Worthman flipped open a book and
showed me photographs of big families piled into large, sprawling huts, little
kids peeking up from the arms of Mom, older generations wrapped leisurely
around the fireplace. “Forager groups are a good place to start, because for
much of human history we’ve been occupied with their mode of existence,” she
said. “There are the !Kung of –Botswana
and the Efe of Zaire. For both of these groups, sleep is a very fluid state.
They sleep when they feel like it—during the day, in the evening, in the dead
of night.”
This, said Worthman, is true of other
groups too—the Aché of Paraguay, for example. Late-night sleep, when it
happens, is practically a social activity. In addition to procreation, the
night is a time of “ritual, sociality, and information exchange.” People crash
together in big multigenerational heaps—women with infants, wheezing seniors,
domestic animals, chatting hunter buddies stoking the fire—everyone embedded in
one big, dynamic, “sensorily rich environment.” This kind of environment is
important, said Worthman, because “it provides you with subliminal cues about
what is going on, that you are not alone, that you are safe in the social
world.”
The more Worthman learned about the
communal and interactive nature of non-Western sleep, the more she came to see
Western sleep as the strange exception. She laughed again. “It’s funny, because
as an anthropologist I’m used to getting weirded out a bit—I mean, you wouldn’t
believe the things people do. So after collecting all this material I look at
my own bed and go, ‘This is really weird.’”
Western sleep, said Worthman, is arid
and controlled, with a heavy emphasis on individualism and the
“decontextualized person.” Contact is kept to a minimum. The apparent conflict
with marriage co-sleeping norms, she notes elsewhere, “has been partially
mitigated for Americans by the evolution of bed size from twin, to double, to
queen, to king.” She lifted her thin arms and drew a big box in the air. “I
mean, think about it—this thing, this bed, is really a gigantic sleep machine.
You’ve got a steel frame that comes up from the floor, a bottom mattress that
looks totally machinelike, then all these heavily padded surfaces—blankets and
pillows and sheets.”
It’s true. Most of us sleep alone in
the dark, floating three feet off the ground but also buried under five layers
of bedding. I had the sudden image of an armada of solitary humanoids in their
big puffy spaceships drifting slowly through the silent and airless immensity
of space. “Whoa,” I said.
Worthman nodded. “I know, I know, so
weird.”
By contrast, village life is one big,
messy block party, crackling with sex, intrigue, and poultry. In these
cultures, interrupted or polyphasic sleep is the norm, which jibes with
findings about still other cultures, like the Temiars of Indonesia and the
Ibans of Sarawak, 25 percent of whom are apparently active at any one point in
the night.
Even more intriguing are some of the
culturally specific practices around sleep. Worthman flipped to a sequence of
photos showing a tribe of bare-chested Indonesians gathered in a big circle.
“These are the Balinese, and this is an example of something called ‘fear
sleep’ or ‘todoet poeles.’ See these two guys?” She pointed to the first
picture, where two men cowered on the sand in the center of the group. “They
just got caught stealing from the village kitty, and they’ve been hauled out
for trial.” The villagers all had angry faces and open mouths. The two men
looked terrified.
“You can see the progression. He’s
starting to sag”—in the next photo one of the thieves had his eyes closed and
had begun to lean over—“and here in the last photo you can see he’s totally
asleep.” The same thief was now slumped and insentient, snoozing happily amid
the furious village thrum. “Isn’t that amazing?” Worthman shook her head. “In
stressful situations they can fall instantly into a deep sleep. It’s a cultural
acquisition.”
We moved out of her office and made
our way down to the laboratory, where Worthman pulled out a big cardboard box.
“We wanted to look at sleep in non-Western cultures firsthand, so we decided to
initiate a study.” She opened the box. “We went to Egypt, because, well,
hunter-gatherer types are interesting, but they’re not really relevant now.
Cairo is an old civilization in a modern urban environment. We wanted to look
at a pattern that everyone knows is historic in the Mediterranean area. They
sleep more than once a day—at night and the midafternoon.”
I nodded. Of course, the siesta—or
Ta’assila, as it’s known colloquially in Egypt. Worthman reached into the box
and lifted out a set of black paisley headbands, all of them threaded with thin
wires and dangling sensors. “So we studied six households in Cairo, and we made
everyone wear one of these headbands at all times. One of these little sensors
is a motion detector, the other is a diode that glues onto the upper eyelid in
order to detect whether or not you’re in REM sleep.”
