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Charles Darwin's Theory of Evolution
Darwin's Theory of Evolution - The Premise
Darwin's Theory of Evolution is the widely held notion that all life is related and has descended from a common ancestor: the birds and the bananas, the fishes and the flowers -- all related. Darwin's general theory presumes the development of life from non-life and stresses a purely naturalistic (undirected) "descent with modification". That is, complex creatures evolve from more simplistic ancestors naturally over time. In a nutshell, as random genetic mutations occur within an organism's genetic code, the beneficial mutations are preserved because they aid survival -- a process known as "natural selection." These beneficial mutations are passed on to the next generation. Over time, beneficial mutations accumulate and the result is an entirely different organism (not just a variation of the original, but an entirely different creature).
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Sunday, September 28, 2003
Monday, September 08, 2003
Beyond Woody (part 2 of 3)
To continue last week’s adventure, my old college buddy Gino was out to visit for three weeks this summer. He brought our mutual friend Woody with him, who stayed for a week and flew home. After we put Woody on the plane, Gino and I continued our California Madness Tour for another two weeks.
I’ve been to San Francisco a hundred times. Except for shopping, I usually go over mostly when I have company visiting. Thus, I repeat for them the same highlights tour – Union Square, Chinatown, North Beach, The Wharf. Gino has done that tour a dozen times himself.
After we dropped Woody at the airport on his final morning, we drove back into the city. I said, “Let’s see some new parts of town,” and Gino said, “Cool, cool.” So, we started with Polk Street. I’ve been on Polk many times, but not with company. I didn’t want to freak anybody out.
We walked its length, up one side and down the other, poking our heads in the Polk shops. Not being in the mood for tattoos or sex toys, we focused mostly on restaurants. We read menus and settled on breakfast crepes. All the restaurants on Polk had a healthy number of customers, but none had an overflow. And then we saw it, near the California intersection where the cable cars run – a restaurant with a line of patient people coming out the door and down the sidewalk.
“Hey, check out the hot spot,” said Gino. “Too bad we ate already.” We looked in the window and saw the place had no tables. It was a long narrow room with a counter down the middle. The cooks were on one side, and a row of iron stools lined the other, with just enough room to squeeze by and belly up. A row of happy customers were scarfing down big plates of seafood. This happy place was called Swan Oyster Depot. Gino loves seafood.
“Geez, oh, man,” he said. “We should have eaten here.”
“Note it and we’ll come back,” I said, “We will eat here before you leave.”
Then we drove over and walked Union Street, west of Van Ness, up one side and down the other. “Union Street,” I explained, “is like Polk Street with money. It’s upscale freaky.” Again we poked our heads in odd shops and stopped for drinks at the Betelnut, which is billed as a loud and friendly Asian beer house.
From here on we drove. We drove along Chestnut Street, near Marina Park, which has a short collection of interesting restaurants. We drove the length of Geary past the Irish Pubs. We drove the Mission out to 25th Street, and up Dolores with is palm tree median.
It dawned on me how often I’ve eaten in the same half-dozen restaurants, and how much city eating there is left to do. Then we came home.
I knocked off an email to Mary Ladd, a former student who now works as a food editor for the Chronicle. I asked her for the lowdown on Swan Oyster Depot and Betelnut. She replied with a double rave. At Betlenut she said everything is good; it’s so popular reservations must be made weeks in advance, and to try the peanut dishes.
She really gushed over Swan. She said it’s a boisterous place owned by five Sicilian brothers who do the cooking and are members of the Polar Bear Club. It is frequented by celebs like Nicholas Cage and Sean Penn. It has great chowder and a wide variety of oysters.
So, that was a lock. Gino, Susan, and I would eat there on Gino’s final day in California. To describe it now would be to get ahead of myself. I will do so later, but I will say we had a nice surprise when we got there.
