Bocce balls

Brian Hayes meets Stanley Crawford and gets to know the New Mexico acequia system.

The water in an irrigation ditch is a shared resource, like the unfenced common pastures that so famously became so tragic in early-modern England. In fact, the irrigation ditch is even more vulnerable to selfish exploitation than a pasture that’s equally available to all: Those on the upper reaches of the ditch have it within their power to divert all the flow into their own fields, depriving those below. Yet they choose not to do so. What explains their forbearance?

Subject: Check Your Email and Respond within 48hours!

Geoffrey K. Pullum marks up a distinctly clumsy Nigerian scam e-mail message.

Strange though it may seem, the scammer’s best interests are served if the email doing the phishing is ludicrously incompetent and transparently suspicious. He isn’t after you or me; he’s after the poor, lonely, gullible, housebound pensioner next door, the rare uninformed shut-in who has never heard of Nigerian scams and for whom the dream of a windfall will be attractive enough to justify handing over a bank account authorization password.

Three and a half cents a pound

Mark Bittman visits an industrial-scale tomato farm in California, and finds it good.

The tomatoes are bred to ripen simultaneously because there is just one harvest. They’re also blocky in shape, the better to move along conveyor belts. Hundreds of types of tomatoes are grown for processing, bred for acidity, disease resistance, use, sweetness, wall thickness, ripening date and so on. They’re not referred to by cuddly names like “Early Girl” but by number: “BQ 205.”

I tasted two; they had a firm, pleasant texture and mild but real flavor, and were better than any tomatoes — even so-called heirlooms — sold in my supermarket.

Some links: 66

  • Steve Adair exlains the ducks-winter wheat connection in the upper Great Plains.
  • Geoff Manaugh and Nicola Twilley visit the banding station and other research facilities at Carnegie Museum of Natural History’s Powdermill Nature Reserve. When I was a beginning birder in the 90s, Susan and I visited Powdermill with a group led by Jane Huff, back when “the Bobs” (Mulvihill and Leberman) ran things. They’ve added a lot to the place since then. ᔥ Birdchat

Flotsam

Tracy Mincer and Linda Amaral-Zettler report their findings from examining the small bits of plastic floating in the ocean. Using DNA analysis and electron microscopy, they found 50 species of microorganism living there, including a two-level trophic web.

As with many ecosystems, the bottom of the food chain was occupied by things that photosynthesise. These included unicellular algae called diatoms and dinoflagellates, and photosynthetic bacteria known as cyanobacteria. Usually, such creatures swim freely in the ocean. They therefore have to work hard to stay near the surface, where light for photosynthesis is abundant. By hitching a ride on a piece of floating plastic, they can stay near the surface without effort.

They also found evidence that suggests, but does not clearly establish, that bacteria are actively breaking down these energy-rich, petroleum-based substances.

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SALVIATI. I have heard such things put forth as I should blush to repeat—not so much to avoid discrediting their authors (whose names could always be withheld) as to refrain from detracting so greatly from the honor of the human race. In the long run my observations have convinced me that some men, reasoning preposterously, first establish some conclusion in their minds which, either because of its being their own or because of their having received it from some person who has their entire confidence, impresses them so deeply that one finds it impossible ever to get it out of their heads. Such arguments in support of their fixed idea as they hit upon themselves or hear set forth by others, no matter how simple and stupid these may be, gain their instant acceptance and applause. On the other hand whatever is brought forward against it, however ingenious and conclusive, they receive with disdain or hot rage—if indeed it does not make them ill.

—Galileo Galilei, Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems (1632), trans. Stillman Drake

Prince George’s wetlands

Last Saturday’s field trips took us to two freshwater wetlands in southern P.G. County, one well-known among naturalists, the other decidedly off the beaten path.

We met M-NCPPC ranger Chris Garrett at Suitland Bog. Chris is an accomplished trip leader who knows his park and what’s important to see, how to move the group along, and when to just take a moment and look and listen.

