Improbable Research

Spring, 2000
 

Hot Cars, Smelly Suits, and Smart Sheep
The 1999 Ig Nobel Ceremonies at Harvard

by G. L. Dryfoos

Alright, maybe you _have_ been to an event where a woman was strapped to
a large circular table with her legs apart, maybe even one where the
table started spinning.  Fast.  But unless you were at Harvard
University on the evening of September 30, 1999, your rotating woman was
probably not pregnant, and she almost certainly did not begin to expel a
series of high-velocity flying babies towards twelve hundred cheering
(and ducking) spectators.

The birth-assist spinning table (U.S. Patent #3,216,423) was only one of
ten "achievements" in science, technology, and culture to be recognized
at The 9th First Annual Ig Nobel Prize Ceremony in Cambridge,
Massachusetts.

Each year, the Ig Nobel Committee awards ten prizes to people who have
done "remarkably goofy things...  which cannot or should not be
reproduced" according to Marc Abrahams, editor of the magazine _Annals_
_of_ _Improbable_ _Research_ which sponsors the prizes.

Like their more sedate Nobel cousins, the "Igs" are traditionally
announced each year in early autumn.  And like the Nobels, the Igs are
awarded with great pomp, if in more unusual circumstances, before an
assembly of scholars, artists, mad scientists, royalty, musicians, and
an audience described by one attendee as "a salty assortment of mixed
nuts."

Abrahams presides over "this giant circus of a thing" in formal white
tie and tails, a travel-sized Groucho Marx introducing one absurdity
after another.

The award recipients this year included the South African inventors of a
"silent" car alarm that protects the vehicle by activating a
flame-thrower (Peace Prize), a Norwegian physician who collects and
classifies the receptacles in which his patients submit their urine
samples (Medicine Prize), the Korean inventor of a "self-perfuming
business suit" (Environmental Protection Prize), and a Japanese private
detective whose line of "infidelity detection" creams and sprays can be
surreptitiously applied to the suspect husband, or to his socks and
underwear (Chemistry Prize).

The ceremony reflects the spirit of the awards.  As you enter the ornate
wood-panelled Sanders Theater, you notice a friendly-looking old geezer
on-stage, blowing the hell out of some Scott Joplin rags.  But you
probably won't recognize the happy clarinetist as Harvard Professor and
Nobel Laureate William Lipscomb.  (Chemistry 1976: If you've got any
questions about boron compounds, Bill Lipscomb is your man!)

The lights dim as you squeeze into your seat between delegations from
the Evil Geniuses for a Better Tomorrow and the Museum of Bad Art.  A
hush falls over the room, and a sadder-but-wiser Dorothy, fresh from a
meeting of the Kansas Board of Education, cancels her talk on Evolution
to narrate instead a slide-show summary of "Feline Reactions to Bearded
Men".

Apparently cats show no interest whatever in photos of famous bearded
men.  None.  Couldn't care less.

While you're still digesting this scientific _non_ _sequitor_, a
Cambridge Fire Marshall storms the podium and tries to cancel the event.
She is brusquely ejected by a large and distinguished-looking Major
Domo, just in time for The Parade of Ignitaries: actual Nobel Laureates,
previous Ig Nobel winners, invited lecturers, a Referee, a V-Chip
Monitor, and, in honor of this year's theme "Heredity," the descendents
of several Famous Scientists.

The Major Domo returns, swatting at three or four obsequiously
over-helpful Minor Domos, to escort the King and Queen of Swedish
Meatballs to thrones on-stage.  Their Majesties smile benignly, if
vacantly (the King this year is a life-size cardboard cutout), as the
traditional Lois Malone approaches the podium to give her traditional
Welcome, Welcome speech:

"Welcome!" she intones, looking over the audience, adjusting her
glasses, and referring back to her notes.  "Welcome!"  The crowd cheers
wildly and showers her with paper airplanes.  The tradition-encrusted Ig
Nobel ceremonies are underway.

Besides the awards themselves, there are some demonstrations by a team
of performing Swedish scientists, several short lectures, and the
premiere of a new mini-opera.

The opera is based, somewhat, on the life of biologist (and previous Ig
recipient) Dr. Richard Seed, who plans to offer the commercial cloning
of human beings, starting with himself.  By the end of Act I, there are
five Seeds singing "O Sole Mio" while the Nobel Laureates frolick about
the stage dressed as cloned sheep.

Most of the Ig Nobel recipients are there to accept their prizes,
although no one attends from either the Kansas or Colorado Board of
Education.  They earned the Science Education Prize for their bold
decisions regarding the Theory of Evolution.  (Colorado does later send
a nice thank-you basket of bananas.)

Steve Penfold of York University, Toronto, received the Sociology Prize
for his study of "The Sociology of Canadian Donut Shops."  Donut shop
veteran and fellow Canadian Troy Hurtubise, winner of last year's Safety
Engineering Prize for his high-tech grizzly-bear-proof armor, is back
this year to present the award.

The crowd loves Hurtubise.  His "Mark VI" armored suit, fruit of an
unholy union between a Power-Ranger and the Michelin Tire Man, stands
center-stage for most of the evening.  As he is introduced, film clips
depict him inside The Suit, withstanding physical punishments of a
variety and intensity usually reserved for Wiley E. Coyote.  Once the
last 35-mile-per-hour truck has smacked him halfway across a field and
the last giant tree-trunk has come swinging down to knock him ass over
titanium-reinforced teakettle, Hurtubise himself steps forward amid wild
applause to present Penfold's prize.

Troy modestly keeps his congratulatory remarks short.  Except for the
Heisenberg Certainty Lectures (where a 30-second time limit is enforced
by a professional referee) not all of the other speakers are as
thoughtful.  But the Ig Nobel Committee is ready for that, too, with
Miss Sweetie Poo.  Whenever someone goes on too long, this adorable
eight-year-old approaches the podium, fixes her innocent wide eyes on
the miscreant, and chants "Please stop.  I'm bored.  Please stop.  I'm
bored.  Please stop.  I'm bored...."  until her victim relents.  Miss
Sweetie Poo wins every time.

The evening just gets weirder.  By the time the performing Swedes
demonstrate the late George Blonsky's spinning birth-assist table
(Managed Health Care Prize), the operatic cloned sheep have been stolen
by New Zealand shepherdesses and transformed into handsome scientists, a
giant space biscuit has plunged through the atmosphere into a
tap-dancing cup of tea, and the Nobel laureates have been publicly
scratch'n'sniffed while modelling the "self-perfuming" business suits
(available in pine, mint, and lavender).

From the podium, Abrahams delivers the traditional closing benediction:
"If you didn't win an Ig Nobel this year, and especially if you did --
better luck next year!"

See www.improbable.com for a full listing of the Ig Nobel Prizes.