Back to the day after Woody. The three of us had dinner at the Dead Fish in Crockett. Next to us sat four dolled up blondes with no male escorts, out for drinks and giggles. Gino bought them a round, and soon we were at the same table. We all got pretty silly, and we invited them to follow us to Teeters. They not only agreed, they took Gino with them in their car.
“Oh, boy,” said Susan as we drove alone. “Gino’s got to be loving this. He’s just been abducted by a car load of California women.” We invaded Teeters and stayed beyond midnight, shooting pool and trying to score. Promises were made, we parted ways, and never saw them again. So it goes.
To continue last week’s adventure, my old college buddy Gino was out to visit for three weeks this summer. He brought our mutual friend Woody with him, who stayed for a week and flew home. After we put Woody on the plane, Gino and I continued our California Madness Tour for another two weeks.
I’ve been to San Francisco a hundred times. Except for shopping, I usually go over mostly when I have company visiting. Thus, I repeat for them the same highlights tour – Union Square, Chinatown, North Beach, The Wharf. Gino has done that tour a dozen times himself.
After we dropped Woody at the airport on his final morning, we drove back into the city. I said, “Let’s see some new parts of town,” and Gino said, “Cool, cool.” So, we started with Polk Street. I’ve been on Polk many times, but not with company. I didn’t want to freak anybody out.
We walked its length, up one side and down the other, poking our heads in the Polk shops. Not being in the mood for tattoos or sex toys, we focused mostly on restaurants. We read menus and settled on breakfast crepes. All the restaurants on Polk had a healthy number of customers, but none had an overflow. And then we saw it, near the California intersection where the cable cars run – a restaurant with a line of patient people coming out the door and down the sidewalk.
“Hey, check out the hot spot,” said Gino. “Too bad we ate already.” We looked in the window and saw the place had no tables. It was a long narrow room with a counter down the middle. The cooks were on one side, and a row of iron stools lined the other, with just enough room to squeeze by and belly up. A row of happy customers were scarfing down big plates of seafood. This happy place was called Swan Oyster Depot. Gino loves seafood.
“Geez, oh, man,” he said. “We should have eaten here.”
“Note it and we’ll come back,” I said, “We will eat here before you leave.”
Then we drove over and walked Union Street, west of Van Ness, up one side and down the other. “Union Street,” I explained, “is like Polk Street with money. It’s upscale freaky.” Again we poked our heads in odd shops and stopped for drinks at the Betelnut, which is billed as a loud and friendly Asian beer house.
From here on we drove. We drove along Chestnut Street, near Marina Park, which has a short collection of interesting restaurants. We drove the length of Geary past the Irish Pubs. We drove the Mission out to 25th Street, and up Dolores with is palm tree median.
It dawned on me how often I’ve eaten in the same half-dozen restaurants, and how much city eating there is left to do. Then we came home.
I knocked off an email to Mary Ladd, a former student who now works as a food editor for the Chronicle. I asked her for the lowdown on Swan Oyster Depot and Betelnut. She replied with a double rave. At Betlenut she said everything is good; it’s so popular reservations must be made weeks in advance, and to try the peanut dishes.
She really gushed over Swan. She said it’s a boisterous place owned by five Sicilian brothers who do the cooking and are members of the Polar Bear Club. It is frequented by celebs like Nicholas Cage and Sean Penn. It has great chowder and a wide variety of oysters.
So, that was a lock. Gino, Susan, and I would eat there on Gino’s final day in California. To describe it now would be to get ahead of myself. I will do so later, but I will say we had a nice surprise when we got there.
Back to the day after Woody. The three of us had dinner at the Dead Fish in Crockett. Next to us sat four dolled up blondes with no male escorts, out for drinks and giggles. Gino bought them a round, and soon we were at the same table. We all got pretty silly, and we invited them to follow us to Teeters. They not only agreed, they took Gino with them in their car.
“Oh, boy,” said Susan as we drove alone. “Gino’s got to be loving this. He’s just been abducted by a car load of California women.” We invaded Teeters and stayed beyond midnight, shooting pool and trying to score. Promises were made, we parted ways, and never saw them again. So it goes.
