Intelligence is in the mind of the beholder

There’s a fantastic article in National Geographic this month about animal intelligence, which apparently is a pretty recent concept. Alex, an African Gray Parrot, knows that what’s the same between a green cup and a green key is their color and he knows that what’s different is their shape. Betsy, a Border Collie, knows 15 people by name and can link photographs with objects they represent. The male African Cichlid, a fish with a brain the size of a pea, will disguise itself as a female to steal food from another male’s territory. The Asian Elephant sees itself in a mirror and will touch a part of its head with its trunk when it sees a spot painted on it that doesn’t belong. The Ring-tailed Lemur can repeat arbitrary sequences and gets better each time, learning how to learn.

Does anyone else find it astoundingly arrogant that humans came up with the idea of intelligence, defined its characteristics and then proceeded to assign an abundance of it to ourselves and claim that other animals are merely responding to a series of instincts, not really thinking? Our brains are the biggest so we must be the smartest! We also decided that many of these dumb beasts also don’t experience fear and pain; a tragic miscalculation for most animals we come into contact with.

We’ve spent even less time wondering if plants have intelligence even though they literally transformed a ball of lava and toxic gas into a lush paradise, making it possible for all of us to live here. In fact, I’d say we’ve spent far more time and money looking for intelligence in outer space, on the desolate moon and the red hot Mars, than we have on our own planet.

I blame the Bible and its story of Eden that teaches people we are God’s special creatures and everything else is here for our exploitation. Again, isn’t it unbelievably arrogant to assert a single creation myth? Every civilization that’s ever lived has boasted one just as glorious and awe-inspiring, many not resembling the one in the Bible at all!

In a discussion with a friend yesterday about our religious upbringing – he’s Irish Catholic, I was raised an atheist – I told him that after years of exploration and experimentation, I decided that I believe in nature. Every living thing on this planet is made of DNA, a blueprint to create all living matter. We still know so little (and yet claim to know so much!) that we’ve deemed 80-90% of our own DNA as “junk.” Which means, in yet another arrogant move, that we don’t know what it does so it must not do anything. Also interesting is that some creatures that we consider far simpler are made up of a lot more DNA. (In their universe, they must think they’re smarter than us because they have more DNA).

That we all share this incredibly complex code is proof enough for me that we are all part of the same thing. There is overwhelming evidence that each living being’s presence and activity on this planet affects every other living being’s experience. We are not living ON this planet, we ARE this planet and this planet is all of us; it changes constantly and always has.

If we really are the most intelligent creatures, shouldn’t we be able to figure out a way to stop global warming? In fact, we should be able to at least agree that a) we have a considerable impact on this planet and everything on it and b) we have choices as to what that impact is. I don’t think the majority of people have accepted those things yet. If they believed in nature instead of God, maybe they would.

Nassim Nicholas Taleb in one of my PopTech! lectures talks about what he calls "epistemic arrogance," which describes how we focus only on what we know and what we think we know and ignore everything else, which as it turns out, is most things. It's the reason that we are lousy as forecasting everything. Our world, our brains, even our own bodies are far too complex for us to fully comprehend.

In another really good PopTech! lecture by Dan Gilbert, he says we aren’t equipped mentally to deal with global warming. He says we have an enormous capacity for change and can mobilize against a common enemy with swift force. The problem in this situation is defining the common enemy.

These are his four reasons that we will fail to do so:
1) It doesn’t have a human face. We’re obsessed with humans; we see their faces in clouds and other abstract objects. Global warming isn’t human enough.
2) We aren’t morally repulsed by it. It’s bad, it’s yucky but it doesn’t literally make us sick the way abortion, torture, the death penalty, child abuse and gay marriage do to some. Those are hot issues for a reason.
3) We tend to think about the future but live in the present. We can't react to that is going to happen in the same way as what is happening now, like ducking when someone throws a baseball your head. We have the capacity to recognize future threats but still lack the brainpower to react to them.
4) We react to relative change and, ironically, environmental changes aren't happening fast enough. We have enough time to adjust and think that drying coral, trees, and animals are the way things are.

President Bush had all of those things on his side when he took us to war:
1) A human face – Osama bin Laden
2) Moral revulsion – “freedom haters,” people who oppress women, blow themselves up and train kids to be killers
3) Present threat – 9/11
4) Relative change – laws passed to tap our phones, get our library records, detain people without cause, long lines at the airport

This ties back into my earlier post about how we just need better marketing and PR for global warming. But first, I might have to start the church of nature and start proselytizing!

A word about Obama

I'm amazed at how consistent the media coverage seems to be on Barack and Hillary. Is it just the hype machine, spinning the same story over and over, or is it the truth? I've been reading for months in magazines, newspapers and even in my friend's emails about how inspired people are by Obama. It is clear that he is a phenomenon. Young people are talking about him the way I did Bill Clinton in 1992 when I volunteered for the College Democrats to help him get elected. We were over the moon about him. Young, fresh and hip, he seemed to get it and he promised big change.

I can't say that we weren't let down by him, but I also think that it's inherent in that kind of adoration. I think we expect too much from our leaders which is not to say that we shouldn't have high standards, we absolutely should, but we also need to accept that we can't just elect a leader and expect that person to do everything right. Democracy is a participatory process. It's our responsibility to make sure the people we put in office work for us. I think people have woken up to that in the last few years. We got vocal about the war in Iraq and it didn't make a difference. Our leader ignored us and basically said we didn't know enough to make the call. We might not know all the complexities of international relations and going to war, but we know the truth from a lie, we know right from wrong, and we know that peace is better than violence.

So the discussion about whether Democrats should vote for Obama or Hillary has been distilled to a single issue: competence. He's aspirational, she's not but she has the experience. He might set our hearts aflutter but will he be able to deliver? One email from a friend talked about how we just spent eight years with a politician that didn't have enough experience, do we really want another? I hardly think the lack of experience is what's wrong with our current president and frankly, it's a ridiculous argument. Bush is surrounded by veterans of his father's administration and beyond. He has plenty of experience at his fingertips, should he want it. No, Barack Obama is no George Bush, but how valid is this question of whether he can deliver?

People say that it takes a seasoned politician to bring people together in Washington, or more accurately, to play the games they play in Washington. I'm not sure that's something I want to support. I see Hillary, as a lot of people do, not as experienced so much as ingrained. She's part of the system, she's one of them, not one of us. But isn't it ironic that her husband, just fifteen years ago was fresh? As I've said, I think our government should be participatory and as such it's critical that our leader be someone who inspires us to participate. The light I see in people when talking about Obama gives me hope. If we put a leader in power that inspires us to participate in the system, maybe we don't have to live within the confines of "the system," maybe we can truly make the government our own.

My one-year anniversary

Today is my one-year blogging anniversary! 215 postings in a year, an average of four posts per week, which isn't as bad as I thought I was doing. I started out with a goal of five posts a week and am now only doing 2-3 but hanging in there. I've been having discussions with a friend recently who is thinking about starting a blog, and whether or not mine is "successful." She uses that word a lot when talking about blogging and when I asked her for a definition, she said "if you see blogs with 40 comments on a post, you know a lot of people are reading it."

Certainly there are blogs that attract a lot more attention than mine like the Daily Coyote written by a woman who's raising a coyote with her tomcat in Wyoming. But she doesn't really write much, it's mostly photos of this beautiful animal and people pay her $5 to receive it in their email on a daily basis. There are blogs about celebrities that get a lot more traffic and sure, comments galore, but I don't see the point in criticizing people and asking others to join in the fray. Many of those comments are downright disgusting. I'm not a well-known writer, I'm not an expert and I'm not a collection of bloggers. I didn't do it to sell advertising, create a persona or market my skills.

My plan was just to write and see where my interests lie. Maybe at some point, I thought, I would specialize in something and start a new blog just about that. I was never sure about revealing my secret identity to those who don't know it as I was a little freaked about about cyberstalking. Yet, it's not a personal blog either. One of those photos of the nephews and a post about going to grandmother's, a diary for friends and family.

I've been wondering, I suppose because of my one-year anniversary, if it's time for me to decide what it is and where it's going. Is it important for more than 40 people to read my blog? I'm not sure. There are definitely times when I wish I could share it with more people but worry about the scrutiny that would invite. It's a funny conundrum, my friend pointed out, because the Internet is all about exposure. You can't expose yourself partway. Some of the reason that I've written less in the last several months is because I'm more inwardly focused at the moment and find that I'm not comfortable writing about what's really going on with me.

It's not uncommon now for people to post photos publicly on Flickr of themselves and their families, and once when Googling a woman organizing an event I was attending, I found her personal blog that had her wedding photos and posts about her Indian husband and meeting his family, their baby, etc. It's highly personal and yet, in some ways not. It's all standard info: I'm a woman, I'm married to a man, we have a child and here are our photos. I find it far more revealing, for me, to talk about dating a 24-year old and all the issues and questions that has brought up. My interest in sharing such stories isn't about being an exhibitionist, although I worry about that being the perception.

