavor houses" of New Jersey, where scientists indentify every chemical element in, say, a strawberry, then create artifical duplicates of those chemicals. It's a strange hybrid of marketing ("you serve them something they weren't even aware they wanted until you introduced it to them") and incredibly intricate science. And next time you enjoy that Pringle, remember this: each flake of onion flavor is the same size, measured down to the micron.

The Closing of the American Elevator

It is a common complaint that Americans are rapidly losing their ability to perform basic functions. A great many people have lost the skills required to read polysyllabic words, or to make change for a dollar, or to comprehend the significant, mysterious hieroglyphs that are the hands of a clock. This ignorance is traditionally blamed, as are most social ills, upon our school system.

But in the last three months, I have become aware of an incompetence that makes all these other defaults seem like the eccentricities of a Rhodes Scholar. There are a surprising amount of people in Chattanooga who cannot understand how to use an elevator. I cannot blame this on the schools. If you are too dumb to use an elevator, Maria Montessori herself could have done nothing for you.

The elevators in the Erlanger Hospital Medical Mall, in which I ride every day, are large and efficient wood-panelled rooms. Whenever one arrives in the main lobby, a loud but not unpleasant bell sounds, alerting the waiting doctors and patients that transport has arrived. Above each elevator door are two massive lights, each the size of a child's head. On each of these lights is painted an arrow: one points up, the other points down. When the doors of a particular elevator slide open and the bell rings, the appropriate light points the direction in which the elevator is travelling. If the elevator is going up, the "up" arrow flashes on in an orange blaze. If the capsule is going down, the downward-pointing arrow comes to bright life. Let me repeat: there is an orange arrow, the size of a preadolescent's head, helpfully positioned above the door, showing which of two ways the machine is traveling.

This apparently confuses people.

In my short time travelling these elevators, I cannot begin to count the people who haven't been able to figure out which direction a machine is going. At first I was annoyed by these people, then I became rather amused. Now, the longer this trend stretches on unabated, I have become fascinated and have started to analyze these people. They fall into basic categories, these People Who Cannot Understand Elevator Direction:

The Askers: These people stare into the elevator, as if fascinated by something shiny bouncing around the inside of the compartment. They look around, as if checking for some sort of sign that might inform them whether the large arrow is in fact telling the truth, or whether it is an evil Cartesian elevator demon, attempting to damn them to a long journey downward. Then they ask me (for I am unfailingly standing there, holding the door open): "Is it going up?"

"No," I say, dashing their hopes. "It is going down." They are terribly crestfallen. Their crests hit the floor. "Oh," they say, putting on a brave face. "I'll just wait then."

The Arguers: Much the same as the askers, but in a group. While I stand with my finger faithfully applying pressure to the "Door Open" button, these people, almost always obviously related, debate amongst themselves which direction the elevator might be going. While some in the group may be confused and concerned, there is always one person, usually a grandmother, who is certain of the direction, and of the stupidity of her clan. She is invariably wrong. When her mistake is discovered, it sends a rippling shock wave through her group. They often -- I promise I am not exagerating -- become confused about which direction they originally wanted to go. Often they will ask me. I always suggest whichever direction will take them to the ground floor, where they will at least be close to food.

The Sheepishly Oblivious: These people board the elevator, push the button for the opposite direction that the machine is travelling, and settle against the wall for their expected one flight journey down to the basement. They then feel the elevator beginning its rise to the eigth or tenth floor. They gaze around the room, embarassed. I like these people. They have learned a lesson.

The Completely Oblivious: They do the same thing as The Sheepishly Oblivious, but never seem to notice that they are going the wrong way. I stare at these people intently: surely they will realize their error. Alas, they never do, at least not by the time I reach my floor. I suspect some of them are perpetually stuck on an elevator, riding constantly in the wrong direction.

The Tempers: These people are the rarest, but also the most consistently entertaining. They pust their button, feel the elevator heading the opposite way, and become immensely agitated. "Are we going up?" they ask in a tone of voice that suggests that someone has seriously screwed this up, and that person is going to pay. "I wanted to go down."