Arrivederci, Gino (part 3 of 3)
Before my Summer 2003 travelogue series comes to a close, allow me to share one last adventure. My friend Gino from Philadelphia was here for three weeks this summer. We toured the state catawampus. Then it ended. Here are the details of our last days together.
Gino spent half of his final week visiting his cousin Joe Capone in Sacramento. I gave them some family time alone. I dropped him off and returned to Benicia to do some lesson plans and take a breather.
Joe moved out here 20 years ago and made a name for himself in the construction trades. Chris Capone, another cousin, came out shortly after and bolted up the ranks with Jacuzzi. Gino Giambrone’s mother was born a Capone. Everyone always asks “the question,” so let me address it here: are these boys related to Big Al Capone? Here is the official family answer, such as it is: It doesn’t matter. The name carries an aura regardless. If it stimulates business, go with it.
To close our extravagant holiday, I picked up Gino mid-week and we drove once again to San Francisco for an over-nighter. He, Susan and I took rooms at the Golden Gate Hotel, on Bush near Union Square (a quaint and excellent small establishment with wonderful rates of $85-per-night). This way we could awake and drive directly to the airport.
Gino very much wanted to return to Swan Oyster Depot, a small seafood diner we found on Polk and California a week earlier. It was owned by five Sicilian brothers who did the cooking, and was renowned for being boisterous, filling, and popular with local celebrities. We’d found it after a full meal, so we didn’t get a chance to eat there. We agreed to make it the scene for our last supper.
We walked over from our hotel around 2 p.m., the day before Gino’s flight, and got in the line that stretched down the sidewalk. After a decent wait, we found ourselves inside, bellied up to the counter on three stools of different sizes. Jimmy Sancimino, one of the brothers, took our order. We ordered chowder, crab, shrimp, and three kinds of oysters. Then Gino said to Jimmy, “So, you’re Sicilian?” Jimmy said yes. Gino said, “So am I,” and they shook hands across the table.
“My ancestors are from Sciacca,” said Jimmy. Sciacca is a small town on the southern coast, in the Agrigento province.
“Naw!” said Gino. “You’re kidding. That’s were my family is from.”
“Ho, ho,” said Jimmy. “Do you know the Abono family?”
“Yeah,” said Gino. “We are the Giambrone, or Giambroné family.”
“Holy mackerel,” said Jimmy, “I think we’re related.” They shook hands again, this time like a thunder clap.
“So, make me something interesting,” said Gino, “something that’s not on the menu, something from the old country.”
Jimmy grinned. “You like fresh sardines and anchovies?”
“Sure I do,” said Gino.
Jimmy winked and walked away. He came back a few minutes later with a plate of filleted sardines, anchovies, and scallops drenched in olive oil and sprinkled with capers. We all took a bite. “Geez, oh, man, that’s good,” said Gino. “This is unbelievable.”
Jimmy asked, “Do your parents or grandparents ever tell you stories about the old country?”
“No,” said Gino. “Thanks to Mussolini and the war, they we not allowed to speak Italian in America. I never learned the language.”
Jimmy told of how his own grandfather jumped ship in the San Francisco harbor long ago. How he saved his pennies. How his father saved, and how he opened the Oyster Depot in 1946. We kept eating. Jimmy told us stories about Sciacca during the French occupation and how the Sicilians routed the French.
When the revolt began, French soldiers discarded their uniforms and tried to conceal themselves as Sicilians. However, they were found out by the awkward way they pronounced chiche (the Sicilian word for the chickpea or garbanzo bean). We kept eating. Men were lined up in the town square before a small bowl of garbanzo beans. Those who pronounced chiche wrong were executed.
We enjoyed more beer, more chowder, more oysters, more stories. The afternoon rolled by. At the end we paid our considerable tab, took some arm-in-arm pictures with Jimmy, and left the Depot, promising to return.