The park lies in the watershed of Henson Creek, a small trib of the Potomac. It’s actively managed: one of Chris’s great challenges is preventing the bog (technically it’s a fen, as much of the water comes from seeps) from drying out under the pressure of encroaching maples and willows. And there is Microstegium at the doorstep.

paler redSeveral of the orchids on the plant list printed in the park brochure are probably extirpated, but Chris was able to point out Green Wood Orchis (Platanthera clavellata). He also found for us Ten-Angled Pipewort (Eriocaulon decangulare), the tiny Spatulate-leaved Sundew (Drosera intermedia), Halberd-leaved Greenbrier (Smilax pseudochina), and Red Milkweed (Asclepias rubra). We also got good looks at Netted Chain Fern (Woodwardia areolata), this time in fruit—alas, my snapshots were not satisfactory.

nicely set offerect and readyOn the slopes leading down to the bog (sorry, fen), a Common Wood-Nymph (Cercyonis pegala) was on the wing (a first for me), and Chris showed us a fine patch of Lycopodium, including patches with sporangia.

needs TLCChris and the class moved south to Cheltenham Wetlands Park, a 200-odd acre tract next door to a Homeland Security facility. The park is sometimes likened to a better-known park across the river as “Huntley Meadows Park without the people,” or the amenities, for that matter. There is no visitor center, parking is on the outside of a locked gate, and those fellows from DHS might give you the stink-eye. The budget for keeping the boardwalks in trim is also lacking.

all to ourselvesBut it’s a charming little wetland, all the same. Stories differ as to how the water showed up in the wetland to begin with. The property was once home to an array of radio antennas (like HMP) (you can see remnants of the supporting poles here and there) and was managed by the U.S. Navy. One story is that a brass hat ordered the low spots to be dredged to support bass fishing; another is that the access road to the radio antennas formed a dike that retained water from periodic floods of Piscataway Creek.

ready to eatflower and fruitBird life at late morning was stil jumping: I counted 18 species heard or seen. Swallowtails of various sorts were numerous, and the Eastern Kingbird we saw was likely snacking on them. Arrowwood Viburnum (Viburnum dentatum) was in fruit, and Buttonbush (Cephalanthus occidentalis) flowers were starting to mature. The destination plant for this scrub-shrub swamp is Common Bladderwort, with its itty-bitty yellow flowers emerging from the water above a haze of fine brown roots below the surface.

Contemporary American Theater Festival 2013

It’s usually the case that two or three of the plays at CATF share a thematic affinity. This year, three shows are connected by the theme of religious zealotry—not precisely extremism, but perhaps overcommitment, to the point of a fault.

The first of these is the drama A Discourse on the Wonders of the Invisible World, by Liz Duffy Adams, which takes place in coastal Massachusetts in 1702, ten years after the Salem witch trials. And indeed, the first act comprises the retrial of Abigail Williams (Susannah Hoffman), one of the accusers and key player in Arthur Miller’s version of events, The Crucible. Abigail finds herself accused of witchcraft herself, via a chain of suspicion and hysteria not unlike Miller’s story. Although, in a sly aside, we are reminded that you can’t trust any of those stories that “the Miller” made up.

One of the most interesting passages is a fanciful recounting of Shakespeare’s Macbeth by the young indentured servant Rebekkah (small but powerful Becky Byers). Rebekkah once visited the big city of New York and observed a touring company production. In her garbled retelling, the Scottish thane is named “MacDeath” and royalty are referred to as governors. (There’s a nice resonance with Anne Washburn’s Mr. Burns, a post-electric play.) There are also hints of another work of Shakespeare’s: a discussion of utopian societies by Abigail and a mysterious stranger (Gerardo Rodriguez) reminds us of The Tempest.

Technical elements are very effective here: the subtle flickering of lamp light from floor-mounted instruments (designed by D. M. Wood); the muffled roar of distant surf at the back of house left (sound design by Eric Shimelonis).

Next is the comedy Modern Terrorism, Or They Who Want to Kill Us and How We Learn to Love Them, by Jon Kern–a very funny farce with death at its center, and the all-around most successful work in the festival. Here the fanatics are a trio of feckless Muslim suicide bombers working out of an apartment in Brooklyn: Qalalaase (Royce Johnson), a Somali who seems to be condemned to the “those who can’t do, teach” track of terrorism; Yalda Abbasi (Mahira Kakkar), a Pakistani woman whose emotions are even more tightly wound than her headscarf; and the moonstruck Rahim Janjua (Omar Maskati), whose fanaticism for the films of George Lucas and the computers of Steve Jobs exceeds his devotion to jihad. Despite all efforts, they find themselves joined by Jerome, their upstairs neighbor (the superb Kohler McKenzie), a stoner who’d never found a purpose in life until he discovered holy war.

