The following sample column was written in response to an article published in the New York Times regarding the discovery of a new dwarf Tyrannosaur species by renowned paleontologist Paul Sereno. For background, the article can be found here: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/18/science/18dinosaur.html?_r=1&hp


Dear Doctor S,

I was flipping through the Times the other day, and imagine my surprise when I found you were recently gossiping about me on the front page of the science section!

Good sir, first, congratulations are in order for your spectacular find; I pride myself on being a difficult specimen to come by. I thought the barren deserts of Northern China were such a good hiding spot!

What’s that? You didn’t actually find me? You just haggled me away from some paleontological grave robber? In that case, I suppose it’s cranial domes off to him, but you still deserve some credit for exhibiting such bartering prowess.

However, pleasantries aside, I must profess I take offense at your characterization of me and my particular subspecies. You discuss me as if I were some aberrant form of the “true” Tyrannosaurus Rex (I believe your meticulously massaged words were “miniature prototype,” but we all know that’s just code for “poor little bugger”). Perhaps I am being overly-sensitive, but I couldn’t help but feel that I was being characterized as a diminutive (read: primitive) ancestor of the real deal, a mere evolutionary stepping stone, an embarrassing cousin clipped from the family album who – what was it? – “really throws a wrench into this observed pattern.”

Oh, I’m sorry if the real Rex stood up and upset your toolbox. Here’s a wrench for you, which I would throw if I had the gripping capacity: I’m going to go back into hiding if you don’t start setting the record straight! Before we go creating a hierarchy that involves portraying some of us as suffering from relative dwarfism, just ask yourself which came first buddy: the nano- or the tyrano-? T.R. just had the good fortune to be discovered first, probably because he’s not as good at hiding as I am. There’s really no other reason aside from pure dumb luck coupled with poor stealth skills to explain how he’s been capturing headlines and imaginations for over a century. Let's face it, as some of you have finally figured out, T.R.’s lazy; it’s well established that he was more scavenger than predator, and was usually the slowest one among us. They even had to use a stunt double to chase that Jeep in “Jurassic Park”! Hell, the only thing T.R. ever really accomplished was letting himself go and putting on about 14,000 pounds. You people are only fascinated with him in the same way you’re fascinated with that one-ton man in Mexico who they had to move with a crane.

Also, about the name. Raptorex? What the hell: did you name me after an over-the-counter erectile dysfunction drug? I know you were probably trying to be cute, but I am not going to end up at the bottom of the joke pile along with viagrasaurus. I demand to be re-dubbed “sneaky-hidden lizard,” whatever that translates to in Latin.

And another thing: how about you and your know-it-all schoolchildren lay off the goddamn arm thing for a bit? T.R. warned me about this, how anytime a class field trip walks by he has to listen to a humiliating cacophony of “wow, why do his arms look more useless than Kanye’s etiquette coach?” I get it, okay? You don’t hear me going on about humans’ oversized heads and fucked up thumbs, do you? Who the hell needs thumbs anyway? Maybe benchpress isn’t exactly my thing, but while I’m not prepped for the cover of Saurischian Fitness -- I’m perfectly happy with National Geographic, thank you very much! -- I’ll arm wrestle you any day of the week. But, um, you’ll have to sit pretty close. I’ll have you know that these are damn good, serviceable limbs, almost perfectly adapted for pinning something not too large in a slightly awkward death grip as you bite its head off. So from now on, please refrain from using terms like “puny arms,” and if you absolutely have to pass comment, T.R. and I would much prefer if you could stick to “appendage-challenged.”

Believe me, I appreciate all this publicity, but I just want to be sure to set things straight before people start swooning over T.R. again and I get turned into a nanotyrano plush toy.

Regards,

- S.H.L.

P.S. – Also, in case this wasn’t clear, when you talk about me from now on, please remember to mention the awesome hiding job! I have to enjoy the fame while it lasts. I know this may come as a surprise, but I am actually not the best hider in the Rex clan. Levitrarex is much better (hint: have you been to Antarctica lately?).

I think, therefore I hologram

Apparently, all the universe is a hologram: http://www.newscientist.com/article/mg20126911.300-our-world-may-be-a-giant-hologram.html?full=true. Including us. And all the nice things out there like puppies and ice cream (though I always suspected something as bland as vanilla couldn't have much real substance to it). But let’s keep in mind this is coming from the man who, in my childhood, helped perpetuate myths about corpulent, Communist gift-dropping arctic elf dictators and bunnies who squeeze out chocolate eggs and feel compelled to stash them in secret places.

What’s clear from this article is that my dad has either had a ground-breaking insight into the nature of space and time, or that he’s highly qualified to write for Star Trek. With little modification, direct quotes become lines that would look snugly at home on the page of a Next Generation script: "[Captain,] It looks like GEO600 is being buffeted by the microscopic quantum convulsions of space-time," says [Lieutenant Commander] Hogan. (The holographic principle would also explain why Captain Picard can get away with saying things like “On the holodeck, even a holographic bullet can kill.” Indeed, good Captain, it is the only sort that ever has).

Yet it seems to me that there’s something terribly dangerous in revealing that we’re all living inside a giant hologram, that it may be best to put holographic noise back in its scientific pandora’s box (or at least to turn down the volume). For if it was an existential struggle to find a point to it all before, how much more so now that we discover that we’re really just holographic reflections within a giant, cosmic limited-edition Topps trading card? (or a “Pringle,” to which I think one physicist cited in the article compares the universe). Indeed, one conceivable consequence of letting the holographic principle go public seems to be the possibility of a sudden, overwhelming surge of global apathy. If it’s all just a bloody hologram anyway, why should I go to work tomorrow?