Stem Cell Lies

Michael Fumento, the National Review's go-to guy for science stuff, has a particularly nauseating essay in this week's issue dealing with embryonic stem cell (ESC) research in the wake of the President's veto. It deals with a letter written to Science by three prominent ESC researchers taking to task a list that's been floating around claiming that adult stem cells (ASC) can treat upwards of 70 some-odd diseases, whereas ESCs haven't cured anything. Science has a nice article this week on the reality of some of those "cures", most of which are in foreign countries with undocumented, anecdotal results. These scientists are correct to take issue with Congress touting out "patient testimony" as evidence of ASCs curative powers.

Fumento gets riled up, however, by the supposed dishonesty of these scientists by downplaying the curative potential of ASCs, claiming that they are apparently "at odds" with the whole medical community. Why? Because they claim “adult stem cell transplants from bone marrow or umbilical cord blood can provide some benefit to sickle cell patients” and “hold the potential to treat sickle cell anemia” [emphasis Fumento's]. He claims that, no, ASCs have full curative power:

An article from the May 2006 issue of Current Opinion in Hematology notes that “there is presently no curative therapy” for sickle-cell anemia other than allogeneic hematopoietic stem cell transplantation. “Hematopoietic” means from marrow or blood; “allogeneic” means the cells are from another person. Seminars in Hematology (2004) states, “. . . curative allogeneic stem cell transplantation therapy” has “been developed for sickle cell anemia.” Meanwhile, “. . . curative allogeneic stem cell transplantation therapy [has] been developed for” sickle-cell anemia according to Current Opinions in Molecular Therapy (2003), while “hematopoietic stem cells for allogeneic transplantation” are “currently the only curative approach for sickle cell anemia” observes the journal Blood (2002).

What does everybody seem to know that the Science writers and editors don’t?

Hmmm. I'll tell you Mr. Fumento. They know you need to read more than one sentence into an abstract. Take the Curr Opin Hematol article. Fumento needed to only read the next sentence: "This therapeutic option, however, is not available to most patients due to the lack of an HLA-matched bone marrow donor." Wow. One curative therapy exists and it remains unavailable to most patients. I'd say that, on the whole, allogenic stem cell transplantation therapy holds potential and provides some benefit to patients as a group, which is how we generally think of the benefits of a therapy. And since immunocompatibility is a major problem for organ donations (which stem cell transplantation essentially is), that's why the all the papers he cited go on to talk about gene therapy to overcome that problem. I'd hardly say the powers of ASCs were falsely underplayed:

Sometimes it prints easily falsifiable studies, such as this, attacking the usefulness of ASCs.

Yes, it is easily falsifiable, as in, one can attempt to falsify it by

reading the literature. However, as is obvious from reading, oh say,
the entire article, one realizes that ASCs aren't nearly as useful as
you'd like to believe.

Will ESCs help us in our pursuit of the holy histocompatibility grail? Maybe, maybe not. Point is, ASCs probably won't because they are a lot harder to manipulate. Studying ESCs is basic science research and may provide some clues towards this manipulation by helping us understand early differentiation, for example. And that research needs to be funded by the federal government.

Fumento ends, of course, by implying that the recent South Korean stem cell debacle shows that Science is a "propaganda sheet:"

Other times it falsely promotes ESCs. That culminated in January when the journal was forced to retract two groundbreaking ESC studies that proved frauds.

Yes, but it didn't falsely promote ESCs. The journal itself was defrauded by the authors. And it immediately retracted them. It was not intentional and not only was the journal defrauded but the peer-reviewers and several co-authors as well. Not everyone involved with the publication of data is expected to independently verify every detail of the work submitted.

Whatever one's opinion on ESC research is, I simply abhor when irresponsible "journalists" misrepresent science. Abhor. Like I abhor Richard Gere. Oh yes, that much.

Alternate Side Parking Rules

New Yorkers have this funny little ritual that they go through several times a week if they own cars and it goes by Alternate Side Parking Rules, whereby for about an hour and a half two or three times a week, one of the sides of the street gets cleaned and must be cleared of traffic. Which means if, oh say, you've borrowed your sisters car for the week while she's studying in Italy so you can go to Costco and run other errands and drive out of the city on the weekend and generally just get a respite from public transportation, you can't just leave it on the street until you need it. No, you have to move it between the hours of 9:00 and 10:30 so that the Department of Sanitation can clean the street, which in my seven years in this city I may have seen happen once.

