Stem cells to the rescue

Posted on October 29, 2011 by Steve Caplan

A short time ago, I found myself in a conversation with someone who began to ask about my work in the lab. Unlike many scientists that I know, who feel uncomfortable and even unable to explain what they do on a daily basis in layman’s terms, I feel that it is part of my mission to make an effort to really help people understand what I do. After all, my research is funded by taxpayers’ money. Moreover, I am a firm believer that the “average citizen” can become a real advocate of basic science, once I have been given an opportunity to rant on about the values of my work.

In this particular case, though, my delivery was thwarted rather untimely by the big “stem cell question.”

“Do you use stem cells?” That question often throws me off-track, because when it is asked I know that my audience is no longer paying attention to my explanations about the importance of basic research–the religious leanings pushing towards an answer at all costs, and the interest in what I do gone. Despite the fact that I do not work on embryonic stem cells or other stem cells. Although I certainly would, if a question were to arise in my field that could be answered by working with these cells or collaborating with researchers who do.

All this reminded me of another reason that I like stem cells, apart from their usefulness in research and potentially in therapeutics. They once saved me from politics!

Has he gone off his rocker, you ask? Possibly–but that’s unrelated to this post. Well what does Steve and politics have to do with stem cell research? I’ll tell you.

A few years back (and pre-tenure, too), somebody–most likely in an act of vengeance–nominated me for the University Senate. Ha ha, but no joke. Less than a year ago, while I was still a naive OT irregular (as opposed to the regular irregular that I am), I wrote a little blog entitled “Informal Science,” depicting my dislike for anything formal–especially when it has to do with attire. I could just see myself, having to put one of those noose-like ties around my neck to sit around a stuffy bored-room (pun intended) for hours at a time listening to people drone on and on, and wishing I were back in my lab or office. No, this would not do!

But how to escape? How to lose the vote and not be chosen for this dreadful task, without appearing irreverent as a relatively new faculty member?

Stem cells to the rescue!

One afternoon, while searching for an exit strategy in my office, an e-mail came through from someone I did not know. It was a university faculty member and MD based at the main Lincoln campus of the University of Nebraska, about 50 miles away from the medical center where I am based in Omaha. The e-mail basically said:

Dear Dr. Caplan,

I understand that you are running for a position on the university senate. As such, it would be important for me and my colleagues to have an understanding of your position regarding stem cell research. Etc. etc.

On my very best behavior, I replied:

Dear Dr. X,

I appreciate your interest in my position on stem cell research, although I must inform you that the university senate makes no decisions about about the use of stem cell research nor discusses such issues. However, since you’ve asked, I am happy to inform you that I am a firm believer in the utilization of embryonic stem cells for research and therapy. My own research does not employ stem cells, but I would be keen to move into that area should the opportunity arise. By the way, is this the reason you are contacting me? If so, I would be more than happy to meet with you to discuss potential collaborations on stem cell studies…

I didn’t get a reply, but I didn’t get chosen for the university senate either.

Three cheers for stem cells!

 

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Peer review and the “ole boys network”

Posted on October 23, 2011 by Steve Caplan

A lot has been said about peer review, recently by Frank here, here and here, by Richard here, here and here, by Sylvia and by others. So what more can I add?

Like democracy, it’s not ideal, but compared the the alternatives–well it’s the best we can do. So I’m not out to undermine peer review. I’m out to undermine journals that masquerade as being peer reviewed.

A lot has been said about some of the new journals that keep cropping up, in particular the lack of scrupulous principles with regards to publishing. But I would like to point out a “loophole” of sorts, in a widely recognized journal.

The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, USA, has been widely considered a prestigious journal in which to publish papers. Some of this aura, methinks, comes from the old days when publishing was not as difficult, and peer review was not as rigorous. National Academy of Science members were allowed to directly “contribute” manuscripts that were automatically accepted and published.

