Some Science (from March '07)

There are various instances where birth control has been utilized by local governments as a means of non-lethal animal population control. In South Africa, after culling ceased in 1995, an elephant population of 8,000 has been steadily growing at six to seven percent annually to about 20,000 currently and is expected to double by 2020. South African Environment Minister Marthinus van Schalkwyk has suggested birth control as a way to avoid the government sanctioned killing of the invasive mammal. In India, immuno-contraceptive vaccines (ICV) have been implemented to stem the rampant procreation of dogs. Officials in Kendrapara have authorized ICVs to quell its hound population that has been ravaging newborn marine turtles and unhatched eggs on nesting ground sanctuaries along the Gahirmatha coast. And in the northeast, Guwahati city leaders have taken steps to curb fertility in stray canines, fearing rabies infections from dog bites, by subsidizing NGOs that sterilize and immunize the abandoned animals. (Approximately 66,000 have been vaccinated since 2005.)


A recent domestic case of nonhuman contraception occurred in Santa Monica, CA, where an overabundance of squirrels has led the city to embark on unisex sterilization methods that incapacitate ovulation and lactation in females and testicular development in males. Santa Monica has been cited five times by Los Angeles County for its copious squirrel population.

Arguments against these tactics range from the scientific (not every animal will be affected, thus leading to immunity to ICVs in future generations) to the moral (increased susceptibility to diseases and cruel side-effects to the treatment). But it’s just one tool dictating the complicated balance between humans and wildlife.

Who's number one in Ottawa?

The Ottawa Senators didn't anticipate Ray Emery's three-year, $9.5 million contract to yield dividends in the form of 11 wins against one loss by Martin Gerber. Emery's expensive status as the Sens' number one goaltender is weakening, at least currently. Eight years Gerber's junior, Emery is tremendously athletic, possesses invaluable playoff experience, and has displayed his occasional enjoyment of dropping the gloves with anyone. He should be a legitimate net minder for the foreseeable future. But Gerber's stellar start and Emery's shaky play after offseason wrist surgery have forced Ottawa head coach John Paddock to address the inevitable: who's number one?

For now, it's Gerber's position to lose. His 11 wins are the most thus far; his .943 save percentage is fourth best in the league and his 1.73 goals against average (GAA) sixth best. Since December of last year, Gerber's flexing a 21-1-2 record, 1.92 GAA, and .934 save percentage. The Sens have left nothing to speculation, forcibly exerting their indomitable style on even well prepared opponents — and this without top-line center Jason Spezza for the last six games. And Gerber has been absolutely crucial to their success. His hot streak was best displayed during a November 10th win over divisional foe Montreal. Led by captain Saku Koivu, the Canadians pounded the Sens until Ottawa captain Daniel Alfredsson buried two goals late in the game to win it 3-1. Gerber kept them in it. Emery watched from the bench.

This presents a historical conundrum that has preoccupied NHL coaches for years: when your starter goes down, and the backup grossly exceeds expectations, who plays when both are again healthy? Some coaches continue relying on the backup-turned-starter while others immediately reinsert the number one. Much like a quarterback in football, a goalie is a hockey team's pivot — playing the entire 60 minutes, it's the lone position around which most of the game revolves. And much like hockey, football coaches are faced with similar predicaments when their first-string QB returns from injury to a team that succeeded in his absence. (University of Michigan chose to start Chad Henne after he recovered from an injury earlier this college football season.)








But the Senators' position is mitigated by Emery's poor performance. The Sens were riding an eight-game winning streak — a team record — until the Washington Capitals squashed them in Ottawa on November 9th. Emery made his third start, giving up four goals on 35 shots. (Emery is 3-3-0 in six career games against the Caps.) He hadn't played since Thursday of the previous week when, although earning a victory, he allowed four goals to the on-fire Atlanta Thrashers. In his three meager appearances this year, Emery is 2-1-0 and his numbers revealing: a 3.00 GAA and .895 save percentage.

Emery's injury and performance aren't the only factors affecting his limited number of starts. Recent reports reveal Paddock's dissatisfaction with Emery's lackluster practice and workout habits. Paddock is clearly aggravated by his entire team's sub par workout routines. "[Emery's] not the only player practicing like you might not like, let's put it that way, so he's no different than other guys," the coach remarked. Emery may just be one of the guys, but this trend is alarming considering the money Ottawa showered over him to be the number one. Gerber's reputation as one of the hardest working players on the roster certainly works to Emery's disadvantage.

Ray Emery was tailored to be the Sens' top goaltender, from the contract extension to the hiring of his offseason goalie coach (Eli Wilson). And he played like it last year. But now Martin Gerber is playing like it's his team. (However, it's worth noting that most teams wouldn't mind having to choose between these two top-tier goalies. That's something Ottawa GM Bryan Murray is cognizant of, "you have a chance to win every night with either one of them.") Ironically, it was Emery who excelled in the face of Gerber's slump this time last season.

Good things come to those who wait, the adage goes. Gerber has waited in silence for a chance to reclaim the number one spot. It appears that Paddock and company are wisely sticking with Gerber — careful not to tweak the chemistry responsible for the Senators' nearly flawless start. If it continues, Emery might want to make himself comfortable at the end of the bench, and start counting the 9.5 million reasons he has to work his way back to the front of the Ottawa net.

Vehicular Recreation

(*This is a clip from an upcoming travel article about Alaska.)

