Lack of control

Randy's desk was closest to the lab door, so he had the first chance to say, "Hi!" to anyone who peaked in. There were many female visitors attracted by his skillful, equal opportunity flirting. He believed in the seductive possibilities of backgammon, introducing each new challenge with, "Surely there's time for one game. You can be white for purity and innocence. I'll be black."

One unusual day, the visitor was male. "Are you Randy?" he asked.

"I could be under certain circumstances."

The man held out his big, worn hand. "I'm Fred. Gerry McIntyre gave me your name." Randy relaxed, relieved that this was not a slighted boyfriend in search of revenge. "I've recorded an album," Fred said. "I need someone to do an experiment to prove my music is good for plants."

The university was famous for its population of young people who liked to involve themselves in experiments with biology and chemistry. Fred was older, at least fifty, with a grey ponytail, a tie dye T-shirt, dull eyes, an unsmiling mouth, and long delays in his conversation.

"I recorded the album myself," Fred continued. "I played all the instruments. I can think like a plant, man. All that time, I was thinking about plants and sunshine, and the plants growing towards the sunshine, making flowers. The music captures the spirit of plant growth, man. If I can get a scientist to endorse it, it will sell like crazy. Can you help me? I need a quote for the back cover."

"Why don't you leave the album with me and I'll give it a listen?" Randy suggested, hoping for a quick escape.

"No way, sorry. I've only got one copy."

Randy sighed, realizing there was no easy way out. "How do you think we should do this?" he asked. "Have you thought about the experiment?"

"Just grow a plant with the music, man, and you'll see how great it grows."

"What kind of plant?"

"I was thinking beans. Scientists are always doing experiments with beans. I think I could get some."

"Beans would be good. But how many replicates do you want? And you'll need some kind of control."

"Replicates? Just one, man. Anything more would be a waste. I don't want to waste the beans, man."

The conversation degenerated into a circular argument. There was no way that Fred was going to waste resources on a control, and replication was a hard sell. He finally reluctantly agreed that two plants would be acceptable. Randy tried to convince Fred that without controls, that is, plants not exposed to music, it would be impossible to interpret the results. Nor could he understand the need to measure the dry weight of the plant as a measure of growth. "It's enough to just see if the plants grow better," he insisted. "Use a ruler!"

"Better than what?" Randy shouted. "How will you know the music worked?"

"Don't dry the plants," Fred concluded. "I want to make a salad with the beans."

Satisfied that he had made his point, and that we would do the experiment the way he wanted, Fred left the album behind. It was unlistenable, full of random flute sounds, bongos and what appeared to be singing. Fred was tone deaf with a indefinable sense of rhythm. But of course my opinion was irrelevant; I am not a plant.

Eventually, we found an empty growth chamber (a refrigerator-like chamber with controllable light, temperature and humidity), plugged in a record player, and put the album on automatic replay. We planted the two magic beans, grateful that Fred didn't require a second, music-less growth chamber for controls. The plants started to grow. Then they died.

"I can only conclude that your music killed the plants," Randy told Fred. 

"Did you even remember to water them, man?" Fred hollered. He grabbed his album and stomped out, mumbling that he would find another scientist to do the experiment properly, or better yet, endorse the album without wasting any more beans.

Controls are the trickiest part of experiments. If you follow research on human health, disease, or diet, the most common criticism of published studies is inadequate controls. Proper controls allow the interpretation of results to be unequivocal and unassailable. Improper controls leave you wondering whether you have proven anything at all. In science, to use a cooking analogy, if you want to be sure you've improved the cookie recipe, you have to make them the old way too so you can compare the original and the modified version side by side.

Poor Fred. We never heard from him again, and there were no rumours of a fortune from marketing his record to enhance plant growth, whatever kind of plants it was he was really interested in.

No bell prize

Last week was Nobel week, with daily announcements of the honourees. Not all of them are for science, of course. The last one was Economic Sciences. Really?

The Nobel Prize holds a prominent place in the public imagination when they think of science, sort of like the Academy Awards, the Olympics, or the World Cup. Although the prizes are considered the height of achievement, most scientists have no chance of winning one, not because they are not smart enough (we are of course all smart enough), but because they do not work on the right thing. No one in my field has ever won a Nobel Prize, although we sometimes claim reflected glory for a couple of prizes awarded to people who happened to do some experiments with organisms in the same Kingdom. Actually, there is no specific Nobel for biology like there is for physics or chemistry, but instead a narrowly defined focus on Physiology or Medicine. Others need not apply.

