Note (12/2015): Hi there! I'm taking some time off here to focus on other projects for a bit. As of October 2016, those other projects include a science book series for kids titled Things That Make You Go Yuck! -- available at Barnes and Noble, Amazon and (hopefully) a bookstore near you!

Co-author Jenn Dlugos and I are also doing some extremely ridiculous things over at Drinkstorm Studios, including our award-winning webseries, Magicland.

There are also a full 100 posts right here in the archives, and feel free to drop me a line at secondhandscience@gmail.com with comments, suggestions or wacky cold fusion ideas. Cheers!

· Categories: Physics
What I’ve Learned:

Even when they're plush, neutrinos are badass.
“Neutrinos: never seen, never heard and there’s one behind you RIGHT NOW!”

Scary question: what do neutrinos, ninjas and Bigfoot have in common?

Even scarier answer: Almost everything.

For starters, neutrinos are shrouded in mystery. They were first predicted decades ago, but there’s a lot we still don’t know about them. What’s a neutrino’s mass? How fast do they move? How many types are there? Boxers or briefs? Do they like gladiator movies?

We know none of these things about neutrinos. Just like ninjas and Bigfoot.

Neutrinos are mysterious because they’re extremely hard to detect. They pass right through air, liquid, solids — even the earth itself. Neutrinos make no sound, give no advance warning and make only the slightest disturbance as they pass.

Sound like any feudal Japanese assassins or Sasquatches you know?

Paradoxically, though, neutrinos are basically everywhere. They’re created by processes including nuclear fusion, like in stars or supernovae or a really intense Dave Matthews Band gig. If you put your hand up to the sun, one trillion neutrinos will pass through it every second.

(Of course, if you put your hand anywhere else, they’ll still pass through it. You can put your hand under your butt in the dead of night, if you want; it won’t make a bit of difference.

Neutrinos don’t care. They do what they want.

Like ninjas. Like Bigfoot.)

This abundance does make neutrinos unique, though. If a trillion ninjas were nearby, you’d already be too dead to read this. And a trillion Bigfeet would stack ten thousand deep in the Montana woods, and someone would eventually notice the pile. Or the smell. Plus, there’d be a lot more idiotic beef jerky commercials on TV. Pretty hard to miss.

Neutrinos are hard to detect because they rarely interact. With no electrical charge, tiny mass and near-light speed, neutrinos are a pain in the ass to catch up to. Researchers only find them when one in a hugetillion pings off a molecule in an underground pool of laboratory water, or a detector array built into an Antarctic ice sheet. Short of running smack into the heart of an atomic nucleus, a neutrino could go undetected forever.

Like ninjas’ and Bigfeet’s long lost subatomic brother.

Of course, anything mysterious and spooky needs a nemesis. For ninjas, it’s pirates. Obviously. For Bigfoot, a zoom-lens Nikon. And for neutrinos, it’s the antineutrino — which some theories say is also a neutrino.

So, a particle that rarely interacts, can barely be seen and is also its own opposite. Maybe neutrinos are actually more like Batman. Or the Unabomber. The Batabomber? Possibly not.

Anyway, for such an antisocial particle, neutrinos get invited to an awful lot of physics parties. Scientists use the kind from supernovae as cosmic warning signals. Astronomers want to use them to “see” stars on the other side of light-blocking cosmic dust and gas. Neutrino property measurements could provide evidence for or against competing particle physics models. Neutrinos from the Big Bang could be some (or all) of the “dark matter” cosmologists have been trying to find. They can be used to monitor nuclear reactors. It’s possible (but not so likely — but still possible!) that neutrinos travel faster than the speed of light.

Yeah. They’re kind of a big deal.

In conclusion, neutrinos. A lot like ninjas, and also Bigfoot. And possibly Ted Kaczynski in a Batman mask. Only better.

Image sources: Ars Technica (neutrino event), Particle Zoo (ninja neutrino plushies), AdWeek (Bigfoot posse), Chris Is Why I’m Skinny and Gentleman Sparks (Batabomber)

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· Categories: Biology, Genetics
What I’ve Learned:

The punctuated equilibrium of Tatiana Maslany in Orphan Black
“Properly-punctuated equilibrium: Ten million ellipses, then a whole bunch of exclamation points.”

Punctuated equilibrium sounds like something you get when you perforate an eardrum. Like there should be PSAs about it, with scary pictures of death metal bands and Beats headphones with blood on the cans.