That evening we went to the Biscuits and Blues Club and saw Shana Morrison, Van’s daughter. We sat in Lefty O’Douls drinking coffee until after midnight. We slept late, ate complimentary breakfast in the lobby, and took Gino to the airport.
We had long hugs. Then he was gone. Until we meet again, my friend.
Before my Summer 2003 travelogue series comes to a close, allow me to share one last adventure. My friend Gino from Philadelphia was here for three weeks this summer. We toured the state catawampus. Then it ended. Here are the details of our last days together.
Gino spent half of his final week visiting his cousin Joe Capone in Sacramento. I gave them some family time alone. I dropped him off and returned to Benicia to do some lesson plans and take a breather.
Joe moved out here 20 years ago and made a name for himself in the construction trades. Chris Capone, another cousin, came out shortly after and bolted up the ranks with Jacuzzi. Gino Giambrone’s mother was born a Capone. Everyone always asks “the question,” so let me address it here: are these boys related to Big Al Capone? Here is the official family answer, such as it is: It doesn’t matter. The name carries an aura regardless. If it stimulates business, go with it.
To close our extravagant holiday, I picked up Gino mid-week and we drove once again to San Francisco for an over-nighter. He, Susan and I took rooms at the Golden Gate Hotel, on Bush near Union Square (a quaint and excellent small establishment with wonderful rates of $85-per-night). This way we could awake and drive directly to the airport.
Gino very much wanted to return to Swan Oyster Depot, a small seafood diner we found on Polk and California a week earlier. It was owned by five Sicilian brothers who did the cooking, and was renowned for being boisterous, filling, and popular with local celebrities. We’d found it after a full meal, so we didn’t get a chance to eat there. We agreed to make it the scene for our last supper.
We walked over from our hotel around 2 p.m., the day before Gino’s flight, and got in the line that stretched down the sidewalk. After a decent wait, we found ourselves inside, bellied up to the counter on three stools of different sizes. Jimmy Sancimino, one of the brothers, took our order. We ordered chowder, crab, shrimp, and three kinds of oysters. Then Gino said to Jimmy, “So, you’re Sicilian?” Jimmy said yes. Gino said, “So am I,” and they shook hands across the table.
“My ancestors are from Sciacca,” said Jimmy. Sciacca is a small town on the southern coast, in the Agrigento province.
“Naw!” said Gino. “You’re kidding. That’s were my family is from.”
“Ho, ho,” said Jimmy. “Do you know the Abono family?”
“Yeah,” said Gino. “We are the Giambrone, or Giambroné family.”
“Holy mackerel,” said Jimmy, “I think we’re related.” They shook hands again, this time like a thunder clap.
“So, make me something interesting,” said Gino, “something that’s not on the menu, something from the old country.”
Jimmy grinned. “You like fresh sardines and anchovies?”
“Sure I do,” said Gino.
Jimmy winked and walked away. He came back a few minutes later with a plate of filleted sardines, anchovies, and scallops drenched in olive oil and sprinkled with capers. We all took a bite. “Geez, oh, man, that’s good,” said Gino. “This is unbelievable.”
Jimmy asked, “Do your parents or grandparents ever tell you stories about the old country?”
“No,” said Gino. “Thanks to Mussolini and the war, they we not allowed to speak Italian in America. I never learned the language.”
Jimmy told of how his own grandfather jumped ship in the San Francisco harbor long ago. How he saved his pennies. How his father saved, and how he opened the Oyster Depot in 1946. We kept eating. Jimmy told us stories about Sciacca during the French occupation and how the Sicilians routed the French.
When the revolt began, French soldiers discarded their uniforms and tried to conceal themselves as Sicilians. However, they were found out by the awkward way they pronounced chiche (the Sicilian word for the chickpea or garbanzo bean). We kept eating. Men were lined up in the town square before a small bowl of garbanzo beans. Those who pronounced chiche wrong were executed.
