The Last Word On Nothing | "Science says the first word on everything, and the last word on nothing" - Victor Hugo

The Last Word

By: Ann Finkbeiner | January 20, 2013

January 14 – 18, 2013

Cameron discovers the etymology of anatomy: know why the top vertebra in the neck is called the atlas? Sure you do. “There’s something delightful about coming across unfamiliar words for all the things that move me through the day,” she says.

A swarm of starlings is called a murmuration. “No other phenomenon has ever stopped me in my tracks quite like this,” says Christie, “made me forget everything else in the world except the brief moment of grace unfolding before me.” Commenters recommend astounding videos.

Guest Brooke Borel picks up a tiny pee-soaked wooden bird and wonders why. Because of its eyes and little smile? Yes, say the commenters, yes, yes, yes.

I swear and declare I’m not writing about women astronomers any more. Not that they don’t face stupidities that need to be kept public. Only that I’m declaring astronomy a non-gender science. Smart commenters argue with me.

The chemicals of sex, love, attachment, and divorce can be made. The question is, should they be? And if so, says Jessa, by whom should they be used and on whom? I vote no: those chemicals cause enough trouble without more of them running around loose.

Anti-Love Biotech, and the Neuroenhancement of Love

By: Jessa Gamble | January 18, 2013

In my early twenties, I had a really good break-up with someone whom I considered to be part of my chosen family. “Amicable” doesn’t even capture the “Friends forever!” commitment with which we launched into our post-couple bond. The thought of him having a new girlfriend made me excited for him: Nobody had told us differently or handed us a script for what breakups were about. But when that new girlfriend – and future wife, as it turned out – came along, she didn’t see things the same way. Continued friendship represented, to her, a failure to move on. We were to have no further contact.

As devastating as it was at the time, the couples around me since, and in particular their dissolutions, have me wondering whether we dodged a bullet. It seems a fair subset of breakups don’t involve immediate hate; nevertheless, over time the emotional backlash takes its toll. Guilt and sadness fester in the friendship until it, too, dissolves.

It’s all part of the human experience, but would we change it if we could? Perhaps not for the sake of relationships themselves, but enough children are in unbearable post-divorce stand-offs to give one pause. What if we could ease the break-up suffering just enough so that their parents could rise above it and effectively co-parent? Come to think of it, what if biological interventions could make the love last in the first place? The good people at the Future of Humanity Institute and the Oxford Centre for Neuroethics are working on just that, along with such ideas as preventing oneself from falling in love with somebody else while in a relationship you want to stay in. Continue reading →

What I’m Not Going to Do

By: Ann Finkbeiner | January 17, 2013

I have an assignment from a magazine to write a profile of a woman astronomer. I am delighted about this: the magazine is excellent, the editors are superb, and the woman astronomer is impressive. I did notice that the assignment came just before the magazine announced publicly it needs to redress its problem with a gender balance that favors males, and that both I and my profilee are suspiciously female. But I honestly don’t care.

What I won’t do, however, is write about this astronomer as a woman.* Continue reading →

Guest Post: The psychology of anthropomorphism, or why I felt empathy towards a piece of trash

By: Brooke Borel | January 16, 2013

Discarded Christmas dreams in Brooklyn. I mean trees. Discarded Christmas trees in Brooklyn. — Discarded Christmas dreams in Brooklyn. I mean trees. Discarded *trees*.

In early January, the sidewalks in my neighborhood are lined with discarded Christmas trees. It’s the collective holiday hangover trash, and quite frankly it makes me sad; the trees mark the moment of winter where all that is left are several cheerless months of cold and drudgery. My dog, however, goes apeshit over them. He loves to sniff them. He loves to pee on them. And, a couple of weeks ago, his Christmas tree habit led me to some unexpected psychological self-analysis. Continue reading →

Murmuration. The poetry of the morning walk.

By: Christie Aschwanden | January 15, 2013

This morning I awoke to the kind of day that offers an easy excuse to skip the walk. The temperature gauge read -3F (-19C) when I crawled out of bed, and by the time I’d finished the tea and hot porridge my husband had prepared, it was still only -1F. But the dogs were eager, the sun was shining, and my day never feels quite right without our morning ritual.

And so we pulled on our snow boots, bundled up and headed out the door. The snow was squeaky cold, and the air had a briskness that put a hustle in our strides. Halfway up the hill to the lookout, a loud ruckus. Dave turned to me. “Stop. Shhhh…” We looked at each other. “Hear that?” A lush symphony of bird song. Starlings, from the sound of it. But where?

We looked skyward. Nothing. Upslope, only a crow in a nearby piñon pine. Then I spotted them in our neighbor’s willow trees down below. Starlings, yes. Hundreds of them. The moment I pointed to them, as if on cue, they rushed skyward in unison. The birds formed a rising crescendo, then swooped down, and then up and across the sky, like a ribbon, wrapping around itself.

If nature has ever produced a more perfect thing than the mesmerizing beauty of this starling swarm, I have yet to encounter it. No other phenomenon has ever stopped me in my tracks quite like this, made me forget everything else in the world except the brief moment of grace unfolding before me.

A flight of starlings in concert is called a murmuration. Murmuration–even the name is poetic. Continue reading →

From Atlas to Plates of Meat

By: Cameron Walker | January 14, 2013

4449986788_52cffdd786 A science writer friend gave me these great nerdy baby flash cards when my older son was born. I’ve been hoarding them for myself until they got discovered last week—hoarding them both because they’re charming (and for the moment, unsullied) and because once they were spotted, I would have to start explaining what each one meant.

And so now we are studying the alphabet. A is for atom. D is for diurnal. (What’s diurnal? What’s nocturnal? Oh, nocturnal is like Mommy.)

The one that’s attracted the most interest is U. U is for uvula: even if you’re four, it seems, the word seems vaguely forbidden and completely irresistible. Uvula, uvula, uvula. (Here’s a shaky video from the National Uvula Association.) Continue reading →

The Last Word

By: Sally Adee | January 12, 2013

January 7 -11

Erik wonders if canaries have musical taste.

Guest poster Roberta Kwok tells the story of unusual evidence from a heartbreaking crime scene.

Nausea — hyperemesis in particular — is a lot more interesting than you think it is, Michelle finds.

Guest poster Erin Gettler demonstrates that there’s no shortage of wild things to find.

And when Cassie tries to find out why she is only happy when she’s in flux, she finds interesting clues from happiness research.

See you next week!

Guest Post: After the Crash

By: Roberta Kwok | January 11, 2013

Around 2 AM on July 16, 2005, graduate students Benjamin Boussert, Giulia Adesso, and Jason Choy left a dance party in San Francisco and started driving home to Berkeley, where they were studying chemistry. Boussert spent his days experimenting with tiny crystals, while Adesso investigated the properties of nanoparticles and Choy used lasers to explore how enzymes unfold proteins. All three were less than 30 years old.

As they approached the campus on highway I-80, a big rig on the other side of the freeway lost control, smashed through the median, and collided with the students’ car, setting it on fire. Boussert, Adesso, and Choy died in the crash.

Bob Snook, then sergeant of the California Highway Patrol (CHP)’s Valley Division Multidisciplinary Accident Investigation Team, received a phone call that morning from the CHP. “It sounded like the world had come apart,” he says. Continue reading →