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Nature vs. Legislature

It was thought that God was dead, but now it seems He is guilty of patent infringement.

I really wish this were science fiction, but with a world getting more sci-fi by the minute, something like this was bound to happen. Under US patent law, you (and I don't actually mean you, because let's face it, you're reading the Ozone Shack which means you're probably not in a lab doing groundbreaking research) can patent a molecule. Not a means of synthesizing it or extracting it or distilling it or purifying it or packaging it or distributing it or administering it, but actually the molecule itself. You (again, probably not you) have to discover it and prove you discovered it, so it's not like you're all of a sudden going to have to start paying royalties on oxygen every time you breathe. (Or ozone, for that matter, which would spell the end for my stint in the blogosphere.)

But, if a team at Dow Chemicals discovers a new compound, let's call it hexyl-methyl-buggerol, that occurs naturally in the excrement of giraffes, and they patent it, any distributor would have to pay royalties for selling products that used hexyl-methyl-buggerol, even if it were synthesized in a lab. The patent law essentially treats the scientist who was first able to determine the molecular structure of a compound like it would the inventor of a device or piece of technology. And unlike the telephone or the jet engine or fiber-optics, you don't have to actually figure out how to make the molecule to get the patent. You just have to show that you discovered hexyl-methyl-buggerol and our bloated and undiscerning U.S. patent system will grant you the rights to control any use of hexyl-methyl-buggerol.

This is unnerving not just because someone can claim royalties for something they didn't technically invent, but because it implies that a person "invented" a molecule. It doesn't matter what theological or philosophical ideas you subscribe to, or even if you don't subscribe to any, you know there's something wrong with this. In any possible way of conceiving the universe, the structure of molecule itself was created or designed or came into being because of something  - be it God or laws of quantum mechanics or karmic cause effect or even the evil demiurge Yaldobaoth - something other than the conscious ideas of its discoverer. From a scientific standpoint it is unethical because assigns a human "inventor" to something that already existed or could form in nature, and from a religious standpoint it could be seen as borderline blasphemy, taking credit for something made by the creator. And it is for these above reasons that I find it dystopian that a molecule - and again, not a means of synthesizing it - can be patented.

Now, you may be thinking: "but Nate, it I'm not religious, nor do I have any ethical qualms about this because it provides incentive for scientific progress and supports capitalism. Why should I be terrified by this?"

Because someone has a patent on your DNA, that's why!

For the first few centuries of the patent concept's lifetime, living organisms were considered off-limits as being "products of nature." Then biotech came along and blurred the lines as to what was a product of nature and what was a product of human inventiveness. In 1988 a cancer-resistant mouse was patented, and many disease-resistant strains of crops followed suit. Once we mapped the entire human genome, essentially a collection of very large molecules, it was inevitable that scientists pharmaceutical companies would take the opportunity to stake their clam to specific genes. (And this is not to imply at all that they are nefarious Bond villains trying to control the world by controlling our genes, it's just a logical step to take given legal and scientific parameters.) So right now, the rights to about 10% of your genome are owned by a specific person or corporation. (Hey man, corporations are people too!)

Now obviously, they won't be charging a 3% royalty fee every time that gene replicates itself. But they can claim ownership over any gene therapy drugs that involve that section of your DNA. There are also implications for genetic testing, and basically anything else that involves the human genome. And as the speed we can sequence genomes increases exponentially, it is now possible to patent the entire genome of an organism. An example is the neem tree in India, whose genome is now the intellectual property of the W.R. Grace company. The tree itself may still be a "product of nature," but from a legal perspective, someone owns the information on how to make it.

The good news is that the supreme court has overturned many of these "gene patents," so hopefully all of our DNA will once become public domain. But if that is to happen, we need to realize that adhering to an absolute ideology will only lead us astray. We need discernment and the courage to stop before we get to the ideological extreme, in this case, that it is in the best interest of a capitalist society that every bit of intellectual property can be patented. Because if we did get there, the world would be very sci-fi indeed.

Edible/Audible, Abbreviations Edition

A special installment of the Edible/Audible series, a series where we find out what would happen if your favorite band was a food. This one is dedicated to bands that are commonly referred to by their initials. And yes, I realize I recycled one from a previous installment. What are you going to do about it?

