Note that the original graphic lives at http://www.clinicalpsychology.net/bad-science/

Sean Connery
Her Man Pain
Michele Bachward
Katy Perry’s Dad
Moot Romney
Newt Vader
Santa

HOST

Hello, Hello Everyone, and welcome to the Special Christmas Edition of The Sean Connery Show.  I’m your host.  You know, of course, me as the star of Zardoz and Dragonheart, but my friends just call me Sir Sean Connery.  Thank you, thank you – please hold your applause.

On today’s Special Christmas Edition of The Sean Connery Show we have a real treat for you Yanks…it’s the First Ever U.S. Public Debate Among Candidates for the Next Director of the National Institutes of Health.  Please hold your applause.

Now many of you might be thinking: Hey, wait a minute Sean, the NIH Director is an appointed position, not an elected one.  But that’s what makes our field of candidates so special: these driven and committed men and women don’t let little facts like this get in their way, no, they drive around them – and that’s what makes America the great nation that it is – and that’s why I love America.  Now, without any further ado, let’s meet your candidates for the next Director of the NIH.

First up:  you know him, you love him, from former pizza delivery-man to former Presidential candidate:  please welcome Herman Pain!

Pain approaches his podium, and places his name-plate on the podium, which reads:  “Her Man Pain”.

Next up:  she may still be campaigning for President, but reality won’t this powerhouse of a woman: say hello to Michele Bachward!

She approaches her podium, and reveals her name-plate, which reads:  “Michelle Bachward”

Next, but not last:  We know he can govern, but can he sing?  Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Katy Perry’s Father!

He approaches podium, where his name-plate reads: “Katy Perry’s Dad”.

And last but not least: fresh from helping Steve Hand collect shrimp from the Great Salt Lake:  it’s Moot Romney.

A stuffed toy or puppet is used for Romney. It is placed on the table, it’s name-plate reads: “Moot Romney”.  It is suggested that a stuffed space alien toy be used.

Welcome, welcome, all of you.  Now you will each have an opening statement, and then we’ll be asking you carefully screened questions sent into the Sean Connery Facebook page.  And so ladies and gentlemen:  let the debates begin!

PAIN

Hello Everybody!  We’ve changed destinations, but we’re still going just as fast:  it’s time to get back on the Pain Train!  I want to introduce you today to my master plan for getting the NIH back on track – because, as you know, ever since Mr. Francis Collins has been in charge over there, things have been kind of stagnant.  In fact, the only real progress this Obama appointee seems to have made is starting his little “Translational Medicine Institute”.

Well I say: This is American, and in America, we speak American, and if your doctor needs a translator, then they either need to learn to speak American, or they need to go back and practice medicine in whatever socialist country they came from.  Translational medicine is just a waste of taxpayer money.  Under my new plan, you’ll get good old-fashioned American-speaking medicine!

Now my new plan for the NIH is called the six, sixty-six plan (he turns over a sign next to his name that has three sixes on it).  Under my new plan, six percent of all submitted grants will be funded every six months, and grant durations will be increased to six years.  My motto is: K.I.S.S.  Keep it simple, stupid.  Why mess with all these scores and pay lines and who knows what all, when all you need are three simple numbers to keep America’s labs running.  So vote for me for the next NIH Director, and I promise to make a mark on the forehead of American science.  Thank you.

BACHWARD

Well Herman, a very interesting, but simple plan.  Ladies and gentlemen, I am Michele Bachward, and I want to be YOUR next Director of the National Institbles of Health.  And my plan for the NHI, unlike Mr. Pain’s, is not a simplistic numbering system that you need a calculator to figure out.  No, no, no, my plan is a precise and strategic carpet-bombing of everything that needs fixing in our nation’s research plan.

First and foremost, we need to fix the gender inequity in science: and we need to start with the NHH.  Now as many of you know, many current lab technicians are male – and I ask you:  is it fair that these male lab technicians are taking jobs away from women?  Everyone knows that lab technicians are supposed to be women, and that a woman’s rightful place in the lab is as a technical assistant.  My first act as the new NHN Director would be to fix this gender imbalance and restore the role of lab technician to its rightful place in American science.