Sound anachronistic? It is. Sound like an evolutionary throwback to the Soviet 70s? It does. But hey–guess what? This system is still in place today. If you didn’t know that, you do now. And guess what again? It’s actually gotten WORSE. Indeed.

Now not only are “Contributors” (National Academy of Science members) allowed to submit 4 papers a year to be automatically accepted and published, but there is another even more disturbing track. I’ll come to that in a minute. But first, the direct contributions, as they are called.

From the PNAS submissions instructions:

An Academy member may submit up to four of his or her own manuscripts for publication per year. To contribute an article, the member must affirm that he or she had a direct role in the design and execution of all or a significant fraction of the work and the subject matter must be within the member’s own area of expertise. Contributed articles must report the results of original research. [SKIPPING A FEW LINES HERE ABOUT FINANCIAL DISCLOSURES, AND THEN…] When submitting using the contributed process, members must secure the comments of at least two qualified reviewers. Reviewers should be asked to evaluate revised manuscripts to ensure that their concerns have been adequately addressed. Members’ submissions must be accompanied by the names and contact information, including e-mails, of knowledgeable experts who reviewed the paper, along with all of the reviews received and the authors’ response for each round of review, and a brief statement endorsing publication in PNAS.

Did everyone catch that? The authors are responsible for obtaining their own reviews. They decide who the reviewers should be, contact them directly and obtain the critiques. Are you, as a PI, going to reject a National Academy of Science member’s manuscript from PNAS if you are asked to review it? It’s a great way to make friends! So is this really peer review? When your peer is aware that you, as a National Academy of Science (NAS) member, will be quite cross with her/him if you dare to make serious critiques (not to mention reject the manuscript)?

Okay–I know that it’s certainly not trivial to become a NAS member. Most of these researchers have certainly been chosen due to their long careers of excellent science. Many of them choose NOT to publish in PNAS because they know it is not viewed highly in some circles. But in can be used as a “dumping ground” for papers that have been unable to get into real peer reviewed journals.

Consider this, though. There is another track–a relatively new track–that PNAS allows, that in my view is even worse than the NAS contributor mode: It’s called “Direct Submission.” What does this mean? It means that the authors have secured in advance a”pre-arranged editor”? Oh–that smacks of a Soviet era style “ole boys network.” Find an editor in advance–a friend, colleague, mentor, brother, sister–someone who will agree in advance to get the paper published. Have a look at this, again from the PNAS submission site:

Prior to submission to PNAS, an author may ask an NAS member to oversee the review process of a Direct Submission. Prearranged editors should only be used when an article falls into an area without broad representation in the Academy, or for research that may be considered counter to a prevailing view or too far ahead of its time to receive a fair hearing, and in which the member is expert. If the NAS member agrees, the author should coordinate submission to ensure that the member is available, and should alert the member that he or she will be contacted by the PNAS Office within 48 hours of submission to confirm his or her willingness to serve as a prearranged editor and to comment on the importance of the work.

Now this actually manages to get around not one, but two levels of review. After all, for the ordinary-person’s peer review track, the editorial board/editor generally rejects 75% of the incoming papers without their even reaching peer review. The “pre-arranged editor” trick circumnavigates the need to go through this initial triage selection process, and shunts the paper directly into press.

Pretty amazing, eh? All you have to say is that there isn’t enough general expertise on the board, or that the paper is–how do they put it? Here it is: Counter to a prevailing view or too far ahead of its time to receive a fair hearing. So if your paper is contrary to current views or “ahead of its time” (what the hell is that supposed to mean–and who decides this anyway?)–get a free pass. But the catch? You need to have a buddy on the editorial board. Otherwise, who will do this for you. You need to be part of the “ole boys network.”

Doesn’t everyone have a disclaimer these days? After all, you don’t want to be sued. There is a statement in the submission site that says the following:

“Papers with a prearranged editor are published with a footnote to that effect.”

Well, why not be more explicit?  These papers are not peer reviewed and should be treated as such.

As for this journal: it’s time to move into the 21st century.

