HUMAN. NATURE.

The vegetative state is not a condition that would have lasted long in our ancestors. If you couldn’t communicate, not to mention chew and swallow, your day was done. Now you can be kept alive  indefinitely, whether you like it or not. Unless, of course, you’re able to imagine playing tennis.

A few years ago a neuroscientist freaked us all out by demonstrating that two questions asked of a vegetative woman elicited two different patterns of brain activity.

When asked to imagine playing tennis, her brain’s motor and planning regions lit up. When asked to tour her house, the region for “familiar scenes” activated.
She was in there. EEEEEEK!

Now a team has built on that experiment. First, they repeated it with 53 more patients in either a vegetative or “minimally conscious” state. Yup, they were in there too.

And with one young man who had been vegetative for 5 years, they harnessed this aliveness to solicit answers to very specific questions.

“Do you have siblings? If yes, imagine playing tennis. If no, imagine your house.”

They asked him six questions, and he answered the first five correctly. The sixth brought no response.

They didn’t ask him if he was enjoying himself in there. They didn’t ask if he was in pain, of body or mind. They didn’t ask him if they should pull the plug.
But they could have.

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If you read guest blogger Monica Wood’s charming series on an interspecies friendship, you remember Sonny, and his dear friends the squirrels. Sonny has been returned to the elements from which he was drawn.

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This could have happened in the human past, too: Among chacma baboons, the alpha male appears to intentionally loan out females to subordinate males in order to solidify his support. It might cost him a “cop” or two, but when the babies are attacked, those subordinate males help to protect them.

In baboons, it’s common for an intruder male to slaughter all the young he can catch. It’s part of challenging the reigning alpha. After all, most or all of the babies carry the DNA of that reigning alpha. And the game of life is about sending more of your own DNA down the river of time than anyone else. So not just baboons but many animal males will wipe the DNA slate clean when they take over a harem of females. This halts each female’s investment in the offspring of another male, and resets her hormones to a fertile state.

The chacmas seem to have evolved an effective anti-infanticide strategy. The alpha, who could easily monopolize all the copulations (cops) when each female comes into heat, will often do a surprising thing: He won’t. He’ll actually allow lesser beings to consort with the lady in question. He might cop with her too, but he shares.

So put yourself in the position of that subordinate male, the next time a bully comes to town, threatening to take over the troop. The interloper wants to kill the baby of a female you mated with. You can’t be sure it’s your baby, but it could be… And it could be your only chance, ever, of reproducing. This is a high stakes decision.

Statistically, the alpha has done the right thing, research shows. Not only are the babies better protected from infanticide when the crisis comes, but he himself is less likely to lose his throne to that guy.
The females win, too, of course: With more males protecting their offspring, they stand a better chance of sending their own DNA down the river of time. They don’t lose the investment they’ve already made in that baby.

Is this how male cooperation evolved within our own species? We’ll never know. But the economics of the uterus is a powerful engine for social change.

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Two headlines caught my eye this morning, both suggesting (strongly) that I get my butt in gear and work out. Not for the old fashioned reasons regarding my heart and what not. But to fire up my brain.

One report involved mice who were given a wheel to run on. Those who ran were decidedly better at recognizing spatial patterns. The researchers think that running caused the mouse brains to grow new neurons — brain cells — which added to the overall wattage of the mice.

The other involves human females. Those who lift weights, like the mice, have a faster, fitter brain.

That’s all well and good. What we really NEED scientists to study is why we don’t all work out. Why is it soooooo aversive, as they say, to put aside time every day to strive and sweat?

I like to think that part of my reticence involves the absurdly cruddy climate in which I live. Who ON EARTH wants to go out and play in this? (It’s currently 22, with a screeching North wind.)

And part of it stems from my personality. I rank sky-high in openness, a measure of a brain’s love of mental stimulation. The boredom that washes over me when I exercise indoors is insufferable. I truly cannot bear it. When I could run outside I had the same problem. I LOVED trail running, or running in a foreign city, where I never knew what was around the next corner. Running on a track was like pounding nails into my brain.

