The Platypus Courtship Chronicle

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Due to its proximity to the brain, the sense of smell is the most powerful for recalling memories, but when was the last time you used your ampullary electroreceptors to locate crustaceans in deep, dark water? You probably didn’t even know you had ampullary electroreceptors, and I don’t write that to display some sort of superiority, because I don’t have any either. Knowing that, a platypus might pull a power play on us by talking about how he uses them as a sixth sense. Just dropping those two words, sixth sense, you know this platypus is going to get a ton of attention at the pool party. When he starts in on the mechanics behind his super-sensory skin on his duck-bill and its three distinct receptor cells that help it detect electrical impulses caused by movements of objects in the water, and how he’s one of the few mammals that have this ability, you just know people are going to be gathering around. If he’s super-obnoxious about it, and he is, he knows the best exclamation point to put on all of his claims is a party trick.

He tells a short fella, wearing a yellow shirt, to throw a worm in the pool, then he instructs us to blindfold him, nose plug him, and add some noise-canceling earphones just to prove he isn’t using any of his “pedestrian senses.” And what do you know, he just happens to have all if that, a blindfold, a nose plug, and some noise canceling earphones on him!

“What’s going on here?” a late-comer asked, and the other guy just pointed. Other than that whisperer, the rest of us were silently watching that short guy in the yellow shirt spin the platypus around three times to disorient him. Yellow shirt then led the platypus to the edge of the water and pushed him in. After about twelve seconds, the platypus emerged with a worm in mouth. He allowed it to dangle at the end of his bill for a couple seconds, for effect, then he sucked it in.

“Ta-dah!” someone called out to ignite the hooting and hollering. Free-flow laughter followed, as we followed him, all but yipping with excitement, to a dark corner of the grotto.

We would have even joined in on all the adulation if we didn’t see that smile on Tiffany. Tiffany was such a friendly woman, with such a warm disposition, and we were really hitting it off, until that platypus decided put on the show. She showed us a smile when we began talking to her, and we thought it was that smile, until we saw what she gave the platypus. Then, when we added what we considered a clever, little joke after the show was over, her smiled ticked over to us while we spoke, but it lessened a little when she answered us in a polite, slightly dismissive tone. When the platypus added his own stupid joke about how he was a member of the relatively exclusive species of egg-laying mammals, “Other than the echidna, otherwise known as the spiny anteater.” Tiffany laughed. She loved it. She looked back to the platypus after that joke, and she laughed hard, way too hard, and that smile returned. That smile even strengthened as Tiffany waited for him to say something, anything else. It strengthened to such a degree that we knew it would probably not be long before we saw our first, live platypus love donut.

Even after Tiffany touched the soft, suede-like bill that she said she found quite pliable and fleshy around the edges, we maintained Walter Payton’s never-say-die motto. We could feel petty boiling up in our insides, but we didn’t want to become petty. We tried to maintain our smile to get that smile from Tiffany on us, but the one thing we know about petty is that it’s difficult to control once it start bubbling to the surface. 

When the platypus started flapping his flat pads of hardened gum tissue about being three different animals in one, he had the room. There were people I didn’t even know who were captivated by his, “We mimic the traits of the bird here, a reptile there, and a mammal like you everywhere else.” When he said you, he was talking directly to Tiffany. He proceeded to reveal his intentions by directing the rest of his stories, clever anecdotes, and descriptions of his prowess at Tiffany, and we felt that deep in our throat.  

Tiffany was all about short-term fascination in the moment, but I started thinking about how long-term calculations influence even the shortest short-term thinking. When Tiffany began gently stroking the platypus’s fur, while the platypus talked about how “science has found his fur displays bioflourescent properties under an ultra-violet lamp, and how that reveals that his fur can absorb short UV wavelengths and then emit visible light, fluorescing green or cyan,” and how “We camouflage ourselves from other UV-sensitive nocturnal predators or prey by absorbing UV light instead of reflecting it.”

