Posts Tagged ‘Jurassic Park’

Want To See a Dinosaur? Check the Barnyard.

January 4, 2012

My genes are waiting...

I have been reading about evolutionary developmental biology. It’s hardly my proper purview, but when a dude who worked on Jurassic Park says a real-life resurrection may be in store for the dinosaur…well, please, tell me more.

I recently tried this stuff out at a dinner party and it didn’t disappoint, so I thought you guys might like to be in on it, if you weren’t already.

Evolutionary developmental biology, or evo-devo, is the subject of archeologist Jack Horner’s 2009 book, How To Build A Dinosaur, co-authored by New York Times science editor James Gorman.

Horner is not simply a movie consultant (though the character of Alan Grant in the Jurassic Park film is based on him). He’s a world-renowned paleontologist who discovered the first dinosaur eggs in the Western Hemisphere and developed the foundation of everything we know about dinosaur nesting, parenting, and even fossilized dino embryos.

As How To Build a Dinosaur unfolds, evo-devo does not seem to me like a new field of science, but rather a glorious, unheralded mash-up of paleontology, embryology, microbiology, genetics and evolutionary science. There’s something for everyone, except, of course, the Creationists. To them, a chicken is a chicken because the Bible says so – rest assured: there was a coop aboard Noah’s Ark.

Plus, if I were Noah, I don't think I could have gone forty days and forty nights without an omelet.

Contemporary evo-devo devotees want to know how different creatures’ development itself evolved. What can we learn about relationships between different species by looking at similarities in their embryonic development? Can we track the evolution of their developmental processes? To scientists and thinkers like Horner and Gorman, the humble chicken, just like you and me, is a punctuation mark on the whole stunning spectrum of life on Earth. Instead of seizing upon the profound personal insignificance this perspective could excite, I would rather dwell on the amazing reality of my connection to everything else that ever lived on the planet.

Of course, most of the things that swam, walked, hopped, crawled, ran, photosynthesized and flew on the face of the earth are extinct. Six billion years or so is a long time. If Earth’s history was a 24-hour TV schedule, humans probably wouldn’t even fill up the time-slot of a Geico commercial.

Anyway, part of the reason we’re all so well-connected – whether living or extinct – is that nature is more economical than my Aunt Doreen, who refused to throw out yogurt cups in case someone could use them.  Just as Aunt Dor knew that the yogurt cups could become bead-holders or kindergarteners’ projects, nature knows that the genes of different species need only be modified, not replaced (you, my friend, share almost 60% of your genes with the fruit flies in your kitchen).

Evo-devo helps us to understand that when new species of animal emerge, nature hasn’t formed their genes from scratch. Instead, their genes are sculpted and modified from existing genetic codes. In many cases, vast physical differences between earlier and later species who share a common ancestor are less a matter of different genes and more a matter of similar genes being expressed (switched “on” or “off”) in different ways. If you go far enough back on the evolutionary tree, you’ll find some pretty surprising common ancestors. For example, it is generally accepted nowadays that if you want to glimpse dinosaurs’ living relatives, don’t look for geckos and alligators. Hang a birdfeeder.

Q: what kind of dinosaur is this? A: a chicken.

Based on what they can deduce about the bone structure and anatomy of dinosaurs, paleontologists have been suggesting for years that modern birds are descended from dinosaurs. As Horner points out, there is even a distinctive kind of bone tissue found nowhere in the world but in female birds just prior to egg-laying. Now, we’ve also found it in the fossilized bones of a female T-Rex.

As Horner explains at length, the field of paleontology, traditionally a realm of fossil-hunters and educated guesses based on the assembly of fossilized skeletons and maybe a few eggs and footprints, is merging with radical new technologies that allow us to look into the microscopic physical and chemical structure of dinosaur bones like we never have before. As new technologies allow us to extract proteins and collagens and even the traces of blood cells and vessels from fossilized remains (though not DNA, not yet) and compare them to the make-up of living creatures, it becomes more and more clear that birds and dinosaurs are not-so-distant cousins.