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Dangling conversations

Posted on October 20, 2011 by Steve Caplan

“So, is this your first time in Omaha?”

I recently blogged about feeling isolated as a scientist in my field here in the windy plains of Nebraska. One way to try and mitigate this feeling is to invite guest speakers in my field to come out to Omaha for a seminar. Fortunately, I have the opportunity to invite a couple of speakers every year, and this has been an excellent way to keep in touch with people and meet others.

For those of you who are less familiar with this kind of “schmoozing,” with these scientific-style social interactions, I thought I’d just ramble on a little about it. The art of entertaining can be–well–rather entertaining.

Once a researcher has agreed to come out to Omaha for a seminar and visit, our administrative staff usually takes excellent care of all the arrangements. Flights, the hotel, the itinerary for the visit (in coordination with the person who made the invitation), etc. Usually, this goes off without too much trouble. This year we had our first two seminars cancelled (one of them was someone I invited) due to a broken leg and due to the big hurricane that smashed the east coast back in Sept. Not a great start.

A few years back, after having a well-known scientist-speaker accept my invitation for a seminar, I received a very apologetic phone call from the would-be speaker who needed to reschedule. Health? Fortunately no? Family? Not the issue. What was the problem? The speaker had been selected to sing in an opera–precisely that evening. And I thought I was eccentric for writing fiction…

Since our department wants to save money Omaha is relatively small, with our midwestern hospitality, we faculty go to pick up our invited speakers at Eppley Airfield–our national airport. Inevitably, when the invited speakers see this on their itinerary, they e-mail me frantically asking “How will I find you at the airport?”

I am often tempted to answer “I’ll have a string of pearls around my neck,” or “I’m the one with the purple hair,” but I take pity on our guests and explain that Eppley Airfield is small. Meaning–there aren’t that many people around. I often joke that when flights arrive in the evening, the last person out of the airport needs to turn off the lights.

Our speakers usually arrive on Sunday evenings for dinner with 2-3 faculty members. Sometimes these occasions are very talkative and easygoing–particularly in cases where the speaker and inviter have already met. Other times, however, the evening can be very reserved, quiet–almost melancholic. Those are the times when there is certainly an art to avoiding “dangling conversations,” and experienced people can rise to the occasion with smooth-flowing questions. The old “So is this your first time in Omaha?” question is a classic. After all, who’s been here before? Unless you were driving through on the way to or from the Rockies.

Choosing the right restaurant can also be an art. Omaha is known for its beef and steaks. On the other hand, despite its distance from any major body of water in all four directions, there are remarkably good fish and seafood restaurants that have cropped up out of nowhere in recent years–along with a huge influx of Thai, Mexican and Japanese restaurants. Omaha actually has one of the largest numbers of restaurants per capita of cities in the US.

But do you take someone from Maryland to eat seafood in Omaha? Or someone from San Francisco for Sushi? How will they react? Disdainfully?–“What, Sushi in Omaha-hah!” Warily?–“Er, uh, are you sure it’s fresh?” Sarcastically?–“You mean people in Omaha know what Sushi is?”

That’s actually a fair point. When we came here about 8 years ago, probably relatively few people did know what Sushi was. Now there is a Sushi bar in every self respecting supermarket. The times they are a ‘changin’…

Another issue to take into consideration is the locale of the restaurant. The toughest question is whether to stay downtown in the small but atmosphere-charged “Old Market area,” or to head west. There are some good restaurants in this area, but there are many better ones, and of course a lot more selection spread out through the rest of the city. The problem is, that with the exception of the Dundee historic area (where Warren Buffett lives in a modest home), there are no real areas with atmosphere. Great restaurants–but scattered in strip malls.

The answer? I guess it all depends on the speaker and her/his taste. A friend of mine told me of the time he planned to take his invited speaker to the very best known steakhouse in the city. It turned out that the speaker was a strict vegetarian, and the only food he could eat was at the salad bar.