“And then what?” was the question spinning around in our head. We were then going to further that question with a “What good does that do us, how can we use that piece of information?” to play to Tiffany’s long-term calculations. We didn’t ask it, because we knew how petty it sounded. If the platypus answered, it wouldn’t be a good one. If the platypus didn’t answer, we thought we might have had him, but silence can be a tricky thing. If the platypus was crafty, he would allow that silence to play out, until it came back on us and we were drowning in it.  

By the time he got around to talking about his tail, and how it isn’t just a rudder for swimming, we were no longer even smiling at the platypus. Our competitive juices were consuming us to the point that we didn’t like him when he said, “It’s like a fat storage depot, much like a camel’s. It’s almost like a secret snack drawer.” We’re not immune to his charisma, and if it wasn’t for Tiffany falling under his spell, we might marvel at how a platypus can captivate a room so adeptly.

Even a man named Tom Fielder fell under the platypus’s spell, and Tom was one of those narcissistic types who doesn’t pay attention to anyone who cannot do anything for Tom Fielder, and yes, he spoke of himself in the third person. Even Tom “the caustic, cynic” Fielder couldn’t conceal his compliments, “You’re a delightful blend of quirkiness and evolutionary marvels—a true testament to nature’s creativity!”   

We’re not fools, we could see that we were nearing a point of no-return with Tiffany. She was about two flapping eyelashes away from enamored by this duck-billed beaver who European naturalists thought was a hoax when they first encountered one of his ancestors. The painful memories of losing out to the males of our species struck us in the moment, as we thought about how much more painful, bordering on humiliating, it would be to lose out to a male of another species. This humiliation led to the desperation of us saying whatever we could think up, at that point, to try to convince the contingent surrounding the platypus in the grotto to move into the light, so Tiffany could see that the product of her adoration didn’t have teeth. We knew that she was thinking short-term, as the platypus went on about how multifunctional his bill and fur were, but we all know that nestled within even the shortest, short time thoughts are long-term considerations. Women might be able to overcome the superficial qualities of the toothless, for example, but they have to factor in how embarrassing it might be to go out on a date at a restaurant and have the other patrons notice that her date has to use gravel as makeshift teeth to munch on his food. That just has to be consideration for her, we thought, as we continued to hint around that our conversation would be so much better in another, better lit location in the pool area.

My competitive juices were getting the best of me, but I didn’t say anything about his teeth, or lack thereof, because a friend and former co-worker of mine placed a warning sticker in my mind about letting my competitive juices getting ahead of me when it came to fighting for a woman that I’ve always tried to apply.

“Be careful when you’re competing,” he said when I was competing with another fella, and I was about to let that woman know everything she didn’t know about that man. “Be careful that it don’t get the best of you, and you say the wrong thing. You gotta be discreet, strategic, and methodical, or it’s gonna come back on you, like the boomerang. You gotta lay your scoop out organic, or as organic as you can make it, so she thinks she’s discovered it all on her own. You pointing out his vulnerabilities, blatantly, will boomerang back on you, and you’ll be the bad guy in her eyes.”  

It was great advice from a dishwasher, and we’re not cracking on him either, because he said it himself. He said, “How do I have all these women, and I’m a dishwasher? I must know what I’m talking about.” I kept his advice in throughout this disastrous evening, until Tiffany started fingering the horny stinger on the heel of his back feet. That pounded home the point that her interest was so far beyond superficial and zoological that it was almost game over.

We were losing so bad that our desperation eventually reached a point where we cast our dishwasher’s advice aside and shouted out, “But aren’t you a monotreme?” That silenced the contingent, and we temporarily buckled under the weight of the lifted eyebrows around us, but we maintained our stance, because we had a point that we needed to drive home. When he proudly said yes, because he was proud his species, we pounced before he could use our classification to pivot a conversation about how proud he was of his heritage. We added, “Monotreme is Greek for one hole, so that means you only have one hole for waste removal?”

