Where the action is.

I recently learned about an interesting section of the brain, one that gets a lot of use for a lot of people, maybe especially us Mets fans. I did not know that there was a part of the brain specifically devoted to dealing with this common issue. I am, of course, referring to the vomiting center. 

The Encyclopedia Britannica says that "Vomiting is believed to be controlled by two distinct brain centres—the vomiting centre and the chemoreceptor trigger zone—both located in the medulla oblongata."

It's a happening place.

That medulla oblongata is like the O'Hare Airport of embarrassing bodily functions, including sneezing and coughing. Since it handles digestion as well, I will assume it has a farting center or the like. It definitely has its own vomiting center, which is the gate of this airport we're looking at today. 

I guess I always thought that vomiting just kind of happened. The stomach and the senses could take care of business, and the brain's only concern was to butt out and get the body to a toilet, stat. But no, the brain's got to be in the thick of things no matter what.  

So how does this thing work to make for emesis? (Emesis is a pleasant way to say an act of vomiting.) The medulla oblongata contains that cool-sounding chemoreceptor trigger zone, and when the CTZ gets word from the blood that the stomach ought to remove its contents quickly, it telegraphs the nearby vomiting center. "Hey, VC, we got a problem," it says, and before the vomiting center can get any details it's already sending the EVAC notice to the glands and muscles involved in hurling. The vomiting center does not screw around. It takes its job seriously. 

Okay, that explains throwing up from food poisoning, drunkenness, chemotherapy, and opiates, among other things. But what about when there's no actual poison in the system? you wonder. What if you're seasick? 

That's actually a good question, and I'm glad I thought of it. The Merck Manual tells us that "The exact pathophysiology is undefined, but motion sickness occurs only when the 8th cranial nerve and cerebellar vestibular tracts are intact; those lacking a functional vestibulo-cochlear system are immune to motion sickness. Movement via any form of transportation, including ship, motor vehicle, train, plane, spacecraft, and playground or amusement park rides can cause excessive vestibular stimulation." 

So excessive vestibular stimulation is somehow involved, although how it causes the vomiting center to light up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center is a matter of debate. Its efficiency is, however, undeniable, especially at the fairgrounds when your child comes off the Spindizzy Heavemaster ride and lets the stew of corndog and chocolate ice cream fly on your new Jumpmans. 

The human brain is an absolutely amazing biological construction, but sometimes it seems like it's being controlled by a moron. Like a high-tech cutting-edge experimental jet being controlled by a chimpanzee using an Etch-a-Sketch. And that's not even considering the stupid things we do on purpose. On that topic I could blog every day for a year.  

Do snakes sneeze?

Large dog Tralfaz had a sneezing attack, three in a row, to which each got a "Bless you!" from me. His sneezes really seem to take a toll. I'm the same way.

It occurred to me that sneezing is one of the things that dogs and people do similarly. We don't walk or run the same way, due to the leg-number situation, and on that note we don't release waste products the same way. We don't eat the same way -- dogs have atrocious table manners -- and we certainly don't drink the same way. Dogs' method of drinking is pretty comical when you look at it. They seem to work awfully hard to take in small amounts of water. An alcoholic dog would have a rough time of it. (Or a "ruff" time! Har har never mind.)

True, dogs don't cover their noses when they sneeze, but neither do a lot of people I won't name but will be silently judging.

I suppose that the further something lies from us in the animal kingdom, the less things we do in a similar way. You read a lot of little known facts along those lines online all the time. "The Madagascar Zoonie Fly only drinks by absorbing water through its wings!" -- I just made that up, but it's the kind of thing we learn when we look around at the various critters in our world. Some things on this earth are more alien than anything any SF writer ever dreamed up.

It got me to wondering if snakes sneeze. Reptiles are a giant step away from us, away from live birth and warm blood and into egg-laying and cold blood. I understand that snakes smell with their tongues. But they seem to have li'l baby snake nostrils. So, sneeze?

Yes! Kind of. But apparently it's bad news if they do. It's apparently not a sneeze like we on the mammal side of the tracks know it, because snakes have no diaphragm, which in us is a key mover in the sneeze operation. So if a snake is doing something that sounds like a sneeze, it could be a sign of an infection or another problem. On the other hand, iguanas and some other lizards sneeze salt, which sounds like the makings of a cheap monster movie to me (Saltzooka! King of the Salt Lizards).

Having solved the riddle of reptile sneezing, I decided to see if bugs sneeze. They do not. Which is good. I'd hate to see a little ladybug blow herself across the room.

But maybe they're missing out. There is something almost satisfying in a really good sneeze. I almost enjoy it, if it doesn't hurt and I don't embarrass myself with a lot of nasal discharge. I wonder if the dogs enjoy a good sneezeroo too.