Recently, a coworker made reference to my blog in an explanation for why she included me in an email about her work frustrations to her boss. I felt violated and betrayed, and yet, I did put it out there so from her perspective, it's public information. I suppose the question is whether there is value in me sharing my intimate thoughts and experiences. I'm reading a book now, "Eat, Pray, Love," that it seems every woman I know is reading. Much of it reminds me of my blog, actually, and I'm enjoying it so much that it seems to answer the question: Yes, if it makes another person feel understood and less crazy, there is value in sharing those personal experiences. This woman shares incredibly personal things and has her real name and her photo in the book!

On the other hand, I could see going the direction of a news blog. The New York Times just wrote about a blogger who turned his blog, Talking Points Memo, into a newspaper, and himself into a journalist by connecting the dots of what was already out in the media. His business plan was deceptively simple:
Begin as a tiny operation. Manage to gain a following. As the audience grows, ask readers for donations and accept advertising. As the advertising and donations grow, add reporters and features. Repeat as often as needed.

I could do that. I might even have interest in doing that. I certainly WANT to engage more people and wouldn't mind revealing my secret identity (I love referring to my real self as that) but I think in order to do so, I need to decide if it's personal or business. One thing is clear, I am committed to this thing called blogging. Cheers and thanks for reading!

Do you Yelp?

I went to get my annual exam the other day. Without health insurance and being new to the city, I wasn’t sure how to find a doctor. Usually I would ask girlfriends for recommendations but I don’t have that many here yet, and a popular gynecologist can be booked for months in advance and some don’t take new patients. It’s like trying to find a good hairstylist, not an easy process. And while the risks are not as great as getting a bad haircut, it’s not every person that I want examining me down there. A friend who also recently moved here told me that she found her doctor on Yelp…on Yelp, REALLY?

So I went on and found one that was reviewed the most, 23 times, and had 4.5 stars. He sounded like a great guy and from past experience, I guessed that he would be easier to see because women greatly prefer female doctors these days. Sure enough, I got an appointment the next day. Talking about his new found popularity, the doctor, who must have been in his seventies said “Out of eight patients in a day, I might have four that say they found me on Yelp. Sometimes I’m here until seven o’clock!” He was as lovely as promised: professional, quick, friendly and comforting.

Recently my mom was looking for a bed and breakfast in the area, so she can pay me a visit. She was looking online and couldn’t believe all the negative things that people were writing about all of the places she looked, some were places she’d already stayed and loved! I’m not sure where she was looking but I do find that there are often many more negative reviews on sites than positive reviews. No so with Yelp. It seems to be one of the only places where people write reviews because they’re happy with something and want to share it with the world. My friend in the city has become a Yelp addict. She doesn’t make a decision about what to do or where to eat without consulting it. So far, it’s served us well.

Let's start a village

I'm going to do that mashup thing again where I look at a bunch of dots and posit whether they're connected. Here's the first dot. In the 1970's James Lovelock, a chemist and inventor, then working for NASA, published a radical theory: The earth is not a magically self-regulating planet that has always been and will always be, it is a living organism of which we are all a part. It was the first time people were asked to think about our role on this planet as something other than just beneficiaries of all it has to offer. In his latest book, "Revenge of Gaia," Lovelock declares that humans are doomed, global warming is irreversible and by the end of the century, over 6 billion people will die of droughts, floods, disease and hunger.

In an article in Rolling Stone, Lovelock talks about the ones who will survive by recalling a story about a fire on a plane. Everyone stayed in their seats as they were told, frozen, while the few that survived did so by crawling over their fellow passengers and climbing out the windows. The majority of people are going to stay seated during this crisis and die in their seats. It made me think of The Terminator and how Sarah Connor, knowing what was coming, started preparing herself for the fight ahead. According to Lovelock, there are only two ways to survive this - either by going primitive or by going super high-tech. I think it may be a combination of both but the people who can live in a more primitive way, by growing their own food and creating their own energy, will be at a great advantage.

Which brings me to the second dot. An article in National Geographic was talking about the shanty towns near Bombay and then a friend recalled the same story, something he'd witnessed in Mexico City. Enormous populations of people, hundreds of thousands, have built cities from the ground up, by themselves with no developers, no infrastructure, no government support. While poor, these communities are thriving. They have power, they have water, they've built industries and services, their places are clean and nicely kept and they are carbon neutral. These are the greenest cities in the world; everything is recycled or reused and there is no excess. If there is any kind of collapse in our energy supply or our economies, these communities will be impacted the least. Apparently one in six people lives in a squatter town and that number is expected to triple by 2050.

Then I heard one of the most exciting ideas yet in a PopTech lecture by Adrian Bowyer, a challenge to the concept of money. If every home had a small robot that could manufacture any item - a comb, a bowl, a fork - from a resin made of starch grown in the backyard (i.e. corn or potatoes) and those items went right back into the earth when we were done with them, would we have the same need for factories and therefore, money? He quotes science fiction writer Iain Banks who said that "money is a sign of poverty" to illustrate that we would be richer if we didn't need money at all.

Finally, I keep having a certain conversation with my friends about how disillusioned we are with work and its role in our life. These are people scattered all over the country who don’t know each other. They’re all about 30-45, some married, some with children, some homeowners but what we all have in common is that we grew up middle-class, we went to college and we have to work for a living. A rough illustration of who these people are:

- A single guy in D.C. who likes photography, traveling and Jazz. Works in film restoration, which he likes, but there's not much work and it pays very little.
- A recently married woman in North Carolina, about to have a baby, who works as a graphic designer. Loves designing but hates working all the time.
- A new mother and writer in Santa Monica who has to hire two nannies so that she can work when she'd rather spend the time with her baby but can't afford to.
- A single guy in Los Angeles who works a web producer. He loves computers so spends his time in front of one any way but continually has jobs that require 60-hour work weeks.
- A woman in New York working as a teacher whose job is so stressful, she couldn't do it without her live-in boyfriend helping with house work and daily chores.
- A single woman in San Francisco who has spent the last ten years pursuing a career but finds herself unfulfilled by the work.
- A bi-coastal young man, recently out of college, who's already frustrated with the fact that work takes him away from the projects he feels passionate about.
- A woman with a teenage daughter in the Bay Area who finds herself more motivated than everyone she works for and can't figure out how to dumb herself down.
- A single woman in Los Angeles who wants to help people in her native Cambodia but makes ends meet by working at an interactive agency.

We don’t have enough time to do what we enjoy because we spend our lives working and yet don’t make enough money to buy more time. In the jobs, we’re frustrated with others’ lack of commitment or in the company itself and feel that we deserve better. But in the pursuit of a better job in a better company we finally come to realize that work does not fulfill us enough to justify the time spent doing it. Most of us work to create or promote the sale of goods, goods that we use the money we earn to buy. By any measure, it’s not an efficient use of our time.

My friends are ready to quit this rat race of working and buying and are ready to move somewhere quieter, live a simpler life and grow our own food. The problem, I suppose, is that we’re all cultural people who need other people and art to stimulate us and aren’t really the kind of folk you find in rural towns. Back in April of 2007, I wrote that servitude sucks and that we've been duped because more "primitive" societies enjoy abundant free time. Now, it seems, I'm hearing the same thing from everyone: How do we get to a place where LIVING is what we spend most of our time doing instead of WORKING?

And connecting all these dots, I had an idea. A communal village of like-minded people. We want to grow our own food and learn to make our own energy and live without cars. We want to raise each other's children and imagine a society of the future and sometimes watch 30 Rock. Do you think it's possible? It would have to be in Canada, somewhere north that will be less impacted by global warming. I saw a fantastic photo in National Geographic (a similar one I found on the web is here) that shows a village in Israel, built to be egalitarian in that everyone has equal access to school, church, and other community buildings, in the center of town, but everyone also owns a piece of land, on the outside of town. It's limited as to how many people can live there, about 750, and everyone is independent and yet totally connected to each other.


It looks good. It looks real good. What do you think y'all? Ready to buy some property in Alberta?

Making a difference

I went to a screening last night at the Cartoon Art Museum for a documentary directed by a friend up from L.A. The Indepdents promised to be about the creative process, told from the perspective of comic book artists. I was afraid that it was going to be a painfully geeky foray into a world I know little about and was not particularly intrigued by. I took the bus up from San Jose, walked to the BART station and took the train two stops, rushing to make it by 7pm and skipping dinner. Three attempts to get a date had failed so I had plenty of opportunities to decide not to go, but I persisted.

I’m glad I did because several times during the film I found myself smiling and thinking “Right on!” First of all, these people are much more than illustrators; they’re storytellers in the purest sense. They sit down to a blank page with a pen and create a world, inhabit it with characters, give them dialogue and take us through an exciting narrative with amazing efficiency. Wendy Pini, an artist in the film, was there for a Q&A and described her 30-year old 'Elfquest' as the never ending battle between knowledge and ignorance. “I’m not interested in good and evil,” she said, “I’m much more interested in how people can understand each other through communication. “Elfquest” is very idealistic; it’s all about how people should treat each other.” I was surprised that many of them, like Wendy, knew they had a story to tell and chose comics as the medium because they could be producer, director, writer, actor and the studio – with the power to green light their own projects.