I try not to anger them futher. "Bummer," I say, my mouth twitching cheerily. "Maybe next time."

Dark Matter

A fascinating item from that fine football-and-comparative-religion columnist, Gregg Easterbrook:

"Last week at a University of Chicago conference, cosmologists mapped out plans to attempt to locate "dark matter" and "dark energy." I don't wish to alarm you, but at least 90 percent of the universe is missing. Astronomers hope to find it.

"When cosmologists measure the gravitational attraction on heavenly bodies, at least two-thirds of the matter in the cosmos appears to be missing; stars move as if acted upon by more gravity than can be accounted for by observed amounts of normal matter. For years, this has led to speculation that there is "dark matter" or "missing mass" throughout the firmament -- perhaps as strange forms of subatomic particles not present in this solar system, perhaps as very heavy black holes, perhaps as huge numbers of almost-stars hard to see because they don't shine. There are other theories. Searching for the missing mass has for decades been an obsession of astrophysicists.

"Then, a few years ago...

...astronomers made the unexpected discovery that not only are the galaxies rushing away from each other, they are speeding up. It had been assumed that the Big Bang provided the impetus for the movement of the galaxies; and across the eons, momentum from the Bang would wear off, causing the galaxies to slow down. Instead, they're speeding up: the evidence looks solid. Cosmic acceleration cannot be happening unless something unseen is pushing on the galaxies -- that is, adding energy to them. Hence, dark energy.

"The new betting line among scientists is that the luminous, observable forms of energy in the universe -- shining stars, natural radio waves and X-rays and so on -- constitute only a small share of total energy. Some force much more potent, dark energy, carries most of the power in creation; dark energy has so much power that it's speeding up unfathomable numbers of galaxies across unfathomable distances. The existence of dark energy would answer the riddle of why gravity does not cause everything in creation to crush together: Dark energy is repelling the components of the universe at the same time that gravity attracts them. And it's looking like dark energy is stronger than gravity --stronger, perhaps, by orders of magnitude.

"Here's the rub. While there are theories about what dark matter might be, no one has the slightest clue what dark energy is. No instrument can detect it. No one knows its source or how it works. Dark energy appears strong enough to push the entire universe, and yet science can't locate it.

"Bear this in mind when you're tempted to think Homo sapiens already understands the physical world, or even has the slightest idea what's going on. Combining missing dark matter and missing dark energy, science can't locate 90 percent of the universe! Bear this in mind, as well, when you're tempted to think we "know" there is no nonmaterial realm. An energy strong enough to push the entire universe is pulsing through your body right now, yet science has no idea how it works or where it originates. How many other nonmaterial forces might there be?

"As for the University of Chicago conference, hope you didn't miss this session: 'APEX-SZ, a Millimeter-Wavelength Galaxy Cluster Survey Using the Sunyaev-Zel'dovich Effect.'"

Czech This Out

I've started shopping for a classic movie poster to complete the decor of my new apartment. More than anything, I've been impressed by the artwork of Czech poster designers. I have, in fact, become strangely addicted to their drawings and collages: My last hour at work has been spent looking at these posters online.

Now, most American film posters are like film trailers: they are designed as a mass marketing tool, designed to attract the largest number of people to a movie. They try to inspire simple associations in the potential viewer's mind: Ooo, a new John Cusak movie or that looks sexy and scary. The goal is to make the product seem instantly familiar and thus enjoyable.

But these Czech posters seem to be attempting an entirely different advertising project. Most of them are weird photo collages, ink drawings or wood carvings, many of them much odder than the films they pitch. Some of this might be explained by the fact that the poster artists had little idea what the film they were advertising was actually about. However, it seems like many of these posters are trying to allure viewers with the promise of something truly new and exotic, an encounter with the Other. These drawings have the strange mystery of religious iconography. They remind us how much potential for transport exists within the medium of film, and how rarely that potential is harnessed.

You Call This Happy?

Today I was resolutely avoiding work by puttering around the web when I saw an exciting headline on Salon. "McDonald's to launch adult Happy Meals," it read.