Thus outfitted, the families went
about their daily business, supplying a steady stream of information for the
visiting anthropologists. What they found was that Egyptians on average get the
same eight hours that we do, they just get it by different means: about six
hours at night and two in the afternoon. They also sleep in radically different
sleep environments—rarely alone, almost always with one or more family members,
in rooms with windows open to the roar of outside street traffic.
“Listen to this.” She pressed play on
a tape recorder and the sound of traffic blared out of the little speakers. She
raised her voice to yell: “I mean, I’m a pretty sound sleeper, but I couldn’t
sleep in Cairo. It was too noisy!” I yelled back, “I see what you mean!” It
sounded like 200 years of industrial noise pollution pressed into a single
recording. She slid me a photo of a Cairo street, a narrow alley crisscrossed
with laundry and jam-packed with donkey carts, trucks, cars, camels, and buses.
“Every imaginable form of human transport, right below your window!” She hit
stop and the room went quiet. “Despite all this ambient noise, Cairoans don’t
seem to have any trouble falling asleep.”
For Worthman, the conclusion was
obvious. All these different sleep patterns suggested that the regulatory
processes governing “sleep-wake transitions” could be shaped by cultural
conditions. Sleep, it seemed, was putty—some cultures stretched it out, some
chopped it up, and others, like our own, squeezed it into one big lump.
In
1863, the Cape Malay people of South Africa were so taken with the CSS Alabama
that they composed a folk song to the Confederate raider and her brilliant
captain, Raphael Semmes. In 2007, Stephen Fox has written another tribute, a
history of Semmes and the ship he used to cause so much trouble for Union
shipping.
The
Alabama was a British-made raider that was long and sleek, very fast whether
under sail or coal power. She was well armed for a ship of her size and more
than a match for many of the commercial ships she pursued.
The
Alabama rarely had to use her guns, and she only twice came into contact with
the Union Navy. She preyed primarily on civil! ian shipping and whalers,
capturing and burning 52 ships, sinking one, bonding nine and disposing of
three others in various fashion. She did this all within 22 months at sea on a
single voyage that covered 75,000 miles. In all, she cost the Northern economy
$5 million directly and much more indirectly.
To
a Confederacy that was suffering immensely under Union blockade, the exploits
of the Alabama on the world’s oceans was a matter of immense satisfaction. She
was one of only a few Confederate fighting ships, and yet the much larger Union
Navy could not suppress her.
Of
course the Union Navy, much like the Union Army, was run by idiots. Semmes had
devised a brilliant strategy for wreaking havoc on Union shipping, but neither
Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles nor any of his top commanders could figure
it out. Semmes had discovered that the best place to prey on Union shipping was
in the major shipping lanes, and that’s where he hunted. But the Union Navy did
not notice this pattern and so took nearly two years to find him.
Semmes
was a mediocre naval officer in the days before the war. He had had a few
commands and at least one ship shot out from underneath him. He was a lawyer
and intellectual, too, but not much of a success at anything. A native
Marylander, he had lived in Mobile for a number of years, married to an Ohio
woman, when the war started. He resigned his Union commission and immediately
went to work for the Confederacy.
In
all of the war, the Alabama fought only two battles with Union ships. It sank
the USS Hatteras in the Gulf of Mexico, and, in turn, was sunk off the coast of
France by the USS Kearsarge.
Because
of his tactics, Semmes was a controversial captain in his day and remains so
today. He avoided fights with the U.S. Navy, preferring to prey on unarmed
merchant ships and whalers. He would approach these ships under either a Union
or British flag, to deceive them into thinking he was friendly, and then hoist
the Stars and Bars and bring them to surrender. Once they did so, he would take
whatever he needed from their stores and then burn his prize. The idea was to
do as much harm to the Northern economy as possible. And he did a lot. In
addition to what he captured and burned, his escapades kept many Union ships in
harbor. Furthermore, many a Northern ship owner sold to the British, taking a
low price over what appeared to be an almost inevitable total loss if the ship
ran into the Alabama.
His
ties to the British created a great deal of animosity between London and
Washington, exactly as Semmes hoped. He had a mostly British crew, in a ship
built in Liverpool and serviced at many British ports. Years later, the British
government paid the United States a $15.5 million settlement for its complicity
with Semmes and other Confederate raiders.
Fox
presents this story well. While he obviously salutes the Confederate captain,
he does not overlook the man’s flaws, either.
