Physics Envy

There are the so-called “hard sciences,” like physics and chemistry. Then there are the “soft sciences,” like psychology, biology, and economics, which have often aspired to build models that are as precise, quantitative, and “hard” as those of physics. The appeal of Newtonian physics these last 400 years has been its simplicity and its ability to derive equations that elegantly express the behavior of the natural world. 

But the allure of physics is much more than its basic equations such as Newton's F = ma or Einstein's E = mc²; it's the capability to predict the future behavior of things. These straightforward equations allow one to predict what will happen tomorrow, based on what we see today. That ability to prognosticate shows us that there is order to the physical universe.

This capacity to predict has a great attraction to soft-science economists and psychologists. If they can boil down their social sciences into similar elegant equations or postulates, they will then achieve what physicists have long done: simply describe how things behave and how they will go in the future.

The problem with economics is that it is nowhere near as mathematically precise as physics. This annoys economists, because every lay person feels qualified to weigh in on economics (thinking they understand this very complex process), as they tend to leave physics and its often complicated equations to the erudite scientists. For example, what happens in the theoretical world of particle physics seems to have little to do with my daily existence (or my ability to understand it), but what happens to the Federal Reserve's interest rate, I can feel in my bank account.

A central issue here is that science is studying the natural world—which is consistent and repeatable—while economics studies the unpredictable, if not sometimes whimsical, behavior of human beings. So in the late 19^th century and into the 20^th, several leading economists tried very hard to give economics a solid mathematical foundation. The school of economics led by Milton Friedman at the University of Chicago helped to put economics on what they believed to be a rational, mathematical basis. This process reached an apogee in the 1990s, when economists like Alan Greenspan (who spent nearly 20 years as the chairman of the Fed) became lionized as the gurus of economic “scientism.”

Instead of realizing the prosperous future that their models predicted, however, things went disastrously wrong. Greenspan's policies—implemented by Bill Clinton—fueled a speculative bubble that badly burst in 2008. So today a number of economists are waking up to the fact that economics is a field that is neither as quantifiable nor predictable as they'd thought. 
 
Furthermore, research shows that people do not make economic decisions based on rational thinking. We are impulsive and many of our choices are driven by our subconscious urges. We are not mathematical in our behavior. Thus, market transactions do not behave as straightforwardly as the laws of nature, in a concise mathematical way.

So physics envy on the part of “soft” scientists has largely been a misplaced attempt to quantify the squishy discipline of economics. This was outlined nicely in a 2010 paper: “Warning: Physics Envy May Be Hazardous to Your Wealth,” by two professors at MIT. It's taken a few years for some economists to accept that their discipline is not precisely mathematical or even very predictable. The authors of this paper point out that, although the attempt to make economics a mathematical science has brought some insights into the market place, “physics envy has also created a false sense of mathematical precision in some cases.” 
 
My former career was in physics, largely because I liked the simplicity and consistency of that hard science. Economists have learned in recent years to give more weight to the erratic choices that we make in the market place. Maybe that might help avoid another Great Recession, as happened in 2008.

Wandering Whippoorwill

I have written before about my experiences with the whippoorwill. For those unfamiliar with this bird, it is North America's version of what are dubbed nightjars or goatsuckers. Few birds have been given a more colorful or intriguing name. They are a nocturnal, insectivorous bird that can be confused with owls, as they are cryptically colored, active at night, and fly silently.

I have come to appreciate the whippoorwill because of its voracious appetite for insects—particularly pesky mosquitoes. Years ago I was irritated by its incessant call, until I learned about all the insects it eats. Now it's my buddy.

The whippoorwill's name is onomatopoeic, which is a cumbersome word that means the name originates from the sound the bird makes. Another familiar example is the cuckoo. To hear the whippoorwill's call is a unique experience.

We have a few resident whippoorwills in our little woodland enclave. I used to think we had many more of them, until I realized that a single bird will wander from place to place in the dark in its designated territory, bursting forth in its onomatopoeic song for several minutes, and then will fly to another location and sing out again. It is active all night long.

I was spending the night recently in my meditation hut—all windows open to the fresh night air—as I followed one whippoorwill around in my mind's eye, by its call. I first heard him off in the woods, then up on the ridge, then down by the creek—leaving me wondering how he could satisfy his evening's appetite for mosquitoes, when he spent so much time singing.

Then I heard him nearby, only about a hundred feet away—up on the slope. Loud! He seemed to be getting closer. A near full moon illuminated the area, and I happened to be staring at the stars through the overhead skylight, when the dark silhouette of a bird flew across my field of vision, right across the window. An owl? No, it was our resident nightjar.