A few historical points were touched on and I learned that at the height of comic books' popularity with young adults, the industry was attacked for “eroding the minds of youth,” much the way rock and roll, rap music and video games have been. Comics began to be regulated and some were censored, many went out of business. The most palatable ideas, the superhero genre we’re so familiar with, were rewarded with unprecedented success and the marketing shifted to children, further marginalizing other comic styles.

I could relate with many of the artists in the film who took a long time to accept themselves as artists. Certainly it’s not easy to be an artist but my attempts to work a corporate job and be a weekend warrior have made me miserable. To my surprise, while I was frustrated as a poor cocktail waitress with roommates, I feel that those days were some of my happiest. I had the freedom to do what I wanted, including exercise, had abundant creativity and discipline to write, and felt that I was genuinely pursuing something important to me.

There was one guy in the film, Craig Thompson (“Blankets”), who really struck a chord with me. He constantly wonders if he should be doing something more humanitarian. He feels guilty being a comic book artist when he could be doing more to help his fellow man. I honestly have never heard anyone express that, even though I think it is exactly what plagues me. Back in college, I started wrestling with that issue, taking Women’s Studies, working for the College Democrats and dreaming of a career in politics. All the while, I was auditioning for films on campus and performing improve in the summers. I pursued acting despite my upbringing and internal messages telling me that it was frivolous, indulgent, a bad choice for a career, had a huge chance of failure, etc. Unfortunately for me, the desire to do something to make a difference hasn’t propelled me into great humanitarian work (although I do my fair share of volunteering), it has only kept me from truly being an artist. I deal with overwhelming feelings of guilt in wanting to be a filmmaker when there are issues I feel so strongly about and the obvious “answer” of making a documentary about those issues is wholly unappealing to me.

As I have sat at the crossroads of choosing a new path or recommitting myself to filmmaking, those feelings have become more pronounced. “I have to believe that comics are doing some good for people too,” Thompson concludes. Certainly Wendy Pini found a way to tell her story, be an artist and communicate a higher ideal that is meaningful to her. The answer, for me then, is to do what I love and believe I will make the difference I am meant to make.

Feeling a little vulnerable

Last weekend was pretty rough for me. The loss of purpose in San Francisco suddenly hit me. I missed my friends in L.A., I missed my mom, I missed my apartment in Santa Monica, I missed walking on the beach there, my yoga class, and being able to go to a movie, or even make one at the drop of a hat. A beautifully sunny weekend, after weeks of rain and cold, seemed to make me even more homesick.

It’s true that I was ready for a change or I would not have taken the job up here but it did happen very suddenly. Back in August, I literally dropped everything and without saying goodbye, left L.A. and seemingly, filmmaking. This job was an amazing opportunity, something that would have opened a lot of doors for me and without getting to do it, it’s over.

So I find myself adrift in a strange place with only a friend or two and suddenly facing the consequences of moving. We were told today that my boss is leaving, with three days notice, and it’s likely our department head is as well. He told us that this was the most ambiguous time in our department in the six years he’s been here. Then he told us the story of the lobster who, in order to grow, has to shed his shell and make a new one. But while it’s growing, the lobster is very vulnerable and has to find a place to hide so as not to be eaten. He suggested that now was such a time and for us to take care.

It’s possible that the doors that are meant to open for me here have already presented themselves and it took me leaving L.A. to appreciate what I had there to figure out what I want. I’m just feeling a little vulnerable while I’m growing.

Fear of God

A couple of different articles I’ve read lately have referenced Bill Gates as a philanthropist. But even though his contributions far outweigh that of say, Mother Theresa, she is widely recognized as a saint and he is not. Public perception, the theory goes, is not determined by actual contribution, but by the nature of the giver and their giving. One is a billionaire who created a monopoly in business and donates a portion of the massive profits, the other is a nun who lived with lepers and helped anyone who needed it.

Another article said that most people only contribute to very personal causes, that we are motivated by emotion rather than actual need. After 9-11, The Red Cross issued a statement that they had received more donations than they could deal with and asked the public to donate elsewhere. Still, the money poured in. But there are some people with a far more scientific approach to philanthropy. Their brains are configured slightly differently, making them more rational than emotional so that when they think of doing good, they think of how they can do the most good with the money they have. Bill Gates asked what were the biggest problems that could be solved – hunger and disease – and set to solving them.

I bring this up because in my daily observations of people, we are fickle, inconsistent and highly personal in our choices. Scientists have said that stopping global warming and other environmental disasters – like the impending shortage of potable water, melting of the polar ice caps, and the destruction of the seas and rainforests – would require a collaborative effort the scale of which has never been achieved by humans. (Ants, yes. Humans, no.) In other words, we need a lot more people with Bill Gates type brains.

On the bus home the other day, I was looking out the window at a blanket of scattered clouds engulfing the sky as the sun went down, and thought about how inspiring nature is. The primitives were right to be awestruck by its beauty and fearful of its power. Nature could squash us like a bug. Our few hundred thousand years on this planet is no assurance of our future durability. Greater beasts than us have lived ten times longer and disappeared.

What if we are, in fact, a virus on this planet like The Matrix says? Then surely nature will eventually unleash storms, floods, droughts, disease and whatever else she can muster to cleanse herself of us. And history tells us that she will succeed. To quote another trilogy, The Lord of the Rings, “Are you frightened? Not nearly enough.” If we were living in a primitive society, the pagans would know that we've angered the gods and better get busy appeasing them.

A recent piece in Wired says that we humans don’t like science because it makes us look dumb. We’re happier with our myths and primitive beliefs when science challenges us to doubt everything we believe and diminish our significance in the universe. According to the article, half of all Americans don’t believe in evolution! So doesn't it seem strange that scientists are leading the discourse on global warming and not religious leaders? Why isn’t the church calling us all gluttonous and greedy and calling for humble restraint in our decadent lifestyles, citing the rise in natural disasters as evidence? Clearly, God is not happy with us. Have you seen the air in China?

Shouldn't the church be lambasting us for our wanton disregard of nature, God’s most gracious gift to us? What use is modern religion if not to motivate masses of people to become environmental stewards? Why is it that liberal science loving types are dropping everything to change their lifestyle to reduce their impact - hybrid vehicles, cloth diapers, non-toxic chemicals, recycled goods - and the Bush loving conservative types are all calling it a bunch of phooey? Clearly, the solution to our environmental woes is to get the church on board and put the fear of God in these people! It doesn't take a scientist to figure out that the pursuit of wealth through constant rape and abuse of the planet and our fellow creatures isn't very Christian.

Who would do that?

On the way home from work tonight, I cracked open my brand new The Economist. I had no idea when I ordered it that it was a weekly magazine. It really is a depressing publication. Nearly every cover has some kind of war imagery. Whoever said that war is not about money, obviously doesn't know The Economist.

Only a few moments later, for I was still on the first page in "The world this week," I gasped. I had my headphones on so I'm not sure how loud it was but the man I was sitting next to turned to find out what had happened. I took off my headphones and read him this short paragraph:

Ecuadorian officials investigated the slaughter of 53 seal lions in the Galapagos Islands nature reserve. All had their heads bashed in. The motive is unknown.

"That IS worth a gasp," he said. Who would do that? And why? He remarked that sea lions are quite large and it couldn't have been easy, and that the Galapagos is far away from any mainland. I did a report on the Galapagos Giant Tortoise in Junior High. I've always wanted to go there, to Darwin's islands to see the magical animals that don't live anywhere else. I guess I should get going before they're gone!

The endurance of hope

When I planned to vote yesterday, I was initially annoyed because it meant I'd have to drive to work. But when I drove up, sun shining, and saw the signs pointing me into the senior center on Capp St., I immediately became emotional. I walked in to a table of young and old women, anxiously awaiting my arrive. "Name?" one asked, "address?" said another. Beaming, I giggle at the fact that I have never failed to be filled with love and hope when walking into a polling center.

They handed me my ballot and I voted (no on everything except Obama) and ask I turned back to put it into the scanner, I wanted to hug and kiss those women for being there. For realizing how precious this democracy is. Around the country at that very moment, thousands of volunteers just like these are spending their day sitting at fold-out tables handing out democracy, making it so that our voice can be heard.

Throughout the day, my friends recounted similar stories of being unusually giddy when offed the "I voted!" sticker (in English, Spanish and Chinese). I cried all the way to work. It was a particularly beautiful day - we haven't had much sun lately - and I saw three snow white egrets in the bright green grass between the two directions of the 280 freeway. They are awkwardly beautiful creatures and they reminded me of our democracy. Voting is a bastion of beauty and purity in the cross traffic of politics, proof that these things endure. Go Obama!