Anyway, I used to think this little annoyance was amusing and I got a cynical bout of schadenfreude every time I saw people double parked across the street waiting for the magical time when they can move their cars to the other side and leave them there for upwards of three whole days!

That is, I was amused until it happened to me. When I arrived on Sunday night I was determined to park on a side of the stree where I didn't have to move the car until at least Tuesday. This meant either parking on the other side of 96th St. (the horrors!) or trying to fit my sister's little Elantra in a small space between an Infiniti and a Pathfinder. SUVs are, of course, the bain of my existence but this one took the cake. I asked the boy to get out and see if I could fit. He said yes, which would have been the correct answer if the Pathfinder didn't have a spare tire the size of Minnesota sticking out the back. Bumper to bumper I was fine. But bumper to tire? Nope. The Elantra's hood was just two inches too high for that. I managed to wedge myself in, but by the time I realized I couldn't get the car closer than a foot and half to the curb, there was no going back.

I did manage to find a space this morning, however, after only 45 minutes. By the end of the week I'll be a pro. Just in time to return the car to Connecticut and go another seven years without ever having to pray for inclimate weather so I can hear those blessed words on the morning news: "Alternate side parking has been suspended city wide...."

The Light at the End of the Tunnel...

... is October, baby! A little later than I wanted it to be but whatever. My committee meeting went swimmingly. And in just four short months I am going to insist that you all start referring to me as "Dr."! Apparently my work on the modification of bilayer mechanical properities by poly-unsaturated fatty acids, specifically the interplay between changes in elasticity and curvature, was a hit with the biochemists!

I'm on tonight and my hips don't lie....

Happy Anniversary!

To marriage equality!

The DaVinci Code

I am torn by the fact that Ron Howard is not putting a disclaimer up about Opus Dei when the film gets released this month. I am torn because I detest Opus Dei and would like people to have a disfavorable opinion of them, but I do think that they warrent a fair treatment. Granted, the story is fiction, and piss-poor fiction at that (give me Umberto Eco anyday). But of all the crap that Brown made up, Opus Dei is the only organization a) introduced to the general population by this drivel and b) still around. I think the Vatican is fair game in the same way that "the government" is appropriate as the Big Bad in a conspiracy story.

That said, however, I do get a tinge of delight at the twisted portrayal of Opus Dei. All fundamentalism should be stamped out.

Happy Third of the Month!

Ah, spring has sprung. It's wet and breezy with wild temperature fluctuations and inconceivably high levels of airborne allergens. Not to mention the fact that the vaguely acidic smell that has been permeating my department's restrooms comes not from infrequently emptied trash bins but from the toxic vapors emanating from the broken wasteline from the gross anatomy lab above us. If I wasn't in the daily habit of inhaling enough methanol to blind an elephant, I might be worried.

But not today.

Because today is about happy thoughts. Happy thoughts like how ludicrously awesome Prison Break is. Will Sarah Wayne Callies actually break the law and help Wentworth "I'm Secretly Black" Miller escape? Who is this "Company", an international conglomerate of corporations that control all world politics (aka the Elders of Zion) and why are the messing with Patricia Wettig? And don't you think Patricia Wettig's name seems to be missing a consonant?

All these questions, however, can gleefully distract us from our true mission today: to spread love and joy and self-appreciation everywhere! Some may say that my infatuation with self-satisfaction is merely a casualty of the self-esteem movement of my childhood, a "this is your brain on drugs" childhood, which admittedly made heroin look tasty rather than horrifying (had I known the dangers of "bad" cholesterol (which is of course an idiotic oversimplification of an essential and vital mammalian sterolic compound that we really shouldn't be attempting to moralize by placing value judgments on it)) I'd've probably been terrified. If I had been a product of the "drugs will make you stick your entire hand in your mouth" childhood, I might have stayed of the crank... the self-love crank that this!

So if you're having difficulty finding your inner high today and you can't get a hold of some methanol, might I proffer a suggestion: take a dozen moist towelettes and remove them from their deliciously square foil wrappers. Layer them on top of each other and place them firmly over your nose and mouth. Secure them by tying a bandanna (preferably plaid) around your head and breath normally. Ignore the burning sensation in the middle of your cerebellum. As your eyes begin to well up with tears of joy and wonderment, think upon the meaning of the Third of the Month and try to stay awake until the euphoria hits you....