We enjoyed more beer, more chowder, more oysters, more stories. The afternoon rolled by. At the end we paid our considerable tab, took some arm-in-arm pictures with Jimmy, and left the Depot, promising to return.
That evening we went to the Biscuits and Blues Club and saw Shana Morrison, Van’s daughter. We sat in Lefty O’Douls drinking coffee until after midnight. We slept late, ate complimentary breakfast in the lobby, and took Gino to the airport.
We had long hugs. Then he was gone. Until we meet again, my friend.
Gino comes on a California adventure (Part 1 of 3)
My old college buddy Gino from Philadelphia flew out to visit me and Susan for a few weeks. He just flew home. He has been coming to visit every couple of years since 1980. Recently, his visits have become more frequent. This is his third summer in a row.
He always claims he’s going to move here some day, but this time he sounded serious. He even put a date to it: November 2004, when his apartment lease runs out.
Gino is a happy sad Sicilian bachelor. Happy because it’s his nature, sad because he’s a bachelor who works all the time. Being Sicilian has kept him close to his large family, which is spread all across the greater Philadelphia area. “I have lots of friends,” he says, “but they’re all relatives.” I am one of his few adopted goombahs. My only link to Italy is through my stomach.
Gino comes out to visit Susan and me and always wants to do the same three things: 1) Have as much fun as is humanly possible; 2) Meet women and fall in love; and 3) Cook for us. We have fun and we eat well. We meet women, but the zinger has eluded him. This visit we either fixed him up with or helped him bump into, let’s see, six, no, seven women total.
Gino is a simple guy with a complex exterior and hard to get to know. When he meets women he likes to tease them and goad them, good-naturedly, hoping they will spar back. The ones who can hold their own and take him on become friends and get to know his generous and tender side. Those who can’t talk back, or prefer not to, move on in defense to their own next prospect.
For example, if a girl were to say simply, “I got a parking ticket last week,” Gino might reply, “Shame on you. You’re nothing but a common criminal. Does your mother know about this?”
If a girl were to say simply, “I won a dance contest when I was six,” Gino might reply, “No. I don’t believe it. You can’t dance. Prove it. Show me the ribbon, or dance for me now.”
I think he thinks he’s Vince Vaughn.
Anyhow, ladies over 30, he’s 48 and friendly, a finish carpenter with a big heart and big hands, so if you want to meet him on his next visit to Benicia, please sign up now. Susan and I are creating the 2004 list. If you think I’m kidding, here’s our email addresses – me@mrgibbs.com and susangibbs@mrgibbs.com If you think I’m kidding, I just posted some pictures of his visit on the Internet. You can check him out in advance at www.mrgibbs.com/gino. This is not a reality TV gimmick, folks. Susan and I want Gino to find some happiness.
On with the story: Gino brought a mutual friend with him this time, Woody, who I haven’t seen in 25 years. Woody is married, has two kids and a gut, and has never been to California. In one week, we gave him the grand, exclusive, inclusive, all-points-covered tour. We began with the Benicia boat races. Then we did a full walking tour of San Francisco from Market Street to the Wharf including Lombard, followed by a driving tour over the Golden Gate, down Polk, up Union, out to the Cliff House, and back through The Castro.
We drove to Berkeley down the Arlington, walked Telegraph, the pier, shopped at the Berkeley Bowl, drove over Grizzly Peak, and played shuffleboard at the Triple Rock Brewery. We met up in Sacramento with Gino’s cousin, Joe Capone, who lives in the Fabulous 40s and also hasn’t seen Woody in 25 years, and together we toured the delta, stopped in Locke, ate at Al the Wops, and toured the Bogle Winery.
Woody, Gino, and I drove through the Napa and Sonoma Valley up 101 to walk through Avenue of the Giants. We slept on the coastal headlands in a barn. We spent three days dancing and swimming at Reggae on the River’s 20th anniversary. We drove the coast along Highway 1 from Fort Bragg down to Jenner. We bought Dungeness crab and ate it on the beach in lawn chairs. We went to Teeters, twice. Woody spent every morning he had at our house in the hot tub saying, “This is the life. I’ve got to get me one of these.” Then Woody flew home and Gino stayed for two more weeks.