Stumbling down the rabbit hole

I recently met with the folks at StumbleUpon to discuss possible marketing partnerships. They were a 12-person company in May when they were bought by eBay and now are pushing 20 but still work in a single open room in downtown San Francisco. The team looked at me with mild interest when I walked in but quickly went back to their keyboards and with headphones on, returned to their work. The people I met with were so nice and enthusiastic about their product I immediately wanted to work for them. To be fair, I told them that I’d never heard of or used StumbleUpon and in fact hadn’t really even used a single social bookmarking site.

They went into their short pitch about how StumbleUpon is so much more than bookmarking; it’s discovery rather than ranking. When you join, you are asked to create a profile where you tell SU what your interests are. Then you start “stumbling,” pages from the Internet that have been given a thumbs up by the Stumble community are served to you based on your interests. In the first few minutes I found a satellite map of the Earth to show where it's light and where it's dark, an incredible portfolio of black and white photographs taken of wild animals in Africa, a fun Jackson Pollock type interactive painting game, and a blog about a town in Greece. Each page I give a thumbs up to gets shown to more people like me and the system becomes more intelligent about what I like. There's no ranking so there's no incentive to be anything but genuine. In other words, no one’s trying to out do each other and the popularity of a page is only relevant to those whose interests it matches.

The community aspect is really compelling. It’s easy to share and pass on pages you like – which include games, blogs, videos, pictures, news, etc – and to find friends based on what you both like. You can blog about things you’ve seen or read with one click and instead of a link, it’s the actual page. As someone who has become increasingly annoyed with Facebook and its superficiality, this seems really cool. It keeps track of what I’ve like, let’s me see what my friends like and gives everyone the opportunity to be discover, comment on and curate content.

Facebook, by comparison, tricks you into thinking that something personal and customized is going on – someone said you’re cute or has given you a present or thinks you’re alike or posted something personal on your page – when in reality, everyone got that message. The system requires you to spam all your friends before you can retrieve your highly impersonal message. It reminds me of what was happening in email in the late nineties when a friend would blast their entire address book with some joke, hoax or gross picture. I got to the point where I sent emails to friends asking them to take me off the stupid list or replied with evidence that their forward to sign a petition was a hoax. That’s not connecting or even sharing, it’s being a human billboard with flashing neon lights that doesn’t care what’s being said or who’s hearing it as long as people are looking at you. Meanwhile, Facebook and its dozens of independent apps are collecting data about you and your friends.

A few months ago, I thought Facebook was cool and actually pitched it to a couple of people (who have probably joined and spent more time on it than me) but haven't been sold on the quality of what's being shared. Why bite someone as a vampire or throw a snowball at them? I’m amazed at how active my friends are on it! I get ten invitations a week to fill out quizzes or see the drawing they posted using the crude tools on Facebook that makes it look a two year old drew it. They send cards and hotness points and form silly groups like "Every time you join this group god kills a kitten!" I actually do like looking at photos that people upload but obviously people have a lot of time on their hands.

StumbleUpon is less about billboarding though and more about falling down the rabbit hole. I discovered VideoJug, a site that shows you how to do everything, through video. From avoiding getting ripped off by a mechanic to keeping your arm from getting trapped when cuddling in bed, users offer answers to life’s challenges with a video. There’s something for everyone! I also recently went to an event for girl geeks and one of the speakers was Leah Culver, a totally beautiful developer who founded Pownce with Kevin Rose, the founder of Digg. I haven't used it yet but it's all about sharing things with your friends - real things, not made up things like hotness points. Call me crazy but I want food at the end of my fork, not just a poke in the mouth.

An Animal's Place

I was cleaning off my hard drive last weekend and came across a story from The New York Times from five years ago that I saved. It's a really incredible self-dialogue from a guy reading a book about animal liberation while eating a steak. He investigates the issue from every possible angle and comes to a startlingly simple conclusion. If you have 20 minutes, I promise you'll enjoy it.

November 10, 2002
By MICHAEL POLLAN

The first time I opened Peter Singer's ''Animal Liberation,'' I was dining alone at the Palm, trying to enjoy a rib-eye steak cooked medium-rare. If this sounds like a good recipe for cognitive dissonance (if not indigestion), that was sort of the idea. Preposterous as it might seem, to supporters of animal rights, what I was doing was tantamount to reading ''Uncle Tom's Cabin'' on a plantation in the Deep South in 1852.

Singer and the swelling ranks of his followers ask us to imagine a future in which people will look back on my meal, and this steakhouse, as relics of an equally backward age. Eating animals, wearing animals, experimenting on animals, killing animals for sport: all these practices, so resolutely normal to us, will be seen as the barbarities they are, and we will come to view ''speciesism'' -- a neologism I had encountered before only in jokes -- as a form of discrimination as indefensible as racism or anti-Semitism.

Even in 1975, when ''Animal Liberation'' was first published, Singer, an Australian philosopher now teaching at Princeton, was confident that he had the wind of history at his back. The recent civil rights past was prologue, as one liberation movement followed on the heels of another. Slowly but surely, the white man's circle of moral consideration was expanded to admit first blacks, then women, then homosexuals. In each case, a group once thought to be so different from the prevailing ''we'' as to be undeserving of civil rights was, after a struggle, admitted to the club. Now it was animals' turn.

That animal liberation is the logical next step in the forward march of moral progress is no longer the fringe idea it was back in 1975. A growing and increasingly influential movement of philosophers, ethicists, law professors and activists are convinced that the great moral struggle of our time will be for the rights of animals.

So far the movement has scored some of its biggest victories in Europe. Earlier this year, Germany became the first nation to grant animals a constitutional right: the words ''and animals'' were added to a provision obliging the state to respect and protect the dignity of human beings. The farming of animals for fur was recently banned in England. In several European nations, sows may no longer be confined to crates nor laying hens to ''battery cages'' -- stacked wired cages so small the birds cannot stretch their wings. The Swiss are amending their laws to change the status of animals from ''things'' to ''beings.''

Though animals are still very much ''things'' in the eyes of American law, change is in the air. Thirty-seven states have recently passed laws making some forms of animal cruelty a crime, 21 of them by ballot initiative. Following protests by activists, McDonald's and Burger King forced significant improvements in the way the U.S. meat industry slaughters animals. Agribusiness and the cosmetics and apparel industries are all struggling to defuse mounting public concerns over animal welfare.

Once thought of as a left-wing concern, the movement now cuts across ideological lines. Perhaps the most eloquent recent plea on behalf of animals, a new book called ''Dominion,'' was written by a former speechwriter for President Bush. And once outlandish ideas are finding their way into mainstream opinion. A recent Zogby poll found that 51 percent of Americans believe that primates are entitled to the same rights as human children.

What is going on here? A certain amount of cultural confusion, for one thing. For at the same time many people seem eager to extend the circle of our moral consideration to animals, in our factory farms and laboratories we are inflicting more suffering on more animals than at any time in history. One by one, science is dismantling our claims to uniqueness as a species, discovering that such things as culture, tool making, language and even possibly self-consciousness are not the exclusive domain of Homo sapiens. Yet most of the animals we kill lead lives organized very much in the spirit of Descartes, who famously claimed that animals were mere machines, incapable of thought or feeling. There's a schizoid quality to our relationship with animals, in which sentiment and brutality exist side by side. Half the dogs in America will receive Christmas presents this year, yet few of us pause to consider the miserable life of the pig -- an animal easily as intelligent as a dog -- that becomes the Christmas ham.

We tolerate this disconnect because the life of the pig has moved out of view. When's the last time you saw a pig? (Babe doesn't count.) Except for our pets, real animals -- animals living and dying -- no longer figure in our everyday lives. Meat comes from the grocery store, where it is cut and packaged to look as little like parts of animals as possible. The disappearance of animals from our lives has opened a space in which there's no reality check, either on the sentiment or the brutality. This is pretty much where we live now, with respect to animals, and it is a space in which the Peter Singers and Frank Perdues of the world can evidently thrive equally well.

Several years ago, the English critic John Berger wrote an essay, ''Why Look at Animals?'' in which he suggested that the loss of everyday contact between ourselves and animals -- and specifically the loss of eye contact -- has left us deeply confused about the terms of our relationship to other species. That eye contact, always slightly uncanny, had provided a vivid daily reminder that animals were at once crucially like and unlike us; in their eyes we glimpsed something unmistakably familiar (pain, fear, tenderness) and something irretrievably alien. Upon this paradox people built a relationship in which they felt they could both honor and eat animals without looking away. But that accommodation has pretty much broken down; nowadays, it seems, we either look away or become vegetarians. For my own part, neither option seemed especially appetizing. Which might explain how I found myself reading ''Animal Liberation'' in a steakhouse.

This is not something I'd recommend if you're determined to continue eating meat. Combining rigorous philosophical argument with journalistic description, ''Animal Liberation'' is one of those rare books that demand that you either defend the way you live or change it. Because Singer is so skilled in argument, for many readers it is easier to change. His book has converted countless thousands to vegetarianism, and it didn't take long for me to see why: within a few pages, he had succeeded in throwing me on the defensive.