My next act will be to take science away from the terrorists, and so I would immediately close the Institute for Iraqi Science.  Why should hard-earned American tax dollars be spent on the Institute for Iraqi Science when there are so many American Institutes in the NNH that need money?

The Host goes over and whispers into Bachward’s ear.

I’ve just been informed that there may not actually be an Institute for Iraqi Science.  I have no verification of this information yet, but if it is true, I say:  Huzzah, huzzah!  Good for you NHI!  Good job in preemptively getting rid of the Institute for Iraqi Science!  It makes my job easier, and allows for me to concentrate on newer and bolder initiatives to help America’s crumbling research infrastructure.  Thank you.

KATY PERRY’S DAD

Hello.  I’m Katy Perry’s father, and I want to be the next Director of YOUR National Institutional Health.  Now, I want to tell you something.  I believe in freedom.  I believe that our great country was founded on the principles of freedom and capitalism.  And that freedom stretches from sea to shining sea and all the way into our own bodies and our own organs and cellular things and sub-cellular stuff.  And to this end, I believe that each and every American has a right to the diseases of their choice – the diseases that they themselves want – as individuals and as Americans.  Big government has no right to treat your disease, and it certainly has no right to do research on how to cure your disease unless individual Americans want that disease to be cured.  Diseased Americans are also free Americans.  To help insure this basic American freedom, I plan to open the Institute for Discovery of Incredibly Optional Treatments, or I.D.I.O.T. (he flips over a sign with the abbreviation on it).  The Institute for Discovery of Incredibly Optional Treatments will, as the name says, be completely optional.  No American will be forced to have their disease researched or treated by a bloated government research machine.  And so if you vote for me for the next Director of the Natural Institutes of Health, you’ll be able to rest assured, knowing that the new I.D.I.O.T. is watching over our nation’s diseased population.  Oh yeah: and I would eliminate the Department of Energy.  No particular reason, I just don’t like it.  Thank you for your attention.

HOST

Well, thank you, thank you everyone.  We’ll skip Moot Romney, of course, since he is only a stuffed toy.  Those were some great campaign speeches, some wonderful plans and approaches – I think our audience will agree: let’s give our candidates a round of applause.  Now, for the second part of our candidate’s debate, we’ll be asking you each some carefully chosen questions that have been posted on our Facebook page.  Let’s start with this question for Ms. Bachward:  Wendy S. from Iowa City writes:  Given Ms. Bachward’s well known stance on the non-existence of evolution, and given the well known fact that all of biology is based in evolution, how will this effect her ability to run the NIH.”  Michele?

BACHWARD

Well Sean, that’s a very good question, and one that my staff and I discussed after church just this past Sunday.  I know that many of the sciencers who work at or with the NNH are quite enamored with their little theory of evolution, even though most Americans know that it is not in the Bible.  So to make it possible to keep the peace, I would institute a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy about evolution in science.

HOST

(Long pause:) Okay.  Is that your final answer?

BACHWARD

Yes, Sean, that’s my final answer.

HOST

Okay then, the next question is for Mr. Pain from a Ms. Sally Winchell who says that she worked closely with Her Man over the past 13 years.  Quote:  “We would often work side by side at the bench, and sometimes we would even pipette each other’s solutions.  On many evenings I would put his tubes in the centrifuge for him, and sometimes I even had to take his tubes back out of the centrifuge for him.”  Ms. Winchell doesn’t really ask a question, but I believe that America would like to know your response to her allegations.

PAIN

Well Sean, I didn’t know this debate was going to be so personal, but what I can say is that I believe that this Sally Winchell may be somewhat unclear on the mechanics of pipetting and centrifugation.  I don’t want to call anyone a liar, except my colleague Ms. Bachward of course, but I feel that this allegation from this Sally Winchell person may simply be a miscommunication.

HOST

I see.  And you’re going to stick with that answer?

PAIN

Until concrete evidence surfaces.

HOST

Very well then.  Our next Facebook question is for Katy Perry’s Dad.  A young fan from Idaho writes:  “Dear Sir, I am a big fan of Katy Perry and have all of her albums.  I know for a fact that you are not her father.  Are you just using the name recognition to try to get elected?”