He landed behind my hut and commenced once again to sing out. He was very close. His song was loud. In fact, he was close enough that I could hear him gulp for air, between his calls. I believe that, on breathing in, the bird enunciates the two syllables “whip-poor” and then with gusto blasts out “will” on its out-breath. I'm not sure about that, but its call can be repeated a few dozen times with no break for air, so it must be singing on both its in-breath and out-breath. It's only on the turnaround—from in-breath to out-breath—that you can hear his gulping sound, and then only when he's close by.

Shortly he completed his song from just outside my hut, then silently flew off. In a minute I heard him calling again from several hundred feet away in the woods. His nighttime wanderings continued for another few hours. I drifted off to sleep.

Butterfly Weed

This is butterfly weed... a name that does not capture the beauty of the blossoms. Each tiny bloom is about 1/4 inch (1/2 cm) wide. Click to enlarge.

Cat Recapitulation—Part 2

So that's one data point: an article on the likelihood of cats of responding to their names. In a second article, this time in Slate magazine, a writer explored the fact that cats seem to be less responsive than dogs to human requests. He contacted an animal researcher at a university in Hungary, who is well-known for his expertise on cats and dogs, who claims that dogs are far more tuned into humans; that they can learn hundreds of words, are capable of abstract thought, and even appear to comprehend what is going on in the mind of their human companions! It seems that cats can't really be bothered with these deeper types of connections with humans.

The intrepid Slate investigator also contacted another animal expert at an Italian university, who has experimented with cats, dogs, and even fish. The Italian professor said that, in trying to evaluate the cognitive abilities of all three critters, cats come in last. In fact, fish were much easier to study and train than cats. Furthermore, he felt that the attention span of a cat is shorter than that of a fish!

Finally, back to NPR, in an article titled, “All Right, Some Cats Do Fetch.” It is well known that dogs are naturally inclined to fetch—which has endeared them for millennia to human hunters. Dogs want to please their human companions, so even though what sometimes appears to be a dog's mindless behavior to chase a thrown ball or stick and retrieve it (again and again and again), the fetching of food was likely crucial to the survival of ancient peoples who bonded with dogs.

In a query sent out by NPR, some cat owners testified that they were able to train their cats to fetch. One cat person noted, however, that indeed, his cat did retrieve, “... but only when he wants to.” That seems to sum up a cat's service to their human companions: they may be trainable in some sense, but only when they wish to be.

As far as the retrieving game goes, it should be fairly noted that cats often bring dead animals that they have caught and dispatched, almost as if in offering a gift. This is not a process of fetching, however. Additionally, most cat owners do not relish discovering a lifeless or partially eaten mouse or bird on their doorstep. It may be a demonstration of a cat's affection, but the gift is not something one desires as part of a human meal, much less enjoy the sight of a mutilated, dead animal deposited on the porch.

And so I wrap up another examination of the contrast between cats and dogs and their relationships with humans. Even though I do my best to maintain a balanced view, it seems as if my inner bias towards our more advantageous connections to dogs is verified by ongoing research by the world's prestigious universities. Sorry, cousin, but I guess that the truth is not on your side.

Cat Recapitulation—Part 1

Once again I return to the subject of domestic cats and their connections to humans, as compared to dogs. As I've written before, there are cat people and there are dog people. Each type tends to be predisposed to the characteristics of either canines or felines, and often glare at each other across a wide divide—something akin to Democrats and Republicans, or right wing versus left wing. The political polarization dominating American politics is reflected in the often antagonistic divide among cat and dog lovers.

I wish not to occupy either extreme position here, and will once again declare that I've enjoyed the companionship of both kinds of critters, but I will confess to relating more closely—in the sense of bonding—with dogs, than cats. That's a full disclosure statement—just to be forthright in my feelings, but also to concede to a cousin of mine that, yes, I favor dogs a wee bit, but also appreciate the unique qualities of cats (though my cat feelings are a little subservient to my dog sentiments).

So, with that disclaimer introduction, let me pass on to readers three recent articles about cats—that come from very reputable journalistic sources (two of them from National Public Radio, an honorable source of news and information); all three of which take a close look at the qualities of cats, relative to dogs.

One article summarized the results of a meticulously-planned Japanese experiment that examined to what degree cats are able (or inclined) to recognize their name. It is well known that dogs quickly learn, are attentive to, and readily respond to their name. Speak a dog's name and it is fully heedful of your next utterance. Most people, however, would not expect a cat to be as responsive. That's why the Japanese researchers wished to explore the issue more deeply.

Well, right out of the starting gate, Japanese cats did not do well. Felines who were invited into the lab seemingly were oblivious to the sound of their name. Undaunted, the Japanese researchers reasoned that a more trustworthy test would be to go into the homes of the cats, where they'd be more likely to respond, while in their comfortable habitat. The human experimenters found that cats, in their own home, do sometimes react to their name, by twitching their ears or moving their heads. Unlike dogs, however, who wag their tails and tend to respond with love, cats showed little more reaction than that twitch.

