Spider Sunday 4-15-12

I'm a little late getting this week's Spider Sunday up, but I did have a very spidery Sunday! Black widows in my backyard and garage (pics later, though hopefully no shirtless episodes), jumping spiders on our nature walk, and a spider lowering itself onto my head as I drove (I hope you parachuted to safety, car spider). To top it all off, on the way to the jumping spider hike, my son reached the point in his current book where the main character gets attacked by thousands of robot ... spider ... things. He wishes fervently they were real, and ours.

As always, check out the gorgeous images at Spider Sunday on G+, and here are some more spidery goings-on!


Spiders in Borneo

If you're into spiders, or biology, or evolution, or super-cool stories, you need to read this blog series at Scientific American. Wayne Maddison is a spider guy. Scratch that. He's kind of like the Indiana Jones of jumping spider scientists. He treks about in off-the-map jungles, finding jumping spiders no one knows about yet. In other words, he does my absolute dream job, only fittingly, and unlike me, he's supremely qualified for the task. Start at the introduction and read through to his latest post, cataloging the specimens after some of the coolest field work ever.


I'm sure how you use it matters too

It's a crucial organ. Hardness, stiffness, shape, and ability to penetrate are all of utmost importance.

I'm talking about spider fangs, of course. What did it sound like I was talking about?

If you're a spider, fangs are pretty important, for defense as well as hunting. Many spiders subsist mainly on insects, whose exoskeletons are made of chitin, roughly the same material that makes up spider fangs. So how do the spiders penetrate the chemically similar exoskeletons of their prey? By injecting venom with fangs made of composite material, basically chitin layered with a fancy protein matrix, and tipped not with chitin, but with high amounts of zinc and chlorine. Explained with a higher knowledge of biomaterials and also a higher level of eloquence here. (Notice use of the word "venom" rather than "poison." Please, please notice this, any newspeople who fire off an article on the study.)

Spider venom for the cure?

I've been withholding judgment on the handful of articles I've seen recently about using spider venom to fight breast cancer, mainly because I didn't have time to really read up on it and both spiders and cancer are rife with silly claims. However, this study at James Cook University seems to be legitimate, and we'll see where it goes. Heck, certain fish have been studied for kidney disease and skin cancer research and Gila monsters have given saliva for diabetes research, so why not? (However, word to the wise: Don't search online too long about animal-derived cures unless you have an abnormally high tolerance for bullshit, fake medicine, and animal cruelty.)

Can I just use them for fun?

One possible use for Google Glasses? Spiders everywhere!

This augmented reality application is supposed to be a next-gen treatment for arachnophobes. Check out the video at the bottom. My favorite part: The spiders' personalities are programmable. So we really are one step closer to artificial arachnid intelligence. My son will be thrilled.

Spider Sunday 4-8-12

I have a hard time curating the Spider Sunday theme each week on Google+.

It's not that I don't love it -- quite the opposite. The problem is that first, I have to resist the urge to find every last person (though they are extremely few and far between) who makes a point to find spider shots and then type something like "Ewwwww! I hate spiders," or "These insects [yes, a few people really say that] are so gross," or "Kill it with fire!" so I can insult and/or correct them. And second, and even more of a difficulty, is the fact that I tend to just ogle the shots instead of sharing, plussing, or commenting at first. It's like when I'm asked to edit something really good. I forget the task and just bask in it. Eventually I get around to responding coherently, but first, I just stare. I mean, how can I help but stare at shots like this, this, this, or this, or a ton of others? Follow these people on Sunday, everyone. I guarantee you'll love spiders in a few weeks.

Also, check out some other bloggers' stuff on spiders -- my friend Chris of The Dragonfly Woman shared some saltie fabulousness on her Friday 5: Why Jumping Spiders Will Always Be My Favorite Spiders, and you should totally check it out (though I might have to write a competing Friday 5 about black widows).

Oh, and happy Easter, everyone! I made an Easter card for you:



The rest of today's images are from a few long-jawed orb weavers I spent time with, who preferred to leave off the bunny ears.

A few spider tidbits for this week:

National "Be Kind to Spiders" Week
April 1 to 7 was National "Be Kind to Spiders" Week! I observed it, but then, I observe spider kindness every week.



