By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
By Leif Haven
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Kate Conger
By Brian Rinker
By Rachel Swan
Science, at its most boring, reveals transcendent truths about a changing world. Dull researchers spend entire lives seeking pure knowledge, and produce minute advances in our understanding of genes, weather, and other pinhead topics.
More exciting scientists forge into more fascinating realms. They explore a future in which Americans fight robo-wars with a single joystick, and anyone can wear mechanical pants like Sigourney Weaver in Alien.In these hero-scientists' dreams, techno-Jesus boots enable wearers to walk through minefields as if upon water, and futuristic bullets hurt even more than regular ones.
This is the kind of science I had always imagined my president really cared about. For this reason I didn't mind much in February when a bunch of boring Nobel laureates claimed the Bush administration forced government scientists to lie about toxic waste, global warming, HIV, species extinction, and other pedantic issues. I didn't care two weeks ago when 170 scientists carped about Bush's "political distortion of biomedical science" following the dismissal of a San Francisco professor from the President's Council on Bioethics. And I wasn't bothered last week when Arianna Huffington announced that she and her friends got tested for blood-borne mercury in the wake of reports that the Bush administration suppressed evidence about safe levels of toxic metals in fish. Why is Huffington fussing about maybe having mercury in her blood? When Bitchen Science someday develops a race of techno-superhumans, won't metallic blood course through everyone's veins?
My complacency dissipated, however, when I recently learned that the Bush administration's policy of screwing up boring basic science might also harm Bitchen Science. In investigating the current state of government-sponsored cool research, I discovered a scientific law our president should know. It's called the law of conservation of stupidness, and can be compared to energy transfer, osmosis, or the toxic cloud at Ground Zero that Bush's EPA lied to America about. Once in the air, water, or flesh, stupidness seeps into everything; it contaminates space agencies and armed forces; it gums up defense-research organizations.
The Bush administration's dropout approach to boring science is affecting the kind of empirical inquiry our president should protect.
My inquiry into Bitchen Science uncovered boneheadedness run amok. Take, for example, U.S. Army officials buying cadavers from university research centers and then blowing them to smithereens. Or the Pentagon-funded battlebots that couldn't find their way out of a parking lot. I further discovered that government watchdogs recently shut down a corrupt NASA institute specifically devoted to Bitchen Science. Idiocy, it seems, has metastasized throughout the government science establishment. Radiation therapy is in order.
I first started getting wind of a possible moron crisis in Bitchen Science last month, when a friend who's a reporter at the New Orleans Times Picayunetold me about a story he'd been working on. Tulane University had sold excess research cadavers to a New York broker, and Stewart Yerton followed the money all the way to the Army. Soldiers had fitted the poor dead grandpas with experimental land-mine-resistant shoes and, in a series of gory blasts, set back immeasurably the cause of donating bodies to science. Now, I know soldiers love blowing up bodies. And that's OK. But do people donating their bodies to "science" really imagine flying heavenward in millions of tiny pieces? Even Australia, a country otherwise so backward that most of it's called "Outback," has developed artificial limbs specifically for army testing of land-mine boots.
Last month the Pentagon's Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency -- which during a cleverer era birthed the Internet -- conduced a $1 million contest called the Grand Challenge. Self-guided vehicles, some of them built by academic teams from the Bay Area, were supposed to traverse more than 140 miles of California desert. This way, DARPA hoped to advance science's understanding of a future race of robo-warriors. But the challenge proved too grand: Only a few entrants were smart enough to make it more than a few hundred yards before tipping, crashing, or otherwise failing. The best warbot advanced only seven miles.
I was about to chalk these fiascoes up to the sometimes halting nature of progress, rather than brain disease in government science circles. But then I learned about the Girvan Institute of Technology, a partially NASA-funded research incubator specifically dedicated to advancing Bitchen Science. Located at NASA's Ames Research Center, down the Peninsula in Mountain View, GIT was supposed to give a head start to futuristic products, building on the legend of NASA-linked consumer goods such as Tang, Velcro, and Therapedic mattresses. But while powdered orange drinks and laceless baby shoes are essential parts of American life, the cronyism, diversion of funds, and silly-seeming products spawned by Girvan were viewed by federal investigators as something America could do without.
NASA's inspector general released a report in February announcing that GIT had been shut down after auditors showed that Ames insiders had awarded, without competitive bidding, a public-private contract to set up Girvan to a professor with apparent personal ties to agency bureaucrats. After that, the auditors found, costs escalated 1,000 percent, from an originally-agreed-upon $600,000 to $6.9 million. NASA, which was supposed to provide just 23 percent of the seed capital, quickly ended up providing 92 percent of Girvan's funding.