Finally, with the meal, there always arises the issue of alcohol– which is allowed, but needs to be covered by a separate bill– leading to the old “academic bill procedure.” This is the quiet chat with the waiter/waitress to make sure they understand that the food and drinks need to be on separate bills, and everything must be itemized. This reminds me of what I once read in a book about the Israeli Mossad–that its operatives were required to bring itemized receipts of absolutely everything–taxis, subway tickets, etc. The joke went that this made it easy to identify operatives–they were the only ones who ever asked for receipts in taxis, and itemized receipts at restaurants.

I wonder if academics ever get mistaken for spies?

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Annibookery

Posted on October 15, 2011 by Steve Caplan

This date one year ago marks the launch of my first novel “Matter Over Mind.” As I’ve been ‘scooped’ twice on this topic by Dr. Gee’s EXCERPT and then followed by his Uploads, Downloads, I will make this pathetic attempt to dispense additional propaganda very brief.

A first novel can often be–well, a first novel–with all the inherent growing pains and learning curve. Despite this, as a self-published first-fling it’s done okay. Not New York Times best-seller okay, but self-published okay. Heading towards 500 copies (well, I could say that even if I sold 2 copies!) in combined paper + e-book sales, with more than 3000 hits on my website (only 2500 by me) and 667 downloads of a sample chapter on Amazon, I guess I should be satisfied.

I don’t really know what I hoped for, but I guess I met it.

So for those of you with an interest in Lablit/science-in-fiction with real-life scientist characters, here’s your chance. I am pasting in a sample chapter, with some nice quirky realistic scientific characters, embedded with all the true cynical wit inherent in academia. Feel free to order on Kindle in the US for the price of a cup of coffee , or the paperback with the great science-icon graphic designs–can be viewed by Amazon’s “Look Inside.”

In the UK, you can order from the UK Kindle store for 2 quid and 14 pence (including wireless delivery + V.A.T.). Sorry, don’t know where the pound sign is on the keyboard. The book is also available in India for a steal price of 700 Rupees as well as in France, Germany, Japan, and so on. I’m not sure if anyone from Japan has ever bought a copy (or ever will), but the book is available.

Oh- and don’t forget to stay tuned for lablit novel #2: Welcome Home, Sir to be published in the near future by Anaphora Literary Press.

Well enough said. Below is a sample for those of you still debating what to get for your favorite enemy as a gift.

MATTER OVER MIND

Chapter One

Never a dull moment—put three scientists in a room and get five different points of view. Ironically, I have always been certain that my friends are all convinced that biomedical research is a tedious, boring, and dull enterprise. If it is not entirely dull, then they at least expect that the people carrying it out are a quiet, reserved lot: polite and self-restrained, scientific Barney the Dinosaur characters, pipette- and flask-yielding Mr. Rogers types, or know-it-all geeks and “goody-goodies.”

People view us as a scientific form of chartered accountant: terribly boring and polite in their eyes, if not somewhat more honorable than the average chartered accountant. “Some of my best friends are biomedical researchers,” I could imagine people saying apologetically. But there’s not a chance of us sincere lackluster scientists taking part in the adventurous Enron style of “cooking the books.” Fraudulent experiments simply do not hold up when the next research group tries to build on falsified data. They see us as a grounded, uninteresting form of astronaut putting his best foot forward in a valiant attempt to better humanity. Perhaps we are, but our passive and easy-going image couldn’t be farther from the truth.

I took a sip of cold water from my coffee mug. I had brought the water from the cooler situated in the department hallway across from the men’s room. Neal, my veteran Ph.D. student, is always on at me about the water cooler. “Steve,” he says shaking his head with overdramatized awe, “how can you actually drink from that? I can see the cockroaches climbing in and out of the drain every time I go by in the hallway.” I don’t really know why I do drink from it; it is disgusting, and Neal is certainly telling the truth. It’s sheer laziness, I suppose.