CCR (Creedence Clearwater Revival) – Pizza Bagel Bites
Although it may seem more fitting to link CCR with some kind of southern (or faux-southern) food, they’re a band based on single servings that generally will go over well any time. Eat a whole album of these and you may not find it to be as appealing.

BTO (Bachman-Turner Overdrive) - Tortilla Chips
Something generic and non-nutritive, and although it is not a requirement for a party, it helps to have them somewhere in the background.

BOC (Blue Oyster Cult) – Potato Skins with Cheese and Bacon
Does it make sense? No. Is it awesome? Yes!

RHCP (Red Hot Chili Peppers) - Microwavable Burrito
Within their career, within a decade, within an album, and even within a song, they can alternate between riffs that are boiling-lava hot and remaining cool and unaffected by the chaos surrounding them. They are a composite of many textures, ingredients, and even of cultures, and most notably, are something that could only come out of LA. Also, fits nicely into a tube sock.

ELO (Electric Light Orchestra) - Mac n' Cheese
Accessible, reminds you of a simpler time, but can still sustain you well through your adult life.

DMB (Dave Matthews Band) - Chili with Okra
Almost sounds like generic Americana music, but there's something definitely off about the texture...

GNR (Guns n’ Roses) – Grape Nuts
Yes, it’s hard to believe, but this was once one of the most popular foods in America.

RATM (Rage Against the Machine) – A triple shot of fair-trade espresso
Politically and socially conscious, still gets you wired as hell

STP (Stone Temple Pilots) – Carob
Tries really hard to taste like the real thing, but just can’t.

NIN (Nine Inch Nails) - Cytomax
Based on principles of organic chemistry, but tastes like it's spent its entire existence in a laboratory and has never seen a tree, or even blue sky. Definitely takes some time to get used to, and with some people, it just never takes.

Something To Chew On

"If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice"
-Rush, Freewill

We all like to think that we're different, that we're smarter than the average person in whatever demographic we may inhabit, that we're going to make it, that our own individual experience is somehow unique - you act like you're the first person to fall in love, the first person to give birth, the first person to have terminal cancer, the first person to think your car is a spaceship, the first person to be blown away that one time you discovered Rush - we believe we're going to beat the system, we believe we're the universe owes it to us to dispense equal and fair justice that's just a little biased towards ourselves because we all know that we're at its center, we think that history is just one big setup that culminates in Right Now, that it has all lead up to this point, that our dreams mean something, that our actions mean something, that we are more important than just the atoms we're made of and the space they take up, that we are independent, rational, free-thinking, logical children of the enlightenment, endowed with the gift of sapience to solve the Rubik's Cube that is the universe, when really, we might have to come to terms with the fact that we're just being influenced by quantum mechanics and instincts we don't understand.

I Can't Believe it's not Science!

"One more name on the slate, one less minute to wait
Too busy to see two versions of me
One more bottle is dry, one less reason to try"
-Phish, Two Versions of Me

The advertisements for gay.com have stopped showing up. At least I think so. I use Google Adsense for advertising, which basically uses keywords found on the website to generate advertisements that they think readers will be interested in. So apparently, the Google Monster thought that all of my readers were gay, because sometimes there would be a large banner ad that would read "gay.com. Are you?" Apparently the Ozone Shack has become more hetero, or at least the keywords have.

The ads actually have little to do with the content of the site. The most common ones seem to be for actual ozone producing systems and air ionizers.

But lately I have been noticing an advertisement that consists of a link that says "Quantum Jumping." This links to a website that is selling a bogus way to self actualize. The premise is that since quantum theory implies an infinite number of parallel universes, there are perfect versions of you existing out there somewhere. In fact, the site says "In these alternate universes, alternate versions of YOU are living out their lives." You can somehow commune with these other versions of you by meditating, because I guess the human mind somehow has the power to jump across universes. So basically, this combines a poor understanding of eastern religions with straight up misunderstandings about science to create a product that can conveniently be sold in an sixteen DVD box set that will enable you to be a brilliant painter, successful businessman, world-class athlete, and even recover from cancer.