Oh boy! I thought. I wasn't sure what an adult happy meal would be, but my mind reeled at the whimsical possibilities. Maybe McDonald's would reissue vintage toys like the plastic Bambi figures with the moveable legs, the toys I used to play with when I was seven. Maybe they would give out the cool toys with the dangerously detachable parts -- prizes that kids might swallow, but adults would simply play with at work. Maybe they'd give adults paper Happy Meal boxes in the shape of briefcases, but with pictures of the Hamburglar on the side. Oh boy!

Or maybe they'd team up with a fitness guru to make a package including "a salad, an exercise booklet and a pedometer meant to encourage walking." Maybe they'd ignore the chance to remind adults that being a grownup doesn't mean being dead, that childlike silliness can survive in a business suit, and instead give adults one more reminder that we're all going to die soon and we'd darn well better be responsible about our health.

Stupid clown.

A Brilliant Ruse

"I'm saying that if in fact you're Christian then you believe you were made in the image of God. And that means—and this is traditional Christian theology—that means that you have intelligence and self-awareness and moral ability. So what I would say then, that not to use one's intelligence, or to deny it or not to follow it, is at one level a heretical denial of one's God-given nature. And so this is the point I made—that in being a scientist, far from being anti-Christian or anti-God, you are utilizing the very things that make one God-like, in the Christian perspective. Of course, on the other hand, Christians are always caught up in this business of faith versus reason. And they love to argue that the most childlike among us can achieve understanding of God, true faith. So faith is very important for Christians. Nevertheless, it's a very important part of Christianity that our intelligence is not just a contingent thing, but is in fact that which makes us in the image of God."

The latest writings from D. G. Hart or George Marsden? Nope: it's a quote from Michael Ruse, a Florida State University philosophy professor who argues that human morality is a Darwinian genetic trait. The Believer published an interview with him in August, and it's finally online.

What's so stimulating about Ruse...

...is how, unlike many Darwinists, he responds with a direct and cogent argument to the Christian objection that naturalism destroys morality. Sure, he says, morality is just a trick of the genes, but it's a trick that's we're a part of, and we can't pull a Raskolnikov and try to transcend it.

"I mean," he says, "David Hume makes this point. If you do philosophy, it all leads to skepticism. You can't prove a damn thing. But does it matter? No! We go on. I take Hume very seriously on this point. Our psychology prevents our philosophy from getting us down. We go on. We play a game of backgammon, we have a meal. And then when we come back to think about philosophy it seems cold and strange."

So Ruse manages to dodge the old "You're not being consistent with your nihlism" gambit by arguing that being inconsistent is also genetically programmed into humans, and (to put it crassly) that's just jim-dandy.

But judging from his quote at the top of this post, Ruse is more than willing to dialogue with Christians about his beliefs and research. It's just my opinion, but I think that the cause of Christ would be better served by engaging this man than by building another creation science museum.

Barbie's Bat Mitzvah

"The Saudi government has announced that Barbie dolls are Jewish tools promoting the lewd behavior of what it calls the perverted Western world, according to a government poster distributed to Saudi schools, mosques and hospitals."

Oy vey. The poster, entitled "The Jewish Doll," informs us that "Jewish Barbie dolls with their naked clothing, lewd positions, and different samples and accessories, are symbols of decadence of the perverted West." Ah, yes. There's nothing that Jews enjoy more than a morning visit to temple and a little naked clothing. The Jews love a good oxymoron.

By the way, if ever a doll were a WASP, it's Barbie. She looks like a GPS graduate, for pity's sake.

Calvinistball

Bill Simmons has a great ESPN article on the joys of college dorm hall sports. "Our monument to crastination was Wallball, in which players bounced a racketball into a wall, one at a time. The ball had to bounce twice -- before it hit the wall, then after -- before the next guy hit it. If you screwed up, you got a "letter." Sounds dumb, right? We played for days on end. There was one legendary 30-player game that lasted two hours. There wasn't a girl to be seen. Not a one."

Which of course reminds me of the many fine sports we played on my Covenant dorm hall, Catacombs. The most famous was hallball, that inspired combination of dodgeball, soccer and nudist colony which you can see ably defended on Matt's blog. But there were other games as well, including Buckets of Fun, a sort of street hockey with all the players seated on the wheeled bottoms of college trash cans, and one more of the trash can bottoms used as a puck. The resulting game was something like polo crossed with a rugby scrum in the middle of a parking lot.