Singer's argument is disarmingly simple and, if you accept its premises, difficult to refute. Take the premise of equality, which most people readily accept. Yet what do we really mean by it? People are not, as a matter of fact, equal at all -- some are smarter than others, better looking, more gifted. ''Equality is a moral idea,'' Singer points out, ''not an assertion of fact.'' The moral idea is that everyone's interests ought to receive equal consideration, regardless of ''what abilities they may possess.'' Fair enough; many philosophers have gone this far. But fewer have taken the next logical step. ''If possessing a higher degree of intelligence does not entitle one human to use another for his or her own ends, how can it entitle humans to exploit nonhumans for the same purpose?''

This is the nub of Singer's argument, and right around here I began scribbling objections in the margin. But humans differ from animals in morally significant ways. Yes they do, Singer acknowledges, which is why we shouldn't treat pigs and children alike. Equal consideration of interests is not the same as equal treatment, he points out: children have an interest in being educated; pigs, in rooting around in the dirt. But where their interests are the same, the principle of equality demands they receive the same consideration. And the one all-important interest that we share with pigs, as with all sentient creatures, is an interest in avoiding pain.

Here Singer quotes a famous passage from Jeremy Bentham, the 18th-century utilitarian philosopher, that is the wellspring of the animal rights movement. Bentham was writing in 1789, soon after the French colonies freed black slaves, granting them fundamental rights. ''The day may come,'' he speculates, ''when the rest of the animal creation may acquire those rights.'' Bentham then asks what characteristic entitles any being to moral consideration. ''Is it the faculty of reason or perhaps the faculty of discourse?'' Obviously not, since ''a full-grown horse or dog is beyond comparison a more rational, as well as a more conversable animal, than an infant.'' He concludes: ''The question is not, Can they reason? nor, Can they talk? but, Can they suffer?''

Bentham here is playing a powerful card philosophers call the ''argument from marginal cases,'' or A.M.C. for short. It goes like this: there are humans -- infants, the severely retarded, the demented -- whose mental function cannot match that of a chimpanzee. Even though these people cannot reciprocate our moral attentions, we nevertheless include them in the circle of our moral consideration. So on what basis do we exclude the chimpanzee?

Because he's a chimp, I furiously scribbled in the margin, and they're human! For Singer that's not good enough. To exclude the chimp from moral consideration simply because he's not human is no different from excluding the slave simply because he's not white. In the same way we'd call that exclusion racist, the animal rightist contends that it is speciesist to discriminate against the chimpanzee solely because he's not human.

But the differences between blacks and whites are trivial compared with the differences between my son and a chimp. Singer counters by asking us to imagine a hypothetical society that discriminates against people on the basis of something nontrivial -- say, intelligence. If that scheme offends our sense of equality, then why is the fact that animals lack certain human characteristics any more just as a basis for discrimination? Either we do not owe any justice to the severely retarded, he concludes, or we do owe it to animals with higher capabilities.

This is where I put down my fork. If I believe in equality, and equality is based on interests rather than characteristics, then either I have to take the interests of the steer I'm eating into account or concede that I am a speciesist. For the time being, I decided to plead guilty as charged. I finished my steak.

But Singer had planted a troubling notion, and in the days afterward, it grew and grew, watered by the other animal rights thinkers I began reading: the philosophers Tom Regan and James Rachels; the legal theorist Steven M. Wise; the writers Joy Williams and Matthew Scully. I didn't think I minded being a speciesist, but could it be, as several of these writers suggest, that we will someday come to regard speciesism as an evil comparable to racism? Will history someday judge us as harshly as it judges the Germans who went about their ordinary lives in the shadow of Treblinka? Precisely that question was recently posed by J.M. Coetzee, the South African novelist, in a lecture delivered at Princeton; he answered it in the affirmative. If animal rightists are right, ''a crime of stupefying proportions'' (in Coetzee's words) is going on all around us every day, just beneath our notice.

It's an idea almost impossible to entertain seriously, much less to accept, and in the weeks following my restaurant face-off between Singer and the steak, I found myself marshaling whatever mental power I could muster to try to refute it. Yet Singer and his allies managed to trump almost all my objections.

My first line of defense was obvious. Animals kill one another all the time. Why treat animals more ethically than they treat one another? (Ben Franklin tried this one long before me: during a fishing trip, he wondered, ''If you eat one another, I don't see why we may not eat you.'' He admits, however, that the rationale didn't occur to him until the fish were in the frying pan, smelling ''admirably well.'' The advantage of being a ''reasonable creature,'' Franklin remarks, is that you can find a reason for whatever you want to do.) To the ''they do it, too'' defense, the animal rightist has a devastating reply: do you really want to base your morality on the natural order? Murder and rape are natural, too. Besides, humans don't need to kill other creatures in order to survive; animals do. (Though if my cat, Otis, is any guide, animals sometimes kill for sheer pleasure.)

This suggests another defense. Wouldn't life in the wild be worse for these farm animals? ''Defenders of slavery imposed on black Africans often made a similar point,'' Singer retorts. ''The life of freedom is to be preferred.''

But domesticated animals can't survive in the wild; in fact, without us they wouldn't exist at all. Or as one 19th-century political philosopher put it, ''The pig has a stronger interest than anyone in the demand for bacon. If all the world were Jewish, there would be no pigs at all.'' But it turns out that this would be fine by the animal rightists: for if pigs don't exist, they can't be wronged.

Animals on factory farms have never known any other life. Singer replies that ''animals feel a need to exercise, stretch their limbs or wings, groom themselves and turn around, whether or not they have ever lived in conditions that permit this.'' The measure of their suffering is not their prior experiences but the unremitting daily frustration of their instincts.

O.K., the suffering of animals is a legitimate problem, but the world is full of problems, and surely human problems must come first! Sounds good, and yet all the animal people are asking me to do is to stop eating meat and wearing animal furs and hides. There's no reason I can't devote myself to solving humankind's problems while being a vegetarian who wears synthetics.

But doesn't the fact that we could choose to forgo meat for moral reasons point to a crucial moral difference between animals and humans? As Kant pointed out, the human being is the only moral animal, the only one even capable of entertaining a concept of ''rights.'' What's wrong with reserving moral consideration for those able to reciprocate it? Right here is where you run smack into the A.M.C.: the moral status of the retarded, the insane, the infant and the Alzheimer's patient. Such ''marginal cases,'' in the detestable argot of modern moral philosophy, cannot participate in moral decision making any more than a monkey can, yet we nevertheless grant them rights.

That's right, I respond, for the simple reason that they're one of us. And all of us have been, and will probably once again be, marginal cases ourselves. What's more, these people have fathers and mothers, daughters and sons, which makes our interest in their welfare deeper than our interest in the welfare of even the most brilliant ape.

Alas, none of these arguments evade the charge of speciesism; the racist, too, claims that it's natural to give special consideration to one's own kind. A utilitarian like Singer would agree, however, that the feelings of relatives do count for something. Yet the principle of equal consideration of interests demands that, given the choice between performing a painful medical experiment on a severely retarded orphan and on a normal ape, we must sacrifice the child. Why? Because the ape has a greater capacity for pain.

Here in a nutshell is the problem with the A.M.C.: it can be used to help the animals, but just as often it winds up hurting the marginal cases. Giving up our speciesism will bring us to a moral cliff from which we may not be prepared to jump, even when logic is pushing us.

And yet this isn't the moral choice I am being asked to make. (Too bad; it would be so much easier!) In everyday life, the choice is not between babies and chimps but between the pork and the tofu. Even if we reject the ''hard utilitarianism'' of a Peter Singer, there remains the question of whether we owe animals that can feel pain any moral consideration, and this seems impossible to deny. And if we do owe them moral consideration, how can we justify eating them?

This is why killing animals for meat (and clothing) poses the most difficult animal rights challenge. In the case of animal testing, all but the most radical animal rightists are willing to balance the human benefit against the cost to the animals. That's because the unique qualities of human consciousness carry weight in the utilitarian calculus: human pain counts for more than that of a mouse, since our pain is amplified by emotions like dread; similarly, our deaths are worse than an animal's because we understand what death is in a way they don't. So the argument over animal testing is really in the details: is this particular procedure or test really necessary to save human lives? (Very often it's not, in which case we probably shouldn't do it.) But if humans no longer need to eat meat or wear skins, then what exactly are we putting on the human side of the scale to outweigh the interests of the animal?

I suspect that this is finally why the animal people managed to throw me on the defensive. It's one thing to choose between the chimp and the retarded child or to accept the sacrifice of all those pigs surgeons practiced on to develop heart-bypass surgery. But what happens when the choice is between ''a lifetime of suffering for a nonhuman animal and the gastronomic preference of a human being?'' You look away -- or you stop eating animals. And if you don't want to do either? Then you have to try to determine if the animals you're eating have really endured ''a lifetime of suffering.''