Now, since I live a very boring life, I sometimes take solace in the fact that if Dr. Schroedinger is correct, there are an infinite many versions of me doing infinitely many cool things in an infinite number of parallel universes, while I lay on the couch popping ibuprofen like they're tic tacs watching season 2 of the X-Files. (The truth is out there and it's wearing a 90's power suit.) And yes, sometimes I wish my consciousness could jump, Tibetan yogi-style, to one of these hypothetical cooler, more interesting places. (And no, in case you were wondering, Tibetan yogi-style is not at all close to as dirty as it sounds.) And when I look back on some juncture where I probably did the wrong thing, I don't wish that I had chosen one different scenario had unfolded. I wish that multiple, if not infinite, scenarios had unfolded. But we're probably still just stuck with one universe, and it is very, very boring.

But let's assume that you could "jump" to another parallel universe. The Quantum Jumping website states that a new "bubble universe" is created every time you make a decision. This is not exactly how it works. If my understanding of quantum mechanics is correct it's more like whenever an electron moves differently or a subatomic particle decays that reality bifurcates. So, I'm far less likely to jump to a universe where I'm touring with Mötley Crüe and using one of Elvis' teeth as a guitar pick than I am to jump to a universe that is exactly the same, and the ratio of carbon-14 to nitrogen in my desk is still still the same, but they are distributed ever so slightly differently.

I think the program is more focused on meditating and visualizing a more perfect version of yourself, which is essentially what Tibetan yogis have been doing for centuries (when they're not doing it Tibetan yogi-style.) The site actually says that it is "science fiction [becoming] science," and I think that the quote by Max Planck may be enough to fool a lot of Americans into buying this. I mean, we bought those fucking abdominal stimulation belts. Maybe it will catch on. But so did the Atkins diet and Hare Krishna and chain letters.

I feel like I'm on a really existential version of a Mississippi gambling boat. But it's alright, because I brought my epistemological derringer.

Science!

Hello Technorati

Here's my claim code:


VS6UDDPQ4WNA

Say Hello to Grandpa Ishenhill!

Here's another one of the many stories I write that somehow involve electricity or lack thereof. One of the characters had been floating around my subconscious for a few years and he finally escaped onto the page.


One day Grandpa Ishenhill announced that he had decided to stop paying the electricity bill. It wasn’t that he couldn’t pay it. He was receiving his pension from having worked for twenty years as an employee of the state, and an extra stipend for being my legal guardian. And it certainly wasn’t because we didn’t need electricity. He just decided, one day, that he wouldn’t pay it. It was almost as if he wanted to see how long it would take before they cut us off. Every night he would sit in his chair in the living room, reading a book in Cazergi, looking up at the lamp every few minutes, angrily, as if he was frustrated at the power company for being late, and when the lights finally did go out, cutting out the newest Pool of Noise album coming from my room, the first thing he said was “well it’s about time they did something.”
                “What am I supposed to do now?” I asked.
                “What do you mean?”
                “I have homework to do!”
                “Light a candle or something. I don’t know, you can wait for the sun to come up. Don’t worry, this is all part of the plan.”
                I came to school thirty minutes late the next day, because my alarm clock didn’t go off, with my homework unfinished and an excuse that no one would believe. “So you’re saying that your grandpa just refuses to pay the electricity bill?”
                “Yeah, he’s gone crazy. I mean, he has always been crazy, but, well, this is a new record.”
                “Maybe you should budget your time better so that you do your homework while the sun is still shining. Or at least think of a better excuse.”
                Because I lived with my crazy grandpa who would refuse to speak English for sometimes weeks at a time, because he thought that American kids were supposed to wear dork pants to school, because whenever teachers would call home about my miscreant behavior or my prodigious lack of caring he would yell at them until they hung up and then tell me some sort of fable from old country to illustrate my moral wrongdoings but which I could never understand, because he would pack me some sort of beet concoction in a thermos for lunch every day, because he insisted on giving me haircuts himself, and now because he somehow got the notion in his head that getting our power cut off was a good idea, I found it exceedingly difficult to be normal, let alone cool, in middle school. Actually, apart from the haircut, it was probably my own fault. Cool is an x-factor and I didn’t have it.
                That afternoon I went to Marco’s house, where there was still lots of power, and played video games with him and Girma, then biked to the public library and tried to actually do some homework, until the librarian (who certainly did not have the potential to become a hot librarian by taking off her glasses and letting down her bun) kicked me out at closing time. So I walked to Carrie Brownstone’s house, stayed there for an hour or two to finish up my homework, then hopped the fence and walked a couple hundred feet along the canal to get home. When I got inside, there were no candles or anything for light, Grandpa Ishenhill was just sitting there, in the dark, eating a warm pudding cup. I noticed by the light coming in from the streetlights that his shirt was on backwards.
                “Did the school call home today?” I asked when I thought we had made eye contact. “Oh wait, that’s right, they couldn’t, because you didn’t pay the phone bill either.”
                “I was wondering why it was so nice and quiet here today,” he grumbled. “Speaking of which, where were you? You didn’t come home after school.”
                “I was someplace where there was electricity.”
                “Have I told you the legend of Gzoljchi the goatherd?”
                “Which one, he’s been in like ten of the stories you’ve made up.”
                “They are time-honored Cazergi legends, from before the coup, before the occupation, before Genghis Khan, before the Caliphate, before there was the Cazergi Orthodox Church, even before Alexander the Great made us civilized people!”
                “You mean killed your men and raped your women.”
                “Killed our men and raped our women. They’re your people too. Which is why you need to hear these stories that–“
                “That you made up?” I wasn’t going to sit through this. I went to my room, slammed the door, and fell asleep with my clothes on. I think I knew which story he was talking about. Gzoljchi was some kind of archetypal figure in Cazergi lore who traveled around the steppes with his herd of goats and outsmarts various trickster spirits, all the while maintaining his integrity. In this particular story, the bat spirit Urzhdet steals the sun and hides it in his cave. Everyone else panics because there is no light, but not Gzoljchi, who is patient enough to learn to find his way without light to see, and then travels into the mountains where Urzhdet resides (scholars have found evidence that these mountains could be anywhere from the Urals to the Caucasus to the Hindu Kush). He then challenges Urzhdet to a traditional game that resembles croquet, called “Bajeka.” Urzhdet cannot see because he is blinded by the intense light of the sun inside his cave, but Gzoljchi plays with his eyes closed, as he has learned to live without sight. I think this story was supposed to tell me that I was supposed to be patient and learn to live without electricity. Now that may have been all well and good in shamanistic, bronze-age Eurasia, but now, I think electricity may be more important than sunlight was back then. At least the way I saw it.