Forget snakes on a plane; we've got spiders on a space station!
In the very first YouTube SpaceLab contest, students ages 14 to 18 from around the world were invited to pitch science experiments to be conducted in space. One of the winners -- 18-year-old Amr Mohamed of Egypt, who proposed sending jumping spiders into space to see if they could adapt the way they jump and hunt. Since they can adjust their trajectories on Earth, he reasoned, it's worth checking what they'll do in zero gravity. It'll be, like Mohamed said, "the first time in history for an animal to change its way of hunting to zero-gravity environments." Like any good scientist he has a hypothesis -- he thinks they won't be able to catch their prey -- but who knows? I love that I never would have even though to do something like this. His experiment is being prepared, and will ride to the International Space Station on a cargo ship. Check out his video here, and watch all the videos if you get a chance. One of the greatest things about both young people and scientists is the spirit of drive, optimism, cooperation and just sheer geeky, curious camaraderie. Good stuff. And spiders in space! How cool is that?



Amateurs discover new (super pretty) jumping spider
A naturalist, but not a spider expert or even professional photographer, takes a photo of a spider and shares it. A possible new species is discovered. The Flickr community. Citizen science. An outrageously gorgeous spider. Is there anything not to like about this story?



Someone make me one of these
I've had scissors confiscated at the airport. If I had known this was where they were going, I'd have brought a bunch to donate. I love this sculpture.

That's it for now! I hope everyone had a great Easter. Our chocolate bunnies are already earless and one of our empty candy containers holds a jumping spider. So, you know, business as usual.

Why my son isn't special, and yours isn't either

Someone sent me a link to the (no longer airing) television show Psychic Kids the other day.

My son, the person contends, might be like these kids. Not socially maladjusted, probably, and not with these abilities, but he's got a special something. He's not like most kids. Check this show out.

I'd never watched it. I had a feeling it would just rile me up, and I was right. I felt dirty watching it. It really seems to border on child abuse. These smart, sensitive, fascinating kids were getting all the wrong messages; their parents were getting all the wrong messages; and no one was being helped. The kids want validation, guidance, understanding; and they can't get it except through exploitation and fakery.

But here's the thing: I kind of, sort of, understand where the parents are coming from.

No, not like that. I'm still me, after all. Rational, skeptical, wholly anti-woo. What I understand is the parents' urge to have their kids be special. Unique. Like really, really unique. Their talents are different from everyone else's talents, so of course their problems are different from everyone else's problems.

And they're right. The kids' talents and problems are unique, and difficult, and nuanced. Just like everyone's problems. Their kids are hard to reach, and their problems are hard to address. Just like all kids.

I see it in Arizona all the time, these two extremes. At one end, you have the hard, grizzled "I ain't buyin' this 'Everyone's a special snowflake' bullshit; now pull yourself up by your bootstraps!" guys. Think ranchers, cowboys, farmers. Everything is black and white. Every problem is easily addressed, and there's one -- and usually only one -- common-sense solution. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a namby-pamby idiot. At the other end, you have the froofy, kooky "We're just the universe getting to mystically know itself" crowd. Think UFOlogists, Sedona vortex seekers, and the folks who love to talk about the Phoenix Lights while showing you their crystal collection. (I actually had someone do this.) Now I truly love the grizzled Arizona frontiersman, and I love me some dreamy Sedona artists, but this is silly. Truth and validation are not magical, but neither are they simple. It's not always either "Here's your problem. I fixed it!" or "There is no answer on this physical realm." That's what I'm talking about with Psychic Kids.

It's entirely possible that these kids have more -- maybe much more -- talent and difficulty in some areas. The kids have mental issues and aptitudes that their peers won't understand. It's necessary to grant them this validation. However, it's just as likely, and just as necessary to express to the kids, that other children have issues and aptitudes that they don't have and won't understand. You don't get to be the star of the world. You don't even get to be the star of your own world. You're a spectator and participant, and it's infinitely better and more interesting that way.

Maybe these kids' talents and problems lie along more difficult-to-discern, difficult-to-deal-with lines. Maybe the parents decided they don't understand what their kids are going through -- which is fine; but then decided that it must be incomprehensible to anyone, paranormal -- which is not fine. You don't need to resort to magic for your kid to be special. Magic isn't real. Your kid's specialness is. Your kids problems are.