Lots of good physical comedy in this one: Johnson ‘s hand shoved into the back of Maskati’s briefs, checking for moisture that might disrupt the bomb he’s attached to Rahim’s scrotum; Kakkar unspooling and strewing an entire roll of paper towels lest her unwanted guest spill tea (or his own blood) on the upholstery; a crazy blind backwards cross by McKenzie that calls for him to step over a coffee table and love seat, with akimbo grace.

Although it’s been almost twelve years since the attacks in Washington and New York, and our healing has come to the point that we can laugh at some of the blundering war criminals who have followed, and although the time will come (as one character says) when Osama bin Laden is a face to be silk-screened onto an ironic tee shirt, it’s worth remembering the gore and destruction that bombers of any stripe are accountable for. And remembering the compassion that goes into a good laugh.

It’s probably stretching a point to include Jane Martin’s H2O with the others, but there is no question that Deborah (the laser-focused Diane Mair) is dedicated to her Christianity. Once again, Martin succeeds in taking a character from a tradition easily parodied or ridiculed (or worse, just dismissed) and writing a genuine person, one with a burning inner life (think of Martin’s early Twirler). If the setup of this play too much resembles Paul Rudnick’s I Hate Hamlet and Martin’s own Anton in Show Business (commercially successful movie actor [Alex Podulke as Jake] seeks stage cred, talented actor as mentor), be assured that the resolution of this play is bitterly sharp (perhaps excessively so) and calls for Deborah to give up more of herself than she ever has before. Deborah’s eyes, impossibly wide-open and ready for the world at the start of the play, end up hooded and ringed in darkness.

The remaining two plays perhaps could be connected with the idea of contemplating the abyss; this idea connects them back to the seaside cliffs of Discourse as well. In the first instance, Sam Shepard’s enigmatic ghost story Heartless, the psychological hole is physicalized as the canyons of Los Angeles and environs. One character drops into a chasm and returns unharmed; another looks into the void and (perhaps reliably) explains the backstory of her daughter’s brutal chest scar. There is a recollection of climbing a tree, Nicodemus-like, to gaze on the beautiful burnout that was James Dean.

What’s special about this play, for Shepard, is that his strong writing here is for his four women characters. Michael Cullen’s Roscoe (a ruined academic on the run from his marriage and his life) is important to the play for introducing us to the more seriously damaged Mable (Kathleen Butler) and her family. In another Shepard play, Roscoe would take center stage.

And there are jelly donuts.

On the lighter side is the bio-comedy Scott and Hem in the Garden of Allah, by Mark St. Germain. The abyss is no deeper than the swimming pool next door to the apartment where F. Scott Fitzgerald (Joey Collins) is holed up doing Hollywood script rewrites, but there is a real threat that Fitzgerald will drop back into alcoholism and the self-pity of a creator who never lived up to his early promise. A visit by the false friend Ernest Hemingway (the boisterous Rod Brogan) knocks him off the edge.

Entertaining as the play is, it carries the burden of too much research, too much name-checking. Benchley, Parker, the Murphys—didn’t these guys have any friends that we’ve never heard of?

If you don’t agree with these reviews, remember Qalalaase’s advice: “The internet is full of falsehoods.”

  • Contemporary American Theater Festival at Shepherd University, Shepherdstown, W. Va.
  • A Discourse on the Wonders of the Invisible World, by Liz Duffy Adams, directed by Kent Nicholson
  • Modern Terrorism, Or They Who Want to Kill Us and How We Learn to Love Them, by Jon Kern, directed by Ed Herendeen
  • H2O, by Jane Martin, directed by John Jory
  • Heartless, by Sam Shepard, directed by Ed Herendeen
  • Scott and Hem in the Garden of Allah, written and directed by Mark St. Germain