KATY PERRY’S DAD

Well, it worked for Bush Junior.

HOST

But surely that’s not your primary campaign strategy?

KATY PERRY’S DAD

Oh, of course not Sean.  As you probably know, I’ve also got the endorsement of Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindal – and between the two of us we almost have one brain.

HOST

So, you’re admitting you only have half-a-brain?  Do you think that’s a wise revelation?

KATY PERRY’S DAD

It worked for Bush Junior.

HOST

Hard to argue with that.  Oh, I’m sorry, did you actually say something Mr. Romney.  (He goes in close to allow Romney to whisper in his ear).  What’s that?  You say Ms. Bachward is actually a witch?  (the Host leans in and listens to Romney again) You say you would bet $10,000 that she is a witch?  Well, how do you know she is a witch?  (He listens to Romney again).  She’s called you Newt Romney so many times that she turned you into a newt?  But you’re not a newt now.

NEWT

(Darth Vader enters wearing a Newt Gingrich mask over his helmet.)  No, but I am a Newt.  (He grabs the Mitt Romney puppet and throws it aside).  Sorry Moot, the real Newt is here now.

HOST

Well, what a surprise – everyone please welcome: Newt the Grinch!

NEWT

Thank you, thank you.  I’m sorry I’m late, I had to finish destroying a small planet – er, I mean I had to finish with some important discussions with my graduate students.  That was just a joke about destroying small planets, heh, heh, heh.  (He waves his hand out over the audience as he says:) You will forget the remark about destroying small planets.  Now I want to tell you about my plan for a new, fully operational National Institute.  But before we get to that, I want to get one little piece of business out of the way:  HerMan…HerMan…for the last time, I am not your father!  Okay, back to my new fully operational Institute.  As you know, I have always been concerned with the ethics and morals of the American people, so I am proposing a new Ethical Vigilance Institute and Laboratory.  (He flips over a sign that says:  E.V.I.L).  My new Ethical Vigilance Institute and Laboratory will foster research that will bring ethics and morality back to the American people.

SANTA

(Entering unexpectedly:) Ho, ho, ho!  Merry Christmas!

HOST

Hey everyone, it’s Santa!

SANTA

Ho, ho, ho.  (Going over to Newt:) Now you just wait one minute there Mr. Grinch.  The American people have fine ethics and morals right now – aside from a few, select exceptions (he waves his finger at all of them). Now, I’m very disappointed in all of you.  None of you are setting a very good example for the American children.  Well?  What do you have to say for yourselves?

NEWT, PAIN, BACHWARD, KATY PERRY’S DAD

All gather together and sing (to the tune of Little Drummer Boy):

Come, they told us,
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum,
Come lead the NIH,
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum,
Our lack of skills we bring,
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum,
To gut this science thing,
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum,
Rum, pa, pum, pum,
Rum, pa, pum, pum,
We’ll shut down your lab,
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum,
When we come.

Little scientists,
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum
We all are richer than you,
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum
We have no funds to give
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum
No funds to give your lab
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum
Rum, pum, pum, pum
Rum, pum, pum, pum
Shall we twiddle for you,
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum
On our thumbs.

They all twiddle their thumbs.

Tea bags nodded,
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum
The elephants kept time
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum
We twirled out thumbs for you,  (they twiddle their thumbs again.)
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum
We twirled our best for you,
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum
Rum, pum, pum, pum
Rum, pum, pum, pum (they stop twiddling thumbs)
No one smiled at us
Pa, rum, pum, pum, pum
We and our thumbs.

SANTA

Ho, ho, ho…And that’s your final answer?  Well, all I have to say to you is:

Sings (to the tune of Santa Claus is coming to town):

(To Pain:) Oh, you better shape up,
(To Bachward:) You better not lie,
(To Katy Perry’s Dad:) You better wise up,
I’m telling you why,
Santa Claus is coming to town.

I’m making a list
I’m checking it twice.
I’m gonna find out
Who’s naughty or nice (he starts to take Newt’s mask off to reveal Vader, but Vader stops him).
Santa Claus is coming to town.