Whether our interest in eating animals outweighs their interest in not being eaten (assuming for the moment that is their interest) turns on the vexed question of animal suffering. Vexed, because it is impossible to know what really goes on in the mind of a cow or a pig or even an ape. Strictly speaking, this is true of other humans, too, but since humans are all basically wired the same way, we have excellent reason to assume that other people's experience of pain feels much like our own. Can we say that about animals? Yes and no.

I have yet to find anyone who still subscribes to Descartes's belief that animals cannot feel pain because they lack a soul. The general consensus among scientists and philosophers is that when it comes to pain, the higher animals are wired much like we are for the same evolutionary reasons, so we should take the writhings of the kicked dog at face value. Indeed, the very premise of a great deal of animal testing -- the reason it has value -- is that animals' experience of physical and even some psychological pain closely resembles our own. Otherwise, why would cosmetics testers drip chemicals into the eyes of rabbits to see if they sting? Why would researchers study head trauma by traumatizing chimpanzee heads? Why would psychologists attempt to induce depression and ''learned helplessness'' in dogs by exposing them to ceaseless random patterns of electrical shock?

That said, it can be argued that human pain differs from animal pain by an order of magnitude. This qualitative difference is largely the result of our possession of language and, by virtue of language, an ability to have thoughts about thoughts and to imagine alternatives to our current reality. The philosopher Daniel C. Dennett suggests that we would do well to draw a distinction between pain, which a great many animals experience, and suffering, which depends on a degree of self-consciousness only a few animals appear to command. Suffering in this view is not just lots of pain but pain intensified by human emotions like loss, sadness, worry, regret, self-pity, shame, humiliation and dread.

Consider castration. No one would deny the procedure is painful to animals, yet animals appear to get over it in a way humans do not. (Some rhesus monkeys competing for mates will bite off a rival's testicle; the very next day the victim may be observed mating, seemingly little the worse for wear.) Surely the suffering of a man able to comprehend the full implications of castration, to anticipate the event and contemplate its aftermath, represents an agony of another order.

By the same token, however, language and all that comes with it can also make certain kinds of pain more bearable. A trip to the dentist would be a torment for an ape that couldn't be made to understand the purpose and duration of the procedure.

As humans contemplating the pain and suffering of animals, we do need to guard against projecting on to them what the same experience would feel like to us. Watching a steer force-marched up the ramp to the kill-floor door, as I have done, I need to remind myself that this is not Sean Penn in ''Dead Man Walking,'' that in a bovine brain the concept of nonexistence is blissfully absent. ''If we fail to find suffering in the [animal] lives we can see,'' Dennett writes in ''Kinds of Minds,'' ''we can rest assured there is no invisible suffering somewhere in their brains. If we find suffering, we will recognize it without difficulty.''

Which brings us -- reluctantly, necessarily -- to the American factory farm, the place where all such distinctions turn to dust. It's not easy to draw lines between pain and suffering in a modern egg or confinement hog operation. These are places where the subtleties of moral philosophy and animal cognition mean less than nothing, where everything we've learned about animals at least since Darwin has been simply . . . set aside. To visit a modern CAFO (Confined Animal Feeding Operation) is to enter a world that, for all its technological sophistication, is still designed according to Cartesian principles: animals are machines incapable of feeling pain. Since no thinking person can possibly believe this any more, industrial animal agriculture depends on a suspension of disbelief on the part of the people who operate it and a willingness to avert your eyes on the part of everyone else.

From everything I've read, egg and hog operations are the worst. Beef cattle in America at least still live outdoors, albeit standing ankle deep in their own waste eating a diet that makes them sick. And broiler chickens, although they do get their beaks snipped off with a hot knife to keep them from cannibalizing one another under the stress of their confinement, at least don't spend their eight-week lives in cages too small to ever stretch a wing. That fate is reserved for the American laying hen, who passes her brief span piled together with a half-dozen other hens in a wire cage whose floor a single page of this magazine could carpet. Every natural instinct of this animal is thwarted, leading to a range of behavioral ''vices'' that can include cannibalizing her cagemates and rubbing her body against the wire mesh until it is featherless and bleeding. Pain? Suffering? Madness? The operative suspension of disbelief depends on more neutral descriptors, like ''vices'' and ''stress.'' Whatever you want to call what's going on in those cages, the 10 percent or so of hens that can't bear it and simply die is built into the cost of production. And when the output of the others begins to ebb, the hens will be ''force-molted'' -- starved of food and water and light for several days in order to stimulate a final bout of egg laying before their life's work is done.

Simply reciting these facts, most of which are drawn from poultry-trade magazines, makes me sound like one of those animal people, doesn't it? I don't mean to, but this is what can happen when . . . you look. It certainly wasn't my intention to ruin anyone's breakfast. But now that I probably have spoiled the eggs, I do want to say one thing about the bacon, mention a single practice (by no means the worst) in modern hog production that points to the compound madness of an impeccable industrial logic.

Piglets in confinement operations are weaned from their mothers 10 days after birth (compared with 13 weeks in nature) because they gain weight faster on their hormone- and antibiotic-fortified feed. This premature weaning leaves the pigs with a lifelong craving to suck and chew, a desire they gratify in confinement by biting the tail of the animal in front of them. A normal pig would fight off his molester, but a demoralized pig has stopped caring. ''Learned helplessness'' is the psychological term, and it's not uncommon in confinement operations, where tens of thousands of hogs spend their entire lives ignorant of sunshine or earth or straw, crowded together beneath a metal roof upon metal slats suspended over a manure pit. So it's not surprising that an animal as sensitive and intelligent as a pig would get depressed, and a depressed pig will allow his tail to be chewed on to the point of infection. Sick pigs, being underperforming ''production units,'' are clubbed to death on the spot. The U.S.D.A.'s recommended solution to the problem is called ''tail docking.'' Using a pair of pliers (and no anesthetic), most but not all of the tail is snipped off. Why the little stump? Because the whole point of the exercise is not to remove the object of tail-biting so much as to render it more sensitive. Now, a bite on the tail is so painful that even the most demoralized pig will mount a struggle to avoid it.

Much of this description is drawn from ''Dominion,'' Matthew Scully's recent book in which he offers a harrowing description of a North Carolina hog operation. Scully, a Christian conservative, has no patience for lefty rights talk, arguing instead that while God did give man ''dominion'' over animals (''Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you''), he also admonished us to show them mercy. ''We are called to treat them with kindness, not because they have rights or power or some claim to equality but . . . because they stand unequal and powerless before us.''

Scully calls the contemporary factory farm ''our own worst nightmare'' and, to his credit, doesn't shrink from naming the root cause of this evil: unfettered capitalism. (Perhaps this explains why he resigned from the Bush administration just before his book's publication.) A tension has always existed between the capitalist imperative to maximize efficiency and the moral imperatives of religion or community, which have historically served as a counterweight to the moral blindness of the market. This is one of ''the cultural contradictions of capitalism'' -- the tendency of the economic impulse to erode the moral underpinnings of society. Mercy toward animals is one such casualty.

More than any other institution, the American industrial animal farm offers a nightmarish glimpse of what capitalism can look like in the absence of moral or regulatory constraint. Here in these places life itself is redefined -- as protein production -- and with it suffering. That venerable word becomes ''stress,'' an economic problem in search of a cost-effective solution, like tail-docking or beak-clipping or, in the industry's latest plan, by simply engineering the ''stress gene'' out of pigs and chickens. ''Our own worst nightmare'' such a place may well be; it is also real life for the billions of animals unlucky enough to have been born beneath these grim steel roofs, into the brief, pitiless life of a ''production unit'' in the days before the suffering gene was found.

Vegetarianism doesn't seem an unreasonable response to such an evil. Who would want to be made complicit in the agony of these animals by eating them? You want to throw something against the walls of those infernal sheds, whether it's the Bible, a new constitutional right or a whole platoon of animal rightists bent on breaking in and liberating the inmates. In the shadow of these factory farms, Coetzee's notion of a ''stupefying crime'' doesn't seem far-fetched at all.

But before you swear off meat entirely, let me describe a very different sort of animal farm. It is typical of nothing, and yet its very existence puts the whole moral question of animal agriculture in a different light. Polyface Farm occupies 550 acres of rolling grassland and forest in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Here, Joel Salatin and his family raise six different food animals -- cattle, pigs, chickens, rabbits, turkeys and sheep -- in an intricate dance of symbiosis designed to allow each species, in Salatin's words, ''to fully express its physiological distinctiveness.''

What this means in practice is that Salatin's chickens live like chickens; his cows, like cows; pigs, pigs. As in nature, where birds tend to follow herbivores, once Salatin's cows have finished grazing a pasture, he moves them out and tows in his ''eggmobile,'' a portable chicken coop that houses several hundred laying hens -- roughly the natural size of a flock. The hens fan out over the pasture, eating the short grass and picking insect larvae out of the cowpats -- all the while spreading the cow manure and eliminating the farm's parasite problem. A diet of grubs and grass makes for exceptionally tasty eggs and contented chickens, and their nitrogenous manure feeds the pasture. A few weeks later, the chickens move out, and the sheep come in, dining on the lush new growth, as well as on the weed species (nettles, nightshade) that the cattle and chickens won't touch.