There was also Ultimate PanGeos, a game of ultimate frisbee played with the perfectly areodynamic salad bowls from the PanGeos world cuisine section of the dining hall. And there was an unnamed game in which old CD-ROMs would be flung Oddjob style into plaster walls or the back of Nathan Brinkerhoff, who could be counted on to conveniently wander onto the hall just when such a game was commencing. And there was my personal favorite, Kick the Soccer Ball at the Sleeping RA's Door, which could provide hours of evening entertainment. Needless to say, many of these games were invented by Josiah.

Cash

Johnny Cash was to American music what Dostoyevski was to Russian literature, what Michelangelo was to sculpture, what Beethoven was to Romantic music, what Shakespeare was to playwriting. He was the most honest artist of his time, dealing with the bedrock struggles of life in ways that his hundreds of imitators have never begun to understand. He was the best.

Cash died today around one in the morning, at the age of 71. His passing marks the end of an era in all American music because it is the conclusion of a time in songwriting -- and in living -- when the harshest truth and the most heart-rending beauty could walk together, when community could overcome cowboy individualism, and when sin was still followed by redemption.

Connecting it all, I think, was his voice. When he sang, it sounded like one of the presidents carved on Mt. Rushmore had decided to take up country music. Even as a young man, he sounded like everyone's grandfather, wise and weary. There was an authority to his singing that added depth and dignity to even a silly ditty like "A Boy Named Sue." (Try to imagine that song's author, Shel Silverstein, singing "Sue," and then you'll really appreciate Cash's voice.) Toward the end, cracks in his voice opened up, revealing new layers of vulnerability, but he never lost the gravelly edge in his singing. Yesterday I was listening to his last album, "The Man Comes Around," and his growl on the title track was so perfect, so intense, that I yelled out "Damn!"

In Today's New York Times obituary, Stephen Holden writes, "The sound of the slapped bass on his first major hit, "I Walk the Line," and the hard-edged boom-chigga beat of the early hits he recorded with his trio, the Tennessee Three, were primal rock 'n' roll sounds. And his deep groaning voice, with its crags and quavers, demonstrated that a voice need not be pretty in order to be eloquent." But what was so amazing about Cash was that he never dichotomized that rural authenticity from beautiful melodies. All his songs are prime humming material. The raw power of that voice famously shook the rhinestone wasteland of Nashville, certainly, but Cash's influence flowed in the other direction as well. It was after starting a friendship with Cash, for example, that Bob Dylan released his Nashville Skyline album, shocking his fans with his discovery that he could still be honest without singing like a dying eel.

Today's popular culture no longer recognizes that union between beauty and hard truth. These days, you're either a fan of Enya or Eminiem -- treacly senimentality of hard-edged rebellion. Johnny Cash never made that distinction. He didn't sing like an angel or a devil: He sang like a pilgrim on a very long journey.

He didn't take that journey alone of course. The "Man in Black" image was of an angry young troublemaker, symbolized famously was no invention -- he once started a forest fire, for heaven's sake -- but neither is it a surprise that Johnny Cash died only four months after his wife, June Carter Cash. He was as dedicated to his "mama bear" as a man could be, and his marriage to her placed him directly in the center of the Carter family, a gospel-singing community that carried him through many a difficult time. If Johnny Cash was the image of the hard-working, minimum wage American, then the Carters were the equally American family he came home to at night.

Cash first met his wife-to-be while wrecking her car. She was married to a bandmate of his, and as that marriage fell apart, Cash joined his buddy in throwing back a few cold ones and going to smash up June's house. They totalled the car. Months later, Johnny actually met June. Two years later, they wed. The legend is that she converted him to Christianity and put him on the straight and narrow. The truth is more complicated. Cash's marriage indeed brought with it a reawakening of the his faith (he became a Christian at a summer camp when he was 12), but the next 30 years saw him in a constant battle with depression and two bottles: one with booze and one with pills. Johnny Cash's life was about struggle, a series of hard-won battles with his own bad-boy nature.