(To Bachward:) I know when you’ve been hating,
(To Pain:) I know when you’re a lout,
(To Newt:) I know if you have flipped or flopped,
And it makes me have to shout:

Oh, you better shape up,
You better not lie,
You better wise up,
I’m telling you why,

Santa Claus is coming to town!

HOST

Thank you everyone, that’s our show for today, goodnight and Happy Holidays.

EVERYONE

(Each waving and yelling separately:)  Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, and so on…

The End.

North Pole – December 12, 2011 – Against advice from Mrs. Claus and 62% of the elves, Santa Claus today excoriated what he called the irresponsible and inflammatory rhetoric of overeducated physicists with nothing better to do than employ fancy mathematical equations in an effort to deny children a sense of wonder.

I am beside myself, Santa said. Literally, I’m standing next to myself. How can the supposed brilliant and creative minds at Fermilab not only question my existence but proclaim it impossible? Here’s their proof:

Theorem: Santa does not exist.

Assume:

a) Using simple math and statistics from the Population Reference Bureau on how many people celebrate X-mas, I need to visit 91.8 million homes.

b) I need to travel 75.5 million miles, assuming a uniform distribution of homes.

c) Reindeer can’t fly, but there are undiscovered species on Earth so flying reindeer aren’t inconceivable.

d) A reindeer can pull 300 pounds; a flying reindeer might be able to pull an order of magnitude more than an earthbound reindeer.

e) Taking advantage of time zones, I have 31 hours within which to deliver the gifts.

f) Each child gets a medium-sized Lego set, weighing 2 pounds.

Prove: True

1. I make 822.6 visits per second and have 1/1000th of a second to park the sleigh, slide down the chimney, drop off gifts, and scarf down some cookies.

2. My sleigh goes 650 miles per second (mps). For dramatic effect, they tell us the fastest man-made vehicle, the Ulysses space probe, only goes 27.4 mps.

3. I have 321,300 tons of toys to deliver.

4. I need 214,200 flying reindeer to pull a sleigh with all those toys.

5. This payload traveling 650 mps would make the reindeer hotter ‘n a spacecraft re-entering earth’s atmosphere. They’d burst into flames before being vaporized in less than a second.

6. Due to forces 17,000 times greater than gravity, I would become flatter ‘n Flat Stanley.

7. Q.E.D

What kind of cockamamie semantic-numerical proof is that?

First, let’s start with the assumptions. While it‘s conceivable that reindeer can fly, it is so improbable as to be considered utterly ridiculous. Even more ridiculous to think all kids would want a Lego set. Lego may be popular with the nerd set but according to market research firm, NPD Group (a subsidiary of Santa Enterprises), Cars, Disney Princess, Dora the Explorer, Star Wars, Thomas and Friends, and a bunch of other stuff all outsold Lego. BTW, a medium Lego set contains 300 bricks each weighing 6 grams, which is closer to 4 pounds, making my existence twice as ridiculous to the physics community.

Second, why in the world would I travel to everyone’s home? Santa Enterprises is not a goddamn distribution company. It’s an information company (and a very successful one at that). Our intellectual property (IP in the lingo) is The List. We collect and maintain data on what kids want and what kids deserve. Then we use our proprietary matching algorithm to reconcile the two.

We outsource distribution and payments to parents, grandparents, friends, and other assorted gift-givers. We outsource inventory to retailers. We outsource marketing to the Web. Our business model is a mash-up of Google, Amazon, PayPal, and Tupperware.

Screw the physicists. The economists should be trotting us out as a case study in the Harvard Business Review.

Want your proof, physicists?

You know that Higgs boson you so desperately want? I gave you the Large Hadron Collider last year after some good behavior, but it won’t deliver the God Particle. Stop messing with the kids if you want my algorithm to hook you up with the Higgs.

Not proof enough for you?

Go look for that picture of me and that beautiful boson flipping you the bird.

These cards at the Phylogame website rock! And in case, you’re new to the Phylomon idea, it’s basically a crowdsourced art, science and gaming project that revolves around the reality of children knowing WAY more about Pokemon than they do about the flora and fauna around them. This, of course, is problematic since one might suggest that it’s not a bad thing for children to also know a little more about the real environment around them (a more detailed description of the project can be found here).