Was it a party foul? Yes, and we knew it was on so many levels that we knew it wouldn’t be met with approval by those who cultivate group thought on conversation topics and social decorum, but we also knew it could prove a depth charge that once detonated could affect Tiffany’s short-term thinking.  

The problem with this is that individual methods of waste removal are not in a woman’s, but more particularly a young woman’s, top 100 list of considerations for a potential mate. The party foul also illustrated the dishwasher’s boomerang effect in that if we made a dent in the platypuses’ chances at Tiffany it did not have a corresponding effect on our own. We could even say, judging by the raised eyebrows arcing even higher, that they viewed the comment as mean-spirited.  

When the platypus answered that with an all too thorough and descriptive answer, that effectively neutered our attempt, he concluded it with a clever redirect about how “Some stupid humans try to cutesify, as oppose to classify, the baby platypus as a puggle.” Tiffany laughed hard at that again, too hard. It was an all-in and it’s-all-over-for-you laugh that those of us who’ve lost out on so many potential dates know well.

In a last-dying gasp, we asked the platypus to do his blind-folded, worm trick again. We didn’t do this, “Because, I found that first one so inexplicable that I need to see if you can do it again.” We did it, because we wanted him to remove his swim shirt again, and when he did, we were all ready for it. We clicked the flashlight on our cell phone on for the supposed purpose of shining some light on him so he could see, but we accidentally exposed the fact that he didn’t have nipples in the process.

We considered this our strategic and methodical way of allowing Tiffany to discover this information on her own. Were our motives pure, of course not. We were ticked off, and we thought if we could help her discover the platypuses’s incongruities, it could lead her to question his commonality. While I suspect that very few people would avoid dating someone with a subtle incongruity, such as a strange set or nipples, or no nipples, I hoped all these depth charges might lead her to add them all up to a discovery that the platypus might be incongruent.  

If you’re competing with a platypus for a human female, and you’re losing, you might have other issues, but we were willing to bet that a toothless, nipple-less competitor who poops and pees out of the same hole might cause a woman to second guess who they should consider the ideal mate with whom they might eventually plan to marry and procreate. We also thought those long-term considerations would have a powerful influence on her short-term thinking. You can call us mean-spirited, or whatever you want, but we were trying to help Tiffany see beyond her short-term fascination with the platypus to weighing the long-term consideration of the traits their shared children might inherit from their father.  

You Don’t Critique Another Man’s Meat

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“I absolutely love grilling,” Leonard said. “Love it. Some people do it, and some just do it, but for some of us, it’s all about passion.” 

If someone said this from behind one of those sleek, compact, Three-Burner, Liquid Propane grills that feature porcelain-enameled, cast-iron cooking grates, you’d scream, I’d scream, we’d all scream for red meat. Check that, I probably wouldn’t scream, because I’ve been beat down, brothers and sisters, by all them grill-at-the-parkers hollering about how salvation is near. I’m here to testify that those Willie “the wunderkind” types who man the grill, and who, by all appearances should be the chef du jour, are false prophets.

You’ll be disappointed too, but you, the patron of the park, the family and/or friend of the chef, keep in mind that you ain’t paid a dime for that meat, the seat, or anything in between. You are to be grateful, always grateful, when someone hands you a plate, telling you to “Dig in!” on what you’ve been smelling and salivating over for the past ten minutes. You go grateful and stay grateful, because they paid for that meat, and they’ve been slaving over the fire, because you ain’t paid a dime. 

It’s that smelling that gets to us, and it leads us astray, my friends. I’ve been there, you’ve been there, we believed in that smell, and our expectations went sky high. We tried to listen to Niece Maggie talk about her volleyball matches, but we don’t hear her, because of the symphony of sizzles going on behind our back.