The only other options are to climb up two flights of stairs to the eighth floor water cooler or to go all the way down to the cafeteria to buy a bottle of water. Neither are mind-bogglingly difficult choices, but they do take up time. And time is perhaps my most valuable asset. It is also my private nemesis. Time may not necessarily be on my side, and my dream of maintaining an independent research lab at the institute may be slipping through my fingers like sand.

Neal has just been in my comfortable little office to go over some of his recent results. The room is cozy, with a fair sized window overlooking the Toronto area. The office resembles, as Neal would say, “a fucking botanical garden.” In spite of his hot-headed reactionary behavior and sharp and occasionally vulgar tongue, he has quite a talent for accumulating good results, and we have already published an article together in a relatively prestigious scientific journal. But Neal is hungry, and his ambitions are unfulfilled thus far. Basically, this is a good thing, because it leaves him extremely motivated and increases the likelihood that we might become a leading lab in our little niche. But that is still of secondary importance to me right now. I have my hands full just maintaining this job.

Of course, I have my own personal stake in Neal’s continued scientific accomplishments under my direction. My tenure is now a crucial issue and I need desperately to tip the balance to the publish side of the old “publish or perish” option. Professor Lewis Smithers, my clever departmental colleague and personal rival, sidled up to me just yesterday morning in the hallway with one of his typically sadistic grins fluttering on his thin lips.

“Say, Miller, did you hear about Jenkinson?”

“No,” I replied with extreme caution. Smithers was dangerous. I felt almost as though I were being arrested, and I could vividly imagine the handcuffs coming out: everything you say can and will be used against you…

“He got the boot.” Smithers was now smiling and rubbing his hands together with an unmasked evil glee. “The reports say that he got good recommendations from all the external reviewers. He even published two articles last year in Journal of Biological Chemistry. But the committee here decided that he doesn’t have what it takes.”

This was news to me, very bad news indeed. In fact, it truly frightened the hell out of me, but I was determined not to let Smithers see any weakness in my reaction to his information. He himself had probably sat on poor Jenkinson’s internal committee and did the damage. He probably even chaired the committee, steering the members towards the sad outcome. For all I knew, he was on my own tenure committee, too. The best thing to do was to play calm, outwardly agree with Smithers, and not allow him to see me flustered.

Inwardly, I was queasily shaking with mounting fear, making my own desperate calculations to assess my own chances of passing the committee.

“Oh,” I answered, trying to be as flippant as possible, “I suppose the committee members know what they’re doing. He probably just isn’t good enough.” I felt like a traitor. Bruce Jenkinson and I had practically arrived at the institute on the same day. We had each been through the myriad of complications and havoc of putting a research lab on its feet and starting from scratch. I tried not to look at Smithers’ eyes.

Smithers nodded in agreement, rubbing his hands methodically as if to dry them, “Evidently not. Better to weed them out early before they take root. We don’t want this institution to decline altogether.”

Was Smithers treating me as a fellow colleague, an equal, someone who like himself, was naturally above such criticism? No, I decided, Smithers would never treat me like an equal. Not even if I received tenure. I would always be below his level. Who wouldn’t? After all, he was a top-notch and highly respected scientist. It was far more likely that he was trying to frighten me, to bait me, to see how much I was afraid of losing my own position. He was testing my self-confidence and digging for fear. Smithers has always had a nose for fear. I think he can smell it. And was I ever afraid!

It had taken me a total of fourteen years to receive the reins of this laboratory: three years of undergraduate science, two years to receive my master’s degree, another five years for my Ph.D., and finally four more years doing postdoctoral studies at the famous Wafton Institute in Boston. I imagined that poor Jenkinson had more or less “sacrificed” the same number of years to attain the goal of becoming an independent researcher.

Now he was probably packing up his belongings, downloading files from his personal computer, and making SOS phone calls across the continent as he desperately searched for an opportunity elsewhere. How would he tell his wife? How would he face his students? What an awkward situation! To openly admit that the university doesn’t have confidence in his abilities in front of them—how could he retain his self-esteem? Worse yet, what would his students do? He had two Ph.D. students who had started their work several years ago. They would undoubtedly need to begin anew.