There’s more to tell. It will have to wait until next time.
My old college buddy Gino from Philadelphia flew out to visit me and Susan for a few weeks. He just flew home. He has been coming to visit every couple of years since 1980. Recently, his visits have become more frequent. This is his third summer in a row.
He always claims he’s going to move here some day, but this time he sounded serious. He even put a date to it: November 2004, when his apartment lease runs out.
Gino is a happy sad Sicilian bachelor. Happy because it’s his nature, sad because he’s a bachelor who works all the time. Being Sicilian has kept him close to his large family, which is spread all across the greater Philadelphia area. “I have lots of friends,” he says, “but they’re all relatives.” I am one of his few adopted goombahs. My only link to Italy is through my stomach.
Gino comes out to visit Susan and me and always wants to do the same three things: 1) Have as much fun as is humanly possible; 2) Meet women and fall in love; and 3) Cook for us. We have fun and we eat well. We meet women, but the zinger has eluded him. This visit we either fixed him up with or helped him bump into, let’s see, six, no, seven women total.
Gino is a simple guy with a complex exterior and hard to get to know. When he meets women he likes to tease them and goad them, good-naturedly, hoping they will spar back. The ones who can hold their own and take him on become friends and get to know his generous and tender side. Those who can’t talk back, or prefer not to, move on in defense to their own next prospect.
For example, if a girl were to say simply, “I got a parking ticket last week,” Gino might reply, “Shame on you. You’re nothing but a common criminal. Does your mother know about this?”
If a girl were to say simply, “I won a dance contest when I was six,” Gino might reply, “No. I don’t believe it. You can’t dance. Prove it. Show me the ribbon, or dance for me now.”
I think he thinks he’s Vince Vaughn.
Anyhow, ladies over 30, he’s 48 and friendly, a finish carpenter with a big heart and big hands, so if you want to meet him on his next visit to Benicia, please sign up now. Susan and I are creating the 2004 list. If you think I’m kidding, here’s our email addresses – me@mrgibbs.com and susangibbs@mrgibbs.com If you think I’m kidding, I just posted some pictures of his visit on the Internet. You can check him out in advance at www.mrgibbs.com/gino. This is not a reality TV gimmick, folks. Susan and I want Gino to find some happiness.
On with the story: Gino brought a mutual friend with him this time, Woody, who I haven’t seen in 25 years. Woody is married, has two kids and a gut, and has never been to California. In one week, we gave him the grand, exclusive, inclusive, all-points-covered tour. We began with the Benicia boat races. Then we did a full walking tour of San Francisco from Market Street to the Wharf including Lombard, followed by a driving tour over the Golden Gate, down Polk, up Union, out to the Cliff House, and back through The Castro.
We drove to Berkeley down the Arlington, walked Telegraph, the pier, shopped at the Berkeley Bowl, drove over Grizzly Peak, and played shuffleboard at the Triple Rock Brewery. We met up in Sacramento with Gino’s cousin, Joe Capone, who lives in the Fabulous 40s and also hasn’t seen Woody in 25 years, and together we toured the delta, stopped in Locke, ate at Al the Wops, and toured the Bogle Winery.
Woody, Gino, and I drove through the Napa and Sonoma Valley up 101 to walk through Avenue of the Giants. We slept on the coastal headlands in a barn. We spent three days dancing and swimming at Reggae on the River’s 20th anniversary. We drove the coast along Highway 1 from Fort Bragg down to Jenner. We bought Dungeness crab and ate it on the beach in lawn chairs. We went to Teeters, twice. Woody spent every morning he had at our house in the hot tub saying, “This is the life. I’ve got to get me one of these.” Then Woody flew home and Gino stayed for two more weeks.
There’s more to tell. It will have to wait until next time.
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