When the moment of truth arrives, and I mean that in the most literal sense, we don’t even notice the au gratin potatoes when our plate hits that table. No, we dive deep into the meat, while it’s all hot and sizzling, and after all that sizzling, and all those smells send our expectations sky-high, we hit a gut-destroying, roller coaster dip. “Is it just me or is this … bad?” we ask ourselves, and we’re all asking ourselves that question. You can see it at the table, especially on Cousin Teddy’s face. Do you have a Cousin Teddy, he can’t hide it? He has an eyebrow raised, but-I-ain’t-saying-a-word look on his face, but that face is just saying what we’re all thinking. Is the meat that bad, or are we all just that picky, and do we have a right to be picky, seeing as how this was all free? “But I had such sky high expectations. Doesn’t that warrant disappointment?”

“No, here’s what you do,” a friend of the family once informed me. “You shut your trap, and you keep it shut. That’s what you do. You open it long enough to put the food in it, then you close it to chew, and you keep closing it, until you’re headed home, whispering it to your wife on the drive home. You wanna be starting something? No, there’s nothing to be gained, at a family picnic, by critiquing another man’s meat.”

And when we talk about meat, we’re not talking about pork, brothers and sisters, because pork is tough to screw up. You know it, we know it, because we all done it, and we know it takes a whole bunch of stupidity to mess pork up. Brats, and all of the other meats that fall under the wiener umbrella, rarely knock our socks off or sadly disappoint, and we’ve had an absolutely horrible piece of chicken, what once? Twice, maybe twice. Red meat is the all-knowing meat. Red meat exposes a man’s under belly. It tells us who we are, who we really are. It tells us something about out lack of attention to detail, the vulnerabilities of our spatula, and the frailties of our fork. Red meat does not forgive and forget, and it’s all about red meat.

Red meat is the reason we just drove thirty minutes to this park. We love our get-togethers, spending time with friends and family, and all that, but red meat is special. Can I get an amen, brothers and sisters? A soft, juicy hamburger is sublime, but a properly prepared steak, is divine. I don’t care where they cut it, steak is the meat.  

I don’t keep a ledger on my disappointments in life, but when it comes to steak, but I’ll throw out a whopping 95%. The fellas with the finest forks have disappointed me 95% of the time. It’s edible, most of the time anyway, but it’s not Oh!-I-gotta-have-it scrumptious. It’s usually about two notches above edible.

I’ve seen them roll the most beautiful, top-of-the-line, stainless steel, propane gas machines into the park, and I’ve seen who’s ready and who ain’t. I’ve heard the grillers-in-the-park talk about those machines and how their top-of-the-lines can distribute heat so evenly across the grate, and how their four stainless steel burners can produce incredible amounts of BTUs that enhance heat retention so all that cooking “is not only more efficient, it’s convenient and quick.” And I know nothing about their world. I know nothing about all the knowledge they’ve attained from all their research. But I’ve done my own research. I’ve researched what they generously produced for me with their time and effort, between my teeth and gums, and I can’t remember eating a gas-grilled piece of red meat that’s earned those blue-ribbons. It’s quick, your propane grills with all their fixings are quick, but blue-ribbon? What are you smoking son?

So, we all giggle when Terrance rolls his $89.00 charcoal grill into the park that he says he bought on sale at Walmart. We join in the giggles with the fellas-in-the-park, with a beer in our hands, because we know that they know, because they’ve been grilling for thirty-some-odd-years, so we trust they know their ins and outs. So, when the unassuming Terrance reveals his charcoal chimney starter, his flipper, his forker, and some tongs, the very, very basic three-tool set, that he purchased with the grill “all for a little over a hundy,” we join their public chiding, their gentle public shining, and we even join in on their private, and less gentle, scorn. 

Terrance doesn’t talk the talk or walk the walk, because he don’t know it. He lived in an apartment and worked in an office for most of his life. Terrance is the type who prefers to eat out. He prefers restaurant food, and we all whisper that while he’s cooking, and we do it in the most condescending manner you can imagine. Terrance is the “doesn’t get it, and he probably never will” type of chef, because he started grilling late in life. If we talk about grilling with him, we started the conversation, not him, and we find he’s pretty insecure about his ability to cook a meal for the entire family.