Meanwhile, the pigs are in the barn turning the compost. All winter long, while the cattle were indoors, Salatin layered their manure with straw, wood chips -- and corn. By March, this steaming compost layer cake stands three feet high, and the pigs, whose powerful snouts can sniff out and retrieve the fermented corn at the bottom, get to spend a few happy weeks rooting through the pile, aerating it as they work. All you can see of these pigs, intently nosing out the tasty alcoholic morsels, are their upturned pink hams and corkscrew tails churning the air. The finished compost will go to feed the grass; the grass, the cattle; the cattle, the chickens; and eventually all of these animals will feed us.

I thought a lot about vegetarianism and animal rights during the day I spent on Joel Salatin's extraordinary farm. So much of what I'd read, so much of what I'd accepted, looked very different from here. To many animal rightists, even Polyface Farm is a death camp. But to look at these animals is to see this for the sentimental conceit it is. In the same way that we can probably recognize animal suffering when we see it, animal happiness is unmistakable, too, and here I was seeing it in abundance.

For any animal, happiness seems to consist in the opportunity to express its creaturely character -- its essential pigness or wolfness or chickenness. Aristotle speaks of each creature's ''characteristic form of life.'' For domesticated species, the good life, if we can call it that, cannot be achieved apart from humans -- apart from our farms and, therefore, our meat eating. This, it seems to me, is where animal rightists betray a profound ignorance about the workings of nature. To think of domestication as a form of enslavement or even exploitation is to misconstrue the whole relationship, to project a human idea of power onto what is, in fact, an instance of mutualism between species. Domestication is an evolutionary, rather than a political, development. It is certainly not a regime humans imposed on animals some 10,000 years ago.

Rather, domestication happened when a small handful of especially opportunistic species discovered through Darwinian trial and error that they were more likely to survive and prosper in an alliance with humans than on their own. Humans provided the animals with food and protection, in exchange for which the animals provided the humans their milk and eggs and -- yes -- their flesh. Both parties were transformed by the relationship: animals grew tame and lost their ability to fend for themselves (evolution tends to edit out unneeded traits), and the humans gave up their hunter-gatherer ways for the settled life of agriculturists. (Humans changed biologically, too, evolving such new traits as a tolerance for lactose as adults.)

From the animals' point of view, the bargain with humanity has been a great success, at least until our own time. Cows, pigs, dogs, cats and chickens have thrived, while their wild ancestors have languished. (There are 10,000 wolves in North America, 50,000,000 dogs.) Nor does their loss of autonomy seem to trouble these creatures. It is wrong, the rightists say, to treat animals as ''means'' rather than ''ends,'' yet the happiness of a working animal like the dog consists precisely in serving as a ''means.'' Liberation is the last thing such a creature wants. To say of one of Joel Salatin's caged chickens that ''the life of freedom is to be preferred'' betrays an ignorance about chicken preferences -- which on this farm are heavily focused on not getting their heads bitten off by weasels.

But haven't these chickens simply traded one predator for another -- weasels for humans? True enough, and for the chickens this is probably not a bad deal. For brief as it is, the life expectancy of a farm animal would be considerably briefer in the world beyond the pasture fence or chicken coop. A sheep farmer told me that a bear will eat a lactating ewe alive, starting with her udders. ''As a rule,'' he explained, ''animals don't get 'good deaths' surrounded by their loved ones.''

The very existence of predation -- animals eating animals -- is the cause of much anguished hand-wringing in animal rights circles. ''It must be admitted,'' Singer writes, ''that the existence of carnivorous animals does pose one problem for the ethics of Animal Liberation, and that is whether we should do anything about it.'' Some animal rightists train their dogs and cats to become vegetarians. (Note: cats will require nutritional supplements to stay healthy.) Matthew Scully calls predation ''the intrinsic evil in nature's design . . . among the hardest of all things to fathom.'' Really? A deep Puritan streak pervades animal rights activists, an abiding discomfort not only with our animality, but with the animals' animality too.

However it may appear to us, predation is not a matter of morality or politics; it, also, is a matter of symbiosis. Hard as the wolf may be on the deer he eats, the herd depends on him for its well-being; without predators to cull the herd, deer overrun their habitat and starve. In many places, human hunters have taken over the predator's ecological role. Chickens also depend for their continued well-being on their human predators -- not individual chickens, but chickens as a species. The surest way to achieve the extinction of the chicken would be to grant chickens a ''right to life.''

Yet here's the rub: the animal rightist is not concerned with species, only individuals. Tom Regan, author of ''The Case for Animal Rights,'' bluntly asserts that because ''species are not individuals . . . the rights view does not recognize the moral rights of species to anything, including survival.'' Singer concurs, insisting that only sentient individuals have interests. But surely a species can have interests -- in its survival, say -- just as a nation or community or a corporation can. The animal rights movement's exclusive concern with individual animals makes perfect sense given its roots in a culture of liberal individualism, but does it make any sense in nature?

In 1611 Juan da Goma (aka Juan the Disoriented) made accidental landfall on Wrightson Island, a six-square-mile rock in the Indian Ocean. The island's sole distinction is as the only known home of the Arcania tree and the bird that nests in it, the Wrightson giant sea sparrow. Da Goma and his crew stayed a week, much of that time spent in a failed bid to recapture the ship's escaped goat -- who happened to be pregnant. Nearly four centuries later, Wrightson Island is home to 380 goats that have consumed virtually every scrap of vegetation in their reach. The youngest Arcania tree on the island is more than 300 years old, and only 52 sea sparrows remain. In the animal rights view, any one of those goats have at least as much right to life as the last Wrightson sparrow on earth, and the trees, because they are not sentient, warrant no moral consideration whatsoever. (In the mid-80's a British environmental group set out to shoot the goats, but was forced to cancel the expedition after the Mammal Liberation Front bombed its offices.)

The story of Wrightson Island (recounted by the biologist David Ehrenfeld in ''Beginning Again'') suggests at the very least that a human morality based on individual rights makes for an awkward fit when applied to the natural world. This should come as no surprise: morality is an artifact of human culture, devised to help us negotiate social relations. It's very good for that. But just as we recognize that nature doesn't provide an adequate guide for human social conduct, isn't it anthropocentric to assume that our moral system offers an adequate guide for nature? We may require a different set of ethics to guide our dealings with the natural world, one as well suited to the particular needs of plants and animals and habitats (where sentience counts for little) as rights suit us humans today.

To contemplate such questions from the vantage of a farm is to appreciate just how parochial and urban an ideology animals rights really is. It could thrive only in a world where people have lost contact with the natural world, where animals no longer pose a threat to us and human mastery of nature seems absolute. ''In our normal life,'' Singer writes, ''there is no serious clash of interests between human and nonhuman animals.'' Such a statement assumes a decidedly urbanized ''normal life,'' one that certainly no farmer would recognize.

The farmer would point out that even vegans have a ''serious clash of interests'' with other animals. The grain that the vegan eats is harvested with a combine that shreds field mice, while the farmer's tractor crushes woodchucks in their burrows, and his pesticides drop songbirds from the sky. Steve Davis, an animal scientist at Oregon State University, has estimated that if America were to adopt a strictly vegetarian diet, the total number of animals killed every year would actually increase, as animal pasture gave way to row crops. Davis contends that if our goal is to kill as few animals as possible, then people should eat the largest possible animal that can live on the least intensively cultivated land: grass-fed beef for everybody. It would appear that killing animals is unavoidable no matter what we choose to eat.

When I talked to Joel Salatin about the vegetarian utopia, he pointed out that it would also condemn him and his neighbors to importing their food from distant places, since the Shenandoah Valley receives too little rainfall to grow many row crops. Much the same would hold true where I live, in New England. We get plenty of rain, but the hilliness of the land has dictated an agriculture based on animals since the time of the Pilgrims. The world is full of places where the best, if not the only, way to obtain food from the land is by grazing animals on it -- especially ruminants, which alone can transform grass into protein and whose presence can actually improve the health of the land.

The vegetarian utopia would make us even more dependent than we already are on an industrialized national food chain. That food chain would in turn be even more dependent than it already is on fossil fuels and chemical fertilizer, since food would need to travel farther and manure would be in short supply. Indeed, it is doubtful that you can build a more sustainable agriculture without animals to cycle nutrients and support local food production. If our concern is for the health of nature -- rather than, say, the internal consistency of our moral code or the condition of our souls -- then eating animals may sometimes be the most ethical thing to do.

There is, too, the fact that we humans have been eating animals as long as we have lived on this earth. Humans may not need to eat meat in order to survive, yet doing so is part of our evolutionary heritage, reflected in the design of our teeth and the structure of our digestion. Eating meat helped make us what we are, in a social and biological sense. Under the pressure of the hunt, the human brain grew in size and complexity, and around the fire where the meat was cooked, human culture first flourished. Granting rights to animals may lift us up from the brutal world of predation, but it will entail the sacrifice of part of our identity -- our own animality.

