HAND ME MY GLASSES, I CAN'T HEAR A THING
B. Elwin Sherman
December 10, 2005
Dear Dedicated Reader:
The lab rats are running again.
I love science, partly because I’m not a scientist and I understand little of it, and partly because it will always provide an explanation not found in poetry. I like that. I’m a big fan of always having a Plan B.
Back when I was skydiving regularly, I had "Plan B" magic-markered on my reserve chute handle.
Back further, the one childhood nightmare I most often re-live is my participation in the elementary school science fairs, where I did my annual treatise on submarine methodology and was always beaten out by the kid with the working volcano.
As I stood by unattended, haplessly submerging and sinking my makeshift beer can Nautilus with a ballast-blowing garden hose in a fishtank ocean, Vesuvius Kid was bringing down the house (and he nearly did once) with his firecracker eruptions and tomato soup lava avalanches.
But, I still respond to scientific heralds like I do when guys talk guy things to me. And, because I’m a guy, and don’t want to appear unlearned in guyish things, I’ll give my groin a tug, shrug my shoulders and respond with a guttural "Ugh, you said it, brother."
Example: My car mechanic, upon assessing the errant ka-chinking sound in my truck, tugs on his groin, shrugs his shoulders and says something like: "Well, dude, your whizbang roogalator has up-nutted the boom shaft, and it’s rubbing against the titwasher. Gotta yank it out and slip in a new six-by-five piddle housing, and you know how touchy that can be. Gonna be pricey."
"Ugh, you said it, brother." Tug. Shrug.
So, when the eggheads at the University of Washington, led by psychology professor Ellen Covey, recently came up with an explanation on why we have what mother Pauline used to call "selective hearing," I had to join in.
(These days, "selective hearing" has a whole new Congressional meaning, but we’ll save that for another treatment.)
Seems we have special neurons in our brains which Ms. Covey and her band of rattateers have dubbed "Novelty Detectors," which dictate how we hear, or don’t hear, certain sounds.
Our ND’s allow us to tune out background noises, like car motors and ticking clocks, but will also sound an alarm when these noises become erratic or absent.
Or, in my case, ka-chinking (See: Truck, whizbang roogalator, above).
Great! Now, I have a scientific explanation, when I wasn’t looking for one, on why my ears prick up when the coffee pot stops perking, or the house furnace develops a clinking, or my truck starts ka-chinking.
It’s neurons in my brain, breaking ranks. Great! But, here’s the best part of the wiggle in this latest rat’s tale:
These ND’s also are responsible for storing information about speech, which "requires anticipating the end of a word and knowing where the next one begins," commanding a "predictive strategy" for speaking fluently.
EUREKA! We’ve arrived at the Great Debate, (which I’m beginning with this column) of the Evolutionists versus the Intelligent Designers on the origin of humor.
These Novelty Detector Neurons (NDN’s – sounds rather like the reason why our brains went to war with our bodies) will alert us whenever what we thought was coming next, doesn’t, or if what we didn’t think was coming next, does, thus producing a state of flabbergast --- and often --- hilarity.
EUREKA-ER! Now I know, scientifically, and when I wasn’t even wondering about it, why I bend over laughing when George Bush says that a single mother is "working hard to put food on her family," or when he announces that "families is where our wings take dream," or he asks "Is our children learning?" or ponders whether someday the internet highways will "become more few."
Yes, when George Bush proclaims that racial quotas "vulcanize society," my Balkanizing NDN’s, dressed in clown suits, burst into my cortex living room and yell: "SURPRISE!"
Now, why, standing at the car dealer’s service desk, am I not laughing? Was it my ancient internal Alley Oop NDN's gone deaf, or a Bushian "misunderestimation" of my divine senses?
Maybe --- it’s because I didn’t see a thing when I heard it coming all along.
Copyright 2005 B. Elwin Sherman. All rights reserved.
