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: Astronomy, Physics
What I’ve Learned:

Jeans instability: The fancy-pants stuff behind every star.
“Jeans instability: The fancy-pants stuff behind every star.”

Science is hard. Most of it is obviously complicated and full of tongue-twisty words that exist only so some eggbrain jerkass can school you at Words with Friends. But it’s sneaky, too. Whenever some small bit of science seems simple and straightforward, there’s always something way harder and full of Greek-letter math lurking underneath. That’s how science gets you.

Take Jeans instability, for example.

Everything physicists tell you up front about Jeans instability makes perfect sense. You’ve got this lumpy stuff called Jeans mass, and a size called a Jeans radius. If the Jeans mass exerts too much pressure for a given Jeans radius, the system flies apart and the mass spreads all over.

We’ve all been there. Like an hour after after Thanksgiving dinner.

On the other hand, if the Jeans mass has too little pressure, then Jeans instability occurs and the system collapses in on itself.

Presumably in a little pile around your ankles. I can’t say I’ve personally had experience with this phenomenon. It sounds like one of those tragic Euro supermodel problems. Oh, those poor twiggy bitches.

All of this is well and good, until the physicists then tell you that none of this has anything to do with distressed Calvin Kleins, Levis 501s or high-waist super skinny Jordache denim jeggings — and is that last one actually a thing? Merciful Darwin help us all.

To physicists — who mostly wear plain, practical polyester pants, it turns out — Jeans instability is a whole other thing entirely. It’s a phenomenon named after British physicist Sir James Jeans — personal legwear preferences unspecified — and describes the conditions under which interstellar gas clouds collapse to form stars.

On the bright side, most of the above reasoning still holds true. If the outward pressure of the gas in a cloud of a given size is too great — because the gas is especially hot, for instance — then the pressure will overcome gravitational force, and gas will spill out everywhere.

Like I said, usually an hour after Thanksgiving dinner. That happened to me twelve years ago, and Grandma still won’t invite me back for holidays.

But if the gas is sufficiently cool, or the mass of the cloud unusually high for the space it’s in, then gravity wins out and the gas will collapse in on itself, eventually forming a discrete object called a protostar, and later a star. It’s the Jeans instability that predicts under what conditions this collapse will begin to occur.

(Presumably, it includes declining seconds on pumpkin pie. Again, I wouldn’t know. That would require a stronger cloud of gas than I.)

That’s the good news, in terms of simplicity. The bad news is, the original equation for Jeans instability has been found by later researchers to not be completely accurate for real-world predictions. Which might explain why people try to fit into pants two sizes too small. Also, that equation for Jeans instability looks like this:

And to get the Jeans mass, you apparently solve this gibberish:

And the Jeans radius — more often called Jeans length — comes out the back end of this beast here:

I don’t know what any of that means. I have trouble enough figuring out the right inseam to put in the form on the Wrangler website. What if the gas cloud is wearing a belt? Is there more instability if you acid wash first? And how do I convert the units for the gravitational constant into boot-cut?

I’m telling you. Science is hard.

Image sources: Thinking Sci-Fi (baby protostar), Tenderfooting (gobbledy-Scrabbledy-gook), Denimology (serious jeans instability), LukeHamby (jeans + ankles = jankles), Wikipedia (scary equations)

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· Categories: Biology
What I’ve Learned:

Viroid: the simplest is as the simplest does.
“Viroid: the simplest is as the simplest does.”

Everyone I know is trying to “simplify”, in any way they can. They’re downsizing their houses. Giving away old clothes. Cutting out cable. (But not Netflix, because come on, Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, already.)

Pretty much anything short of donating their kids to science and moving into a zen garden, these people are doing in the name of simplicity. And you know what?

They’re amateurs.

Because how “simple” are you, really, when you’re still human? There are all sorts of complicated things going on inside us — and I’m not just talking about our Facebook relationships or the way we feel about Charlie Kaufman films.

Human bodies are all kinds of intricate. You’ve got circulatory systems and immune cells, respiratory tracts and reproductive organs — and that’s just the tip of the person-berg. “Simplify” all you like, but if you’re holding on to all that bodily baggage — with your fingers; don’t even get me started on fingers — then you’re not very simple at all.

And what’s more, if you think you need all of that — or any of it — to live in the world, grow up and pass on your genetic material, then you’re wrong. You can do all that with less. Much less. If you really want to simplify, take a cue from a viroid.

