Monday, April 4, 2011

Give a Monkey a Gibson: Behavioral Ecology and the Evolution of Sexual Selection (of Douchebags)


Original publication in We Still Like [] literary magazine, 2011 (3), pp. 42-47

            Contrary to evolutionary models of humanity that exaggerate the primacy of larger brains (an example of tail-wagging-dog), the freeing of our hands as a result of obligate bipedality is a popular and for more likely catalyst for the development of much of modern human behavior. It sheds considerable light on the fact that a lot of girls are inordinately attracted to guys who can play guitar, for example, even if they can only play the first three chords of about five songs by John Mayer and one or two by Tom Petty – the bare minimum, in other words.
I’d never really gotten my head around this unusual contingency, because, being an unwitting child of the “evolutionary” mythology that is still so prevalent in modern intellectual circles, I’d always assumed that people evolved to select for mates with adaptive traits that underscore their fitness as spouses and child-bearers; why, under that narrow paradigm, would broad swaths of young women be more attracted to a scraggly, awkward, and often jobless immature man-child than to a rugged, intelligent, hard-working young man? (I harbor no illusions about the fact that my wonder emanated primarily from basic jealously, which springs eternal.) How could the very aspects that make someone a terrible provider also make that person inordinately appealing? At last, evolutionary theory and behavioral ecology have provided a reasonable answer.
            Beginning several million years ago, humans started to walk upright rather than on all fours. The reasons for this are still unclear, and hypotheses range from the ability to grab fruit from trees to the ability to see farther away to, believe it or not, the ability to keep one’s head above water when evading water-shy lions by standing in a river. Whatever the reason, our upright stature subsequently freed our hands from the previously monopolizing purposes of forward ambulation and/or climbing. Suddenly, what with our opposable thumbs and all, we could grab, manipulate, and utilize tools, and it probably didn’t take long – the mere blink of an eye in an evolutionary sense – for this to begin having significant implications for the morphological future of our ancestors.
            Biological evolution is a non-linear, non-directional process of adaptation to environment by the selection and retention of preferable traits. This is typically, although certainly not always, done through the ubiquitous Darwinian method of “natural selection,” whereby limits and parameters of an ecosystem apply the selective pressures. In a cold climate, for example, animals with thick insulation and efficient homeostatic systems are the most likely to thrive; in snowy environments, animals that are lighter in color are the most likely to evade predators; and so on. When environments change, it is those animals that adjust in the fastest and most thorough manner to the new environmental parameters that gain the reproductive upper hand. But the term “environment” can be misleading, especially in our modern era of “environmentalism” which, at least in the popular sense, translates roughly to “ecstatic love for all natural things that aren’t human.” An environment is a conglomeration of living conditions, pure and simple, and environments can span the gamut from very basic organic ecosystems of soil and rain to exasperatingly complex constructs of concrete, steel, automobiles and computers and processed food-like substances. A house is an environment; so is a workplace, a community, a city, a country. And environmental conditions need not even be physically tangible things – in the modern world, for example, it is expected that people will obey laws and act in certain ways, even though expectations aren’t physical things and do not physically exert any force. And a person with a propensity to fulfill the incorporeal expectations of a cultural environment is “fit” in just the same was as an animal with a propensity for camouflage in a snow bank. This is known as “cultural selection,” as opposed to natural selection, and the erratic and largely unpredictable offspring of the two is called “sexual selection.”
            In his exhaustive tome The Ancestor’s Tale, evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins notes the following observation: “anytime I see sudden and erratic changes in evolutionary direction, I think sexual selection.” Sexual selection doesn’t really follow any rules, at least not in the sense that “rules” in science are thought to be logical constructs. Two of biologists’ favorite examples come from the world of birds. Peacocks have enormous fans of brightly-hued tail feathers, which take considerable and expensive proteins to construct; are heavy and bulky, and cause the bird unnecessary trouble in flight; and are effectively a PEACOCK OVER HERE sign to any predators that aren’t totally blind. The peacock’s elaborate fan is, in other words, opposed in every way to what logic dictates should be an advantageous adaptation, and yet the beasts proliferate – why? Because the sexual success of peacocks with the biggest and most alluring fans gives their genes a significant edge in the game of reproduction, such that a peacock with a gigantic and burdensome fan will likely father the bulk of offspring in a given area before succumbing to an almost-inevitable death in the jaws of a predator.