“I let other people do it for so long, because they love it. You all love doing this far more than I do,” Terrance whispers to me, “But I got a wife, and I got a life, so I decided to what-the-hell it.” So, it was the wife who talked him into grilling for the whole family. She also told him he was pretty good at it.

“But, for the whole family?” he complained.

“You’ll be fine,” she said.

We don’t think he’ll be fine. We wonder what she was smoking. I mean, Terrance doesn’t even own an apron that says something funny about the chef on it. He’s so insecure about his abilities that he doesn’t even join the joke Aunt Pat is telling about the time “Terrance couldn’t find the anus on a trout for cleaning.” He doesn’t know what he’s doing behind a grill, so he ain’t got time for her playful banter. He needs to concentrate on trying to cook a fairly decent meal for the whole family. He also doesn’t want to make anyone sick, so he keeps plugging his “Walmart temperature gauge thinger-diller (a term he uses because he can’t remember the word thermometer!) in the meat, and upon grilling, the verbal kind, we find he isn’t exactly sure what the difference is between a sirloin and a ribeye.

The “Oh, boy” consensus is not kind. “Oh boy, we might need to get someone else to man the grill Helen,” our Uncle Jerry says about halfway through. “I’m not sure if Terrance is da man,” he adds, and oh boy do we laugh.

That “Oh, boy” consensus quietly turns kind, about twenty seconds after we sink our teeth and gums into Terrance’s finished product. “Oh, boy!” we want to say, but when no else says a word, we quietly devour this tender and soft piece of meat that quietly changes everything we thought we knew about grilling-red-meat-in-the-park.

A hint of crisp on the outside is expected, but nothing can prepare us for the soft and chewy 145 degrees of medium-cooked insides that informs us how much dopamine the brain can reward a human being for the sense of taste. Everyone has Aunt Phyllis’s green bean casserole on their plate and Aunt Donna’s au gratin potatoes, but no ones touched any of that yet. There is no talk of trout anuses, fishing trips with our recently-deceased Uncle George, or any of the other great times we’ve had at this park over the years. There’s also no talk about how Terrance and his “under a hundy” arsenal just upended thirty years of grilling research the fellas attained with their top-of-the-line materials. We just quietly eat what Terrance made on his “one healthy sneeze and that thing’s going down” piece of junk, Charcoal grill that he purchased, on sale, from Walmart ten years ago.

Now that our course has been corrected on grilling at the park, we love hearing Leonard go on about how he knows his way around a grill, and how it’s all about love and passion for him. He has all of the latest and greatest cooking utensils, coupled with his ‘Kiss the Chef!’ apron. His stainless steel, propane gas grill has a brand name with numbers behind it that Leonard spouts as if it’s a limited model Lamborghini, and the aesthetic design of it is an absolute feast for the eyes. His wife further amplifies whatever Leonard says about himself and his new grill, and you watch him to see if there’s anything you can learn from a bona fide master. He has a wide variety of wood chips, and he “ain’t afraid to use them”, and Leonard “ain’t afraid to season neither.”

“Delicate and measured,” he says. “I know it’s verboten among the smoke whisperers, but if you keep it delicate and measured, seasoning enhances as opposed to overwhelming.”

When we finally sink our teeth into the finished product of Leonard’s decades of fine-tuning, through trial and error and research, we find a truth about his marvel of science and engineering. We didn’t want to find it. That’s the most important note I want to leave you with today. When Leonard started going on about his passion for grilling, we thought we were going to rolling around in it minutes later. Our only concern was that we would love it so much that we might make noises when we eat, and some of them might sound inhuman. 

We didn’t want him to be wrong. We didn’t want him revealed. We wanted a savory slab of steak between our teeth and gums. When Leonard graciously gave us one of his steaks, we were grateful, but we couldn’t help but notice that it produced a flavor so close to steak that it was edible, but compared to Terrance’s amateur production, Leonard’s steak was anything but we we call a tour-de-force.