Viroids are about as small — and simple — as a reproducing bit of schmutz can get. Classified as “sub-viral pathogens”, viroids have almost none of the fiddly biological bits even most tiny organisms hold dear. Take amoebas, for instance; these microscopic little one-celled critters still have tiny tails to move around with, a way to take in nutrients and a nucleus for their genome. Ain’t no viroids got time for that.

Bacteria are even smaller than amoebas, but they at least have a cell membrane, and enzymes and stuff kept handy in pockets, for when they’re needed. Viroids got no enzymes, no pockets, and no cell to keep them in.

Viruses are tinier still, and are mostly just made up of a few genes on a strip of DNA. But at least — at least, for crissakes — they have the decency to cover up their genetic material with a membrane of some kind, and to code for a protein or two.

But viroids? Nuh uh. They’re nothing but naked RNA, single-stranded genetic material all folded in on itself. No membranes, no cell walls, no nothing. They don’t even code for proteins — they’re just themselves, the epitome of “simple”. Viroids are out there. And they’re lovin’ every minute of it.

Of course, living simple has some downsides. So far as we know, no viroids have Twitter accounts, for instance. Also, they can’t reproduce by themselves — we’ve all been there, amirite? — but need to infect a living cell to “borrow” its machinery to make more copies of its RNA. Most of those living cells are in plants; viroids have been identified that infect potatoes, eggplants, avocados and coconuts, among others.

Because they can’t reproduce by themselves — or in ugly-RNA-bumping pairs — viroids aren’t considered to be “alive”, exactly. But they may provide a hint as to how life ultimately began on the planet. Making copies of oneself — with help, and before one really has a “self” to speak of — isn’t much, perhaps. But it’s an important step on the way to truly living, and might have been critical to the formation of the very earliest life forms.

And today, viroids can still float around a farm field, dig into crops and pass along their genetic material to new generations. From what I’ve seen of the “simplify” crowd, most of those people would love the viroid lifestyle. Or near-lifestyle, as the case may be.

Of course, that “lifestyle” also involves running around naked, mooching other peoples’ equipment and using vegetables for sex.

I’m not saying that would deter any of the hippies pining for a life change. But suddenly, viroids don’t sound so “simple” to me.

Also, that Netflix queue of mine isn’t going to watch itself. I’ll pass.

Actual Science:
Virology BlogViroids, infectious agents that encode no proteins
Small Things ConsideredSmallest Things Considered
New York TimesA tiny emissary from the ancient past
Science Magazine / OriginsFast-mutating viroids hold clues to early life
Washington State UniversityHop stunt viroid research

Image sources: Nature Reviews (viroid structure), Neptune Society (kids with signs), QuickMeme (Kramer, LOVIN’ it!), The Snipe (sexy, sexy eggplant)

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· Categories: Physics
What I’ve Learned:

WIMPs: Massive, dark and WIMPy is no way to go through life, son.
“WIMPs: Massive, dark and WIMPy is no way to go through life, son.”

There are lab geeks, biology nerds and chemistry dorks. But did you know there are also particle physics WIMPs? And that they’re dark and mysterious, and not especially wimpy at all?

(Also, they’re not particle physicists. Most of them couldn’t punch their way out of a wet bag full of hadrons.

I’m just saying. Banging atoms together and scribbling down equations all day doesn’t exactly qualify as “cross-training”.)

WIMPs are actually elemental particles — specifically, Weakly Interacting Massive Particles. Or rather, they would be, if they weren’t hypothetical, which at the moment is what they actually are. Or aren’t. Or might be. Theoretical physics is sort of confusing to talk about.

Let’s try this: if they exist, WIMPs might be the particles that make up the “dark matter” astrophysicists are always going on about. In fact, that’s basically how the idea of WIMPs came about.

Basically, “dark” matter is stuff out there in the universe that — unlike stars, planets, space junk and giant Pharaoh Bender statues — can’t be seen with a telescope. That’s because dark matter doesn’t interact via electromagnetic means, so observations using light, infrared, X-rays, radio waves and basically all the other ways we probe the universe, are off the table. The dark matter — or something — must be there, because it exerts gravitational effects on the things we can see. And there’s a hell of a lot of it — more than four times the amount of “un-dark” matter in the universe.

(This may seem like esoteric cosmological knowledge, but it really comes in handy for making yourself feel better when you’ve cheated on a diet. Just remember: for every cupcake you eat, there’s four more cupcakes’ worth of dark matter out there somewhere that you haven’t eaten. So that’s something.)

