Tell the bees. Forget, for a moment, all the U.S. government's not-so-successful experiments with attack dolphins, incendiary bats, and the remote-controlled spy-cat. Consider, instead, this bright future for human-animal interactions: self-training, bomb-sniffing bees. Amazing stuff. But perhaps not so surprising if one remembers the old folk belief that bees are in fact departed human souls. While we ponder the physics and metaphysics of insect aid for human endeavors, perhaps we ought to revisit our old friend the peppered moth -- whose famous trick of quasi-natural selection (soot-darkened trees; hungry birds) has lately come into question.

To the barricades! At the end of the nineteenth century, Paris was rebuilt with wide boulevards, in part to give it the sense of grandeur and geometric spectacle worthy of a cultural capital, but also (I've been told) to end what was becoming a national tradition of barricading streets and having a revolution every few years. Many of the world's other great pre-planned capital cities (New Delhi, Chandigarh, Brasilia, the District of Columbia) seem to have been designed along similar premises. But now we find ourselves in a new era, when those broad open spaces and magnificent edifices of power seem just a bit vulnerable. Witness the newly erected protective barriers of Washington, D.C.

Come together, drift apart. Perusing an old family geneology, I was recently pleased to find proof that I'm a direct descendant from a 17th century woman who was herself said to be a direct descendant of William the Conqueror. Of course, then I came across this article, on the mathematics of genealogy, which would suggest that I'm not so special after all -- it would be difficult to find a person of European ancestry alive today who isn't a descendant of William the Conqueror. Math may suggest we're all related, but that doesn't mean we're all connected. Remember the whole "six degrees of separation" concept? It turns out it may be based on nothing but faulty sociology.

Calypsonian. It's a word I first learned from V.S. Naipaul, in his novel Miguel Street, a series of vignettes from 1940s Port of Spain, Trinidad. There, whatever happened, the Calypsonian always had the final say, the two-line commentary on the latest news and gossip -- fires, wars, affairs, and the like. The greatest of the era's Calypsonians, Naipaul later told Paul Theroux, was Lord Invader. Invader (aka Rupert Westmore Grant), wrote "Rum and Coca-Cola" and numerous less popular, but far more engaging, calypso songs. The album Calypso in New York collects twenty-six Invader recordings, and covers the usual range of calypso fodder -- which is to say, everything. Gang fights ("Steel Band War"), unrequited love ("You're Wasting Your Time"), currency devaluation ("Yankee Dollar"), the civil rights struggle ("Crisis in Alabama" -- which begins, "Governer Farbus, are you delirious?/Why are you making everything so hard on us?"), public transit ("New York Subway"), the pros and cons of corporal punishment ("Cat O'Nine Tails"). The constant thread of most of the songs is Invader's rivalry with the other Calypsonians of his era: The Growler, Mighty Destroyer, The Roaring Lion, King Radio, Macbeth, Mighty Sparrow, The Duke of Iron, Wilmouth Houdini, Lord Beginner, Mighty Dictator, The Young Pretender, et al. (Lest you think that Invader's brilliant stage name was just a fluke).

Vermonsters. Teen violence, long common in the cities and then the suburbs, is on the rise in small-town New England as well. This article moves from the expected "how could it happen here?" angle onward to something more. There are some strong hints at a few of the roots of teen rage, some disturbing quotes from imprisoned teens obsessed with the media-reported details of their crimes, and -- perhaps most interesting to me -- a few brief reflections on what happens in a society that worships youth but marginalizes young people. Here, on the other hand, is a more cheerful take on that latter subject: a look at how a new generation of cell phones are being designed for the lucrative teen market.

Every poet had a day job. William Carlos Williams was a physician. Archibald MacLiesh was Librarian of Congress. Jimmy Carter was President. Etc. Here's an entertaining and thoughtful audiorecorded discussion between Thomas Lynch, a poet who is also an undertaker, and Dennis O'Driscoll, a poet who also works in a customs office. The conversation is mostly about poetry and the careers that support it. Head here for a lengthy audio interview with Lynch on his book of essays about metaphor and mortality, Bodies in Motion and at Rest. And, finally, here for more from Lynch on what happens when vocation and vacation uneasily meet.

Art of the (New) Deal. From 1936 to 1943, artists working for the Work Projects Administration (WPA), one of Franklin D. Roosevelt's depression-era "alphabet soup" agencies, designed scores of beautiful posters, on topics ranging from public health to tourism to wartime security. Thanks to the Library of Congress, hundreds of these posters can be viewed online. My favorites include these promoting workplace safety and vision testing. I also love the metaphoric leaps made by this warning. The low point of the WPA collection is this horribly racist, not to mention confusing, Alaska poster.

Adventures in spelling. I'm currently reading an abridged version of The Journals of Lewis and Clark, who led an expedition across the North American continent in 1804-06. I'm quite taken with William Clark's anguished attempts at proper spelling. He had particular trouble with the name of the Sioux tribe, which he spells, over the course of the journals, in the following 18 ways: Sciox, Scioux, Seauex, Seaux, Seeoux, Seeux, Seioux, Seouex, Seoux, Siaux, Sieoux, Sieux, Sioux (he did get it right at least once), Soeux, Soues, Souex, Souix, and Soux.

Megaphones in New Guinea. Here's great example of refreshingly low-key journalism. A New York Times story ("Letter from Port Moresby") might start with the same opening anecdote, and then move to sweeping statements about Trends in the Whole Country, ending with a what-can-ya-do? shrug, smirk, and sigh. But this story, from Radio Australia's Pacific Beat, just sticks with the opening anecdote, doggedly pursuing it from every angle, and never really going anywhere else. Listen in.