                The next day Grandpa Ishenhill woke me up by knocking on my door. I ate cereal straight from the box with my hand and washed it down with a coca cola. Grandpa Ishenhill ate his dry out of a bowl with a spoon. “You know,” he said, “if we had a goat we could have milk.”
                “Or we could just pay the electricity bill and be able to use our refrigerator again.”
                “Just sit this one through, ok?”
                “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
                “You’ll learn.”
                “You know, I’ve always thought you were full of shit, but this is ridiculous. Can we just pretend to be normal people for once?”
                “I’ve tried to be normal and it isn’t worth it.”
                “Oh shut up old man.” I was out the door. My hair was all greasy and sticky; we had no hot water so I hadn’t showered. But I felt well rested, and I was aware of things for the first eight hours of my day, kind of like a drone being severed from its hive mind for the first time.
                That night, Grandpa Ishenhill realized that we couldn’t eat dry cereal forever. It was actually his idea to order a pizza. Of course, we couldn’t use our landline, I didn’t have a cell phone and he of course refused to get one. “Go over to that whatsername’s house and use their phone,” he told me.
                “They don’t usually put beets on pizza, you gonna be ok with that?” I asked on my way out the back door.
                “Think of a topping you don’t like and get that on half of it. I’ll probably find to be to my liking.”
                I walked along the canal and hopped over Carrie Brownstone’s back fence. She wasn’t there so I had to explain to her mom and her mom’s boyfriend (who was probably the reason Carrie Brownstone wasn’t there) why I had to use their phone. Once I had explained my peculiar situation and they agreed to let me, I noticed that the pizza parlor’s number that I had scrawled on my hand had already smeared, so I also had to ask them to use their internet to look up the number. (I think we were the last household in the Western World to still have a physical phone book.)
                I was expecting another mind game with Grandpa Ishenhill when the pizza came, making me thank him for not skimping on his basic duty or at least another legend that he probably made up. But instead, he somewhat laboriously hoisted himself onto the kitchen counter, next to the pizza box, and gestured to me to sit on the other side. We sat there in the dark, munching on the pizza in silence.
                “Well, I think I’ll go to bed now,” I said after I had finished.
                The next morning I woke up at six in the morning and actually took a shower, even though it was cold as hell. This would become my routine every day, and I adhered to it without trying. I go to sleep as soon as I got home, wake up with the sun, or even before it, take a freezing shower and then go to school where I would actually pay attention, then go somewhere that wasn’t at home, so I wouldn’t be reminded of how angry I was at Grandpa Ishenhill.
                This worked out all well and good for about a month, until he decided to change the game again. I came home one day and the door was off its hinges, and all of the windows were taken out of their frames.
                “What the hell are you doing with the doors and windows?”
                “I’m selling them.”
                “We’re going to get robbed!”
                “It’s not like we have any valuables.”
                “What about the TV and the computer?”
                “Well, we can’t really use those anyway, so I just stashed them under my bed. It feels like all I really leave the house for is errands and church, so now you don’t have to go to church, and you can run the errands.”
                “I can’t drive yet.”
                “This way you’ll learn fast!”
                “You have completely lost it this time.”
                “It’s all part of the plan. Just let it happen.”
                “What plan?”
                “We just need to let the winds blow through our house. We need to let the outside in.” Have I told you the story of–”
                “Don’t want to hear it.”
                That night I was so cold that I barely slept, so the next day I went to Carrie Brownstone’s to see if they had any extra blankets. I got one and it must have brushed against some poison oak as I was walking along the canal, because the next day I was itchy and puffy everywhere and some spots even turned into sores that oozed pus. It on everything in my room, somehow, on all my clothes, my sheets, my pillow, all over my desk. That was the time of year when the water in the canal got stagnant and mosquitoes started spawning there, and would of course make their way into the house. So I had mosquito bites on top of my poison oak and I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Helluva time...