The other favorite example is a species of small birds that live in Papua New Guinea called bower birds. Male bower birds go to practically unbelievable lengths to create practically unbelievable twig-and-branch constructions, called “bowers,” that often look like gazebos or backyard canopies with elaborate collections of colorful items – flowers, bits of fruit, beetle wings, leaves, mushrooms, rocks – carefully and deliberately arranged inside like displays in a museum. Some of them are as large as garden sheds. Amazingly, these bowers are not simply large, densely decorated nests; the birds live and sleep in small, unassuming nests of common shape and size. The bowers are used exclusively to attract mates. More amazingly, these considerable showpieces also follow regional “customs,” so that a bower which may be considered a perfect and exemplary product in one area will not attract a single female mate in another. Parallels with human culture and its own regional customs are tantalizing. Meanwhile, the amount of time and energy involved in a small bird constructing something of that size, and amassing the requisite collection of baubles arranged throughout its interior, is a behavioral example of the same lack of logic that underlies the physical adaptation of peacock fans. But, again, the advantage outweighs the disadvantage: while a male bower bird may attract predatory attention and/or totally exhaust itself while erecting the most attractive bower in the region, he has a competitive edge over his rivals for passing on his genes beforehand.  
            While these examples seem to be inconsistent with commonplace logic they do fit comfortably into the predictive framework of behavioral ecology. As an evolutionary approach to understanding behavior, behavioral ecology approaches behaviors as sets of traits selected for their economic fitness (note: economic in the sense of general value, not in the specific sense of money). In the light of purely mechanical models of evolution, peacocks’ tails and bower birds’ twig-figured museums are unfit adaptations, being inefficient uses of energy and burdensome, predator-attracting frivolities; but in the light of behavioral ecology, these same phenomena exhibit fitness for their environments because their value to mates outweighs their mechanical disadvantages. In other words, even though gaudy tail feathers and excessive artistic displays wouldn’t seem to do anything for their creators other than shorten their life expectancies, the attractiveness of these things to members of the opposite sex is sufficient enough to neutralize and, indeed, exceed such limitations in the overall scheme of the environment. Their up-front value as attractors is greater than their long-term deficiency as perils, and so they are beneficial. In behavioral ecology this is known as “marginal value,” the idea that immediate value changes with quantity – be it amount or duration in time – and that something perceived as very valuable will be utilized immediately and excessively before it gets exhausted or depreciated. This isn’t always true, certainly, but in many cases it is, and in the case of sexual selection it appears to be true in spades.
            So what’s the connection between all of this and our upright stature and large brains? Chances are that, upon adapting and learning to walk upright, ancestral hominids almost immediately started using their dexterous and newly-freed limbs to manipulate (literally) tools. And chances are just as likely that they immediately started using this newfound boon to outcompete one another. The better one is at using his or her hands for constructing houses, collecting nuts and berries, hunting, building fires, weaving textiles or baskets, or whatever else can be imagined, the more likely that person is to have his or her genes passed along. In the beginning, it was almost definitely pure natural selection that exerted the selective pressure on the winners and losers in this scenario, as the people best-suited for survival were probably those who could best manipulate physical things to assure it. He or she who gathers the most food and keeps away the most lions is likely to have the most kids. And all the while, as manipulation techniques and, eventually, tools became more and more complex, so did the intellectual capacity that directed them – bigger brains, in other words, are most likely the result of increasing complexity of tasks related to manipulation of materials, or so the modern gospel goes. Additionally, at some point it is likely that simple ecological pressures were joined by the vagaries of sexual selection, and the same hands that were once used to secure survival and subsistence started to be used to impress others. This may or may not have been a conscious or deliberate development, and I rather suspect that it wasn’t, but it still goes a long way toward explaining artistic propensity and its exaggerated marginal value in at least one culture that comes to mind: mine.
            And now we come back to the issue of girls and their inordinate attraction to scruffy shitheads who can play guitar but display practically nothing else of social or biological worth. Bearing in mind that I am talking about my own experiences in contemporary Middle America, and that I can’t make any pronouncements on the male/female interactions in other societies for the simple reason that I’ve never lived in any others, I can say with certainty that this plays itself out over and over again in the modern United States and is by no means an unusual circumstance. True, the details may vary – in some cultural settings it isn’t guitar-playing but dancing, or snowboarding (an example of physical aptitude, to be sure, but by no means an example of fitness as a parent), or whatever – but the basic model is awfully common. In light of the revelations of behavioral ecology and the current evolutionary model that puts manipulative dexterity at the center of the development of the human animal, it seems not only likely but in fact very probable that people will, at some or several points in place and history, place far greater value on behavioral traits that are at once expensive and useless than on ones that are more advantages in a utilitarian or parental sense. For at least the foreseeable future, bower birds will continue to build extravagantly frivolous art galleries until they’re too tired to fly away from jaguars, peacocks will continue to waste egregious quanta of calories on tails that make them look just as appealing to their mates as to predators and poachers, and douchebags will spend all of their free time learning the catchiest bars of “American Pie” instead of studying math or exercising – and all of these will succeed gloriously in the face of logic and reason. No dog bites its own tail quite so hard as science, and we scientists are a toothy breed. I should have learned to play the guitar.  