The Japanese experimenters felt that they'd demonstrated cats may indeed recognize their name, but the question arises, do they really identify with it, or do they simply associate the word with food or getting petted? A noted animal expert in a university in Budapest—not associated with the experiment—noted that humans began to train dogs much longer ago than they tried to do so with cats, so maybe that time difference may account for some of the divergence?

More on cat responses next time...

Grasshopper Aggression

When does an inoffensive little green grasshopper transform into a ravenous beast that destroys crops? When it becomes a locust. Mention the word locust to many people and it conjures up an image of a horde of voracious insects that invade and eat everything green in sight. Like army ants or a swarm of mosquitoes, locusts congregate in vast clouds of plunderers which will quickly consume precious plants and then move on, leaving behind a barren landscape.

It's interesting that only recently have scientists figured out where locusts come from. They seem to pop out of nowhere, do their damage, and move on. What triggers their amassing and subsequent invasion? Recent studies have shown that locusts are the Hyde side of the gentle Dr. Jekyll—from Robert Louis Stevenson's tale The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, in which Hyde becomes the evil alter-personality of the good doctor.

When hard times come—such as drought or famine—hungry grasshoppers begin to cluster and rub up against one another. This pushing, shoving, and agitation releases serotonin into their bloodstream and brains. Suddenly they begin to grow larger, they turn from green to black and yellow, they crowd even closer and become aggressive. Soon they're on the rampage, as the swarm moves off, looking for food. It's as if their stressful behavior spreads through the mob, turning them into a threatening horde. Their interactions can become so belligerent that they will later turn to cannibalism, as plants become increasingly scarce. Like a bad dream, locusts abruptly appear, do their frightening thing, and then disappear.

Entomologists have known the basic qualities of locusts, but have not given them the attention they deserve. Why might that be? One theory suggests that humans see themselves as similar to gentle grasshoppers—in that, under stress, we too change our personality. We'd prefer to view ourselves as having a fixed personality—in which we present an enduring face to others. We also like to believe that we're in charge of who we are and can control our behavior. Instead, our environment plays a significant role in how we behave; other people directly influence us and cause us to act in different ways. Sometimes we literally get out of control. We can do significant damage. Tension can turn us into abusive beings.

So are we humans sometimes like the gentle grasshopper, munching imperturbably on our thoughts, in command of our behavior, staying cool when disturbed? Or are we reactive critters who, under stress, turn nasty and beat up on others? Are we grasshoppers or locusts? Or both?

Brain-like Ant Colony

An ant colony, according to some neuroscientists, operates roughly analogous to the human brain, where each ant behaves something analogous to a neuron. Individual ants communicate by chemical signals, which determines the overall behavior of the colony. Similarly, our neurons communicate via electrical and chemical signals, which result in our behavior.

If this analogy is appropriate, it raises the question, do ant colonies remember? Human memory is the result of many neurons acting together—creating retrievable recollections of past events and experiences. Our recall depends on how individual neurons stimulate each other. Short- and long-term memories employ different collections of neurons. Every time we summon up a memory, we rearrange some of the neural circuits and then send the memory back into “storage,” slightly altered. In this way, memories will gradually morph over time—although we tend to believe there's a constancy and an accuracy to our recollections. That certainty is really not there, however.

Furthermore, our memories are not just housed in some unique place deep in our brain. Our bodies—riddled with nerves and neurons—also remember. There's so-called “muscle memory,” by which we retain the knowledge of how to ride a bike or play a musical instrument. In response to wounds and germ attacks, antibodies and molecular receptors are created; they “remember” these events. The same mechanism happens for plants—trees “remember” physical wounds and insect attacks, so as to both heal and better respond in the future.

Back to ant colonies: If each ant is somehow comparable to individual brain neurons, and signals between ants are somehow comparable to neuronal communication, does the congregation of ants—the colony—display memory? Indeed it does. Although there is no central control agent in an ant colony, the community can remember, and that memory persists over days, months, and even years. Although an individual ant has a life span of months, the colony can live for up to 30 years, the lifetime of the queen. I have written before of the phenomenal behavior of an ant colony, as it performs activities far beyond what a single ant can do—such as tend graveyards and gardens, keep the nest clean, coordinate attacks, etc. These abilities depend to some extent on memory.

In fact, researchers have discovered that while individual ants can only briefly remember the location of food, the colony retains that knowledge for much longer periods of time. What's more, an older ant colony acts more wisely than a younger colony—showing an accumulation of knowledge over time.

The enhanced performance of large collections of individual creatures is often described as an emergent property. It is a process that has yet to be fully understood. Similarly, our memory—and in fact, our consciousness—still have much to be explained.

So if an individual ant can be considered to be something analogous to a brain's neuron, we might be grateful that an ant colony contains only thousands of ants. Were those colonies to be inhabited by a few million—or, God forbid!—a few billion insects, they would be smarter than us! Doesn't the possibility of having the Earth ruled by ant colonies seem frightening?