Am I one of those hippie parents who thinks everyone's a winner? Yeah. I guess I am.

But here's the difference: I'm not saying your (or your kid's) special beauty lies in some unable-to-be-grasped magical aura. I'm specifically saying it does not. It's real. You might not be able to grasp it, but it's graspable. It's concrete. You're special, and there are ways to find out how. You have problems, and there are ways to pin them down and address them. Same for your kid. Everyone is special. Everyone's a winner. This doesn't diminish the words "special" and "winner," because we all win at different categories. And we all suck royal donkey balls at several categories as well. Same for your kid.

Apparently (according to the original link sender), this makes me a closed-minded wet blanket. I don't see why. The choices aren't "My kid has black and white talents and foibles that I can readily describe" or "My kid is a magical starchild." Do you really think every kid but a select few is less complex, less nuanced, less worthy of wonder and consideration; than psychic kids, savants, "Indigo" children, "Crystal" children, kids with an affinity for animals, or whatever specialty your kid has? How is that better than "My football player can kick your honor student's ass?"

Of course I think my kid is the most special kid in the world. And it doesn't feel like an opinion. But it is an opinion, and none less valid for being one. He's the most special because of his unmatched (in my limited experience) imagination and way with animals, because of his intelligence and insight, because of his kindness, and yes, because of his flaws. (His ability to focus, for example, is so miniscule that while we were ice skating the other day he stopped, simply because he forgot to keep moving his legs. I'm relieved that breathing is involuntary.) His specialness is born from his specific set of characteristics as well as those of everyone he encounters. His shared experiences and private thoughts write a specific story that's his, and to a much lesser extent, mine and my husband's. His story is staggeringly beautiful. It is mind-searingly tiresome. It is heart-breakingly, uniquely painful. It is heart-meltingly amazing. I'm proud, touched, annoyed, exasperated, and amazed every moment that I'm with him. I try, from time to time, to share some of that with you. But here's the thing -- I share the qualities of it. I share the universal -- or near universal -- parts, including the universal happiness we all feel from witnessing someone's distinct footprint on the world. I share the details to show the beauty. I don't expect the details themselves to impress anyone, because I know they're not objectively special, at least not in the sense that they're unique to us. And they don't need to be. The whole package is special. Isn't that enough?

Which brings me back to what I suspect some of the Psychic Kids parents are doing. Their kids have talents, sensitivities, and problems that happen to be hard to put a finger on. Fine. So spend time with your kids. Validate them, even if your answer is "I believe you, but I don't know what is happening. There is a real answer out there. Let's find it together." Even if it takes a lifetime to find, even if you never find the answer. Because you'll make your own answer along the way, and it will be built of a million real things. Early morning cuddling and dinnertime fights. Walks through meadows in the golden hour and homework nagging. Sleepovers and playground fights. Snapshots by road signs and sinks full of dishes. Board games and cats and dogs and backyards and cookies and toys and baseball games and school dances and a million other things that won't be special to anyone on the planet but you and your kid. And that's fine. Think of the world you'll discover together. Think of the people he'll meet, who'll get to know him in return. He will grow up with volumes of special experiences. What's more, the understanding that it's the big picture that makes who we are, that no one's concerned about his mundane trivialities -- but only because each one of them is carrying a whole universe of their own, waiting to be explored -- I think he'll be infinitely better for it than if you told him he has magical powers and sent him to a spooky house with some wacko.

Spider Sunday 3-18-12

Another reason to geek out on 3/14
If you're a dork (and if you're reading this you probably are), you know March 14 was Pi Day. What you probably didn't know -- I didn't until yesterday -- is that it was also National Save a Spider Day! Credit goes to my aunt, Heather, for passing on this reminder from Heloise. I guess it's only fitting, now that I've got spider pictures coming at me from across the country and even world, that I get my family and friends in on it too. You guys "celebrate" spider day weekly and sometimes daily on my Facebook wall on and in my inbox. You're all weird and wonderful. I shall become the spider queen and you will all be my spider-rescuing, spider-info-hoarding minions. Mwahaha!

I can't believe I didn't share this earlier
I'm not too big into Tumblr, but you all must follow this site, FACT: Spiders are Adorable, as long as they're posting content. Spider humor, spider fact tidbits, spider photos, spider macros (of both the close-up photography and humorous-text-having varieties), and all forms of spider love. Go see it.