It’s Artwalk night in Portland tomorrow. My brain will exercise itself silly, analyzing the creative expressions from other brains. If only working the brain worked the body.

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Cocos nucifera: Badass palm

Plant warfare is as old as… well, as old as plants. Like very other living thing, a plant must corner its share of water, sunlight and nutrients if it hopes to live long and reproduce. Some resort to poisoning their neighbors, others just race for the sky, hoping to shade out the competition. The coconut palm starves its neighbors.

Plants are sessile — stuck in one spot — but they are hardly helpless. Thorns and big, shade-casting leaves are among the more obvious weaponry they deploy. And they have ways of attracting what they need. A good roosting tree will bring in flocks of birds who shower its roots with fresh, high-quality fertilizer.

The coconut palm doesn’t look very belligerent. But now that I think about it, it’s quite a contender. It has that long, flexible trunk that protects it both from hurricanes and neighbors that might try to shade it. And now researchers have found it to be an excellent scarecrow.

Its fronds are inhospitable to birds either perching or nesting. Brilliant! Wait… so what?

So what is that the area around the palm gets no fresh, high quality fertilizer. The palm, who can get by on nearly nothing, is fine. But any plant that hopes to take root in the vicinity is going to find very little to eat.

It’s a cool strategy. And think about the beaches of the tropical world. All coconuts. The seeds float around in the ocean until they wash up on a beach. They sprout, living off the fat of the seed. And they stake their claim by repelling birds, and eliminating fertilizer from their environs.

Some other time: The walking palm, whose Latin name is Who you callin’ sessile?

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“She’s figured out you’re writing about her,” warns my friend Monica Wood. But I think Mitzi’s new reign of terror indicates a more internal process. I think Mitzi is getting in touch with her inner wild mouse.

Mitzi and Maxi (RIP) were bred to live two or three months before being eaten by pet snakes. These “feeder mice” are famously infirm and fragile. Both girls came down with mouse TB shortly after they moved into their condo here on my desk. Mitzi survived, but Maxi went almost immediately after the sneezing set in. Mitzi is fine as long as I keep the temperature and humidity in the condo EXACTLY right. I spend my days in a mouse sanitorium. But Mitzi, life expectancy 6 months, is almost a year old and FINE!

Because female mice are social it’s not ideal for Mitz to be alone, but due to her disease, I can’t get her a roommate. So I make her life as interesting as I can. And now she’s returning the favor.

She has free run of my desk. Mice won’t jump off an elevated surface, so she’s safe. And until recently, so was I. But I think Mitzi’s high level of mental and physical stimulation is awakening long-dormant mouse instincts. She’s self-actualizing.

"nds jects an arly modern an Neander"

When I first got the girls, I gave them a napkin to shred for bedding, as better research labs do. They ignored it, burrowing into the pre-shredded bank statements instead. But they did cotton to the climbing rope I added, and then to the stairway to heaven that allowed them to move from condo to desk at will. And then, last week, Mitzi suddenly started shredding her own bedding.

Problem is, she started with my stuff. I walked into my sanitorium one morning and saw a crumpled page of Science protruding from the towel that covers the condo. And inside, shreds of the article, which I had torn out to read later. Beautiful, professional wild-mouse shreds. I was so proud. And kind of bummed. Now I have to keep a neater desk.

There were warning signs that Mitzi was going feral. Once in a while I’d enter to find a pen whose cushiony grip had been chopped to bits and strewn over the desk, or blue chips of Cat-5 internet cable scattered around the computer. Sometimes during her afternoon anti-siesta I’d watch her gnaw a ruler, or shake a binder clip the way a dog shakes a rope toy. I moved my passport to a Mitzi-proof location.

(Mice poop randomly, so there are a few turds here and there. But mice establish a latrine for pee, which Mitz does in a convenient location at the back of the desk.)