This is also a post to say that I’m on the lookout for artists to contribute to special Phylomon “decks.” In particular, we’ve got funding to seek out art contributions at about $200 per image, with a preference of hiring each artist to contribute at least 5 or so images at a time. Image copyright would remain with the artist, but we ask that the phylo project is allowed to showcase them online in card format in a non-derivative, attribution, non-commercial manner; as well as allow non-profits, museums, educational institutions to use the image (but only in the form of phylo cards) in physical decks that may be sold only for agreed upon outreach project fund raising purposes.

Anyway, if you’re a freelance artist and the project (and the pay) sounds interesting to you, then please do leave your portfolio website in the comments below this popperfont post (we’re also going to contact a few artists who have already so nicely allowed us to use existing art). As well, just so you know, we’re actually looking for art that veers a bit away from the usual conservative realistic type of animal art (i.e. character design buffs are welcome!). Ultimately, we’re looking for art that might actually be considered a bit Pokemon-ish but with details that reflect the real-life organisms.

Oh… And if you want to see more of our existing catalog of cards, then just go to http://phylogame.org/cards. You can also print more, by just hitting “select” on any cards you like – there’s about 300 to choose from, as well as about 500 DIY cards that kids have drawn. When you do this, the card should appear in the “selected cards” shopping basket. When you’re finished, just click on the “Selected Cards” link and it’ll just show you just the ones you’ve picked (6 at a time).

The best part is that you can just print that webpage (i.e. what you see there), and it’ll automatically produce a printout of just the cards (6 at a time) and at print quality resolution.

Game on!
Dave Ng

“It’s hard to explain,” she says, “Ironic. …Isn’t it?” Her voice is hollow, like she’s swallowed a boy your age, and he’s speaking from inside her. “I never know if things are ironic or just ‘appropriate.’ Or ‘coincidental.’ Or ‘funny.’ Muscular Hydrostat,” she says, like that’s supposed to help, “I think that’s what you call it.”

You want badly for her mouth to open and send laughter skipping across the waves, for her hair just to pick up and billow like a sail in the sun, but she hums from her chest while she thinks, and her hair sticks slickly to her neck. You are about to make a joke, but she says, “The idea starts this way: water, in a given space, it stays the same.” She cups her white hands full of seawater; you want to touch it to your lips and drink. You cup your hand against your face and exhale to smell it. Vinegar. “There,” she nods, she holds the water like a ball, her webbed fingers spread comfortably. “No matter where it goes, it’s no less dense, or more. It can only move.” She claps and water sprays you both; you lick your lips. Salt. She lays her hands in the water, flat, like an offering; you want to drink it all until it becomes you, and you can go with her where she’s going. She curls her fists and squeezes and water shoots out both sides, like a hose with no spigot, quickly spent.

“So it is with the tongue,” she says, “Being mostly made of water.” She lets her mouth hang open. “Fluid, yeah?” She pushes out her tongue, all the way, long and thick and deeply violet, then flares it flat like an eagle ray. “Eh?” She says, “Always the same size, no matter what, moving around inside your throat.”

She laughs, then, like rocks dropping into the shallows. You want to make a joke, but you shut your mouth tight, clench your teeth against the thing growing in your mouth, pushing frontways, sideways, writhing to come out.

“Let’s go over the design plans briefly before we begin our operation, fellas.”

“We’ll proceed from the top, here at this access panel, and then move our way down to the waste stack, here.”

“Behind the access panel opening you’ll usually find several enamel fixtures in a curved array, with multiple small valves supplying fluid to the fixtures and the upper end of the system.

“Solids and liquids introduced to the system are pushed into the drain by this auger unit, down a three degree slope, to a 90 degree ell-coupling here. Be careful working around this elbow area since touching the inside of the pipe will cause the system to immediately back up.”

“Now, below this fitting there are two 3/4 inch drain lines, which converge here in this flow control valve. This valve is responsible for separation of gas, liquid and solid material, as well as functioning as a PA system for the entire structure.”

“We’ll only concern ourselves with the fluid and semi-fluid lines at this point people. We’ll let the gas fitters work on the other line later.”