Mmm Tastes Like Chicken

This weekend the boy and I went to the Darwin exhibit at the American Museum of Natural History. I highly recommend it, and not just because they take a nicely produced swing at Intelligent Design Creationism. In a serious of video discussions Ken Miller, Eugenie Scott and Francis Collins, among others, neatly lay out the definition of a theory and discuss why ID isn't one.

But that is not the focus of the exhibit; the focus is Darwin's journey from simple observations to his detailed, revolutionary idea. The whole exhibit has a very Victorian feel and you get a true sense of how pathologically curious the man was, as evidenced by the fact that he ate every species he came across to see what it tasted like. Seriously. Apparently those endangered Galapagos iguanas taste like chicken.

And while the IMAX movie of the Galapagos islands enhanced the experience, it really isn't all that necessary; it's too short to actually give you any scientific detail, although widescreen IMAX movies of nature are always pretty cool.

Not Ludicrous Enough

Last night was the best night of my life. Well, recently at least. Why? Because Ludicrous Prison Break is back on the air! It was fantastic! There are all these really tense moments. Is he gonna get the chair? Is he not gonna get the chair? Is Sarah Wayne Callies '99 gonna come through and talk to her daddy? Was Wentworth Miller going to be able to stop staring off into middle distance long enough to plead with her eyes? When are they finally going to get to make out? Are they going to have a torrid off-screen romance? Is Abruzzi coming back from his stint with VW? Are Michael and Sucre ever going to make out? Are they going to kill off Veronica so I don't have to suffer through any more of Robin Tunney's horribly affected phrasing? And doesn't Patricia Wettig rock?

Big Boys Don't Get Do-Overs

As you probably know, I am not a big fan of unions. Especially greedy ones. The TWU is no exception. Perhaps you all remember that strike back around Christmas? That illegal strike? Remember it was about how the MTA wasn't given the workers what they wanted? Remember how, when they didn't reach an agreement, the MTA wanted to go to binding arbitration? Kind of like how every other union/management dispute is settled. Because arbitration and mediation is how adults who cannot come to an agreement settle their differences.

Remember how the TWU didn't want to go to binding arbitration because they didn't want to lose a say in their contract? And remember how the MTA backed down to virtually all the union's demands and how the union president, Roger Toussaint, agreed it was a fair contract? And remember how the union got to take a vote on it and get their say? And remember how they rejected it and how the MTA said, "fine, we'll go to binding arbitration, like adults."

Well, now the union wants another chance to vote. See, they didn't understand what they were voting on. It's not like they had weeks to read the contract. It's not like every news program and newspaper in the city reported what was in the deal ad nauseum. No, they weren't properly informed. They want to try again.

I'm sorry. Adults don't get do-overs. You had your choice. You struck for three days, illegally, when you didn't get your way. Then you were handed a nice, sweet deal, when the MTA had every legal and rational reason to push for binding arbitration. And you said no. And now, when it looks like you're going to be forced into binding arbitration against what you originally wanted, you want another vote?

"We believe that the MTA should be held to the terms that they agreed to in December, and that the MTA should not get into the business of dictating to the union when and how we ratify a contract," says Mr. Toussaint. Oh really? Dictating? Kind of like how you dictated the MTA when and how you were going to go to work? Are you so egotistical as to think that the workers are the only entity that matters? Earth to Roger: socialism lost. You have management to deal with, the ones who have to sign off on your contract. And don't forget about those pesky little subway and bus riders. We're just a bunch of irritating gnats.

You had your chance to sign the MTA's contract offer and you blew it. Adults go to a mediator. Children pitch a fit when they don't get their way and then demand everyone let them try again. And when you act like children, you deserve to be treated by children.

Not My Fault...

I intend to return to blogging as soon as my schedule calms down a bit.

I have resurfaced, however briefly, to inform everyone that I am in no way involved in this. A worm that attacks everyone on the third of the month is, in fact, blasphemous! That is not in the spirit of the Third of the Month! It is not about wanton destruction or vandalism! It is about loving yourself and cherishing yourself and protecting yourself from sadness and malaise. And plaid. Never forget that ultimately this day is about plaid....

So, grab a stack of moist towellettes, don your favorite pair of plaid boxers (or if you have any shirts left over from the mid 90s) and start updating those virus definitions! And stop downloading porn from random spam! (And no, the irony of this worm's method of attack is not lost on me...)