OPERATING AN RV SOUNDS TRICKIER THAN IT IS. You might think that executing a left turn in a 32-foot bouncing canister requires the sort of exact precision that sparks incessant horn honking and forces idling cars to reverse. It does. Bobbing-and-weaving through grocery store parking lots and squeezing through the tightness of gas stations might even induce some unwelcome apprehension. It shouldn’t. And having to dump gallons of excrement—known as “black water” to RV handlers—can make showering in bleach seem appealing. Wear rubber gloves.

Attentiveness is an RVer’s most applicable tool—an invaluable resource that protects against preventative damage. The responsibilities will surely test the patience and erode the time of its occupants. Whether locking the exterior storage doors or retracting an awning or extension, RVs roll over the conventional notion of a vacation. Lengthy parking requires a flat surface or some shifty maneuvering to set the leveling planks. Driving is no mindless task; fastening every latch and securing every cabinet is crucial for dodging erupting liters of soda and unopened pasta boxes. And by no means is it smart to lie on the master bed at the rear of the RV while it’s moving. After hitting a monstrous pothole driving to the Arctic Circle, I momentarily found myself weightless, suspended in mid-air, wishing I had buckled-up and promising to do so from then on. Somehow, I escaped unharmed. The benefits of full coverage rental insurance aside, an unfailing supply of awareness and depth perception can reduce its necessity.



The overriding concern for all RVers is water. Fresh water is the blood of an RV. It gives life to the pipes so pots can be filled, dishes cleaned, hands washed and bodies bathed. The result is an ever-growing “gray water” tank—the remnants of used water not mixed with shit. It flushes the toilet, transforming urine and feces into the aforementioned black water. In Alaska, and other rural states RVers and campers frequent, hundreds of miles can pass before reaching a spot that supplies a water hookup and dump station. This places considerable importance on conservation. Cooking, showering, and personal hygiene are all dependent on the amount of water remaining in the reservoir. An RV is deftly capable of tripping its passengers with guilt for taking advantage of the luxurious first-world plumbing most Americans enjoy. For example, when roaring along the predominantly gravel Dalton Highway—the only major thoroughfare to the Artic Circle and beyond—with no water hookups in sight, hygiene suffers, increasing the value of hand-sanitizer exponentially.

Still, the upkeep it deserves only ads to the adventure of trying to exist for two weeks in Alaska in an RV. The freedom it offers alone makes it a worthy expenditure, a cheaper alternative to the pricey hotels at the various tourist traps. And the nightly bed hopping presents an opportunity to develop a relationship with a particular spot (think of it as a one night stand). Or in Stock’s and Dean’s case, a mutual loathing of your bedmate should you find yourself with one for ten questionably heterosexual nights. The rental was affordable ($2,500 total) and, including gas (67,302 pennies ), fell well under $1,000 each for transportation and lodging.

Beware the Fiery Stare of Bar Bar

There's this woman on my floor. Her office is adjacent to the men's rest room. Her desk faces it, but not the women's. So, basically, the ladies get off scott free. But me? I feel judged. I have a small bladder and I drink water regularly throughout the day and, occasionally, I’ll have some extra personal affairs to address that might elongate my stay in the restroom. I believe it's safe to assume my average number of lavatory visits surpasses that of my coworkers.

But every time I go I’m filled with a surge of anticipation, an explosion of wandering imagination, as to whether Barbara Bricks will be there silently, sedentarily judging my intestinal strength, or absence thereof. She passes me in the hallway and I wonder if she thinks, "That's him, that's the scoundrel who slithers past my office door like a summer slug, traveling to defecate in peace, leaving behind a simmering trail of flatulence, while I sit here and fume at the ghastly notion—the actuality—that someone can urinate with such alarming frequency." I'm almost certain this is what she thinks.

My anticipation is multi-operational; if she’s not there when I walk past, I ponder if she’ll be there when I exit, with her head tilted, asking me how long I was in there, through her frigid stare, a glare that requires her bifocals to rest helplessly on the tip of her button nose at the risk of cracking the lenses from her intense ferocity. This indomitable stare is practically strong enough to implode buildings when distributed from her periphery; a man might simply combust if he was to be struck directly. (This may be of grave concern given we work ten floors above the street.)


Now, every time I approach the restroom, watching her office entrance grow larger with each step closer, I fret and I laugh. I laugh because I have vilified her in my mind—given her the villainous moniker of Bar Bar Bix—and am supremely amused at the thought that my excretion patterns have given birth to some internalized super hero vs. villain story line. It’s a lame story, really. So sad, in fact, that with each visit to the toilet I prepare myself with childish giggles and mumbled phrases like, “so we meet again Bar Bar” or “I’ll get you some day Bix.”

I think she needs a costume.

I fret because I wonder if this will be the moment she confronts me, asking me to defend my irregularities. But what limits does Bar Bar’s tact know? Common office etiquette would suggest that such a question would be rude, offensive, inappropriate. Still, given her dark side, will tact be collateral damage—an innocent victim in a vicious struggle to deny a man his right to relive himself in a zone free of judgment? Will she suppress her urge to question my tendencies so much that one day she simply invades the men’s room to certify herself what activities are occurring a mere ten feet away from where pictures of her yet-to-be-corrupted grandchildren reside? This will be a fateful day.

Until then, I’ll continue to walk to the restroom with giddy reserve, awaiting the moment my sphincter must rise to the diabolical challenges of Bar Bar Bix, with my magazine rolled tightly enough to discreetly fit into the back pocket of my chinos. If Bar Bar knew that I read when I went, it might provoke her to erupt prematurely. And that, assuredly, would be the end of days.

For now, though, I’ve got some reading to do.