Hair of the Dog

Not all alcohol's are created equal. Defined by the telltale -OH group, alcohol ranges from deadly toxin to delightful intoxicant, all dependent on the number of carbon atoms it carries. Ethanol, the friendly molecule in vodka, cause of merriment and only a modicum of increased cancer risk and cirrhotic liver damage, is the safest of all these. But we have not always restricted ourselves to consumption of this only moderately toxic iteration. Prohibition carried with it an epidemic of blindness, a side effect of cheap bootleggers using woodchips in their fermentation process. Methanol, you see, that solitary carbon alcohol, is acutely toxic, both in the pleasant warming nervous system depressant way, and in the terrible formaldehyde producing metabolism kind of way.

We still see methanol induced blindness. We see it mostly in suicide attempts, but the acute (drinking methanol to end it all), and the long form (alcoholics who are too broke for regular booze). The toxin starts off like regular alcohol, inducing inhibitory effects throughout our brain, slowing our breathing, making everything just a bit distant and complicated. The issue arises when we try to get rid of it, our cellular machinery breaking it down into component parts. The components, with methanol, are worse than the whole, and formaldehyde courses through us, blocking our energy metabolism at every step. The damage to our cellular resources can be staggering, and deadly.

We can help though. We can decrease the metabolism of methanol, forcing it into a slower elimination with less acute toxicity. We do this with alcohol. Ethanol, to be precise, straight into your veins. You will be drunk as a skunk, and the ethanol will block the metabolism of methanol, using up all the available alcohol dehydrogenase.

How is that for hair of the dog that bit you?

Better Know Your Hermaphrodites

We all began this world as girls. The male genome differs from the female in the key fact of extra genetic material (well, extra expressed, less overall). A tiny Y chromosome, with a tinier gene known as SRY, informs the masculine fetus that the uterus and vagina they were developing are of no use, instead growing a second set of tubes (our former embryonic kidney), into a new, more standing up to urinate appropriate set of equipment. This duct, known in medical circles as the appropriately manly "wolffian duct," is activated by Testosterone, the overproduction of which is the definitive physiological trait of manhood. The external genitalia, the organ on which we of the far less fair sex place so much importance, is derived from signals using dihydroxytestosterone (DHT), otherwise known as the hormone that makes you go bald and get a swollen prostate (about 40-60 years down the road). At the same time, mullerian inhibiting factors are obliterating your once promising female genital tract, obliterating the paramesonephros.

But remove these signals, and we develop along the baseline, into someone that is almost a women. You see, we still express baseline levels of estrogen, so in the absence The signals can be broken in several different places, causing several different outcomes.

One breakage can be in the production of testosterone. A 17-alpha hydroxylase deficiency we can't manufacture the copious testosterone needed to inform our bodies what to do, and without the testosterone, there is no DHT. Depending on the damage, the XY fetus would develop as either a partial hermaphrodite (small penis, blind vaginal pouch), or as a women. This all depends on the degree of insufficiency, a sliding scale of gender.

A 5-alpha reductase deficiency will block the production of DHT, leading to an entirely male form, except for that ego and gender defining locus, the genitalia. Ambiguous at best, these infants force the doctor to say "I'm not sure" when announcing the sex. They are male, of course, but will need hormone shots, and possibly a bit of surgery, to function normally.

Androgen insensitivity implies a child whose cells blithely ignore the flood of testosterone, developing quitely into almost female. These children are sterile, presenting with complete lack of internal genitalia. The testicles do develop marginally, and have a distinct tendency to get stuck in the inguinal canal (the site of the hernia), where they also need to be removed to prevent any cancerous development. They are the simplest, because genome aside, they are essentially girls. Typically tall, slender girls, with symmetrical bodies, larger than average breasts, and no body hair. (think about that next time you look at a model)

The true hermaphrodite, the fully formed penis and vagina, is the rarest of breeds. In class, one day, discussing this phenomenon, we heard a professor utter the most odd of screeds: "Its easier to dig a hole then build a pole." These children are almost always forced into feminity, regardless of their intention, because thats the way our society directs the outcome.

Masculinity is a narrow thing. Perhaps we shouldn't take it so seriously?

Mythomania

They want your blood. The beasts of our unruly imaginations, the vampires and werewolves of our gothic past, they want that vital stuff that drives you. The myths have existed for centuries, these dark companions of humanity. Our shadow siblings have survived ages in the comfortable dark, serving as the stuff of nightmares for all of us who have ever started at an unknown shape in the night. These creatures represent our collective fear of the black, the unknown. But these creatures, oddly enough, are based on reality. In fact, they are based on biochemistry.

It all comes down to the blood. Uroporphyrinogen decarboxylase, a simple (well, not so simple) enzyme, designed to help break down you assemble your hemoglobin. Hemoglobin, of course, is the wonderful material that serves your blood so ably as a sherpa of oxygen. Oxygen, however, is the hazardous trade of biochemistry. We need it to drive the reactors that keep our cells flush with energy, but like any source of energy, it comes with risks. As a substance, it loves to attack us for our electrons, to damage the infinitely delicate material that makes up cells and DNA, our molecular identity. To tame this unruly resource we have harnessed equally dangerous materials, locking reactive intermediates into a closed ring, our own tamed beast: hemoglobin.

Each stage of hemoglobin assembly has an intermediate flush with potential destructive capability. It is this chain of manufacture, this biochemical supply line, that gives us our favorite myths. The vampire involves a form of porphyria (a breakdown in the enzymes for hemoglobin assembly) in which a byproduct forms that is extremely reactive to sunshine. This leads to someone who is constantly anemic (and thus hungry for the salty iron of blood), and prone to immediate and dramatic burns upon exposure to sunlight.

The werewolf suffers from hypertrichosis, hair growing from every surface. These poor individuals might suffer from a slightly different porphyria, that of cutanea tarda. They also burn, but the more dramatic side effect of failed synthesis is an overgrown thatch of hair. everywhere.

These deep dark myths, these reflections of the lost soul of humanity, are merely the deranged impressions the sick leave on the uninformed. This extends to our other monsters in human form, the zombie (most likely suffering from hansen's leprosy), the cyclops (holoprosencephaly), and the mermaid (sirenomelia).

Funny how understanding makes it less mysterious, but more disturbing. These creatures aren't the stuff of legend. They are the sad reality of disease.

Make Room for Dinner

One of the most disturbing and odd facets of masculine culture is the reflection and embrace of our digestive systems, particularly the strange communion many men have with the porcelain throne. Beyond the establishment of gaseous expulsions as a hilarious form of art, men commonly seem to want to discuss the quality, quantity, and enjoyment of eliminating solid waste.

Descendants of this fascination include numerous euphemisms and contexts for when one really has to take a shit. Dropping the kids off at the pool, the deuce, and a myriad of others have become commonplace, if unpleasant, phrases. One of the more common concepts of this milieu is the idea of "making room for dinner." The concept underlying this is that if one was to use the facilities, dinner would be better received, as one would have "made room."

It always bugged me when people said this. In general, I never really enjoy hearing about folks fecal fun. It bugs me only slightly less now that I know that this mythos of masculine misanthropy is actually a legitimate fact.

The gastroileal reflex is a system by which distension of the stomach actually triggers increased movement in the ileum (part of your small intestine), and dilates a sphincter allowing food to pass from the small intestine (where it is absorbed into the body as nutrients) to the large (where it is prepared to be expelled). A natural peptide called gastrin, released to increase stomach acidity and break down the various products you consumed, teams up with your autonomic nervous system to literally "make room for dinner."

Which doesn't actually make saying it any less tacky.