Monday, February 14, 2011

The Spirit of Non-Spirituality: A Short Treatise on Materialism


Among the aspects of Taoism that first attracted me was its general answer to what Douglas Adams called the big questions about Life, the Universe, and Everything: “Stop asking questions.” Nowhere in any Taoist text will one find such a succinct pronouncement, of course – or at least it isn’t likely – but the idea pervades the literature, as when Lao Tzu said, “The Tao that can be spoken is not the Tao.” Mahayana or Zen Buddhism teaches another answer to the Big Questions: “Who is asking?” That is the jumping-off point for a lot of further dialogue concerning identity and ego and pride and desire and so on – for another time. To me the most striking of these closely-related perspectives is their insistence on the importance of the experience rather than on the knowledge that experience begets. In slang terms, the essence of Taoism is “work with the flow of the universe” and the essence of Zen is “be mindful.”

Now take a modern example: a sweater. Most of us own one. The typical sweater is a long-armed wool, cotton or synthetic garment, sometimes with a hood and usually sown pretty thick. They’re also decorated, most of them anyway, and some are bright and festive; some are dreary or fierce with skulls on them; some are hand-sown and “rustic”-looking; and still others are embroidered with logos for teams or groups or their manufacturers. And all of these things are symbolic. Just as it is considered vital to the modern experience to know what letters mean (all of which are entirely symbolic), or how to interpret – at terrific speed – all the various dials and signs within and without our automobiles, it is also considered vital to be able to see the “deeper meaning” behind a sweater. This one means its owner is thrifty. That one means the owner is stingy or poor. She got her sweater as a gift. He’s wearing one that demonstrates membership in his respective tribe (say, “punk” or “hipster”). More socially-conscious people can see deeper meaning still: that one was made cheaply in the Philippines by underpaid laborers; that one was made by a craftsperson with a sewing machine; that one was made in a big, polluting factory in Oregon; and so on. And why is that one so dirty – is its owner a slob? A hard-laborer? A dirty hippie? And why is that dude wearing a sweater in the middle of July?! These and myriad other questions all frame the following: what does the sweater mean?

It’s a sweater. The only meaning it has is in your head. It has no essential nature beyond “sweater,” at least not one that is self-evident; remove it from its cultural context and those meanings all change or disappear. Furthermore, no matter what you think a sweater represents, I’ll bet it’s something altogether else to a dog. It’s an olfactory reminder of its owner. It’s a bed to lie upon. It’s a chew-toy.

This is what’s implied by one of my favorite old Zen stories: someone once asked a Zen master, “What is the eternal nature of the world?” He responded, “It’s windy again this morning.” In other words: the deeper meaning of the world is the world itself, just-so. In still other words: stop asking. Of course, Zen tales aren’t meant to be interpreted in the way of a myth or a fable; they’re structured more like jokes than like moral tales, in that the intention is to create or induce a state of mind. But one is free to interpret them if one so chooses, in the same way that one is free to try and interpret a sweater. Whatever answer one finds is in his or her own mind – the thing is still just the thing.

Now take another example: a chunk of quartz crystal. To the geologist it is an example of a process, specifically a crystallization process. To a gem collector it is either “a marvelous new addition” or else “another one of those things I’ve already got.” And then there’s the spiritualist… It is a frozen beam of cosmic energy. It is a receptacle for mental powers. It is a vessel for ancient spirits to inhabit. It is a conduit to a realm of spirits that inhabit all of nature. It is a magnet for good fortune. It is a healing scepter. It is an aura-cleanser. It is…

It’s a rock.