For
the Civil War history buff who likes to read about Southern victories, this is
probably a fun story. For a Yankee like this reviewer, it was an agonizing
tale.
Bingo players in need of advice have
several options.
They can ask Aunt Bingo, who moderates
disputes over saving seats and reassures luckless newcomers. Bob on Bingo
offers tips for people who call out the numbers: Slow down, enunciate and use
good grammar.
Those two, and a few others including
the Bingo Sisters, write for the Bingo Bugle, a 720,000-circulation monthly
distributed free of charge at bingo halls and casinos around the country. Depending
on the venue, fans play to win cash while supporting schools and the local
Moose lodge, or just to socialize -- or even to gamble for big money at
casinos.
The publishing chain, which now has 55
franchised editions, was founded 28 years ago in Vashon, Wash., by the late
Roger Snowden as a way for churches and firehouses to advertise their games. He
assembled a number of bingo columnists to fill space around ads and entertain
players during breaks.
Alessandra, the pen name of a writer
who wishes to remain anonymous, had little bingo experience but had studied the
planets. As Dear Astrology Lady, she suggests lucky days for playing bingo.
Others, like Beverly Garges, are seasoned players with a penchant for writing.
Ms. Garges wrote a book about homelessness before launching the Bingo by Bev
column. Her bingo columns are compiled in two books, "Memoirs of a Bingo
Addict" and "Get Your Own Damn Supper: I'm Going to Bingo." The
latter sold 10,000 copies.
Tara Snowden, Roger's daughter and the
president of the privately held Frontier Publications Inc., which publishes the
Bingo Bugle, sends editorial content to franchise owners, who pick and choose
what they want to run depending on local taste, interest and space. A few
publishers solicit local contributions, too. Arick Martin, publisher of the
Pittsburgh area Bingo Bugle edition, invited poetry submissions. Violet Uram
responded with "Bingo Night in Pittsburgh," which begins: "Sit
in my chair and you'll get hurt. Don't give me that smile -- I'm not a flirt!"
In recent years, Ms. Snowden has added
a Bingo Bugle Web site featuring news updates about, for instance, a Florida
drag-queen bingo controversy. For the newspaper chain, she hired columnists who
write about blackjack and video poker and began offering syndicated recipes.
Advertisers include Bingo Novelty World based in Las Vegas which sells padded
seats and bingo tote bags.
But the most popular features are the
original columns, like Aunt Bingo. The columnist is actually the paper's third
Aunt Bingo, or fourth if you include Ms. Snowden, who served as an interim
aunt. During her stint, Ms. Snowden recalls, she got a flurry of letters about
dirty bingo balls. Conventional wisdom among bingo players who aren't winning
is that balls laden with dirt from prolonged handling rarely percolate to the
top of the air-blown chute to be plucked by the number caller. She suggested
regular cleaning.
Aunt Bingo remains the game's chief
arbiter on issues of tipping, cheating, noise, saving lucky seats, and
etiquette. Questions vary from how to split the pot when there are multiple
winners to what to do about the manager who wouldn't let diabetic players bring
in food. A frequent winner complained of being bullied in the restroom by a
frequent loser.
Tuneless, in Palm Bay, Fla., wrote in
about her friend humming throughout the game and ruining her concentration.
"After numerous weeks of asking her to stop, I am at a quandary as to what
to do. It is driving me up the wall," Tuneless wrote.
Aunt Bingo, whose true identity is a
secret, suggested finding another Bingo buddy. "To be honest, humming
doesn't seem to be that big of a deal," Aunt Bingo wrote. "But if you
are to the point of climbing the walls and pulling out your hair, the two of
you need to part company -- at least in the Bingo hall."
Occasionally, readers pass on their
own advice. Lady Legs in Massachusetts suggested brisk walking during bingo
breaks. She lost 14 pounds doing that, she said. Once, Aunt Bingo received a
photo from a man taken at his wife's funeral showing a floral arrangement in
the shape of a bingo card. "I never figured out what he wanted me to do
with it," Aunt Bingo says.
Some of the longtime columnists have
altered their format. Alessandra ended up ditching the Dear Astrologer Lady
approach because readers were asking advice about love, money, spouses,
children and careers. Instead, she studies the planets and offers collective
advice to groups, according to their birth sign. This month, she says Aries
should wear red clothing and jewelry to win on the 23rd and 24th.
"These columns take me hours
every month to put together," says Alessandra. "I'm not pulling these
out of the air."