His songs reflected that battle of sin and grace. Few of them discuss romantic love or beer-fueled brawling without also featuring the fear of judgement, the regret for murderous deeds ("But I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die. When I hear that whistle blowin' I hang my head and cry"), and the hope of salvation. It's appropriate that the last self-penned song he released, "The Man Comes Around," is about the Apocalypse, and the combination of judgement and mercy it paradoxically contains. Cash's songs never fit the easy evangelical pattern of new birth followed by life of the heavenly highway. They were about sanctification in the middle of a ring of fire, about the pain that comes from doing wrong and the hope that comes from the love of God or a good woman. As he told an MTV interviewer last month, "You can't let people delegate to you what you should do when it's coming from way in here" (tapping his heart). "I wouldn't let anybody influence me into thinking I was doing the wrong thing by singing about death, hell and drugs. 'Cause I've always done that. And I always will."

When it comes to evaluating what Johnny Cash really meant, I'm at a loss for words. I'm a very young man, and he's been old since before I was born. But what I feel about Cash is perhaps a bit like the feelings G. K. Chesterton expressed for the Catholic church. He said that the church was the unifying force that allowed justice and mercy to kiss, whereas now they are no longer even on speaking terms. In a similar way, I think Johnny Cash stood for the rapidly disappearing union of disparate aspects of the American mind. His songs never valued the individual over family, never spoke truth without a simple rythym and melody, and always united sin and grace as a fully linked concept. These are the fundamental unions of Johnny Cash, and they are fundamentally American unions. And I can't help but wonder if they will long survive him in this increasingly fragmented society.

Johnny Cash was the soul of American music. We are going to miss him.

But we'll see him again, too. "I expect my life to end pretty soon," he said recently. "I'm 71 years old. I have great faith, though. I have unshakable faith."

Names of the Dead

I walked into my office this morning and decided to turn on CNN to watch the September 11 memorial ceremonies. Two minutes later I looked up and saw my officemate crying. Two nurses walked in to say good morning. They started to cry as well. "In retrospect," I mused aloud, "maybe turning on the TV wasn't such a good idea." Everyone laughed. We all felt a little better.

All morning, as I type blog posts and talk with ROC's computer consultant about Web design, I hear the names of the dead being read by children related to the victims. Name after name: the background noise of my morning. I'm trying not to look at the TV much. It's just too depressing.

The Vlasic Conspiracy

Seven empty Krystal burger boxes have joined a 12-pack of Milwaukee's Best as my official rooftop porch decorations. (I really need to buy trash bags for the new apartment today.) Having consumed said processed meat products last night on a somewhat intoxicated whim, I have come to a tremendous discovery concerning pickles.

When you eat your average fast-food hamburger -- say, a Big Mac -- your tastebuds barely register the pickles. If you are in an absent frame of mind, you might not even notice that your sandwich has pickles at all. But when you bite into a Krystal, the pickle is a nexus of tart goodness, the exploding vinegar heart hidden within a body of soggy mediocrity. It's all about context, really.

Thus I have come to believe that the Krystal company is secretly bankrolled by an amalgam of shadowy figures in the pickle production industry. Forget Halliburton, my friends: this is the corporate cabal we must fear.* You heard it here first.

*I also recommend that we fear whatever dark force assures that all mall food court stands, whether their puported cuisine be Chinese or Cajun, serve the same "bourbon chicken." I suspect that all these food courts are controlled by one corpulent man in a back room in Reno, Nevada, who takes swigs from a jar of Georgia Moon Corn and has a laugh like Sydney Greenstreet.

Song for the Asking

Last Friday, Todd Willison and I were sitting on my roof, as we are wont to do, listening to Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge Over Troubled Water album. We both remarked sadly that no tour had emerged from S&G's reunion at the Grammys, and we agreed that seeing the duo live ranks high on our list of things to do before we die.

As if on our rooftop cue, Simon and Garfunkel announced yesterday that they are joining up for a 28-city tour. If you, like me, grew up listening to your parents' S&G records, this may be your final chance to hear their harmonies in person: "Since we seem to be doing this every 10 or 12 years, this is probably the last time we're going to be doing this," Simon said. Dates aren't set yet, but the tour will be stopping in Atlanta.