“Past the control valve we come to a central reservoir which holds all the in-feed from the drain line above. This tank has control valves at each end and, after suitable mixing has occurred, the contents of the tank are slowly drained through the lower valve into a 1 inch sewer line here.”

“This sewer stack is approximately 28 feet long, made of flexible tubing, and winds around the central interior of the structure, through several 90 degree bends, elbows, and 45 degree offsets. As it proceeds, some of the material inside the structure is siphoned off using various branch lines.”

“Just so you’re aware, another system is responsible for filtering liquids in this structure. That system has two replaceable strainers here at the back. Waste liquid drains from these filters into a P-trap holding tank here and hence to one of two different exit valves, depending on the structure. This is what we male plumbers call the fire sprinkler system. That’s a bit of anatomy humour there.”

“Other tanks contribute fluids and chemicals to the mixture as it moves down the stack, but generally the material continues without interruption.”

“The processed material then enters this 2 inch stack, which is in essence another, larger holding tank. This tank regularly empties, usually into a municipal waste system, through this flow control valve, here. Yes, the exterior valve can look like a politician, Joe – good one!”

“This plumbing system operates with high efficiency, but can occasionally slow to a crawl, or speed up beyond system capacity. The reasons for slowing down can be anything from too much cheese entering the system to a lack of water irrigation, which can also lead up to a complete blockage and pipeline shut down.”

“The system can also work at extremely high speed, particularly after a ‘hot wings and beer night’ at the local pub, or if the system is contaminated by a previously untested curry.”

“When working on these pipes, care must be taken with open flames or spark-producing tools since the system can vapour-lock, and flammable gases are known to accumulate on a regular basis. Venting is as important here as in any plumbing system, so remember that as you solder or weld anything.”

“So that’s it folks! Any questions before we start on this patient? No? Good.”

“Someone get my work gloves and I can get started with the pipe cutters. We need a work light in here! Who’s got the snake?”

“We have to hurry people – the electricians next door need help with their brain surgery.”

Art is beautiful.

There is a schism in our cultural consciousness: the humanities and sciences have been separated, and you have to choose a side and then be intimidated by the other. I want to present science in a way that its visual beauty is apparent, I want to present art to science so the connection can be understood. Neither is above the other- art and science exist on the same plane, they are closer and more intertwined than many realize. They cannot exist independently of each other, no matter how hard they try to make it seem that they do.

My current project consists of two parts: first, images of the biological specimens used to as aids in the beginning biology lab and second, images of the animal skeletons and skulls used for anatomical instruction.

I am presenting biological specimens as both a still-life and as a portrait. These creatures occupy a strange limbo; they were once living animals, but, now dead, they teach the living about the living. Preserved in formaldehyde, sealed into jars and cabinets, they live in suspended animation as generations of students peer inside and gather knowledge about the world.

In the images I shoot of the specimens in jars, I am trying to convey their quiet dignity and elegance. I shoot in black and white instead of color in order to focus on the objects, the composition, the story inside of the image. In my opinion, color detracts more than it adds in this instance. What is intended for purely scientific and educational purposes also has its own aesthetic- and that is what I want viewers to take away with them.

The skulls and skeletons are shot in color. The ‘color’ images become almost monochromatic, consisting of the black of the cabinets and the yellowy-white of bone. These images also play into the still-life/portrait theme; although, with these, it is easier to see the portrait side. When a viewer looks at the bones of well-known animals it isn’t difficult to project an animal from the viewers’ experience onto that skeleton. Some of the images seem to have a personality of their own; I like to think maybe such things become so deeply ingrained that even our inanimate skeletons still contain a little bit of our essence.

My goal is to combine art and science into something that shows that even that which is unfamiliar can still be related to by almost anymore.

Number Six

Stars in a Jar

The Exhibitionist

Crocodile

Cat

Rabbit

Dog

Griff, as he was known in high school, was a friend of mine.

In fact, late in the first half of our lives, he stood up for me physically and philosophically, for being a science geek. Truth is, John’s endorsement was the first time I was ever deemed cool for wanting to be a scientist.

It is also 10 years ago, that Griff died an engineer and a hero in the collapse of one of the World Trade Center towers.