There was little chance of Bruce’s finding another position in Toronto, not to mention anywhere else. What university would opt for an outcast, someone who had already been rejected? They were better off starting fresh with a younger, newer applicant. If our institute had “excommunicated” Bruce Jenkinson, other universities would suspect that there must be a reason. And there was, I thought grimly—people like Smithers. That wasn’t entirely fair, since Smithers may not actually have been on his committee, but he certainly was in agreement with the verdict. And how could he form such an attitude without being on the committee? He must have had access to poor Jenkinson’s files and information. He must have been on that committee. I resolved to call up Bruce afterwards and wish him well, although I knew he would be bitter. His family wouldn’t starve, I was sure, but after dreaming of this career, running your own independent laboratory, and carrying out your own research ideas and plans, anything else was a poor substitute. If he couldn’t find anything in the biotech industry, I supposed that he could always teach high school.

I shuddered at the thought and tried not to think of my own, as-of-yet undetermined fate. I could always find a little lab at some unknown university in South America, perhaps in Chile or Argentina, and make my own little kingdom even if the money for research was poor. Anything would be better than humiliating myself teaching high school. I might not stay at the forefront of research, but at least I would fight to stay in the minor leagues if necessary. But now I still had a shot at the major leagues, and I wasn’t prepared to let Smithers push me around. At least not yet.

Although my own position was extremely unstable, it was still not a lost cause. Neal’s success “at the bench,” his series of experimental findings, was proving fruitful for me. Every new piece of data that he uncovers, every slice of new information that he derives working with me, every discovery, and every successful experiment will ultimately lead to peer-reviewed scientific publications and the “Holy Grail”—grant money. These are the very things that I desperately need to enhance my job security. And my job will not be secure until the committee had assured me of tenure. Until then I am as dispensable as a plastic test tube—or a 7-Eleven drinking cup—just like poor Jenkinson.

Neal is well aware of my situation, and he has been a bulldozer in clearing the way towards the “mission impossible” called tenure. Although Neal’s loyalty to me is beyond question, he certainly has his own stakes in not seeing me pack my suitcases and leave the department. He would not relish the prospect of finding another supervisor in the middle of his Ph.D. research; starting all over from scratch would be daunting. Additionally, finding another advisor who would put up with his rather blunt behavior might be another serious issue.

Neal also knows that his loyalty is a long-term investment. One day, in a number of years, he might be standing in my very position. Even as a student he has the foresight to understand that in future years, researchers such as myself—assuming that I do not get tossed out of the system—might help determine his own fate. But now I was way ahead of myself, daydreaming again. I must not take anything for granted.

Not all my colleagues, however, share my grave doubts about my chances of becoming a tenured faculty member. Professor Davis, that old gambler, has even been trying to get me to wager with him. But I cannot bring myself to bet against my own tenure; it’s a conflict of interest. Aside from that, I am not willing to give up my new fluorescent microscope to Arthur. He just doesn’t deserve it. He hasn’t brought in a dime of grant money to the department for years. In fact, for some time, I have felt that Arthur Davis is acutely jealous of my newly developing lab.

My mainstream interests are becoming ever more popular in the scientific community, and this is of prime importance in obtaining grant money for research. My specialties lie particularly in the biological and molecular mechanisms involved in mental disorders, especially depression. It seems that all the students attracted to work for me thus far, including the postdoc/technician called Singh, have their own vested interests in understanding the mechanisms of depressive disorders.

Neal once confided in me that his mother had been severely depressed throughout his childhood. Neal himself also has a mild form of dyslexia, and he frequently comes to work wearing his favorite “I Dyslexia Love” T-shirt. Singh’s brother is a schizophrenic. Tania, my new Ph.D. student, professed to me that her uncle had psychotic depressive tendencies. My new master’s student, Ken, has not yet mentioned any family connection with depression, but I am willing to bet that with time one will be uncovered. Ken has only been with us a few months and he’s not very talkative; he probably feels that he’s got to get over the student stage and complete his academic courses successfully before he feels more at home in the lab and with Neal, Tania, Singh, and me. However, looking at the pattern, including my own reasons for choosing such a line of research, I doubt that Ken is here by any coincidence.