“It was actually pretty bland,” we whisper to our wives on the ride home. We don’t say this to Leonard, however. We lie to him, as any respectful guest who just ate the product of another’s effort and generosity will. We whisper that Terrance, and his piece of crap $89.00 cooker, “Actually grilled up a better steak.” We whisper that because we don’t want anyone to know what we don’t. 

“I know,” she whispers back, “But shhh!” We’re in the privacy of our own car, and we’re whispering, and she’s shushing me to try to prevent me from carrying on to the point that someone might hear us and know that we don’t know what we’re saying. We don’t know anything. We know so little that we don’t even know what we don’t know, but we know what we know, and we know you don’t critique another man’s meat.   

Mathematics and Telescopes: The Triumph of Neptune’s Discoverers

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“Neptune was the first planet to be discovered through mathematical equations, as opposed to astronomical observations.”

“Perturbing body,” were the words French astronomer Alex Bouvard wrote to set off a firestorm in astronomical, physicist, and mathematician societies throughout the world. He wrote that to explain why his published predictions on the orbit of Uranus were wrong. “How else can we explain it?” Bouvard probably said. Bouvard’s methodical and careful approach to observations were such that when he made official declarations, people listened. When in 1821, he hypothesized that an eighth planet must be responsible for the irregularities in Uranus’ orbit, it opened the window for the discovery of what we now as Neptune. 

Some believed in Bouvard’s perturbing body theory, some did not. Some argued that Uranus’ irregular orbit proved that Isaac Newton’s theories on gravitation and motion, on which Bouvard made his initial predictions, were just wrong. Astronomer John Couch Adams wasn’t buying it. He believed “he could use [Bouvard’s] observed data on Uranus, and utilizing nothing more than Newton’s law of gravitation, deduce the mass, position and orbit of the perturbing body.” After four years spent studying Uranus’ orbit, in conjunction with this theory, Adams submitted his findings in 1845. Yet, for some reason, he didn’t respond to official queries for detailed calculations of his findings. Had he responded quickly, Adams may have cemented his role in history as the lone individual responsible for theoretically projecting that Bouvard’s “perturbing force” was, in fact, another planet. “Some suspect that Adam’s failure to respond in a timely manner may have been due to his general nervousness, procrastination and disorganization.” 

It’s also possible that Adams may not have had the detailed calculations, at the time, that would withstand scrutiny. Prior to the call for detailed calculations, Adams was elected fellow of his college based on the idea that he would be the one to answer the questions about the perturbing body theory. We can only speculate that he might have enjoyed that life so much that he didn’t want to risk putting that on the line. In the four years he spent studying the issue, we can assume he gathered a team of students and other assistants to help him formulate calculations and fact-check the findings. We can also guess that Adams’ own people found problems with the theoretical guesses they reached. If he officially submitted those detailed calculations to an observatory when they were called for, and they couldn’t observe the planet, based on his calculations, it might have damaged his reputation and standing in his community. Adams eventually submitted his findings, and they were twelve degrees off.

Whether he was studying Uranus’ orbit and the idea of a perturbing body at the same time as Adams, or he piggy-backed on Adam’s findings to support his own calculations, Urbain Jean Joseph Le Verrier immediately responded to calls for detailed calculations. Le Verrier sent his coordinates to Berlin Observatory astronomer Johann Gottfried Galle’s inquiries, and Galle confirmed the existence of the planet on September 23, 1846. Galle confirmed Le Verrier’s detailed calculations, but added that Le Verrier was one degree off. [Note: The international astronomy community eventually decided to settle the international dispute by giving credit to both the British Adams and the French Urbain for Neptune’s discovery, even though Adams unofficially discovered it first.] Astronomy.com also states that “Adams [eventually] completed his calculations first, but Le Verrier published first. Le Verrier’s calculations were also more accurate.” The lesson here for kids is when the international community approaches you for detailed calculations to support your astronomical findings make sure you either respond immediately, or maybe you should have your detailed calculations ready before declaring your findings. 