Brown(ie) points: Brown recluse in the news
The brown recluse spider, Loxosceles reclusa, has been featured quite a bit in the news lately -- from the apparent spread of their territory and research to better define our understanding of their range, to recent cases like college student Nikki Perez, who was almost blinded due to a brown recluse bite. It's a medically significant spider, with unique and potentially quite harmful venom, and climate change could be affecting its range, so this is important stuff. Of course, there's quite a bit of difference between the predicted "possible migration of the spider by 2020" to new areas, and the melodramatic headlines ("America in Danger!") that I began seeing this week. This is what a brown recluse looks like, with a coin for scale. Its range is the Southeast to the Midwest. And if you have a giant brown spider on your wall, it's still probably not a brown recluse. Just, you know, be smart. Most people are never bitten by any spider, so don't start worrying about inevitable blindness/ear rotting/body-part-loss/general doom just yet.

Spider sensitivity training
I love this! The American Museum of Natural History is preparing to open an interactive exhibit, "Spiders Alive!" starting in July. Sensitive to the needs of the spiders, reaching out to the humans ... everyone wins. And we get to learn more about these amazing arthropods. I'm quite fond of Norman I. Platnick, the museum’s curator of spiders (although I'm also quite jealous of his profession). A few quotes:

Of the new exhibit, (Mr. Platnick said), “I’ve always argued that it would draw as many people as the dinosaurs, if not more.”

and

Mr. Platnick, who has been at the museum since 1973, had long lobbied for a permanent hall devoted to spiders, insects and other arthropods. Not having one, he said, “is a major gap for a major natural history museum.”

I'm glad to see arachnids have such an awesome advocate. Now who wants to pay for me to go to the exhibit in July?

Spiders look bigger to arachnophobes
Yes, I saw the recent article. My husband agrees wholeheartedly, and feels vindicated for the many incidents in which I may have implied he's a big baby for being afraid of something half the size of his pinky fingernail. I don't know, though. I see a sea of emerald sparkles in a jumping spider's eyes, and a veritable forest of hair on its back. Maybe it's just fixation that makes the spiders appear massive.

My husband doesn't particularly care why. They're huge, according to him.

Oh, well. I've seen him watching them and photographing them when he thinks I'm not looking. And he does know there's not an army of invading brown recluses. It's a start.

Spider Sunday 3-11-12

Forgive me if this one is up a little bit late. This Spider Sunday is also my son's tenth (!) birthday. The festivities started Saturday with an all-day amusement park trip, and I am already exhausted.

But onto the spiders (and a few of their relations, in this edition)!

Are Daddy Long legs Spiders?
If you're still confused about the daddy long legs issue, this video is pretty good, and it's a great mini-lesson on taxonomy in general. It illustrates why I never use the term. My only nitpick: he should say "venom glands," not "poison glands." (Two pedantic spider points in one item! I win!)

Are camel spiders from overseas invading Phoenix?
Short answer: No. Longer answer: Are you serious? No. And word to the wise (and also reporters): They're not actually spiders; and they're certainly not insects.

Speaking of camel spiders
OK, I know they're not real spiders, but more than a few people sent me blips about this film, which reaffirms all the myths we've heard (but unlike squeamish reporters, know are false) about camel spiders. Like Arachnophobia, only nowhere near as good. Still, campy fun. Starring the guy who played Leo on Charmed, apparently.

Spider silk = super substance
Dumbledore might have discovered the twelve uses of dragon blood, but I'm pretty sure we've already topped twelve uses for spider silk, besides getting in our faces and catching dinner for spiders. There's the fantastic cape from a little while ago. It might have applications for wound healing. And this week we've got violin strings from spun spider silk, and the discovery that spider silk conducts heat as well as metals, and hundreds of times better than any other organic material. Spider silk: Is there anything it can't do?

It can freak people out, that's for sure
As the farm town of Wagga Wagga, Australia faced rising floods, the people moved out and the wolf spiders moved in -- and it snowed spider silk.

OK. Now I'm really sorry for the lateness of the post. Apologies for the parting mental image. Sleep well!