Please drop in for the latest on my humor columns and new book. Meet you at:TOOLKIT IN PARADISE
Best, El
The lab rats are running again.
I love science, partly because I’m not a scientist and I understand little of it, and partly because it will always provide an explanation not found in poetry. I like that. I’m a big fan of always having a Plan B.
Back when I was skydiving regularly, I had "Plan B" magic-markered on my reserve chute handle.
Back further, the one childhood nightmare I most often re-live is my participation in the elementary school science fairs, where I did my annual treatise on submarine methodology and was always beaten out by the kid with the working volcano.
As I stood by unattended, haplessly submerging and sinking my makeshift beer can Nautilus with a ballast-blowing garden hose in a fishtank ocean, Vesuvius Kid was bringing down the house (and he nearly did once) with his firecracker eruptions and tomato soup lava avalanches.
But, I still respond to scientific heralds like I do when guys talk guy things to me. And, because I’m a guy, and don’t want to appear unlearned in guyish things, I’ll give my groin a tug, shrug my shoulders and respond with a guttural "Ugh, you said it, brother."
Example: My car mechanic, upon assessing the errant ka-chinking sound in my truck, tugs on his groin, shrugs his shoulders and says something like: "Well, dude, your whizbang roogalator has up-nutted the boom shaft, and it’s rubbing against the titwasher. Gotta yank it out and slip in a new six-by-five piddle housing, and you know how touchy that can be. Gonna be pricey."
"Ugh, you said it, brother." Tug. Shrug.
So, when the eggheads at the University of Washington, led by psychology professor Ellen Covey, recently came up with an explanation on why we have what mother Pauline used to call "selective hearing," I had to join in.
(These days, "selective hearing" has a whole new Congressional meaning, but we’ll save that for another treatment.)
Seems we have special neurons in our brains which Ms. Covey and her band of rattateers have dubbed "Novelty Detectors," which dictate how we hear, or don’t hear, certain sounds.
Our ND’s allow us to tune out background noises, like car motors and ticking clocks, but will also sound an alarm when these noises become erratic or absent.
Or, in my case, ka-chinking (See: Truck, whizbang roogalator, above).
Great! Now, I have a scientific explanation, when I wasn’t looking for one, on why my ears prick up when the coffee pot stops perking, or the house furnace develops a clinking, or my truck starts ka-chinking.
It’s neurons in my brain, breaking ranks. Great! But, here’s the best part of the wiggle in this latest rat’s tale:
These ND’s also are responsible for storing information about speech, which "requires anticipating the end of a word and knowing where the next one begins," commanding a "predictive strategy" for speaking fluently.
EUREKA! We’ve arrived at the Great Debate, (which I’m beginning with this column) of the Evolutionists versus the Intelligent Designers on the origin of humor.
These Novelty Detector Neurons (NDN’s – sounds rather like the reason why our brains went to war with our bodies) will alert us whenever what we thought was coming next, doesn’t, or if what we didn’t think was coming next, does, thus producing a state of flabbergast --- and often --- hilarity.
EUREKA-ER! Now I know, scientifically, and when I wasn’t even wondering about it, why I bend over laughing when George Bush says that a single mother is "working hard to put food on her family," or when he announces that "families is where our wings take dream," or he asks "Is our children learning?" or ponders whether someday the internet highways will "become more few."
Yes, when George Bush proclaims that racial quotas "vulcanize society," my Balkanizing NDN’s, dressed in clown suits, burst into my cortex living room and yell: "SURPRISE!"
Now, why, standing at the car dealer’s service desk, am I not laughing? Was it my ancient internal Alley Oop NDN's gone deaf, or a Bushian "misunderestimation" of my divine senses?
Maybe --- it’s because I didn’t see a thing when I heard it coming all along.
Copyright 2005 B. Elwin Sherman. All rights reserved.
Please drop in for the latest on my humor columns and new book. Meet you at:TOOLKIT IN PARADISE
Best, El