Fuck the king
"So, er, for the non South Asians in the audience who perhaps didn’t understand why there was applause, the British built a really extensive railway system throughout India before they left, and it wasn’t so much for transportation for the Indian people, it was because it’s really hard to plunder on foot."
Hari Kondabolu’s joke about the British colonisation of India [x]
“Researchers who publish in high impact journals, such as Nature, Science and Cell, couldn’t give a shit what anyone else thinks, a recent survey has found.
In recent years, high-impact journals have taken a lot of criticism from some parts of the scientific community, accused of publishing non-replicable or obscure results, incomplete methods or science that is just plain wrong.
Indeed, there is a suggestion that Science will be published in cartoon format from now on. However, our survey has revealed that the authors of papers in Nature, Science and Cellsimply don’t care.
“Basically, the minute my first paper was published in Nature, I received offers of tenure from 5 different Universities” our source said. ”I have two funded PhD students, 3 funded post-docs and a $1m budget to set up my lab. The paper has been cited over 100 times. You think I give a *&^! what anyone else thinks? I’m made!”
Another respondent continued “We know there’s a minority out there who criticise the top journals, but 99.9% of scientists would love to be us. Papers in Nature, Science and Cell make a guy’s career and everyone else is just jealous. As for Handy Randy Schekman? Yeah, good luck with eLife, mate. A lot of people want to create a high-impact journal; very few manage it”.
Several of the survey respondents had filled their survey in using gold leaf pen, and one included a picture of themselves driving away in their Porsche.”
(Source: The Science Web)
The gaping flame-filled crater has been this way since 1971, when Soviet geologists tapped into a cavern of natural gas and decided to burn it off so it wouldn’t poison anyone. They thought it would take a few days. Four decades later, locals refer to this pit as the Door to Hell.
Tom Junod’s obituary for Philip Seymour Hoffman is wonderful. Damn, you were great.
I had two contradictory but complementary responses to the news that Philip Seymour Hoffman had died of a drug overdose at the suddenly tender age of 46 — two responses, that is, beyond how terrible and damn, he was great.
The first was that there was no way Hoffman had died with a syringe still in his arm — no way that an actor who brought such finicky dignity to his portrayal of the most desperate characters had permitted himself to die so ruthlessly unmasked.
The second was that of course he had died in such a sordid manner — how else was Philip Seymour Hoffman supposed to die?
I love Tom Junod’s writing nearly as much as I loved Philip Seymour Hoffman’s acting.