According to smart space people — that’s smart people who study space, not smart people from space, obviously — one way of working out what dark matter is made from involves a relatively heavy particle that interacts only via gravity and the weak nuclear force. (Hence the “W” in WIMP, for weak; see what they did there.)

At the same time, one flavor of a popular particle physics theory called “supersymmetry” predicts elemental particles with the very same properties. This confluence of “two great tastes that taste great together”, theoretically speaking, has been dubbed the “WIMP miracle” in scientific circles.

(Thus replacing the previous scientific definition of “wimp miracle”, which was “that time Anthony Michael Hall and the other goober created Kelly LeBrock in their bedroom”.)

Miracles aside, the big problems with WIMPs is that nobody has ever seen one. They wouldn’t be easy to find, naturally, but theories suggest that they might be produced in places like galactic centers, certain particle accelerator collisions and possibly the sun. Mostly, physicists have to search for detectable breakdown products of rare events that suggest WIMPs were involved, and hope they see enough evidence to distinguish from other possible sources. So far, they haven’t.

As the search for WIMPs continues, other theories attempting to explain dark matter have emerged. These include strong interacting massive particles, massive compact halo objects (including black holes) and robust associations of massive baryonic objects. All of which have corresponding acronyms, of course.

So particle physics has ranged from WIMPs to SIMPs to MACHOs to RAMBOs. In other words, it’s run through the Weird Science plot from the miracle girl’s perspective. That’s nice, but it hasn’t solved the mystery of dark matter yet. Somebody call me when the Chet hits the fan.

Image sources: APS Physics (WIMP search plot), Normal Level of Crazy (cupcake stuffing), Dino Bone (science, weirdly), Life and Style (steaming pile of Chet)

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· Categories: Biology
What I’ve Learned:

Laser capture microdissection: the best use of lasers this side of the Death Star.
“Laser capture microdissection: the best use of lasers this side of the Death Star.”

The problem with biology is, it’s messy.

You can open up some animal or person — well, not you, necessarily, but a surgeon or researcher with explicit permission, which is kind of important — and pluck out something you’re interested in. A tumor that needs diagnosis, say. Or a part of the brain not behaving itself. Maybe a gall bladder, because it’s infected or malignant or the doctor has a really weird Pandora bracelet thing going on.

It’s all well and good to decide what you want to carve out. But that’s where biology goes and gets messy.

Take the tumor example. Tumors don’t ordinarily grow in nice neat little balls inside the body, just waiting to be sliced away and stored in formaldehyde or used in a macabre match of bocce. Instead, they ooze between other tissues. They spread tendrils through organs and hop from one body part to another, like some kind of inner-space kudzu. To cut out the tumor, you’ve got to cut other stuff, too. And it’s not always clear which bits are which until the globs of flesh are sliced thin, slapped on microscope slides and diagnosed by a pathologist.

Even normal tissues have the same problem. Say you’re a brain researcher, because you’re a smart cookie and a Futurama fan and you don’t want to rely on Philip J. Fry to save the universe some day. That’s kind of a weird path to a career choice, but hey, it’s your life. Who am I to judge?

Anyway, you might want to study neurons pulled from the brains of lab mice or rats. But in that same brain sample are cells of other types. Glial cells. Skull cells, if you’re a little careless with the scalpel. Liver cells, if you’re a lot careless. The point is, to identify the neurons — and just the neurons — you’ll probably have to slice the tissue up, make some slides and find them under the microscope.

The question is: then what?

For decades, scientists could go through the procedures above and figure out that this sample over here was thirty percent pure for the cells they wanted, and that sample over there was ninety percent pure. But if they wanted to study those cells — pull out DNA or RNA or proteins and see what made them tick — they had no way to get rid of the contaminating schmutz scattered around them.

That’s where laser capture microdissection, or LCM, comes in. It sounds like something Darth Vader might do to torture information out of a Wookie, but it’s not. It’s actually more of a way to get rid of blemishes and impurities in a biological sample. Like an Oil of Olay for microscope slides.

So how many scientists does it take to perform a laser capture microdissection? Three, in principle. First, some smart brave person hooks an ultraviolet or infrared laser to the controls of a microscope, so moving the field of view back and forth will burn a line through the sample. Then a very patient careful person stares into the microscope for an hour or two, twisting the controls like an ungodly-expensive Etch-A-Sketch, tracing around the parts of the sample they want to carve out.