Here, I would just like to say that it’s about time someone pulverized a dinosaur bone and put it into a mass spectrometer. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Horner.

Embryology joins the fray as well. The history of the relationship of embryology and evolutionary science is complicated – a formerly popular, overly-simplified theory states that developing embryos can be seen to briefly exhibit characteristics of all the species that preceded them. This view has fallen in and out of favor, and while it’s far from an exact science at this point, it’s at least been invited back to the party along with modern paleontology, microbiology, genetic and evolutionary sciences.  I’ll tell you more in a minute.

As Horner explains, the idea of bringing dinosaurs back to life with preserved DNA à la Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park will always be fiction. As far as we can tell, there just isn’t any actual DNA to be found in bodies that are over 65 million years old.

Unless you know where to look – and you have a modicum of genetic science at your disposal.

How about the genes of a living animal which calls the dinosaurs family?

Here is where embryology looms large in the research Horner profiles. Did you know that while no modern bird’s skeleton includes a true tail, a chicken embryo (given to exhaustive investigation due to its size and easy availability) briefly and confidently exhibits the beginnings of eighteen extra vertebrae – a very long tail for an embryo the size of a quarter. Then, in a process that shocked observing scientists, the growth process of this tail comes to a complete halt and then reverses itself into the modern single nub of bone that modern birds sport at the end of their backbones (this is a drastically over-simplified version, read the book for yourself, ok?).

Just as paleontologists puzzle over exactly when certain anatomical changes occur in the great sweep of evolution, with slowly morphing fossil forms as their evidence, modern lab scientists hang giddily over chicken eggs to figure out exactly what gene factors regulate both the growth and the disappearance of their chickies’ tails. Are these the same genes whose modification over time led to the loss of a tail in birds, whose species owe their lineage to the dinosaurs?

In other words, the genes for dinosaur tails may be running all over the henhouse – they’ve just been switched off.

Can we figure out which factors are responsible for halting that tail growth in modern bird embryos? If so, could we turn those factors off and hatch a chicken with a great big tail? Or teeth? Or arms instead of wings? It’s possible.

There are massive challenges – like proving the chicken-with-a-tail has in fact harkened back to a natural earlier genetic form, rather than being a one-time modern freak. Plus there’s the problem that no-one’s really studied the development of tails like they’ve studied the development of, for example, limbs (it seems that people are chiefly interested in the structures they possess). What would we compare the results of our dino-tail experiments to, if we’re not even sure of the basic laws of normal tail genetics? Scientists are working on it.

Those who would throw up their hands and wish that science could devote itself to something more useful than vestigial dino tails should remember that tails are extensions of the backbone and spinal cord, and therefore the study of tail growth could unlock new knowledge of spinal growth factors in all vertebrates, including, for example, babies born with Spina bifida.  Knowing what gene factors contribute to proper spinal growth could open a whole new world of prevention for life-threatening birth defects. Thanks, dino-chickens.

It all comes back to the same idea, you see. We’re all connected.

And now, I have little more to add but two pieces of my own scientifically-based artwork, which are sure to have invaluable benefit to scientists working in every aspect of this field.

fig. 1: Chickosaurs

fig. 2: Ch. Rex

P.S. If you’re interested in reading more about evolutionary science at work in American culture, particularly if you are religious, I highly recommend Monkey Girl by Edward Humes and Finding Darwin’s God by Kenneth Miller.

The Truth About E.T.

February 28, 2011

Between a fish’s bone shaped like the crucifixion, an unopened set of twenty-year-old Pac-Man erasers, and a lapel pin embossed with the words “New Jersey and You”, my mother picked up a squat, brown plush figure with blue plastic eyes.  A visit to your parents can mean a respite from life’s adult worries – or it can be a resurrection of your most childish fears. “Oh, look, you guys!” Mom said, holding out the toy. “Your favorite!” My brother and I froze.