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Friday 5: Things I learned teaching nature photography to kids

I've been a little busy lately (I know; haven't we all), but I'm actually trying to build up a buffer so I can really write polished posts again -- funny stuff, poignant stuff, all that crap. I miss that. I'm also streamlining how I handle my blog and my various other time-sucks, so I can get to know more of you. (Find me on Google+, Twitter, or Facebook; we can waste time together!)

But I have been doing stuff! Story pitches. Research. And sometimes, I even get out of the house. I taught a kids' photography workshop at the Chandler Environmental Education Center. After some first-timer fumbling, I do hope I taught them a thing or two and we all had a good time, in the classroom, but mostly in the field. It's all stuff that's old-hat to my photographer friends, and even many who've read some posts here, so I'll go a different route. Here are five lessons they taught me.

1. Streams must always be crossed. Repeatedly. Here's how to tell which side of the stream is best: It's not where you are at the moment.

Make sure you choose the mossiest, most slippery rocks when crossing. If you feel like you're slipping, fling your camera around a few times for balance. Especially if it's holding the instructor's telephoto lens.

2. You might have to go through the mud. Scratch that. You'll always have to go through the mud. Don't worry; you can take your shoes off and leave them behind for the instructor! Also, try to spread yourselves out as widely as possible, especially if there's only one adult watching you all. If she looks worried about keeping an eye on the two of you at the stream, the one by the cactus and the rest stalking the egret, don't worry. She's savoring the challenge.

3. The best place to hold a photograph is with your thumb pressed firmly into the front of the print. The best way to hold pricey camera equipment is however the hell you want. If it's your turn to borrow the telephoto lens and you notice the instructor's eyes bugging as she appears to be using the force to stop the lens from careening into stuff, don't worry. It's just another challenge! See how the game works?

4. Teachers love when you take surreptitious pictures of them. Seriously. They don't mind at all that you're clicking and giggling away in the middle of a lecture. And they especially love the up-the-nostril angle you capture from your seat.

5. Bugs are beautiful. Pooping is funny. That orange rust-colored stuff in the water is really a plant. It doesn't matter if you don't know what you're doing; just start doing it and it'll come. Smelly feathers are still worth saving. Make sure you pick up stray fishing line. Surreptitiously remove the bread from the ducks after the old couple walks away; supply cracked corn instead. Protect the birds' nests. Cormorants look like they're stuck up. Kids are freaking wonderful.

I was a teenage troll, or how I came to accept evolution

Today is both Valentine's Day and my state's 100th anniversary! Happy day! Before that, though, Darwin Day was on Sunday, and I thought I'd share a post on an Arizona teacher I only later came to love. I didn't name names -- I don't know if he'd have wanted me to -- but those who had the same teacher will recognize him, and perhaps there are more like him. Love of science is appropriate for today, anyway, as is Arizonan stubbornness.

My high school years were unremarkable. I didn’t hate them, but they certainly weren’t my glory days. Still, everyone has standout memories from high school. Some of mine -- crashing a school dance, cliques, that one class you take because the teacher lets you ditch -- are fairly universal. Others -- rattlesnake awareness days, meeting friends at a desert lake at the end of a precipitous dirt-road drive or at a restaurant called “The Feedbag,” cowboy fights breaking out at lunch -- might be more local, but folks from my school will recognize them.

The ones I remember the most are a little more unique. The Time I Forgot to Wear Pants. The Pavlov Drooling Experiment in Math Class. The Time My Science Teacher Gave me the Silent Treatment, Forcing me to Accept Evolution and Reality.

Because yesterday was Darwin Day, We’ll focus on that last one today. Sorry if you wanted to hear the pants story.

This may come as a shock to anyone who has experienced one of my diatribes against science haters of all stripes -- but in high school, I went through a brief, extremely enthusiastic, and very embarrassing creationist phase.

Our biology teacher probably wouldn’t survive in today’s school system, at least not with the recent revival of creationist fervor. This was a guy who focused pointedly and heavily on biological evolution, a guy who made it known to anyone who asked that he was an atheist, a guy who drew Darwin fish in everyone’s yearbooks. When a student in class sneezed, he didn’t just refrain from the mildly religious “God bless you.” He said “Go to Hell.” He was an anti-theist, before I knew that there was such a thing.

