In Vienna last week the Austrian Supreme Court, after weighty deliberation, decided that chimpanzees are not people. Bipedal hominids around the world breathed an existential sigh of relief as the ruling was handed down. Citizens and tourists of Vienna filled the central town square. Officials have scheduled an Opera Ball for later this month. For many, the decision brings a sense of closure and an end to a rocky period of uncertainty regarding man’s place in zoos.

You might think that The Typing Chimps would see this as a setback. But you’d be wrong. We didn’t want to be a part of your little club anyway. Who would want to become a member of a species so insecure it resorts to its highest court for assurance that it too won’t one day be scooped up in a net and displayed in a confined habitat for the amusement of others? (And, anyway, isn’t that what you have shopping malls for?) We wonder what’s next on the Wiener docket: Das Volk v. Snails?

“Your Honor, while The People appreciate a great number of striking similarities with our invertebrate colleagues – the lack of a spine and a slowness in moving, learning, adapting etc. - we strongly object to the insinuation in this comparison that people take several hours to copulate. Why, the mere thought violates the essence of human nature!”

We don’t hear the snails complaining.

That’s disgusting … I think.

Very few non-Muslim countries in the world take such a religious interest in the private faith of their public officials as does the US. Five minutes with a search engine can reveal in reverent detail a presidential candidate’s (exclusively Christian) relationship to his or her Big Campaign Manager in the Sky. The Washington Post, USA Today and, more predictably, Faux News even take the trouble to assemble a lineup for you, Lord knows why. But what do the potential leaders of the free-enterprise world think about science? Sci-what? You know, that trivial little discipline riddled with ‘justa theories‘ that cures diseases, builds skyscrapers and bridges and brought TiVo to the masses. You might get carpal tunnel syndrome before typing and clicking your way to semi-satisfactory answers. And even then it’s difficult to get a sober response to a question about stem cell research, nuclear power, evolution or environment without it being accompanied by a gratuitous Almighty-conceding sound bite. (Creation Care, anyone?)

We here at The Typing Chimps are partial to the topic of evolution. It makes us just want to sling feces and grunt a lot when we watch politicians bend over backwards to indulge creationists and not even give evolution the credit for developing a spine to perform such a difficult maneuver in the first place. As distasteful as we find the suggestion that we are descended from human ancestors, it is impossible to close our eyes to the wealth of evidence, try as we may. Instead we decided to find a source listing all the candidates’ positions on evolution and other scientific issues. After scrolling through numerous links about how candidates are shying away from science in their campaigns, we found two - TWO - whole sites offering a summary of candidates’ scientific views. Science magazine will only show you for a fee. But Popular Mechanics - you’ve read correctly - has compiled a gratis list of eight topics, five of which refer directly to science. And what do they call this list?

Geek The Vote 2008

Why ‘geek’? Because unlike a candidate’s favorite baseball team, ice cream flavor or church of worship, a candidate’s position on this or that scientific issue can only be of interest to people who deserve to be stuffed in high school lockers.

Make room for one more.

Ha-ha, Evidence-Supporting-Evolution! Now you can’t reach me!

Poor Lloyd. Our son’s been pooping toxic-green sludge since Christmas. Dr Google told us this is perfectly normal, even for children not living near coal mines or power plants. But recently the sludge turned to soup, so off to the pediatrician we went.

The forty-minute walk to his practice used to be a relaxing and scenic tour through the Preußisches Viertel (Prussian Quarter), home to some of Dresden’s most attractive villas. Lately, however, the tail end of our stroll past the Waldschlößchen Brewery overlooking the Elbe River has become more of a nuisance. Our route to the doctor takes us through the middle of a construction site for a bridge the city may or may not need. (It’s been a discussion topic for over a century – the Germans are, if nothing else, a thorough folk.) The latest lurch of this bureaucratic train has been toward building it, this time with the justification that traffic congestion is out of hand. Having spent too many precious hours of my fleeting youth in traffic jams on this very road, I can attest to the need for a solution.