I had joined my mom and younger brother, Brad, on their weekly trip to the local auction house. As the auctioneer’s assistant, hidden by the press of bidders, hoisted the objects high, it seemed as if the coin cases, antique model trucks, and cut-glass decanters were crowd surfing at a nostalgia concert. Brad combed through the laden tables, gauging eBay resale values like a bloodhound on the scent.  I wondered who had stored these things in their homes, why the stuff had ended up at auction, and who in the crowd would be moved to give that “Family Ties” board game a new home. There were dusty oil paintings, an African wood carving, Ford and Coca-Cola memorabilia, a box of faux-jewel-studded broaches in the shape of giraffes, and a child’s ID badge from the 1965 World’s Fair. Petrified sharks’ teeth vied with weathered, amorphous civil war bullets, and tarnished candle-sticks straight from a haunted mansion presided over a stack of ragged three-foot dolls, limbs entwined in baleful bewilderment. I became engrossed in a book about Lucille Ball while my mother bid on a teacup painted with dogwood blossoms, my husband hovered over a camera from the 1950’s, and Brad amassed a box of autographed sports photos and a remote-control car.

There was something for everyone, in other words. But, as our mother very well knew, the detritus of a thousand attics, dining room cabinets and outgrown bedrooms will always harbor just as many things that are not for everyone.

I have to back up a bit to explain why the brown toy made our blood run cold. Please come with me from the auction house to the video store (or, nowadays, a nice Netflix session). Just like the auction tables, a buffet of movies reveals the endless variety of human tastes. Whether it’s inspirational racehorses, Katherine Heigl playing a buttoned-up woman in need of a roguish man to loosen her up, or hard-bitten young women trussing and torturing their former abusers, we can all find something we’re in the mood to rent. However, each of us can also find something we’d never watch in a hundred years.

Though my taste in movies is broad and eclectic (I like watching Lizzy confront Lady Catherine De Bourgh as much as I like it when Ripley duels the grand bitch alien of them all) there is a goodly list of things I just won’t watch. Movies set on submarines are out because I’m too claustrophobic to enjoy them, and, in my mind, a story set on a submarine has a substantially higher risk of incurring another situation I can’t abide, namely scenes of near-drowning in which water rapidly fills a small area where the protagonists are trapped. Other movies which need not apply to my DVD library are any that might have even one close-up, glistening, slow-motion treatment of the blood, sweat and saliva slinging from a man’s face after a boxer’s punch. Or, worst of all, movies where the dog dies.

Everyone draws the line somewhere. My mother refuses to watch anything with ghosts in it – bend your index finger and moan “Redrum! Red-rum!” and she just about loses it. One of my college friends had a phobia of mud, and it’s surprising how many movies this ruled out for her – she wasn’t bothered by the T-Rex in Jurassic Park: it was the mud he stepped in.  My dad can’t abide Julia Roberts – he claims it’s the vein that pops out of her forehead when she emotes.  And to my knowledge, there is only one film that my brother and I both refuse to watch under any circumstances.

Brad and I don’t have much in common. He ruled golf camp and I took art classes. He rode a unicycle while juggling in the high school talent show, and I was editor of the school paper. He played the keyboard and cornet, and I could barely squawk out a tune on my plastic recorder.  He excelled at chess, while Monopoly made me hostile.  But we both agree that E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial is the most terrifying movie we’ve ever seen.

As I recall, Mom and Dad were united in the suggestion: let’s rent E.T. tonight and watch it as a family. I remember my trepidation – somehow I had seen pictures of the alien in question and there was something ineffably sinister about E.T. – but Dad took me on his knee and told me how nice it would be to watch it all together, and I agreed to try it.