His class was revered and reviled in equal measure. His worksheets were legendary. The labs were long and difficult, but invariably fascinating. He had a seemingly endless collection of formaldehyde-preserved animals -- hag fish, worms, bony fish, sea urchins, snakes, a shark. When a handful of us saw Peter Benchley’s Beast on television and pestered him about squid the next day, he broke out the squid-in-a-jar so we could see that squid did, in fact, have small curved claws on some of their suckers.

And he was weird. During our fetal pig lab, he offered (seriously, it seemed) “five bucks to anyone who can suck on their pig’s nose till the head caves in.” When my lab partner needed to refill a chemical at our station, he sent her to the refrigerator. She had to reach behind what appeared to be giant fleshy grapefruits. They turned out to be immense ram testicles. In his fridge, for some reason. I think his lunch was in there too.

On test days, he wore all black. He liked to talk about “masticating” whenever he got the chance, knowing what we all mistook that word for. He looked like Satan.

I’m serious. He had salt-and-pepper hair when we knew him, and wore plaid shirts (except for test days) and glasses, but even then we thought he looked like a particularly mischievous Devil, with the goatee perfectly trimmed for the effect. When we found an old faculty photo with all-black hair and goatee, we wondered why the writeup didn’t include “soul contracts signed this year.”

Still, I thought he was an eccentric genius -- until I got it into my head that this “EVILution” stuff was bullshit, and took it upon myself to write a ridiculously lengthy report to that effect. I titled it “A Fairy Tale for Adults,” because originality wasn’t my strong suit at the time. While normal teenagers avoided even the assigned homework, I threw in a 20-page, footnoted, completely unnecessary and not-requested report. Because I was a really devoted little shit.

I handed it to another biology teacher (so I was a chicken shit too), who generously read it and (even more generously) added gentle notes throughout. They were all things like “No Kim. This isn’t true,” and “Your sources have not done their research.” I ignored it all. I knew I had The Answer™.

I spent the rest of the semester doing dickish things like filling out the worksheets with caveats (Question: Give examples of both parallel and convergent evolution. My answer: SOME SCIENTISTS BELIEVE that the eyes of different animals show convergent evolution…) I asked; while thinking I already had the answers; about complexity, the second law of thermodynamics, and mathematical odds. Basically, I was a troll.

I tried to provoke my teacher. I dropped hints about the “studies” I’d cited in my paper. I knew the teacher I handed the report to had let him read a copy. I knew he had read it. I couldn’t wait for his reaction.

And … I never got one.

He had corrected me on every error I’d ever made. Every slight error on a worksheet, or lab, or exam. Every stupid offhand comment I made once I started my creationist kick. He had a portrait of Darwin behind his desk, for crying out loud. But now, nothing.

I finally asked him about it after classes had wrapped up for the year. He responded by referring to his own initials: B.S. He added, “I think you know better," and that was it.

Then he ignored me. He didn’t speak to me for the entire next year. I didn’t have him that year, but we passed. If I was in a group of people, he’d make a point of saying “Hi, John. Hi, Sarah. Hi, Chris … Well, I’ll see you all later.”

I thought, Wow. He’s mad! I got him good.

But really, it was just that he’d said all he could. That’s it. I was the troll, and he didn’t feed me. And, after a while, it worked. Eventually, I went back to reading real science books, and I abandoned the very appealing feeling of having The Answer™. Real life turned out to be less about membership in a secret, in-the-know club; and more about, well, real life. It was so much more beautiful that way.

That teacher is a big reason I came to accept evolution by natural selection once more. But more than that, he let me -- forced me -- to think for myself. By not rising to my ridiculous bait, by not responding except to indicate that it wasn't worth a scientific response, and by not doing the thinking for me except to present information and model how to think; he forced me to change my mind, because I was wrong. I didn’t see it for years, but that was huge.

My teacher really was weird. And maybe he really did hate me. But I don’t think so. I think he thought quite highly of me. And not just me, but all of us. He knew we were better than this. He knew we were capable of thinking for ourselves, of taking the world both seriously and with a healthy dose of dark humor, of reaping the consequences for saying and doing stupid shit. And by all that was holy (which was nothing in his view, but still), we were going to do so. We were going to be challenged.

He died several years ago, and I never had a chance to go back and thank him. It’s sad that he’d probably be in hot water today. I hope Arizona gets its act together about science education. I hope in high school, my son has "jerk" teachers who push critical thinking and love for the natural world. I guess I can probably fill in until that happens.