Luckily, it’s not that. No one’s coming to tear the Dethklok from your cold, deaf hands.

Instead, punctuated equilibrium is an evolutionary biology concept that made a big splash in the 1970s. It’s been desplashed a little since then, but it’s still pretty important. Plus Stephen Jay Gould helped think it up, and mostly everybody liked him. So there’s that.

The idea is this: in (at least) some cases, the pressure on organisms to evolve and adapt and squirt out a bunch of funky new species isn’t constant over time. When there’s plenty of food and the water is fine and everybody owns their own TiVo, then it doesn’t matter much if your individual set of genes makes you three percent hardier than your neighbor.

Oh, sure, you might get off your deoxyribonucleic ass and mutate up another leg or some gills or an enzyme to digest styrofoam. But let’s face it: you’ve got a pizza coming, and you’re still catching up on last season’s Orphan Black. Who has the time to speciate? And frankly, why bother?

This could go on for millions, or tens of millions of years.

(Well, Orphan Black won’t, of course. Tatiana Maslany is terrific and all, but she’s going to be too old for this thing at some point. I don’t care how many gills she grows.)

Things get interesting, says punctuated equilibrium, when the going gets tough. If the resources dry up, individuals die out. Small groups get separated from others; exploitable niches become more important. The quickest — and perhaps most radical — to adapt will ultimately thrive. Like the guy who brings a flask to the keg party, in case the beer runs out.

Or something less alcoholic. If you must.

It’s during these periods of ecological pressure and isolation that many new species are born. In between, all the old fern and finch and crocodile species sit around getting fat on Cheetos. And often each other.

But introduce a little hardship, and nature blossoms with adaptation to take advantage. That’s why an oceanful of brine shrimp will remain boring dumb brine shrimp forever. They want for nothing; they’re little trust fund crustaceans, born with silver… um, tiny handled eating utensils that rich baby shrimps would use… in their mouths.

(Or gills. Or whatever. Look, there’s no “aquatic face anatomy” tag on this post, all right? You get the idea.)

However! Scoop a small colony of shrimp out of the sea, stuff them in an envelope and shove them in the mail — now that’s an ecological challenge. And it’s enough to turn them into a whole new species: Sea Monkeys, with legs and fingers and brains and disturbingly human lips and what appear to be testicles growing on stalks out the tops of their heads.

And how does it work? Through the science of punctuated equilibrium.

So far as you know, unless you happen to own any of Stephen Jay Gould’s work. Or a freshman biology book. Or Sea Monkeys.

Stupid Sea Monkeys.

Actual Science:
Princeton UniversityPunctuated equilibrium
Evolution 101 / BerkeleyMore on punctuated equilibrium
National Center for Science EducationThe origin of species by punctuated equilibria
Shaking the Tree / Google BooksPunctuated equilibrium comes of age
Astrobiology MagazineLife after catastrophe

Image sources: BioNinja (evolution models), NeatoShop (poorly punctuated), BioNinja, The Mary Sue, io9 and Huffington Post (Tatiana Maslany clone evolution), She’s Fantastic! (Sea Monkeys)

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· Categories: Astronomy, Physics
What I’ve Learned:

Coronal mass ejection -- don't cross the sun, or it'll set the whole building on fire.
“Coronal mass ejections: sometimes the ratio of badass to sunshine is too big.”

Here’s the thing about the sun: it’s always working. At night, you go to bed. You don’t see the sun, so maybe you think it’s sleeping, too, or out hitting on Class G babes at some seedy stellar hot spot.

But no.

While you’re drooling on your pillow, the sun is pulling double shifts on the other side of the planet. There are sidewalks in Saigon to warm, Tibetan teahouses to light, and those crystal waters lapping the Great Barrier Reef aren’t going to dapple themselves, the lazy bastards.

So the sun takes care of that business, and then reaches back around to tickle the other hemisphere, without so much as a lunch break. It’s tireless. It’s also unpaid, has no insurance, commutes a hell of a long way and occasionally gets so worked up it sets something on fire. Basically, the sun is our solar system’s Milton Waddams. Do not touch the solar stapler.

Instead of torching a building, though, the sun lets off steam with coronal mass ejections.

(Technically, it lets off plasma, which is to steam approximately what ghost chili extract is to Arby’s Horsey Sauce.

As the saying goes: if you’re going to eject substances in public, at least make it impressive.)