Whether a bridge – or a tunnel, or a trebuchet – at this or any location would solve the problem is anyone’s guess. And as with all one-hundred-year-old urban development issues, this one has accumulated diverse camps of steadfast opinion, each one championing the vital element of existence, location, function, form or aesthetics. A few years ago, when the word “bridge” in Dresden still meant merely any span across a body of water, the city held a referendum. The people said: “Build the bridge!” And it was so. And the people were pleased. Right away stuffy architects with square-rimmed glasses, fast cars and offices somewhere near Stuttgart or Munich scoured their hard drives for generic bridge designs they always have ready to pawn off on paying customers. They scribbled down fancy explanations about the design’s harmonious interaction with the local environment, etc. etc. They waited. Deals would be made and broken, palms would be greased, construction would begin.

And then UNESCO came and ruined it all.

In 2004, UNESCO bestowed upon the people of Dresden and Saxony an honor so coveted in these parts that it made them forget all about their bridge plans: they gave them a title. In Germany it is still common – often expected – to use titles when addressing a title holder. If a person has a PhD in any discipline, they are called Herr/Frau Doktor. If they hold a PhD and a professorship, you call them Herr/Frau Professor Doktor. If they hold two PhDs … Herr/Frau Doktor Doktor. (They tell me it’s even worse in Austria. *shudder*) And if UNESCO says:

“Hear ye, hear ye! From this day heretohenceforthward, all those fields and trees along the Elbe River where you walk and picnic shall be given the title: World Heritage Site!”

Fanfare! Balloons!

Not just anyone has such a title (although with the list averaging 29 new properties per year, that could change soon). This is something to crow about, something to wear on your sleeve.

Not so fast! UNESCO said. If you build that bridge across the Elbe, you’ll lose your title.

And now it’s something to protect.

There are already seven bridges in Dresden.

After receiving the UNESCO title, however, there was only one Bridge. And it didn’t even exist. The mood changed quickly among the masses; We don’t want it anymore. Don’t build it! We are Herr/Frau World Heritage Site! But the architects had their deals, and the politicians had their greasy palms. The bridge would be built. You already voted for the bridge! the people were told, And a bridge you’ll get.

I have only good things to say about trees. They’re pretty. They’re important. We need them to breathe, to shelter wildlife and to keep neighbors from looking into our yards. I love going hiking in the woods and lying in the shade. I am appropriately appalled at the destruction of rain forests, though I’m sure my lifestyle contributes to it.

Things were looking bleak for the nouveau bridge opponents. In November of 2007, the first excavators rolled onto the scene and wasted no time in tearing out a landing-strip-size swath of World Heritage on both banks of the Elbe - the shadow of the bridge. Farther up the north bank, men with chainsaws cleared away scores of lofty birch trees to widen the narrow streets, exposing many innocent residents to the prying eyes of those next door. The swift action by the government to begin the project before any further legal proceedings bogged it down incited many citizens to protest. Small, orderly groups of concerned individuals holding signs gathered at the site. But no matter how high they stretched their placards into the air, the government would not capitulate. A few even resorted to megaphones. Still, nothing. Resigned to accepting a moral victory only, the protesters vacated the area and went home to have lunch.

In mid-December, the tree people came.

They are called “Robin Wood” and see themselves as modern-day Dukes of Hazard (who, according to their ballad, saw themselves as a true modern-day Robin Hood). Armed with nothing more than youthful idealism and several long novels - and maybe some of Uncle Jesse’s hooch - they hunkered down in the highest branches of the oldest death-row tree (about 200 years) and prepared to fight the good fight. “We’re not leaving unless you pull us down or let the tree stay!” they cried. Since this single birch is obstructing a 160-million-euro project, one might accuse these eco-amigos of not seeing the forest for the trees. Considering the forest was already mowed down in December and there is only one tree remaining, it’s an understandable mistake. What I can’t understand, however, is this:

Do you see it? No, not Mother Tree occupied by environmental do-gooders. This:

Their birch mobile. Just how many meters does that thing get per rocket fuel tank, anyway? And why is it that the Children of Gaia always like to pack themselves into such ozone annihilators on their way to the next drum circle à la the Partridge Family?