We lost touch almost twenty years before, but his kindness and generosity formed not only a cornerstone of the scientific life I have today, but resonates in the person and father I have become as well.

At a northern New Jersey Catholic high school, in a predominantly Irish town, being a gangly Polish boy from two towns over was not the formula to cultivate one’s popularity or self-preservation. Excelling and throwing the curve in biology and chemistry classes didn’t help either, nor did being a David Bowie fan in a place where Bruce Springsteen was revered. That’s probably where my nickname, “Zowie,” came from – the name of the glam rocker’s first child.

Worse, I had skipped a grade in elementary school, and being a year behind physically, was not compatible with self-defense during high school gym class.

So, it was sometime in junior year, when scoundrels had me cornered and slammed against the wall, books thrown down the hallway, that a simple gesture saved me. John, already well on his way to his adult height of 6′ 7″ or 6′ 8″, stepped in and said, “Hey, lay off of Zowie. He’s goin’ places.” And with that, the beatings stopped.

John and I were soccer fans. At that time, soccer hadn’t taken off in the States but I was a huge player and had met John at Giants Stadium where I had season tickets (Section 113, row 7, seat 26) for the relocated New York Cosmos. At just $4 a ticket, I could afford a season’s pass to see some of the greatest international soccer stars of the late 20th century: Germany’s Franz Beckenbauer, Italy’s Giorgio Chinaglia, Yugoslavia’s Vladislav Bogićević;, and, of course, Brazil’s Pelé.

John’s family were long-time Giants season ticket holders and probably got their Cosmos season tickets (three rows behind me) through some sort of promotional giveaway. I recall that John was surprised that a science dork like myself would be cool enough to come to soccer games alone – my father dropping me off outside the gates so he could go home and watch his beloved football on TV. But we Jersey boys did love soccer, even though we were at a school where American football and basketball reigned supreme. Many Saturday and Sunday afternoons were spent at the massive stadium during soccer’s American heyday of the late 1970s, when crowds would reach 50,000 – 75,000 strong.

John had a gift to make anything fun and to make anyone laugh. I recall sitting with him in a ski lodge in Amsterdam, NY, as I was recovering from frostbite during an ill-prepared class trip ski weekend. He pulled me into an imaginary board game with a napkin dispenser, where he pretended each napkin contained a message as to how to proceed during each turn.

John was a physical caricature, handsome but goofy, self-effacing but self-confident, and possessed of a clever and caustic wit, which he carried into professional life and fatherhood. No one was safe from John’s good-hearted and bombastic comedy routines.

Now, my memories of John seem half a life away, from the impromptu high school graduation party he called at my house to his pride at finishing his engineering degree and managing facilities for a million-square foot building in Manhattan. Perhaps he protected me as a kid because he knew that way deep down, he, himself, was destined to become an engineering geek. As well as the hero, protecting the lives of others in a very real way.

On the glorious fall morning of 11 Sept 2001, I was fixing coffee for my wife when the newsreader on my pager announced that a jet had struck the south tower of the World Trade Center.

I had missed my recent 20-year high school reunion and had not known that John had only months before been appointed director of operations at the WTC.

I did not learn until two weeks later that John had facilitated the escape of dozens of workers, handing out wet towels so people could breathe on their way down the stairs. In the book 102 Minutes by New York Times writers Jim Lynch and Kevin Flynn, John is immortalized in the corroborated account of the elevator rescue of 72-year-old Port Authority construction inspector, Tony Savas.

When he returned to 78, Greg Trapp saw a group of three Port Authority employees at work on the doors to the elevator where Tony Savas, a seventy-two-year-old structural inspector, was trapped. Trapp peered into the small gap and saw him, a man with thinning white hair, seemingly serene. One of the workers grabbed a metal easel, wedging the legs into the opening, trying to spread the doors from the bottom, where they seemed to have the greatest leverage. But their efforts had the opposite effect at the top of the doors, which seemed to pinch tighter.