Surely this is one of the odder paradoxes of animal rights doctrine. It asks us to recognize all that we share with animals and then demands that we act toward them in a most unanimalistic way. Whether or not this is a good idea, we should at least acknowledge that our desire to eat meat is not a trivial matter, no mere ''gastronomic preference.'' We might as well call sex -- also now technically unnecessary -- a mere ''recreational preference.'' Whatever else it is, our meat eating is something very deep indeed.

Are any of these good enough reasons to eat animals? I'm mindful of Ben Franklin's definition of the reasonable creature as one who can come up with reasons for whatever he wants to do. So I decided I would track down Peter Singer and ask him what he thought. In an e-mail message, I described Polyface and asked him about the implications for his position of the Good Farm -- one where animals got to live according to their nature and to all appearances did not suffer.

''I agree with you that it is better for these animals to have lived and died than not to have lived at all,'' Singer wrote back. Since the utilitarian is concerned exclusively with the sum of happiness and suffering and the slaughter of an animal that doesn't comprehend that death need not involve suffering, the Good Farm adds to the total of animal happiness, provided you replace the slaughtered animal with a new one. However, he added, this line of thinking doesn't obviate the wrongness of killing an animal that ''has a sense of its own existence over time and can have preferences for its own future.'' In other words, it's O.K. to eat the chicken, but he's not so sure about the pig. Yet, he wrote, ''I would not be sufficiently confident of my arguments to condemn someone who purchased meat from one of these farms.''

Singer went on to express serious doubts that such farms could be practical on a large scale, since the pressures of the marketplace will lead their owners to cut costs and corners at the expense of the animals. He suggested, too, that killing animals is not conducive to treating them with respect. Also, since humanely raised food will be more expensive, only the well-to-do can afford morally defensible animal protein. These are important considerations, but they don't alter my essential point: what's wrong with animal agriculture -- with eating animals -- is the practice, not the principle.

What this suggests to me is that people who care should be working not for animal rights but animal welfare -- to ensure that farm animals don't suffer and that their deaths are swift and painless. In fact, the decent-life-merciful-death line is how Jeremy Bentham justified his own meat eating. Yes, the philosophical father of animal rights was himself a carnivore. In a passage rather less frequently quoted by animal rightists, Bentham defended eating animals on the grounds that ''we are the better for it, and they are never the worse. . . . The death they suffer in our hands commonly is, and always may be, a speedier and, by that means, a less painful one than that which would await them in the inevitable course of nature.''

My guess is that Bentham never looked too closely at what happens in a slaughterhouse, but the argument suggests that, in theory at least, a utilitarian can justify the killing of humanely treated animals -- for meat or, presumably, for clothing. (Though leather and fur pose distinct moral problems. Leather is a byproduct of raising domestic animals for food, which can be done humanely. However, furs are usually made from wild animals that die brutal deaths -- usually in leg-hold traps -- and since most fur species aren't domesticated, raising them on farms isn't necessarily more humane.) But whether the issue is food or fur or hunting, what should concern us is the suffering, not the killing. All of which I was feeling pretty good about -- until I remembered that utilitarians can also justify killing retarded orphans. Killing just isn't the problem for them that it is for other people, including me.

During my visit to Polyface Farm, I asked Salatin where his animals were slaughtered. He does the chickens and rabbits right on the farm, and would do the cattle, pigs and sheep there too if only the U.S.D.A. would let him. Salatin showed me the open-air abattoir he built behind the farmhouse -- a sort of outdoor kitchen on a concrete slab, with stainless-steel sinks, scalding tanks, a feather-plucking machine and metal cones to hold the birds upside down while they're being bled. Processing chickens is not a pleasant job, but Salatin insists on doing it himself because he's convinced he can do it more humanely and cleanly than any processing plant. He slaughters every other Saturday through the summer. Anyone's welcome to watch.

I asked Salatin how he could bring himself to kill a chicken.

''People have a soul; animals don't,'' he said. ''It's a bedrock belief of mine.'' Salatin is a devout Christian. ''Unlike us, animals are not created in God's image, so when they die, they just die.''

The notion that only in modern times have people grown uneasy about killing animals is a flattering conceit. Taking a life is momentous, and people have been working to justify the slaughter of animals for thousands of years. Religion and especially ritual has played a crucial part in helping us reckon the moral costs. Native Americans and other hunter-gathers would give thanks to their prey for giving up its life so the eater might live (sort of like saying grace). Many cultures have offered sacrificial animals to the gods, perhaps as a way to convince themselves that it was the gods' desires that demanded the slaughter, not their own. In ancient Greece, the priests responsible for the slaughter (priests! -- now we entrust the job to minimum-wage workers) would sprinkle holy water on the sacrificial animal's brow. The beast would promptly shake its head, and this was taken as a sign of assent. Slaughter doesn't necessarily preclude respect. For all these people, it was the ceremony that allowed them to look, then to eat.

Apart from a few surviving religious practices, we no longer have any rituals governing the slaughter or eating of animals, which perhaps helps to explain why we find ourselves where we do, feeling that our only choice is to either look away or give up meat. Frank Perdue is happy to serve the first customer; Peter Singer, the second.

Until my visit to Polyface Farm, I had assumed these were the only two options. But on Salatin's farm, the eye contact between people and animals whose loss John Berger mourned is still a fact of life -- and of death, for neither the lives nor the deaths of these animals have been secreted behind steel walls. ''Food with a face,'' Salatin likes to call what he's selling, a slogan that probably scares off some customers. People see very different things when they look into the eyes of a pig or a chicken or a steer -- a being without a soul, a ''subject of a life'' entitled to rights, a link in a food chain, a vessel for pain and pleasure, a tasty lunch. But figuring out what we do think, and what we can eat, might begin with the looking.

We certainly won't philosophize our way to an answer. Salatin told me the story of a man who showed up at the farm one Saturday morning. When Salatin noticed a PETA bumper sticker on the man's car, he figured he was in for it. But the man had a different agenda. He explained that after 16 years as a vegetarian, he had decided that the only way he could ever eat meat again was if he killed the animal himself. He had come to look.

''Ten minutes later we were in the processing shed with a chicken,'' Salatin recalled. ''He slit the bird's throat and watched it die. He saw that the animal did not look at him accusingly, didn't do a Disney double take. The animal had been treated with respect when it was alive, and he saw that it could also have a respectful death -- that it wasn't being treated as a pile of protoplasm.''

Salatin's open-air abattoir is a morally powerful idea. Someone slaughtering a chicken in a place where he can be watched is apt to do it scrupulously, with consideration for the animal as well as for the eater. This is going to sound quixotic, but maybe all we need to do to redeem industrial animal agriculture in this country is to pass a law requiring that the steel and concrete walls of the CAFO's and slaughterhouses be replaced with . . . glass. If there's any new ''right'' we need to establish, maybe it's this one: the right to look.

No doubt the sight of some of these places would turn many people into vegetarians. Many others would look elsewhere for their meat, to farmers like Salatin. There are more of them than I would have imagined. Despite the relentless consolidation of the American meat industry, there has been a revival of small farms where animals still live their ''characteristic form of life.'' I'm thinking of the ranches where cattle still spend their lives on grass, the poultry farms where chickens still go outside and the hog farms where pigs live as they did 50 years ago -- in contact with the sun, the earth and the gaze of a farmer.

For my own part, I've discovered that if you're willing to make the effort, it's entirely possible to limit the meat you eat to nonindustrial animals. I'm tempted to think that we need a new dietary category, to go with the vegan and lactovegetarian and piscatorian. I don't have a catchy name for it yet (humanocarnivore?), but this is the only sort of meat eating I feel comfortable with these days. I've become the sort of shopper who looks for labels indicating that his meat and eggs have been humanely grown (the American Humane Association's new ''Free Farmed'' label seems to be catching on), who visits the farms where his chicken and pork come from and who asks kinky-sounding questions about touring slaughterhouses. I've actually found a couple of small processing plants willing to let a customer onto the kill floor, including one, in Cannon Falls, Minn., with a glass abattoir.

The industrialization -- and dehumanization -- of American animal farming is a relatively new, evitable and local phenomenon: no other country raises and slaughters its food animals quite as intensively or as brutally as we do. Were the walls of our meat industry to become transparent, literally or even figuratively, we would not long continue to do it this way. Tail-docking and sow crates and beak-clipping would disappear overnight, and the days of slaughtering 400 head of cattle an hour would come to an end. For who could stand the sight? Yes, meat would get more expensive. We'd probably eat less of it, too, but maybe when we did eat animals, we'd eat them with the consciousness, ceremony and respect they deserve.

Michael Pollan, a contributing writer for the magazine, is the author of ''The Botany of Desire.'' His last cover article was about the beef industry.

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