I welcome this new, wild Mitzi. She’s welcome to be as much of a mouse as she wants. The girls helped to guide the book I’m currently finishing, about the biology of personality. In another context (my basement, for instance), I’d have trapped the girls and tossed their bodies out on the snow for the crows. But Mitzi has earned her keep, and built a shreddy little nest in my heart.

Bedding and bedtime reading in one.

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I climbed Mt. Katahdin barefoot once. Backpacked in to the Chimney Pond campsite — a few miles. And the next day, climbed to the summit. For some reason my Dad didn’t notice until we were up there. Maybe it was snowing or something. He made me put on the shoes I’d tied to my pack — plain old leather shoes. I promptly sprained my ankle. I told you, Dad! Humans work better barefoot.

Yep, the "Knife Edge" too: Barefoot.

Years later I debated climbing Katahdin in heels, just for the heck of it. And according to new research from one of my favorite scientists, it might be a good idea.

Dan Lieberman, a Harvard evolutionary biologist, looks at the human body in context — the context of millions of years of evolution. And when he compared barefoot running and running-shoe running, his conclusion was stunning. The forces on your body are two or three times heavier in shoes than barefoot.

That assumes you land on your heel when you run in shoes. And running shoes are designed for that stride. Lieberman’s work suggests there ain’t enough foam or gel or air in the world to make a running shoe safer for your joints than going barefoot.

How can this be?

Well, the running shoe was invented about 1.5 human generations ago. In the millions of years prior to that humans ran barefoot or in minimal footwear. And we got really good at it. Humans are the best endurance runners alive, better on the long haul than even a horse. And the foot is a huge part of the reason. The arch in particular.

Answer this: How do you run when you’re chasing the dog barefoot, or running down the beach on hard sand? Not on your heels.

Lieberman wired up humans to measure the forces on their bodies during running. He found that people who run in shoes hit heel first, which almost totally wastes the spring potential of the arch. They get a boost when they roll forward off the toes, but they miss the shock absorbing work the arch does if you land on the forefoot.

This explains a bunch of things to me:

• When I (used to) run in shoes, I strive to flex my toes up to get the most out of that gel. It feels inefficient and unnatural. I feel better landing on the outer ball of my foot.

• When I try to sneak up on someone at a run, I go on “tiptoe.” What’s the connection? Lower impact makes lower noise. Good hunting tactic, if you’re counting on your speed to approach prey.

• Because I thought I was SUPPOSED TO run on my heels, I probably tore the crap out of my malformed hip socket long before necessary. Had I run barefoot, I would have greatly reduced the wear on that joint, and perhaps be running — and titanium free — today. Rats. I wonder if I’d be allowed to run with hip replacement if I promised never to land on my heel?

• It might be safer to climb Mt. Katahdin in heels than in regular shoes. In heels, you’re forced onto your forefoot. Descending would be a bear, but you could just take them off and go nature-girl.

Old memory: I just remembered how, when our uncle circled the hayfield on his tractor, mowing or tedding, my teenage sister would run steadily behind, barefoot. We all had very calloused feet, which you need if you’re going to run barefoot.

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Increased measures of Tired, Fatigue, Sluggish, Weary, and Heaviness of Limbs? Yes. Decreased measures of Energetic, Friendly, Lively, and Vigor, Concentration? Also yes. And yes: I am quitting coffee. What in the devil is going on in my brain?

I am trying to quit coffee, I should say. Not sure it’s going to stick. But my gut, always a bit testy regarding acids, has recently advanced from testy to full rebellion. I think this advance coincided with the finishing of that *$@#! book a few weeks ago. It was a rough couple months. Stress releases cortisol into the blood, and too much of that business messes up everything.

Anyway, since coffee, and even decaf, exacerbate the situation to NO END, I’m trying out life without that beloved African plant, Coffea arabica. I have done this so many times. The last time I fell off the wagon was when I met my husband. Let’s just say, to avoid offending the Victorians, that I awoke one morning in a household free of decaf, but suffused with the stench of dark, strong coffee… One cup won’t hurt…

Oh, it won’t hurt until you try to QUIT! Then it will hurt like a crown of thorns that’s inside your skull and trying to get out. Again, WITD?