To Be Continued...
Maybe...

One More from the Archives: Apple Jacks

This is a re-post from "A Tribute to Dan Quayle," originally posted in June of 2009. I was planning to re-post a few more of these, but not many of them are really up to Ozone Shack standards, which is frightening, because the Ozone Shack has low, low standards.

I awoke this morning from a dream in which I was selling bootleg DVDs on the side of the Trans-Siberian highway, somewhere near Vladivostok. I think that I needed to sell them for gas money so I could get back to Moscow. Also, I learned that the (grossly overrated,) SNL sketch "I'm on a Boat" was based on a scene from a 1970's Bollywood film.

That was before I woke up. When I did wake up, it was my last day of high school. Thechnically, it's not over until tomorrow, but I don't actually have to be there tomorrow because my classes that have finals tomorrow don't actually have finals. So I am done with that.

I'm not really thinking about it much. Lately I haven't been seeing ends or beginings, or even transitions. I just see what's going on.

But as much as it goes unnoticed to me, it is still significant, if only for the fact that it is the end of an era. That makes me more than a little regretful, because I feel like I didn't get out of high school what I wanted to, and what I should have. But I'm okay with that. So, by popular demand, I will now be telling the parable of Apple Jacks.


Now, when Apple Jacks were conceived, some executive at Kellog's must have said "Hey, I got an idea! Let's make a cereal that tastes like apples!" But, as was made very clear by their advertising campaign in the late 90's, they don't taste like apples. They may make you good at extreme sports and be federally required to contain 15 vitamins and minerals, but they do not taste like apples. So, they had the goal of creating a cereal that tasted like apples, but they failed. But it's okay, because Apple Jacks are still delicious.

So, even if you don't do what you set out to accomplish, or if you didn't do what was expected of you, you can still do something great. Even if you tried to taste like apples and you don't.

Movies, Not Films

I watch movies, not films. Perhaps they would have you think that movies are fun and meaningless and something to move product and popcorn, and on the other side of the dichotomy, films mean something and are for mature, intelligent people with attention spans. Movies are flashy, appeal to people who like shiny things and bright things and fast things and follow the crowd; films make you think and don't rely on special effects, and are oftentimes made in some strange foreign language that requires you to read. Movies are made by big studios that are little more than factories, and films are made by intelligent people with Buddy Holly glasses and bad haircuts. Movies are low culture, films are high culture.

But really, a "seeing a film" is just a pretentious way of saying you saw a movie. And even when you think you're watching a film, no matter how much the truth galls you, you're really just watching a plain old movie. That's why I will never watch a film. I like watching movies too much.