Other columnists do just make things
up. The Bingo Sisters didn't really go to a Feng Shui bingo hall where people
were seated in certain sections to create harmony, or to a deaf school where
bingo was played.
Reva Sparks started the Bingo Sisters
column with a friend in 1988 to chronicle their visits to bingo games. She says
they stuck to facts at the beginning, but gave up. "Not enough interesting
things happen," she says. Besides, the last bingo hall in her town on
Puget Sound in Washington closed a few years ago.
Ms. Garges, author of Bingo by Bev,
exhausted her bingo material a few years ago but made a pact, she says, with
the late Mr. Snowden, who told her she could write about anything at all, so
long as the word "Bingo" came up at least once. In a recent column
about schools instructing teachers not to hug children, she says she enjoys
getting hugs from children, grandkids and "the women I pick up for
Bingo."
Ms. Snowden acknowledges that some
columnists have strayed from their original purpose but adds that they have a
following. "They've been with us forever," she says.
M81
and M82 are bright nearby galaxies; you can spot them with binoculars easily in
the northern sky, and they are a mere 12 million light years from us (for
comparison, the Milky Way Galaxy is 100,000 light years across, so if you think
of the Milky Way as a DVD, M81 and M82 would be about 14 meters away). These
two galaxies interacted a couple of hundred million years ago, and the
gravitational interaction drew out long tendrils of gas (which is very
common in colliding galaxies).
Astronomers
examined this bridge of material using Hubble, and found clusters of
stars in it. That was totally unexpected; the gas was thought to be too thin to
form stars! Amazingly, many of the stars are blue, indicating they are young.
(Blue stars burn through their fuel much more quickly than redder stars. This
means that the gas is still forming stars, even 200 million years after the
collision!)
Most
likely, the stars formed when turbulence in the tendril caused local regions of
denser gas, which could collapse to form stars. Before these observations, it
wasn’t really thought it was possible to form stars in the regions between
galaxies, so this is an interesting new find.
000000
For an eternity, our universe lay
dormant—a frozen, featureless netherworld. Then, about 15 billion years ago,
the cosmos got an abrupt wake-up call.
According to the standard theory, the
universe was born some 15 billion years ago in a hot, expanding fireball, an
event scientists call the Big Bang. The universe then underwent a brief spurt
of faster-than-light expansion, called inflation, before settling down to the
much slower, steady expansion observed today.
If a theory ain't broken, why fix it?
Even in its most primitive form, which does not include inflation, the Big Bang
theory correctly predicts the cosmic abundance of helium and deuterium and the
temperature of the radiation left over from the birth of the universe.
The classical Big Bang picture was
first proposed in the late 1920s. Two decades ago, researchers realized that
the scenario needed to be modified.
In its original form, the model would
lead to a universe vastly different from the one we live in. For instance, the
theory doesn't provide a way for stars, galaxies, and larger structures to
arise, notes Steinhardt. Moreover, the Big Bang model would tend to produce a
cosmos whose composition and density would vary widely from place to place and
whose overall geometry would be warped or curved.
That's in stark contrast to numerous
observations, which reveal a universe that is the same, on the large scale, in
all directions and has just the right amount of matter and energy to keep it
perfectly flat.
In 1980, Guth amended the Big Bang
theory to account for these discrepancies. Refined by several researchers over
the past 2 decades, Guth's model posits that the infant cosmos underwent a
brief but enormous episode of inflation, ballooning at a rate faster than the
speed of light. In just 10–32 seconds, the universe expanded its girth by a
factor of about 100 trillion trillion, more than it has in the billions of
years that have elapsed since.
The inflation model accomplishes
several feats. It explains why widely separated parts of the universe—regions
so far apart that all communication between them is impossible—can nonetheless
look as similar as the closest of neighbors. Inflation theory suggests that
when the universe began, these regions were indeed neighbors and then rapidly
spread far apart.
Inflation also makes the universe
flat. Any curvature to space-time would have been stretched out by this era of
faster-than-light expansion.
Furthermore, the ballooning would have
provided a way for chance subatomic fluctuations in the early universe to
inflate to macroscopic proportions. Over time, gravity could then have molded
these variations into the spidery network of galaxies and voids seen in the
universe today.
The Big Bang model combined with
inflation matches several important observations, including the detailed
structure of the radiation called the cosmic microwave background, which is
left over from the universe's birth. Data gathered by several balloon-borne and
ground-based telescopes fit the predictions of the inflation model.
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