In addition to plasma and fused hydrogen and other ridiculously hot things that make napalm look like a cold water spritzer, the sun also creates intense magnetic fields. When two oppositely-directed fields come together — like a perfect storm of being relegated to the basement and having your precious Swingline swiped — something snaps.

On a good day, this might cause a solar flare — those impressive leaping arcs of fire you see in astronomy photos, curling off the surface of the sun. Solar flares are idiots. They put on a big show, like an undersized bully or a fresh business school graduate, but there’s no oomph. It’s all flash and no substance; solar flares are like the Cirque du Soleil of… well, the soleil.

Coronal mass ejections, or CMEs, on the other hand, will bite a planet in the ass. Also spawned by magnetic reconnections, CMEs are solar flares’ bigger, hotter, angrier brothers. And they’ll come at you, on average, like a billion tons of bricks riding a magnetized solar wind at over a million miles an hour. Because, on average, that’s exactly what they are.

(Except for the ‘brick’ thing. But plasma is scarier, anyway. You don’t fight off alien hordes with “brick rifles”. I’m just saying.)

When they slam through the Earth, coronal mass ejections wreak havoc on satellites, electric lines and radio transmissions. They’re like EMPs on steroids, whose steroids also took a bunch of steroids. The Jose Cansecos of electromagnetic phenomena.

Coronal mass ejections are also responsible for auroras, which are dancing lights near the North and South Poles that indicate our atmosphere is getting the shit kicked out of it by high-energy solar particles. Auroras are cosmic “Check Engine” lights, only much prettier and artsy-fartsy.

So I guess a CME has a little Cirque du Soleil in it, too. Just don’t say that to its face. Next time, it might decide to set you on fire.

Actual Science:
NASA Marshall Space Flight CenterCoronal mass ejections
NASA Goddard Space Flight CenterThe heart of space weather observed in action
EarthSkyWhat is coronal mass ejections or CME?
RedOrbitSun’s coronal mass ejections behave like Crab Nebula’s gas tendrils
ABC SciencePlasma plume defends Earth

Image sources: RedOrbit (coronal mass ejection), ZDNet (Milton Waddams), Obscure Gamers and FunnyJunk (Ash shooting bricks), General Depravity (aurora borealis)

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· Categories: Chemistry, Physics
What I’ve Learned:

Avogadro's number: That's a lot of MOOOOOOOOOLEcules!
“Sometimes, even a huge number can leave you wanting MOOOOOOLE!”

Contrary to popular belief, Avogadro’s number is neither the first item in a guacamole recipe, nor the less-successful Italian sequel to Schindler’s List. In fact, modern science says it isn’t officially a thing at all any more, like Pluto’s planethood or Steven Hawking’s dance moves.

Too soon? Sorry.

What is a thing is the Avogadro constant, which is closely related to the measurement known as a ‘mole’. The mole is a very important scientific concept, defined as the amount of a substance in grams equal to the atomic weight of that substance.

For pure elements, figuring a mole is easy. Take carbon, for instance. Carbon’s atomic weight is 12, so a mole of pure carbon — no radioactive isotopes, please — weighs 12 grams. Hydrogen’s a pipsqueak: atomic weight of 1, mole weight of 1. Californium is a beast of atomic weight 98, so a mole of that weighs a hefty 98 grams.

Must be all the Avogadro trees weighing it down.

Since larger atoms weigh more, every element — actually, every substance — has the same number of atoms in a mole. That number is Avogadro’s number, roughly equal to 6.022 x 1023.

(The “Avogadro constant” is basically the same as “Avogadro’s number”, after a bunch of snooty international standards paper-pushers got together and slapped official units on it to make it look pretty in scientific journals. What’s the precise relationship between the “number” and the “constant”? According to Wikipedia:

“Avogadro’s number is a dimensionless quantity and has the numerical value of the Avogadro constant given in base units.”

I know, right? It’s like reading Vogon poetry. Just say they’re the same thing, already, chem-nerds. Jesus.)

Calculating the amount, or molarity, of substances is trickier when they’re more complex — like cyclohexane or gummy bears or Chevrolet Impalas. But it’s still possible. You just figure out the average atomic weight of the molecules involved, plop the stuff on a scale and then calculate the number of moles involved.

(Well. You and I don’t. But other people do. The kind with lab coats and safety goggles and scientific calculators with the fancy buttons worn down.)

