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The Origins of 8 Curious Body Part Names

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Why does the back of your lower leg have the same name as a baby cow? How come the bottom of your foot has the name of a fish?

1. Calf

This one’s a coincidence. The baby cow calf and the back of the lower leg calf are homographs, words with different origins that ended up spelled (and in this case pronounced) the same. The bovine word is from Old English cælf, of Germanic origin. The anatomical term entered English in the Middle Ages and comes from Old Norse kálfi.

2. Sole

On the other hand (or should we say the other foot?), the fishy and the fleshy sole are related. Sole, meaning the bottom of a person’s foot, entered Middle English via Old French, from Latin solea, meaning "sandal, sill," which is derived from solum, meaning "bottom," "pavement," or—wait for it—"sole." The fish is named for its shape: like the bottom of a foot.

3. Palm

What does the inner surface of your hand have to do with trees you might see on a beach in Hawaii? Tropical islands aren’t the only places with palm trees. In ancient Rome it was customary to place a palm leaf in the hands of the victor in a contest. The Latin word palma (also palmus),  meaning "palm of the hand," became associated with the tree. Fun fact: the Romans also used palma for the underside of a webbed foot.

4. Elbow

If you guessed that the –bow in elbow has to do with bending (even if it’s not bending into a smooth arc like a rainbow or a cross-bow), you’re right. But what about the el-? Old English ęln, meaning "arm or forearm," is related to ulna, which meant the same in Latin, and is now used in English to refer to the large inner bone of the forearm. El- is also related to ell, the unit of length sometimes defined as the distance from the elbow to the wrist, which is probably the source of much arm-wrestling between long-armed customers and short-armed cloth merchants.

5. Thumb

The word for the short, thick, opposable digit of the human hand goes back to Old English thūma, from the Indo-European root teuə-, "to swell." Other words derived from this root are thigh, thousand, thimble, tumor, butter, tomb, and tumescence. Keep that in mind when you give someone the old “thumbs up.”

6. Index finger

This digit wasn’t named for its usefulness in flipping to the end of a book to look something up, but because it’s used for pointing or indicating. In fact the earliest meaning (from the late 1300s) of index is "the forefinger." The use of the word to mean "an alphabetical list pointing to occurrences of names or subjects within a book" came a couple of centuries later.

7. Pupil

What does the opening in the eye that allows light to reach the retina have to do with a young student? Pupil, originally meaning "orphan" or "ward," came into late Middle English from Old French pupille, which derives from Latin pupillus (diminutive of pupus, "boy") and pupilla (diminutive of pupa, "girl"). By the 16th century, it came to mean "a person who is being taught by another." The pupil of the eye also came into late Middle English from Old French pupille, likewise from Latin pupilla, with the extended sense of "doll" rather than "little girl." Why a doll? Believe it or not, lexicographers claim it’s because of the small, reflected image you see when looking into someone’s pupil.

8. Iris

Speaking of the eye, why does its colored part have the name of a flower? The colorful ring-shaped membrane of the eye and the flower both take their name from Iris, the goddess of the rainbow in Greek mythology.

Thanks to Laura Herman and Gene Herman for asking the questions that inspired this list.

Sources: OED [Oxford English Dictionary] Online, New Oxford American Dictionary (Second Ed.), The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (Fifth ed.)

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iStock // Ekaterina Minaeva
Man Buys Two Metric Tons of LEGO Bricks; Sorts Them Via Machine Learning
May 21, 2017
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iStock // Ekaterina Minaeva

Jacques Mattheij made a small, but awesome, mistake. He went on eBay one evening and bid on a bunch of bulk LEGO brick auctions, then went to sleep. Upon waking, he discovered that he was the high bidder on many, and was now the proud owner of two tons of LEGO bricks. (This is about 4400 pounds.) He wrote, "[L]esson 1: if you win almost all bids you are bidding too high."

Mattheij had noticed that bulk, unsorted bricks sell for something like €10/kilogram, whereas sets are roughly €40/kg and rare parts go for up to €100/kg. Much of the value of the bricks is in their sorting. If he could reduce the entropy of these bins of unsorted bricks, he could make a tidy profit. While many people do this work by hand, the problem is enormous—just the kind of challenge for a computer. Mattheij writes:

There are 38000+ shapes and there are 100+ possible shades of color (you can roughly tell how old someone is by asking them what lego colors they remember from their youth).

In the following months, Mattheij built a proof-of-concept sorting system using, of course, LEGO. He broke the problem down into a series of sub-problems (including "feeding LEGO reliably from a hopper is surprisingly hard," one of those facts of nature that will stymie even the best system design). After tinkering with the prototype at length, he expanded the system to a surprisingly complex system of conveyer belts (powered by a home treadmill), various pieces of cabinetry, and "copious quantities of crazy glue."