It looks like a migrainy sort of effect, according to research. Experiments of this type are conducted by assembling a bunch of addicts, then giving half of them caffeine pills and half of them placebo pills. Nobody knows who got which pill. CRUEL AND UNUSUAL! You would have to pay me SO MUCH to participate.

The punch line, tho, is that withdrawal seems to open the floodgates in arteries going to the brain. Blood thunders into the head like a river breaking through a dam. That’s the migrainy part.

Whether the excess blood causes the headache, heavy arms, and unfriendliness is yet to be determined.

Media: Japan’s leading coffee company has a coffee museum. Youtube tour. Warning: Amateur videography could exacerbate headache.

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Manatees are so far from rats and roaches. As our planet reels into a chaos of meltdowns and hurricanes, rats and roaches will be fine. Manatees… let’s just hope they sink when they die, because they’d make an awful stink.

I’ve kayaked with the sea cows a few times. It’s eerie. They live in murky coastal waters, and they spend most of their time grazing on seafloor greenery. But every minute or three, a knuckle of algae-colored nose breaks the surface for a breath. If you’re really close you can see an eye, tiny and weak. The rest of the beast is lost in brown water. Then the knuckle sinks, and a couple seconds later the toilet-lid of a tail hurls a round “footprint” of roiling water to the surface. In shallow water you can track a manatee by those tail pools. My friend Bill Belleville, diver, writer, filmmaker, says they like to be scratched if you care to swim with them.

They’re not particularly shy, so you can hang with them. They’re not particularly bright, so they haven’t figured out how to avoid motor boats. They’re definitelyslow, so even if they learned to associate motor noise with danger, they would still get sliced by propellers.

Anyway, the recent cold snap was worrisome because in 68 degree water manatees get a cold-stress syndrome that can kill them. They’re as big as cars, but more delicate than hummingbirds.

The one thing they have learned about life in the modern world is that power plants emit great streams of steaming water. And there they congregate in cold times, basking in the effluent. One of the power plants, at least, has installed a manatee cam.

You can even take the controls and move the camera. (You have to wait in e-line. Other people’s panning and twitching on the cam is alternately funny and tiresome.) Watching manatees at the spa is only slightly less boring than watching logs float around. But you can pan out to the botanical gardens of Tampa Electric, and get your own dose of warmth. Manatees show up best at midday when the sun beats through the gunky water and illuminates them.

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Here’s a stumper: Normally, a male chimp doesn’t pay much attention to his kids. That’s women’s work. But in the wild, males are ready, willing, and able to adopt orphaned chimps. What gives?

The observation comes from three different groups over a period of 27 years. During that time 36 youngsters were orphaned, and half of them were adopted by other adults. And males were just as likely to take in a foundling as females. (The other half perished. Many were very young and unweaned.)

It’s not a trivial act. Adoptive parents spend time waiting for their kids as the group travels through the forest. When the kids tire, they carry them. they share food with them. They protect them. And adoption can even lead to harassment of the adult: Adult bullies will tease or attack the orphan to stir up the adult.

Animals (us included) aren’t supposed to do anything that undermines our own fitness. We’re not supposed to waste our energy on anyone who isn’t carrying at least a chunk of our DNA. That’s just biologically dumb. As social animals, we and the chimps both have to make some concessions to the group good, but let’s not go crazy with that.

For male chimps who hardly bother with their own offspring to so far as to take in an unrelated stray seems batty.

Two possibilities:

1: Female chimps mate promiscuously when they’re fertile. One theory is that they do this to keep the males guessing. A males is unlikely to attack that female’s offspring if there’s a chance it’s his. So some males may simply assume that every kid might be theirs.

2: Among social animals like humans and chimps, some individuals are more social than others. Those of us wired for high sociality are sensitive to others’ needs and troubles, suckers for a sad face. Perhaps the adopting males are the bleeding hearts of the group, and they can’t turn away from a child in need even when there’s a price to pay.

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