The key is Avogadro’s number, which is a pretty amazing thing itself. It’s a universal link between the mysterious world of atoms, which nobody understands, to the everyday world of grams — which only drug dealers and metric Europeans understand.

Also, it’s huge: six hundred and two sextillion, give or take a few quadrillion molecules. That many meters would equal 60 million light years, as far as the Virgo galaxy cluster. If it were gumballs, six hundred sextillion is almost — almost — more than Rachael Ray could fit into her mouth at once. So yeah, it’s a lot.

Yet all those molecules are jammed into 12 grams of carbon, less than half an ounce. It boggles the mind. And the Avogadros.

It even boggles the scientists. Chemists have taken to celebrating “Mole Day” each year, between the hours of 6:02AM and 6:02PM on 10/23. Because they haven’t received quite enough wedgies for sustained dorkiness, apparently.

You’d think they’d at least take it seriously — and not use it as an excuse to make constant “Mooooole!” jokes like a bunch of giddy four-eyed Austin Powers fanboys.

You would be wrong. Score one for Team Avogadro. Yeah, baby.

Image sources: Sturff (call me, Avogadro), Denver Westword (Rachael Ray piechasm), The Virtual School (molar eclipse), Lake Bluff Homebrew Club (Savage mole)

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· Categories: Biology, Genetics
What I’ve Learned:

Optogenetics: science--invented, laser doge-approved
“With optogenetics, you won’t just ‘see the light’. You’ll feel it.”

The brain is a pain in the ass, scientifically speaking. And scientific-researchly speaking, which is probably a real thing.

Studying the brain is unusually tricky. It’s a complicated organ with billions of cells, electrical signals whizzing everywhere and neurotransmitters getting passed back and forth like the last beer at a tailgate. You want “simple”, go study an appendix. The brain is not for you.

Also, the brain comes not-so-conveniently wrapped in a hard candy shell called a skull. To reach it, you’ve got to drill through bone — and then dig through brain, if the bit you’re after is in the middle. For decades, brain science was like trying to yank grapes out of Grandma’s Jell-O without breaking the mold. As any eight-year-old can tell you, that’s damned near impossible.

Then there’s the scale. Most organs you study with a microscope, or even a camera. Drop a miniature Nikon down (or up) someone’s gut and watch a day in the life of a colon unfold in real time.

Or slower, if your test subject is a big fan of fiber.

But the brain operates at millisecond speed. Blink, and you miss a million firing synapses, lighting up the cerebellum. And the cerebrum. And that other bit — the one for remembering numbers and science facts and what parts of brains are called. Mine doesn’t work, apparently.

How can scientists possibly get around all these problems? Enter optogenetics, which allows neurocowboys a new way to put eyes on the brain. Literally. (Almost.)

The ‘opto-‘ part of the name suggests light (or eye doctors), and refers to light-sensitive proteins — like those in our eyes’ rod and cone cells — found in species like fruit flies, algae and bacteria. These proteins react to specific wavelengths of light; by snipping out the DNA sequences coding them (hence the “-genetics”) and linking them to genes in test animals, scientists can set off signals in those animals’ brains — just by turning on a flashlight.

A very special kind of laboratory flashlight. Very wavelength. Much science. Wow.

Now researchers can trigger — and measure — brain events at the speed of light. They’ve even developed wireless versions of their flashy-light and brain-detect-o-matic devices, allowing them to study animals running free in the lab. Or “free” in a cage. But not attached by the forehead to an industrial science laser. Which is nice.

The techniques are fairly new, but have already changed the neurobiology game. Among other things, scientists have used optogenetic methods to implant false memories (and sexy thoughts) in fruit flies, flip-flop social behavior in mice, relax muscles in worms, break habits in rats and kill pain (again in mice) with a flash of light. Creepy Island of Doctor Moreau vibe aside, this research could someday have important applications in human medicine. Also, with all the flashing lights and artificial mind altering, the lab animals just think they’re at tiny adorable raves.

One final measure of the impact of optogenetics: In 2010, it was named scientific “Method of the Year”. Presumably, it beat out “stash your samples on ice overnight so you can duck out for Happy Hour”. For scientists, that’s a huge upset.

Image Sources: ExtremeTech (lab mouse), Jello Mold Mistress (Jell-O mold), NoodlyTime (laser doge), Redshirt Knitting (mouse rave)

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