Every field has its awards, however, some more prestigious than others. It is not unusual to hear these major awards marketed as, "The Nobel Prize of <insert field here>." Those who win these awards, however, are not interviewed on the national news in their countries, possibly not even on their local news. It might get mentioned to the in-laws as an aside over Thanksgiving dinner, bringing an abrupt end to casual conversation, spoons frozen in mid air. Then the prize winner will again have to explain what it is he or she actually does, expecting that the niece's new boyfriend will try to score some points by quipping, "You get paid to do that?"

In Canada, real Nobel Prize winners in science do become celebrities of a sort. We don't get a lot of them here, so it's always exciting. If they have any hint of an interesting personality, Nobel laureates do well in the media by talking about things other than science, or by demonstrating that they know how to play the violin. They attend formal galas, drop the opening puck at hockey games, appear on the news when a scientific pundit is required, and complain as much as possible that there is not enough funding for scientific research.

At the Fictional Scientific Conference I attended a few months ago, I was presented with an award that no one could characterize as anything close to a Nobel Prize. The Master of Ceremonies whispered beforehand that they would prefer I not try to say anything while accepting the plaque so they could maximize the time available for the fundraising auction. I had been hoping to pretend to be a pundit for a minute or two, and say something profound, or perhaps play the guitar, but no luck there. A few friends congratulated me afterwards, but everybody else either looked embarrassed or ignored me. Even in my own esoteric field, our intellectual passions are so fractionated into subfields and subsubfields that it sometimes seems that no one is interested in anything that anybody else does. We're polite about it, but when you win the "like the Nobel Prize of <insert subsubfield here>", you won't be toasted by the King of Sweden, and the President of the Society might try to rush you off the stage.

Postscript: A proud tip of the beaker to this year's Nobel Prize winner for Literature, Canada's Alice Munro. 

Not that kind of doctor

My PhD does not get me much respect outside the workplace. The acronym supposedly means Doctor of Philosophy, but I've never taken a philosophy course in my life, so this feels wrong. We've all heard the 'Piled higher and deeper' explanation, but I always liked the interpretation of a Finnish colleague who transcribed it as 'Doctor of Photocopying', which I suppose must now be adapted to 'PDF hoarding Doctor.' The stereotype, of course, is that PhDs are clueless about the broader world, their brains having been vacuumed into a dark, narrow tunnel from which they rarely escape. The leading newspaper chain in Canada adopted the editorial policy many years ago that PhDs were not 'Dr.', but just 'Mr.'  Even professors, who in some countries are exalted as 'Prof. Dr.', or even 'Herr Prof. Dr.', are reduced to 'Mr.' by journalists who do not have university degrees.

When I first got my PhD, I was surprised by the hostility of friends and family who assumed my ego was about to inflate like a hot air balloon. They considered it necessary to constantly puncture my self esteem before I floated into the academic stratosphere, where I would gaze down condescendingly at the rest of mankind.

From the beginning, I did not use the 'Doctor' label much out in the real world. Some perverse stubbornness makes me use the title when interacting with others who use the same word as a social or intellectual stratifier, such as MDs (medical doctors), DVMs (vets) and DMDs (dentists), who mostly have fewer years of schooling than I do. The receptionists at my dentist went along with it for awhile, calling me Doctor for a year or two. They never quite believed I was a real doctor, possibly because I never wore a tie or stethoscope. Eventually, they started using just my first name, not even bothering to call me Mister. I don't mind, really, although at the end of this month l will be introduced to a new MD who will do unspeakable things to my body. His web reviews suggest an arrogant, imperial personality, certain to introduce himself as Doctor if he bothers to introduce himself at all. I'm sure I will introduce myself as Doctor in return.

I immersed myself in universities for nine years to get my PhD, but it still feels odd when people outside my field call me Doctor. It's a symbol of something, an accomplishment, the development of expertise that really is unique, but it is not something I did because I wanted the title. It was a side effect, not the reason, a signpost hammered in along the road, now far far behind me. After awhile, people stopped caring about the letters after my name, whether they be PhD or CSP (Clown Science Practitioner). What is important, now,  is how well I do the job, not whether I have the academic credentials to make you laugh.