It's funny to think about seeing the same performers my parents used to watch back in the 1960s. My mom and dad saw two live S&G shows when they were dating. They then got married. As I told Todd, "It's not like they really had any choice. Once you've seen Simon and Garfunkel together, there's no turning back."

Things Unseen

It hasn't taken me long to settle into a pleasant late night pattern at my new house: I grab a beer from the fridge, hop over the upstairs porch railing and lie out on the roof, nestled in the joints between its peaks. I smoke a few cigarettes, listen to Ryan Adams and Bill Mallonee, and smile up into a soft dark quilt of tree branches intertwined above my head. Last night I got to thinking about that last part, the smiling part: Odd how we have the need to twist our mouths upward even when there's no other human around to smile at. We could just keep our emotions entirely internal, after all, and that we don't suggests something about the human need to communicate, to express ourselves to some other, perhaps to the divine. I think maybe faith is smiling and knowing someone sees it, even when you're alone.

Know When to Fold 'Em

After spending the last few days getting settled into my new apartment, I wanted to return to the blogging community with something beautiful, something profound, something that would make all of us a little more grateful for this fragile waltz we call life.

And so I bring you menwholooklikekennyrogers.com. (Someone needs to get Ed Kellogg on this page, and right quick.)

Changes Upon Changes

"Note the group of houses on St. Elmo Avenue between 41st and 42nd streets. Well preserved and rich in architectural detail, these homes feature inviting porches with Victorian and Neoclassical trim, stone walls and well-established gardens."

And now one features me. I signed the lease yesterday on a one-bedroom apartment on 41st street in St. Elmo. It's a very nice little place, taking up one-half of the second story of a yellow-painted wooden house. The main room has wooden floors and a charming bay window. If I step out from my apartment into the hallway, I have easy access to a perfect smoking porch overlooking St. Elmo Avenue, just large enough for two or three people to sit comfortably and watch the traffic. I'm above an apartment housing six Covenant guys, including Todd and Bintz, so I won't lack for company, or the sounds of 80's hair bands.

So I'll be moving out of my woodland abode on Browns Ferry Road (Farewell, goats in the road! Farewell, boys on ATVs! Farewell, small dog with massive goiter!) over the next couple of days. I should be fully moved into the new place by Sunday. Eventually, I may even buy some furniture.

Meanwhile, as I mentioned previously, I'm taking two classes at Covenant to finish my bachelor's degree. Both of these classes are in the mid-afternoon, which plays fascinating games with my work schedule. I'll be taking some awfully long Monday and Wednesday lunch breaks for the next 15 weeks. But when I finish, I will reward myself with a party the likes of which have rarely been seen in St. Elmo. There will be great festivity, and maybe even some drinking.

And to Edward Appleby, a Friend of a Friend

I wrote my Senior Integration Paper at Covenant College on the films of Wes Anderson, arguing that they are visions of the restoration of American community. For the last three months a variety of people have been asking me to read the SIP, for reasons that I suspect have less to do with their love of my writing and more to do with their devotion to the Kumar. But the paper was saved on the Covenant computer system, and I couldn't quite summon the motivation this summer to drive up Lookout Mountain and retrieve it.

Yesterday, however, I had to sign up for two fall semester classes that will complete my graduation requirements (if you must know, they are Intro to Mathematics and PE, Part II), and I took a few minutes to salvage documents from my files before the school deletes everything. The strangest part of the process was going through old e-mail archives (I'm a compulsive packrat of computer-mediated communication; I never delete anything) and seeing all the messages from people I used to know. Many have moved away. A few I'm no longer speaking to. At least one is dead. But there were all their thoughts on the screen, frozen in the moment they were composed. Reading them, it was impossible to believe that the hope, anger, confusion or love expressed had in any way changed or faded.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, my SIP: I was indeed able to find it, along with lots of other papers I've written at Covenant. It's entitled Searching for Rushmore, and I should warn that it's rather lengthy. Enjoy.