Here's a video showing the current system running at low speed:

The key part of the system was running the bricks past a camera paired with a computer running a neural net-based image classifier. That allows the computer (when sufficiently trained on brick images) to recognize bricks and thus categorize them by color, shape, or other parameters. Remember that as bricks pass by, they can be in any orientation, can be dirty, can even be stuck to other pieces. So having a flexible software system is key to recognizing—in a fraction of a second—what a given brick is, in order to sort it out. When a match is found, a jet of compressed air pops the piece off the conveyer belt and into a waiting bin.

After much experimentation, Mattheij rewrote the software (several times in fact) to accomplish a variety of basic tasks. At its core, the system takes images from a webcam and feeds them to a neural network to do the classification. Of course, the neural net needs to be "trained" by showing it lots of images, and telling it what those images represent. Mattheij's breakthrough was allowing the machine to effectively train itself, with guidance: Running pieces through allows the system to take its own photos, make a guess, and build on that guess. As long as Mattheij corrects the incorrect guesses, he ends up with a decent (and self-reinforcing) corpus of training data. As the machine continues running, it can rack up more training, allowing it to recognize a broad variety of pieces on the fly.

Here's another video, focusing on how the pieces move on conveyer belts (running at slow speed so puny humans can follow). You can also see the air jets in action:

In an email interview, Mattheij told Mental Floss that the system currently sorts LEGO bricks into more than 50 categories. It can also be run in a color-sorting mode to bin the parts across 12 color groups. (Thus at present you'd likely do a two-pass sort on the bricks: once for shape, then a separate pass for color.) He continues to refine the system, with a focus on making its recognition abilities faster. At some point down the line, he plans to make the software portion open source. You're on your own as far as building conveyer belts, bins, and so forth.

Check out Mattheij's writeup in two parts for more information. It starts with an overview of the story, followed up with a deep dive on the software. He's also tweeting about the project (among other things). And if you look around a bit, you'll find bulk LEGO brick auctions online—it's definitely a thing!

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Stephen Missal
New Evidence Emerges in Norway’s Most Famous Unsolved Murder Case
May 22, 2017
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A 2016 sketch by a forensic artist of the Isdal Woman
Stephen Missal

For almost 50 years, Norwegian investigators have been baffled by the case of the “Isdal Woman,” whose burned corpse was found in a valley outside the city of Bergen in 1970. Most of her face and hair had been burned off and the labels in her clothes had been removed. The police investigation eventually led to a pair of suitcases stuffed with wigs and the discovery that the woman had stayed at numerous hotels around Norway under different aliases. Still, the police eventually ruled it a suicide.

Almost five decades later, the Norwegian public broadcaster NRK has launched a new investigation into the case, working with police to help track down her identity. And it is already yielding results. The BBC reports that forensic analysis of the woman’s teeth show that she was from a region along the French-German border.

In 1970, hikers discovered the Isdal Woman’s body, burned and lying on a remote slope surrounded by an umbrella, melted plastic bottles, what may have been a passport cover, and more. Her clothes and possessions were scraped clean of any kind of identifying marks or labels. Later, the police found that she left two suitcases at the Bergen train station, containing sunglasses with her fingerprints on the lenses, a hairbrush, a prescription bottle of eczema cream, several wigs, and glasses with clear lenses. Again, all labels and other identifying marks had been removed, even from the prescription cream. A notepad found inside was filled with handwritten letters that looked like a code. A shopping bag led police to a shoe store, where, finally, an employee remembered selling rubber boots just like the ones found on the woman’s body.

Eventually, the police discovered that she had stayed in different hotels all over the country under different names, which would have required passports under several different aliases. This strongly suggests that she was a spy. Though she was both burned alive and had a stomach full of undigested sleeping pills, the police eventually ruled the death a suicide, unable to track down any evidence that they could tie to her murder.

But some of the forensic data that can help solve her case still exists. The Isdal Woman’s jaw was preserved in a forensic archive, allowing researchers from the University of Canberra in Australia to use isotopic analysis to figure out where she came from, based on the chemical traces left on her teeth while she was growing up. It’s the first time this technique has been used in a Norwegian criminal investigation.

The isotopic analysis was so effective that the researchers can tell that she probably grew up in eastern or central Europe, then moved west toward France during her adolescence, possibly just before or during World War II. Previous studies of her handwriting have indicated that she learned to write in France or in another French-speaking country.

Narrowing down the woman’s origins to such a specific region could help find someone who knew her, or reports of missing women who matched her description. The case is still a long way from solved, but the search is now much narrower than it had been in the mystery's long history.

[h/t BBC]