Uranus was discovered in 1781, Bouvard declared that its orbit was irregular in 1821, and Le Verrier finalized all speculation regarding the perturbing force by declaring it was a planet providing that perturbing force twenty-five years later in 1846, after Bouvard’s death. We have to suspect that almost all of the astronomers, physicists, and mathematicians knew that the perturbing force had to be a planet, but they couldn’t find it. Neptune is not visible by the naked eye, and this, coupled with the technological limitations they had at the time, forced the brightest minds in astronomy, physics, and mathematics to base their theoretical predictions and findings on the celestial mechanics of Johannes Kepler and Isaac Newton theories, and this idea that the entire universe existed on universally accepted mathematical principles.

I find it impressive that a man, any man, could take a supposition, such as the perturbing body theory, and mathematically project that due to the irregular movements of Uranus’ that the perturbing body has to be located right there and be one degree off. We can only guess that in the intervening twenty-four to twenty-five years, there were hundreds of guesses submitted to observatories, and they were all wrong.

Were all of those theoretical guesses wrong, or were they, as P Andrew Karam, at Encyclopedia.com states, simply the result of bad timing? “The discovery of Neptune proved more a remarkable coincidence than a testimony to mathematical prowess.

“Leverrier’s and Adams’s solutions for Neptune’s orbit were incorrect. They both assumed Neptune to lie further from the sun than it actually does, leading, in turn, to erroneous calculations of Neptune’s actual orbit. In fact, while the calculated position was correct, had the search taken place even a year earlier or later, Neptune would not have been discovered so readily and both Leverrier and Adams might well be unknown today except as historical footnotes. These inaccuracies are best summarized by a comment made by a Scientific American editor:”

“Leverrier’s planet in the end matched neither the orbit, size, location or any other significant characteristic of the planet Neptune, but he still garners most of the credit for discovering it.”

“It is also worth noting that, after Neptune’s mass and orbit were calculated, they turned out to be insufficient to account for all of the discrepancies in Uranus’s motion and, in turn, Neptune appeared to have discrepancies in its orbit. This spurred the searches culminating in Pluto’s discovery in 1930. However, since Pluto is not large enough to cause Neptune and Uranus to diverge from their orbits, some astronomers speculated the existence of still more planets beyond Pluto. Hence, Pluto’s discovery, too, seems to be more remarkable coincidence than testimony to mathematical prowess. More recent work suggests that these orbital discrepancies do not actually exist and are due instead to plotting the planets’ positions on the inexact star charts that existed until recently.”

The two of them got lucky in Karam’s words. They made 19th Century errors that we can now fact-check with our modern technology, and we can now say that they timed their findings at a most opportune time in Neptune’s orbit. Yet, whatever “remarkable coincidences” occurred, it turns out Leverrier’s “calculated position [proved] correct”. 

“The remarkable coincidences” answers the question why so many previous theoretical submissions were incorrect, rejected, or couldn’t be observed by observatories and thus verified between Bouvard’s initial theory in 1821 and Leverrier’s detailed calculations of the positioning of the planet later named Neptune.

As with any story of this type, some of us wonder what happened between the lines? Have you ever been so obsessed with something that you couldn’t function on a normal human level? Have you ever been so obsessed with something that you didn’t enjoy food, drink, or any of the other fundamental joys of life the way you did before? Have you ever been so obsessed that you couldn’t sleep at night, and routine, mundane conversations with your friends seemed so routine and mundane that you can’t bear them, until you resolve the one problem that haunts you. How many accomplished individuals in their respective fields sacrificed dating, marrying, and having a family to their focus their existence on being the one to find the answer to the perturbing body theory? We can talk about fame, and fortune, and all that, but if you’re genuinely obsessed, you reach a tipping point where those things become nothing more than a byproduct to working through the question to find the answer on your own. In instances such as these, even a level of historical fame pales in comparison to the personal satisfaction we feel by finding the answer. 