Finally, some brilliant crazy person figures out how to get that laser-jigsawed piece off the slide to do more science. Current methods include melting wax and sticking it to the piece (fairly awesome) to using gravity to shake the piece away (more awesome) to something called a laser pressure catapult (ridiculously awesome). This last procedure involves shooting an unfocused laser at the sample, literally punching the cutout into the air with photon force. Which, again: Wookie torture. But no. Science.

So that’s laser capture microdissection. You get just the bits you want, and none of the bits you don’t. And then you can look at just the cells you like, without anything else getting in the way. It’s as easy as Photoshopping George Costanza out of a vacation pic.

Just don’t try it on a Wookie. That would not end well.

Image sources: University of Gothenburg (laser capture microdissection), ikdoeict.be (Fry and the brains), Hurtin Bombs (angry Chewy, vengeful Chewy, purr purr purr), Woosk (Costanza photobomb)

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· Categories: Chemistry
What I’ve Learned:

Ytterbium, utterbium, we all terb for ytterbium!
“Ytterbium, utterbium, we all terb for ytterbium!”

You might see “ytterbium” and think it sprang from some Scrabble champ’s wet dream, or that it’s a young left winger drafted by the Winnipeg Jets. And it probably is. But also, it’s a little more.

Specifically, ytterbium is a chemical element — atomic number 70, if you’re scoring at home — and a member of the lanthanide series. And while “lanthanide” sounds like another puck-chucking hockey punk from East Brrritscoldistan, the series (plus a couple of kindred elements nearby on the periodic table) has another name, somewhat easier on the tongue: rare earth elements.

While easier to pronounce, it turns out “rare earth elements” isn’t really a great name. Granted, the “elements” part is accurate. And they do come from “earth”, or rather usually buried under quite a lot of it. But they’re not “rare”, for the most part, if you’re talking about the percentage of the planet’s crust they make up. The real issue with rare earth elements is they’re not often found in easily-mined ores. They tend to spread out in trace amounts, and clump up with similar elements so they’re difficult to separate. Many, including ytterbium, are fairly common; they’re just a pain in the ass to work with.

Still, it’s hard to blame scientists for the “rare” label. Nobody wants a “persnickety earth element” series on their periodic chart.

Speaking of persnickety, ytterbium certainly qualifies. At room temperature, it’s a shiny silvery metal that’s also also soft and squishable — like Play-Doh made from aluminum foil. This would be awesome, except that pure ytterbium will also irritate your eyes and skin, produce toxic fumes, violently explode and catch on fire in the way that water can’t put out. So it sits there, saying “play with me!“, all the while plotting your destruction in fourteen different ways. Like an evil sparkly porcupine, or a silver-plated Joker.

Which, I suppose, is coming. Super.

Because it’s difficult to extract — or because it’s dangerous as hell, maybe — only about fifty tons of ytterbium are produced worldwide each year. That’s not much, relatively speaking, but it makes sense because we haven’t found many things we can use ytterbium for.

(Contrast this with Adam Sandler movies, which are hauled in by the billions of tons every year, and no one’s found anything yet that those are good for. Chemists one, Hollywood zero.)

Still, ytterbium is good for a couple of things — and the very best we have at one. Certain ytterbium isotopes can produce gamma rays, which can be used in medical imaging, similar to X-rays. It can also be added to stainless steel to optimize certain properties, and to the materials used to generate solid state and other lasers.

But where ytterbium really shines is in telling time. According to the National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST), ytterbium atomic clocks are the most stable in the world. NIST’s ytterbium clock is so accurate, it could keep “perfect timing for a period comparable to the age of the universe”. Tough titties, Timex. And suck it, cesium.

So that’s ytterbium’s claim to fame. It may never hoist the Stanley Cup or stretch across a Triple Word Score — although, could you imagine? — but it has one thing going for it: it’ll take a licking and keep on ticking.

But seriously, don’t lick ytterbium. That would hurt so bad. Ow.

Actual Science:
Ytterbium.comYtterbium
The Guardian / GrrlScientistYtterbium
Uncertain PrinciplesLaser-cooled atoms: ytterbium
NISTNIST ytterbium atomic clocks set record for stability
NatureChemistry: degrees of separation

Image sources: TeachNuclear.ca (ytterbium), CBC Sports (Y…y…y…ytterbium the Jet), MoviePilot (silver-toothed Joker), Memes of Doom (Adam and Adam)

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