Furthermore, it’s doing a superb job of being a rock, better than any actor with any amount of training. A chunk of quartz crystal is absolutely the finest example of a chunk of quartz crystal you can find in this wide world; anything else is an imposter. And the same can be said for everything else in the world – for trees and bushes, birds and flowers, and rocks and rocks and rocks. The world is beautiful, interesting and amazingly, intoxicatingly complex just the way it is; isn’t that enough?

Many people have, in many ways, pointed out the decline of religiousness in the modern world, which has left a lacuna that I find rather annoying, exemplified by what I like to call the Agnostic Credo: “There’s got to be more to all of this!” Yeah, maybe, but then maybe not; any philosophy that begs its own question is a three-legged one. Worse still is the more nebulous and begging phrase, “Everything happens for a reason.” Yes, as if there was a purpose for the movement of all energy in the universe – which may, in fact, be true, but if you can demonstrate to me how that purpose is made plain to human observers I’ll eat my hat. A more honest way to say that would be to cut “for a reason” off the end of it, but of course then you would just be stating the obvious. “It’s windy again this morning.”

For my part, I think this sort of thinking has more to do with socialization, acculturation, and the more simple psychological idea of imprinting than with people trying to fill a void previously filled with rampant religiosity. See, it was Pavlov who introduced us to the theory of imprinting when he got his dog to salivate at the sound of a bell – he, in other words, taught the dog that a ringing bell is more than just a ringing bell. He taught that the ringing bell had meaning. Note the word “taught” in that sentence, as opposed to “showed.” His teaching was within the parameters of a contrived experiment, and what it shows is contrivance. Pavlov did not just demonstrate learned behavior, which is no great thing; most behavior is learned. What he demonstrated was how learned behavior can be a conditioned response, and, more importantly, that interpretation can be taught in such a manner. Pavlov literally taught his dog that a ringing bell has a deeper meaning, a symbolic meaning, specifically interpreted as “food cometh.” What’s the difference between that and the person who sees deeper meaning in a sweater or a crystal?

I once read about a teacher who would, at the start of a new course with new students, produce a matchbox and say, “Now what is it?” Invariably some students would reply, “Matchbox!” “No, no, ‘matchbox’ is a word. This is not a word. I mean what is it really?” After the students looked around dumbfounded for a moment he would throw it at them. “There, that’s what it is.” And if you ask a great Zen master what will happen after you die, he or she might reply, “It’s windy again this morning.”

Finally, while it’s no great philosophical trick to show that the idea of something is not the thing itself, where I draw a harder line is on basic, earthly material experience. Most of what I’d call the higher philosophies (and no, I don’t just mean Eastern philosophies, I mean ones that are highly developed and well-worn) preach mindfulness, or being fully aware and involved in one’s doings and experiences, even if not necessarily consciously aware. But your eyes, your ears, and indeed your whole mind can only focus on so many things at once, and much of the time we go around swimming in thoughts and not focusing on the world around us at all. Most of what we see, in fact, is peripheral, and even when we’re staring something right in its face we’re seeing reels and reels of other sights in our minds. Many car crashes are caused by this. Meditation is a practice at focusing the mind, or rather at un-focusing it from trivialities. Better still, in the words of anthropologist Wade Davis, it is a method of calming our turbulent mental waters. But we needn’t go so far as all that. Just look at the sweater or the chunk of quartz crystal and see it, really see the thing without being distracted by the cloud of imagined accoutrements that swarm about and all but obscure it from view.

We are raised in a world of symbols and purpose, and we’re taught to believe that this is of utmost importance. And so it is, if you’re interpreting the symbolism on a menu or a stop sign, or if you need to remind yourself that the purpose of a sock is to keep your foot warm. And a sweater has an evident purpose, if not an evident meaning; its maker imbued it with purpose. But attaching symbolic meaning and, worse, a sense of purpose toward a part of the natural (that is: non-human) world, like a rock, detracts from the full experience of it. Maybe it is a healing rod or a wand of psychic energy and maybe it isn’t, but whatever else it may be it is most certainly a rock and it’s pretty damn good at being one. Show some appreciation.