We often lament hype in science journalism. But seldom do we worry about underhype – of downplaying the significance of a study.
In March, I had reason to worry about this. Just after Nature published a story that I wrote about a massive cancer genetics project, I received an email from my editor:
“Should we be worried about our cancer story?” read the subject line of his email.
How much time would you need to count to a million at the “One Mississippi” rate of one number per second?
At some point in my writing life I figured I should contemplate that question if I were ever to appreciate the kinds of numbers that astronomy uses. Knowing that our galaxy contains more than 100 billion stars, and that the universe is swarming with more than 100 billion galaxies, doesn’t mean much if you don’t know the meaning of a billion. Our brains didn’t need to evolve so that we could understand such numbers. Like cultures that count “One, two, three, more,” we tend to regard the scale of the universe—to the extent we regard it at all—as “Earth, planets, Sun, far.”
“Mississippi,” of course, is an arbitrary choice of noun. The key word has to contain four syllables in order that saying it would take approximately one second. But the key word in appreciating the profundity of the cosmos doesn’t have to be Mississippi. It’s not as if the river or state holds some intrinsic relationship to the mysteries of the universe. If anything, the word “Mississippi” is the opposite; its primordial soup of s’s, p’s, and i’s is playful, not portentous. What this exercise needs is a four-syllable noun that captures the fearsome potential of nature. Something that inspires curiosity and dread in equal parts. Something like…I don’t know…”Justin Bieber.”
So: How much time would you need to get to a million, counting at the “One Justin Bieber” rate of one number per second? Continue reading
22 – 26 April
This week, guest poster Tienlon Ho broke LWON with her post about what happens when the cloud breaks up with you.
LWON power couple Ann & Abstruse Goose took on the topic of penis envy.
Eric continues our series on debunking Hollywood with a look at the annoying legitimisation of fringe science.
Christie told us why garden-variety dust causes avalanches.
And Jessa and I explained why I can’t punch you in the face.
Last month, Erik took a hard look at a staple in Hollywood’s menu of plot devices: the knockout shot. Now we turn to a movie trope that hits a little closer to home. Our very own Sally needs your help in the investigation:
Dear LWON readers,
I’m a boxer with a problem: I can’t punch you in the face.
Okay, I’m not a boxer. For that you have to have fought someone on some Thursday evening in a grotty basement venue in a worrying part of South London full of half-drunk people with complicated motives for standing around watching two people beat each other bloody.
Me, I’ve been training halfheartedly for about three years for my first fight. But that day may never come, because while I can hit a heavy bag like Captain America* and I could probably last the 3 2-minute rounds required for an amateur fight, my fist has never met a face it doesn’t like. Too much, in fact, to harm a single hair on it.
Which is why I find it so frustrating when I see people from all walks of life popping each other in the face on TV and in movies without so much as a flinch. I’m looking at you, Elisabeth-Shue-in-The-Karate-Kid, wearing your pearls and cold-cocking Johnny when he tries to get fresh at the restaurant. Continue reading
AG is citing a riposte to intelligent design’s argument that a watch implies an intelligent watchmaker.
And yes, I know it’s not a Penis Friday. As Cassie says, you can’t have penises every Friday; and a codicil would be, some penises come on Thursdays. AG is also offering his own, more tasteful, riposte to Cassie’s last TGIPF (which I must say brought a slight blush to my delicate cheek) (and which also got many enthusiastic comments, many of them). Plus AG is right. I was a farm kid and used to seeing everybody of all ages naked, and I felt that neat, discreet girls were so superior to those bells-and-whistles boys.
Spring is a nervous time for skiers and farmers. I’m both of these, and every April I watch the weather even more closely than usual. As a skier, I’m waiting for crust — the year’s most magnificent snow conditions.
Spring’s warm temperatures compress the winter’s deep snowpack and when the freeze/thaw cycles line up just right, a firm crust forms on the top of the snow. This crust provides an ideal surface for skate skiing. In mid-season, skaters are confined to the groomed tracks, but come crust season, you can ski anywhere and everywhere without slogging. Conditions are fast and fun. It’s skiing at its finest. Crust cruisers often find themselves spontaneously emitting sounds of glee, such as “yippeeee!” Continue reading
I am just sitting down to dinner at makeshift cafeteria a few miles away from a Maya dig site, called Xultun, in the jungles of Northern Guatemala. It’s my third day there, and I am still not used to the howler monkeys and giant insects. But most of the students around me have been here for weeks or months and they happily chat away as they dig into home-cooked chicken with tortillas and refried beans.
Sitting there all alone, I listened in on their conversations.
“That was during the rule of Tuun K’ab’ Hix, who captured Aj Wosal and put him under the power of Naranjo,” says one undergraduate archeologist. Then for a few minutes I can’t hear as an argument breaks out. When I pick it up again it’s, “… so the palace of Godalin falls to the Paks from the north, who are fierce fighters.”
Did you hear it? If weren’t careful, you’d miss the change from actual 6th Century Maya king to what I inferred was World of Warcraft. Pretty much the only way to separate archaeology from a fantasy battle was by the tenses they used.
In the past, I have written about how domestic décor reflects our passion but at that moment I discovered that it goes much further than that. Many of the young archeologists in that camp were huge fantasy nerds (takes one to know one, believe me). Same for science nerds. I ask you, is there any scientist or science writer out there who does not like science fiction? Don’t bother responding, the answer is no. Continue reading
One recent Thursday morning, I logged into my email and made an alarming discovery. Instead of opening my inbox, Google directed me to a notice:
Account has been disabled . . . . In most cases, accounts are disabled if we believe you have violated either the Google Terms of Service, product-specific Terms of Service . . . . or product-specific policies . . . . it might be possible to regain access to your account.
It was like I’d gotten dumped, via text message, by someone en route to Cabo. The vagaries left me reeling. Continue reading