Hey kids, if you really want to save that tree, I’d push your wonder bus past state limits before blast-off.

But you’ll have to come down from on High first.

Despite being new parents, Katrin and I were still able to celebrate the New Year the way youngish, outgoing, decent people do: with music, food, drink and friends. This year’s bash was hosted by Susi and Stefan. Normally they spend New Year’s Eve with other friends in the Austrian Alps, but their five-month-old daughter decided she wanted to stay put this year. No problem, Lloyd had the same idea. A few other unfamiliar but kind faces were in attendance as well, and the evening, though not - how do the kids say these days - kickin’, was still far more lively than I would have thought with a four-month-old of our own.

We began the evening the way perhaps most of Germany begins it: by watching “Dinner for One”. Never heard of it? Don’t worry, almost no other English speakers, except Australians, have either. It is a brief (around 11 minutes) sketch about a butler and his aging mistress, Miss Sophie, who has outlived all of her friends. It is the evening of her 90th birthday, and despite her dear friends having been dead some 25 years, she still leaves a place for them at the dinner table. Almost the entire eleven minutes involve the butler pouring drinks for the deceased guests, toasting Miss Sophie for each one, becoming drunk in the process and regularly tripping over a tiger rug while making his rounds. This slapstick shtick, perhaps novel humor when it was first written in the 1920s, loses its comic edge after the first round nowadays. (Click here for a detailed review.) But the Germans, who have been watching it every year since the early 1960s, laugh just as hard as the studio audience, who’d only seen it once. The piece is originally British, and the term “British humo(u)r” will be used every time a German describes it, although the Brits don’t seem to agree - of the very few who’ve ever seen the piece, that is:

I’m a guest in their country, so I just smile along as if I get it. Once a year’s not going to kill me.

Katrin and I brought cookies:

We brought with us a peanut butter cookie mix I got in a Christmas survival package from my brother and sister-in-law. I’ve come a long way from the days of sneezing on all the cookies to disgust my brother so he’d give me his share as well. I had a hard time explaining to everyone at the party the word “Homemade” on the Betty Crocker packaging. “Well,” I offered, “it doesn’t say whose home.” Anyway, you still have to add butter and an egg. I mean, technically speaking….

After the appetizers, we moved straight to the main course:

Delivery sushi. Nothing glamorous, just good-ol’ Makizushi. There seemed also to be a tacit agreement among us that no one would use chop sticks, just to cut down on the pressure.

Another German New Year’s tradition involves lead. You melt a small piece on a spoon and toss the liquid into a bowl of cold water. The resulting form, however you interpret it, corresponds to a particular outlook for you in the coming year. Here is my shape:

I saw a miniature bull escaping the claws of a giant praying mantis. This symbol was not on the list of approved fates, however, and so I had to settle for a dog. Call me shallow, but I just don’t see it. Here’s Katrin’s:

This was by far the coolest of the lead lot. Any fortune teller can clearly identify a surfer dude “hanging ten” on a “gnarly” “wave”. If you can’t see that then you can just “23 skiddoo”.

Driving home from the party, we saw what appeared to be a burning car:

And it was. Aside from one Saturday every two years in Columbus, when Michigan came to Ohio State, I’d never seen a burning car in person before, much less one that was still right-side-up. Normally when one sees a car engulfed in flames, it’s already surrounded by firemen and gawkers. But when I got out of our own non-burning car, I was completely alone, an exclusive audience to what happens when a stray rocket meets a convertible top. Thankful that I finally had a subject worthy of posting on this site, I took a few pictures before I remembered what I’d learned from years of watching the A-Team: burning cars will explode, taking entire city blocks with them. Slowly - because you don’t want to piss the car off or anything - I returned to Katrin, and we drove away. Only when we’d put several city blocks between us and a fiery death did we stop again to call the fire department.

The next day we visited the in-laws in Weißig, where I cleared my head with a long walk in the country:

Happy New Year to all. And thanks, A-Team.