And I note that we're supposed to get a lot of snow and ice this weekend. I wonder if Saltzooka is busy...?

Armed and trivial.

This week on Trivia Corner we examine 10 incredible fun facts about those thingies coming out of your shoulders--that's right: Your ARMS!

1. A car's airbag deploys and inflates in .04 seconds. The only safety device faster is your mom's arm whapping you across the breastbone.

2. Carpal Diem = It hurts when I seize the day.

3. The original name of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda was Spleen & Sponge. Other attempts at product names were Noggin & Hatchet, Thumb & Screw, Colon & Lathe, Ankle & Wrench, and Ass & Adze, before the arm was finally selected, along with a hammer.

4. A seven-armed octopus is not a septopus; it is a differently abled octopus.

5. The first draft of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms was entitled Enough with the Arms. Correspondence between him and his editor reveals other titles they considered: Get the Arm Outta Here; Armen't Ya Glad the War Is Over?; Hit the Road, Arms; Arms! Feh!; and The Legs Can Go Too. Finally Hemingway's editor suggested he stop drinking absinthe.

Took a while but he dried out.

6. The bone in the upper arm is called the humerus--so never let anyone tell you that you don't have a humerus bone in your body.

AMAZING FACT! Pope Hilarius also two humeruses!

7. By some accounts, when the serpent met Eve, he said, "Don't be a-scaert o' me, mate! I'm perfectly 'armless."

8. The word armistice comes from the Latin arma (shoulders) and solstitium (solstice), arma having come to refer to weaponry (as in the terms armor, army, armada) and solstice coming from sol (sun) and stare (stand). So armistice means shoulders sun standing. And we think other languages are weird.

Another work by Hemingway.

9. When Hamlet says "to take Arms against a Sea of troubles, And by opposing end them," he's not talking about fighting, he's talking about swimming.

10. There is a condition known as Saturday Night Palsy, numbness in the arm caused from passing out with the arm over the armrest of a chair, compressing the radial nerve. Similarly, Honeymoon Palsy is caused by someone sleeping on your arm, compressing the radial nerve. Saturday Night Honeymoon Palsy is when a drunk person or persons passes out on your arm overnight, I guess.

Health is disgusting.

At a meeting the other day a young attendee brought a plastic cup filled with some green sludge. He drank it throughout the meeting. As he seemed a levelheaded sort in other regards, I asked him what the cup full of slime had been.

"Um, I forget exactly," he said. "Spinach... no, kale. Kale, mango... lemon juice, it's very lemony... It's really healthy. I feel better already."

"It had to be healthy," I noted, "since it was so repulsive."

I went on to applaud him for forcing down something that looked that bad. He maintained that it tasted pretty good, and again, that it was healthy.

"Lots of things that are healthy look horrible," I said.

"Huh?"

"Like a human spleen. A perfectly healthy human spleen looks pretty disgusting when you're holding it in your hand."

He was willing to concede the point. I knew the kid was levelheaded.

I had nothing nearly so healthy for lunch. In fact, for dinner I had a double BBQ burger with the potato chips right on it from Jake's Wayback. It may not have been healthy, and I'm sure it wasn't healthy for the cow. But unlike the green scum juice, or the human spleen, it absolutely looked great.

Now I have to outlive the kid. Just on general principles.

Boy, if I had a nickel...

Charlie had had that nightmare---where he shows up for work naked---so many times
 that he didn't realize he had done it when he actually did it. 

Parts and their roles.

I was thinking the other day about how certain verbs are associated with certain parts of the body. Nerves are racked, hair stands on end, and so on. Of course, something stupid had to come of it, and I'm pleased to share it with you. 

Verbal Bodies (Scored for Organs)

Some bodily bits are stuck in a rut.

See how your spine always tingles?

It could jingle or jangle or mingle or mangle,

But sure as the break of your back,

The nerve will conform and become the nerve racked,

Ever neat, always sweet and compact.

The gut likes to wrench in a similar way.

It surely could demonstrate torque,

But no, the gut wrenches, at terrors and stenches,

At things you should flick off your fork.

You can kvetch and complain and go call the cops,

But it’s only a belly that flops.

Your eyes only bug and your ears only burn

And your hair never lifts, but it raises,

Your kidneys and spleen are never so keen

On such terrible public displayses.

Your teeth clench and rattle; your tongue likes to twist.

Your Islets of Langerhans never do thist.

But the heart has a number of tricks it can try. 

It aches or it stops or it pounds.

It bursts out in stages, it batters rib cages

And thunders incredible sounds,

I can't quite explain the heart's large repertoire;

Such drama just seems to thrive down in the core.