We got the VHS at the local Blockbuster. It was the beginning of a lifelong saga of fear and few things united my brother and me more. The magic of the supposedly touching intergalactic friendship was lost on us. We remembered the gravelly, otherworldly voice. We remembered the scrawny-armed, ungainly, pot-bellied figure creeping through the yard, eating Reese’s Pieces with nightmarish long fingers, one of which glowed fiery red at its bulbous tip. And the part where E.T. becomes sick and turns milky white and he and the little boy are laid in a horrifying hospital tent with plastic tubes for hallways – don’t even get us started. Brad, at five years old, never actually made it to the end of the movie. At twenty-five, he still doesn’t want to know how it ends. “E.T. phone home,” we’d intone when we wanted to scare each other. Home was a place where there were no E.T. videocassettes.

Fortunately, it was relatively easy to keep E.T. out of our lives. The closest I came to E.T on a regular basis was a plush version which loomed over the children’s section of our public library, which annoyed me not just because it was scary, but because I could not divine what E.T. had to do with literature.

But little did I know the cinematic purgatory that awaited us on a two-year streak of Thanksgivings spent with our otherwise beloved aunt and uncle in North Carolina. Our relatives were wonderful hosts with a pool and a TV room, and one day I even discovered an abandoned stash of Beverly Cleary books. After dinner on our first Carolina Thanksgiving, I went upstairs to the pillowy, cave-like TV room to ring in the Christmas season with the annual primetime broadcast of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. But apparently that wasn’t the only traditional airing – my aunt was waiting for her favorite movie to come on, the movie that always made her cry in the end; it was such a nice family movie, would we watch it with her?

When I realized that E.T. was about to come on, I battled with myself about the polite thing to do. The right thing would be to stay on the couch and watch E.T. along with my affectionate aunt. But by comparison, curling up with Henry and Beezus seemed like the Promised Land. I sidled out of the room, but cursed myself for my cowardice – was it really so scary? I made myself re-mount the stairs just as the young Drew Barrymore encountered E.T. hiding in a closet of stuffed animals. She screamed as the wide-eyed loaf of his head shot upwards on its accordion snake of a neck, and I fled the area.

Later that night, nestled in a sleeping bag on the floor and watching the open bedroom door, I imagined that E.T. crept on his knobby, ape-like feet down the shadowy hallway.

The next year Thanksgiving presented an obvious dilemma and I was preoccupied during dinner. If I went up to the TV room to watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, would anyone remark upon my missing the annual horror show that followed? Could I depart unnoticed or would I be obligated to explain my childish fears? In the end, I decided to forgo Rudolph altogether so that my absence during E.T. could be attributed to a general disinterest in watching TV.

Perhaps the old public library had had a yard sale. Wherever he came from, E.T. was back, staring up at us from the auction table. Washed up on the auction’s island of misfit junk, there was a steadfast melancholy in those plastic eyes, and for the first time ever I thought about E.T’s side of the story: a weird but admittedly benign little creature alone in a strange world. Someone had hoarded – or maybe even loved – this plush E.T.: how had he ended up here along with the erasers and the Jesus-shaped fish parts?  If I recall correctly, his live-action counterpart was finally whisked away in a Spielberg-esque spaceship of his peers (the little boy, inexplicably, seemed sad rather than relieved to see E.T. go). But I doubted that the E.T. in my hands could command the minimum five-dollar bid. Perhaps someone would throw him in with the pin from New Jersey, but either way, there was no going back for him.

I lost interest in the bidding before I saw who took E.T. home that night. I found a chair on the sidelines, did a crossword puzzle, and wondered if my brother would watch E.T. with me if I asked him to. As we’ve survived and even enjoyed movies like The Silence of the Lambs, The Exorcist and Paranormal Activity (rich ground for apartment-related nightmares) in the intervening years, it’s unlikely that E.T. would stir the terror that it once did, and we could put the whole thing to rest. My mother (who barred us from watching The Simpsons because it was “crass”) would certainly appreciate an end to the teasing about how she scarred our childhood with E.T. But something told me that there will be no further viewings of The Extra-Terrestrial.  Just like the childhood things we know our parents would never auction off, such a long-lived, luminous fear – particularly when it’s shared – may just be something we like to come home to.

 

 

 


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