The Evil in Darwin

Dig back, for some of you way back, to the days of basic science class. You remember those classes that you likely spent 98% of staring at the girl/boy whom had so captivated your brimming hormonal lust? I want you to think of the other 2% of the time where you screwed up, or on those unfortunate occasions when Suzy or Javier were sick, and you actually paid attention. Though I am sure the memory is painfully tinged with disappointment at not having pleasantly distracting eye-candy, press through and remember with me. Do you remember how that science teacher how seemed to speak solely through their nasal passage droned on about early humans? How they seemed to just face and overcome whatever obstacle the natural world presented them? Do you recall that word they used to encompass so succinctly our seemingly inborn survival mechanism? No...I didn't think so, because you just remember having to sit next to the kid who was flatulent right? Fair enough then.

I do not mean to sound holier-than-thou however. I speak not from above you but with you. I did not remember either and had to go through exhaustive memory jogging and research to finally recall the word. The short story is: adaption is what we humans have long employed to conquest new and unexpected changes in our daily lives. We humans are quite simply homeostasis machines; when something changes outside we change inside to be able to thrive in the new atmosphere. We can change literally anything and often for the better.

Last night I lay in bed jogging tiredly through memory for the term from long-ago science classes when it occured to me the ways in which I had adapted in my brother's absence. Then it struck me that adaption was something like Darwin's ginormous twin-edged sword. Adaption it should seem can be for better or worse. You can adapt to thrive as would sensible people like for instance Jon and Kate Gosselin...adapt to having more children than all of Ethiopia by leasing your children's infancy to cable television. Or adapt like Dick Cheney by attempting to retain the fading limelight by standing on ever shakier podiums and looking like an ass.

I adapt on the Cheney model. Probably because I lack eight children to give life-long psychological trauma by age 3. Or more likely because like Cheney in the absence of something really terrific all I have left are podiums I create to remember what better times were like. In the history of bad trades Cheney and I are the top of the list. He traded a virtual presidency for sounding like a grumpy, jaded, near-criminal. I lost a brother and all I got was this hollow blog...you can slap that right on a t-shirt and give it to relatives you don't really care about. I read longingly as my younger womb-mate fills what tiny void my absence has created with Gelato and Rome's rich culture. I fill a canyon with blog posts and protein powder. The economist in me recognizes the emotional trade deficit only long enough to intiatie denial Bear Stearns style.

Perhaps Cheney and I should hang out. Maybe get to know one anothers similarities on some sort of retreat...or maybe a hunting trip. I hear he's a crack shot.