Einstein said: "Science can only ascertain what is, but not what should be," which is where Rube Goldberg comes in.

I ride by Boston's Museum of Science nearly every day now on my way from Somerville to Back Bay, but aside from the IMAX theater there, I'd never bothered to visit until a friend dragged me kicking and screaming last Wednesday.

The thing of it is, whenever I pass the museum, I always see busloads of kids, and wherever there are busloads of anything, I consider it an ill omen. Buses in and off themselves, while seemingly very handy, are actually instruments of evil.

And it's not that I don't like kids, especially. But one or two is more than adequate for the purposes of milking the cows, or baling the hay, or cleaning the house, or whatever they're for. Hundreds at a time? They tend to get too unruly to round up and too distracted to be of any use.

The swarms of grade schoolers left my friend unfazed, and after I got over the unpleasant experience of paying what for Boston is sadly a typical fare—sixteen bucks a pop!--I have to admit I had a pretty good time, even among the throngs. (And frankly, I would much rather they were here, getting their curiosity piqued and learning to observe and inquire, than at The Creation Museum, learning to “believe.”)

But then I'm a big fan of a certain kind of science—I am unabashedly fascinated by taxonomies, and an unapologetic taxidermy buff, too (once you're stuffed it's too late for apologies anyway). I tend to like my history natural, in other words, which is what the whole basement level of the museum is all about (the Boston Society of Natural History was the precursor of the modern Museum of Science).

I’m particularly interested in the nexus of science and art, and there's plenty in the museum to satisfy in this, starting with the adorable dioramas (my enduring love of dioramas is well-documented)...


...each of which, while viewing behind glass, you also had the option of smelling! There’s a little box with a button on it at each window, with the words "PUSH, HOLD AND SNIFF." Now, ordinarily, I would be wary of that kind of thing, but for some reason I trust science.

And while my museum mate was repulsed by the very idea of it, I didn't find the idea or the scents off-putting in the least. Truth is, I have to admit I was a little disappointed that I didn't. I'm not even sure what I was supposed to be smelling. Dead leaves? Driftwood? A stagnant pond? Or the animals themselves? All of the above? Or something yet more sinister?

I tried each and every one, needlessly to say, and all I got was a faint whiff of mold and must. Maybe it was just for smelling the diorama. It was definitely diorama smell.

There were miniatures as well, in a hall dedicated entirely to models (more about which momentarily):


This one showed multitudes of slaves building a pyramid. I needed a Gatorade just looking at it. There was no smell-o-vision here, thank heavens, but if there had been, oh what a smell! All those sweaty workers. And their camels. And no port-o-potties. Can you imagine?

Aside from the stuffed critters everywhere, of which this little guy was probably the most poignant:


...the birds were probably my favorites:


Birds are interesting. They're not all that sympathetic, on a personal level, in my opinion, but they are entertaining. Slightly less so when stuffed, admittedly.

We have grey catbirds in the garden that will come right up to you if you happen to be digging in the dirt or turning the soil. They’re not scary at all, unless you’re a worm.

They do have a little personality of a sort, I suppose. Maybe not individually, but definitely as a species, and they would not be as endearing stuffed, although this is not the case with all animals, by any means.

But then one thing Science teaches you is that Nature is not here to endear herself to us. We call her Mother Nature for a reason. Nature’s not always fun and it’s not always fair. “Why?” You ask. Her answer is always the same: “because I said so.”

Some critters are too small for stuffing, of course, so we tend to pin them to boards instead...


These two cases were part of an exhibit devoted to collecting. I am not really much of a collector myself—although I do have my own sorta sleazy version of Darwin’s barnacle collection clogging up my hard drive—but, again the phenomenon of collecting and cataloging is so intrinsic a part of human experience as to be inseparable from human nature, and that is truly intriguing. It can be put to good use (sex and medical science) and bad (Tupperware and baseball cards), just like anything, I suppose.

As intriguing as the natural history section downstairs was (and I really could look at dioramas forever—I am, in fact, building one in the attic that I can live in), I was nearly ecstatic to find a small number of Blaschka glass invertebrate models in the aforementioned hall of models upstairs. I think Cornell University has the lion's share, but you might be familiar with the Blaschka glass flower collection housed in Harvard's Natural History Museum.

The MOS collection is meager by comparison, but strives to be representative. The funny thing is, it dawned on me as I read the informative placards below the cases that I was not only looking at invertebrates—I was looking at a gruesome catalog of my sex life up to now!


I think I actually dated this guy a couple years ago:


No, seriously.

But even though this blast from my past was somewhat traumatic (I swear I've never even met the Blaschka brothers—although I have met the Klitschkos), I was able to recover myself sufficiently to carry on, and carry on I did, and thank heavens I did, because the next thing I saw, after an exhibit on Rube Goldberg, was a charming little machine by the always delightful Arthur Ganson:


There are several of Ganson’s machines on display at the MIT Museum, and those and the holograph of Keith Haring alone are well worth the price of admission (which is a mere five bucks).

Along the same lines as Rube Goldberg's self-operating napkin and Arthur Ganson's 23 scraps of paper is George Rhoads' delightful audiokinetic sculpture, "Archimedean Excogitation":


This is the kind of science I can get into. We probably stood and watched—and listened—to this thing for a good twenty minutes.

After which we did a kind of whirlwind tour of the rest of the museum. But taxidermy and Rude Goldberg machines are about the outer limits for me. To be honest, once you start talking "exploding newspapers," gamma rays and Boolean algebra, I start getting nervous.

Still, a splendid way to spend a couple of hours on an overcast day, if you ask me.