Urbain Jean Joseph Le Verrier

Whatever the case was, we can comfortably guess that Adams and Le Verrier didn’t submit the first predictions. We can find fault in Le Verrier’s projections, but we should remember that he was providing an educated guess that a planet one billion miles away from Uranus, and 2.7 billion miles away from him existed. The observatory asked him for detailed calculations, he provided them, and the observatory used those calculations to spot Neptune. I consider that a point blank exclamation mark at the end of this discussion.

Yet, whenever we discuss the idea that .25% of the population, or one in 400, are geniuses, and we publicly marvel at their accomplishments, some ninny comes along and drops the ever-annoying, “It would’ve eventually been discovered by someone, somewhere.” When we express exhaustion, they add, “What? It’s a planet, a planet that is roughly four times larger than Earth. Someone would’ve eventually spotted it.” 

As much as we loathe such dismissals, it appears to be true in this case. If P Andrew Karam is correct, and we have no reason to doubt him, Adams and Leverrier were the first to submit right place, right time predictions that due to “a remarkable coincidence” could be verified due to the timing of their submissions.

It also bothers those of us who enjoy marveling at genius to hear things like, “Some guys are just smarter than others. I know some smart guys who say some smart things.” That’s true too, of course, but some are geniuses, and some of us love nothing more than dissecting, refuting, and demystifying the notions of their genius. Were John Couch Adams and Urbain Jean Joseph Le Verrier geniuses who figured something out that no one else could, or were they right-time, right place opportunists? No matter what Karam writes about their errors, he admits the “calculated position was correct”. 

John Couch Adams

Le Verrier’s calculated position was also derived without the benefit of James Webb or Hubble telescopes, and he and Adams did not know the nuclear-powered space probes that could confirm theoretical guesses on the molecular composition of the lakes on Saturn’s moon Titan. They also did not have the advantage provided by Voyager Spacecraft visits, of course. They had Isaac Newton’s laws of motion and gravitation, the idea of celestial mechanics from Johannes Kepler, some comparatively archaic technology, and a pencil and paper.  

With our modern technology, we can now correct the mistakes of the past. This is the way it should be, of course, but we should refrain from diminishing past accomplishments or inherently claiming superior intelligence now. We might know more now thanks to the brilliance of our greatest technological toys, but most of us had nothing to do with building that technology. We’re just the beneficiaries of it. We now have the advantage of all of these marvelous gadgets and tools at our disposal to fact-check prior “geniuses”, but does that mean that the brilliant minds of the past weren’t geniuses? We can talk about how some of the theories don’t stand up, but think about how many physicists, astronomers, mathematicians, and general theorists of yesteryear developed theories, without the advantage of the accumulated knowledge we’ve gathered since, that do? 

Some of the geniuses of yesteryear turned out to be wrong, of course, and some of them were right-place, right-time opportunists who discovered things first, but before you say “Someone, somewhere would’ve discovered it” remember the guys who mathematically predicted the existence of Neptune, probably road a horse to work on a dirt road, if they were lucky enough and rich enough to own a horse, and their definition of the heart of the city was often just a bunch of wooden store fronts, like the recreations we see on the old HBO show Deadwood. Most of what these 19th century astronomers and mathematicians saw in the nighttime sky is what we can see by stepping outside and looking up into the sky. They had some technological assistance back then, in the form of relatively weak telescopes, and some theorize that astronomers, like Galileo Galilei in 1613, Jerome Lalande in 1795, and John Herschel in 1830 may have used it to spot Neptune first, but they didn’t know they were seeing a planet, because their telescopes were not powerful enough for them to know that. Those of us who write articles about such topics and the geniuses who made ingenious discoveries or theories that proved slightly incorrect or somewhat flawed should asterisk our critiques by saying, “I am smart. No, really I am, really, really smart, but as ingenious as I am, I don’t know if I could’ve done what they did with the primitive technology they had, primitive when compared to ours. So, before I go about correcting and critiquing their findings with the technology I have at my disposal, thanks to those who developed it for me, I’d like to say how impressive it is that they came so close that it’s impressive that they did what they did with what they had.”