At that moment, John Griffin, who had recently started as the trade center’s director of operations, came over to the elevator bank. At six feet, eight inches tall, Griffin had no problem reaching the top of the door to apply pressure as the others pushed from the bottom. The doors popped apart. Out came Savas, who seemed surprised to find Griffin, his new boss, involved in the rescue. Savas seemed exhilarated, possessed of a sudden burst of energy, rubbing his hands together, or so it seemed to Trapp.

“Okay,” Savas said. “What do you need me to do?”

One of the Port Authority workers shook his head. “We just got you out-you need to leave the building.”

No, Savas insisted. He wanted to help. “I’ve got a second wind.”

Both men perished soon after in the tower’s collapse.

John’s wife, June, the former June Maarleveld and sweetheart of the class behind us, was quoted in New York Times, Portraits of Grief:

“He was at the back of about 30 people they were evacuating,” his wife, June Griffin, related from the accounts of survivors. “He had been in fires before — he should have gotten out.”

Mrs. Griffin speculated that her husband, instead of running for the exits, headed for the fire control center, where his training as a fire safety officer would have directed him. “He was an engineer,” Mrs. Griffin said. “He must have thought, `Buildings don’t just fall down.’”

It’s unfortunate but leaving New Jersey and running on the tenure-track treadmill in a biomedical career caused me to lose track of a great many friends, and in some ways, to stop appreciating life even. Since John’s death, we’ve all found a little more time in our schedules to make time for one another. As the father of a little girl conceived in the months after the terrorist attacks, I try to respect June’s privacy and send little gifts for the girls every so often. I cannot imagine how they and nearly 3000 other families deal with the most public of tragedies that came to roost among those at the start or in the prime of their adult lives.

I finally worked up the guts to go to Ground Zero five years ago for the first time since the attacks. Despite all the bickering about what the memorial should look like, there was already some small memorial area set up in the interim. John’s name sits at the top of one column of names on placards commemorating those who died there. And I so dearly wish that I had attended our high school reunion to thank John for his friendship during my formative years.

Instead, I keep a makeshift memorial to him, constructed at my old lab, that now sits outside my office and greets me every day. I also keep some other reminders: John’s picture, a photo of the Waldwick, NJ, memorial to John and all the firefighters who perished, a personal note from June with some of the best marital advice I’ve ever received, among others.

Some great minds have said that facing death often gives people the license to finally live their lives.

I am fortunate to have been touched by a soul who needed no such reminder.

I sit by him frozen. Like aimlessly taking courses at college. Then too, I feel as if I am going nowhere and desperately trying to maintain some hope for the future. Our future. Do we have one? Should I try, or simply give up? Like my education I’m trapped on a cold bus ride with no destination feeling like I don’t know who I am…

His laughing engulfs me. He jokes. He teases as I look down silently. He can be incredibly attractive when he likes. He laughingly taunts that “Arts students are lazier than science students.” I know I can be captured by his charm. And that I’m expected to relate to him. I’m supposed to be a science student after all, although I am so unlike him. I know he expects me to agree. I have been given this route to fitting into his world. Through my silence, we are suddenly aligned by this mutual superiority to others. I try to hold on to this moment. I hold my breath and try to grasp at its security.

Gradually I breath out. The fog starts to clear and I see something different. I see a kind of waste. He is like a tank. He has one goal in mind. To succeed. A PhD, important publications and talks, great discoveries and great fame. He runs down everything in his way to reach this ultimate end. He could take out half the life on the planet. He could destroy habitats, taint waters and further pollute the air. He will leave his tracks, but his creations could easily be… useless, dangerous, harmful.

Then I see myself more clearly. I have been calloused by past pains. I am now sturdier and stronger for it. There will be others for whom I will count. I am angry he has plough me down in his way, made my existence seem insignificant next to his own aims.

As I brood over my role in his aspirations, I become even angrier. Then I can no longer bear to stay silent. Finally I stand up next to him and shout, “I AM NOT A SCIENCE STUDENT.” I feel relieved and lighter. Then I gently add, “I am not like you.” I continue, more calm now, “What you do isn’t that important. And I don’t think Arts students are lazy.”

He gets up, walks past me and makes his way to the front of the bus, then walks off. I feel a different kind of pain now. One that is duller and more transparent. I focus myself on the crowd of people rushing onto the bus. I tell myself there are others who will need me.