I think back a few minutes to my meeting with Neal. He always starts these conversations with his obligatory and somewhat obsessive complaints. “Jesus, Steve, is this a second class research joint or what? Don’t tell me it’s like this in the States, too.”

“What’s the problem this time, Neal?”

“I got here this morning a little late, after Opera-Singh had already started, but he was practically working in the dark,” Neal ranted.

“Opera-Singh” was the name that we had unanimously coined for Singh; he was crazy about operas and Neal often complained that he would awaken at night in a cold sweat, suffering from palpitations and the noise of heavy nasal voices humming Carmen. That was before I decided to split my forces and keep the two of them in the adjacent but separate labs. I am still debating whether to move Ken in with Opera-Singh or with Neal and Tania. Not that Tania is a problem to get along with.

“So?” I queried. “You know that he often works in the dark. Let him. Why should you care, you’ve got your own lab to work in?” This was true; my little kingdom here at the University Center for Disease Research was composed of two separate but joined laboratories and my little office just down the hallway.

“But the reason,” Neal blurted out, “it’s so bloody stupid that it hurts—it’s not even Opera-Singh’s fault this time.” Coming from Neal, this was a major concession.

“Well,” I replied, “are you going to keep me in suspense for much longer? I’d really like to get some work done today. You know that we both could be out on the streets looking for work in the next few weeks.”

Neal sat before me, smirking slightly. We had a tacit understanding about my tenure situation, with each of us referring to it only indirectly.

“Is he on at you again?” he said, hooking his thumb in the direction of Smithers’ office.

“Never mind,” I countered, trying to be offhanded. “Just get to the point.”

Neal’s veins were almost popping out of his forehead. His closely cropped hair showed signs of receding like a glacier during global warming. This only enhanced the danger signals evident in his pulsating blood vessels. To some extent, he reminded me of myself, ten years earlier. I, too, had once been even more obsessive and a rather excitable character; I was highly motivated and extremely volatile. But since receiving my position as an independent investigator, something in me had relaxed. Perhaps it was an anticlimax, after so many years of dreaming and striving to prove myself worthy. Maybe it was simply resignation.

This Canadian institution would never be on par with the top American institutes where I did my postdoctoral work, no matter what the University President proclaimed in his weekly propaganda releases to the local press: “Cancer cured again and again by institute investigators.” Well why were people still dying of cancer? In any case, Neal did not yet know that our institute would never be top tier, or at least he didn’t believe it. And I did not want to damage his motivation at this stage. Let him see for himself in a few years’ time.

Neal breathed deeply, “Get this. Three out of the nine neon lights in Opera-Singh’s lab have burned out. He claims that he called maintenance to come and replace them, but they—”

I cut him off. “But they say ‘after the Christmas holidays.’” It was only mid-November, of course.

“No!” Neal ejaculated, all revved up now like a turbo engine, “They say that due to budget constraints each lab will only have two-thirds of their fluorescent lights working. Only if another light burns out in Opera-Singh’s lab will they come and replace it. And only that particular one!”

Neal was now livid with anger, trembling like a leaf in a in a sudden gust of wind. Even I was surprised at the level that this university could sink to. A bottomless pit, apparently. Next thing you know, they’ll be charging me for the electricity and water that I use in the lab, too.

I picked up my phone and dialed Hugo’s number. Hugo was the department “do-all.” What he really did, though, was absolutely nothing. Usually we preferred when he was doing nothing, because when he was actually doing something, it was inevitably related to the recruitment of students, lecturers, or generally unlucky passers-by to his reborn-Christian meetings. Neal practically shrank from Hugo, presenting with symptoms resembling a panic attack.

Somewhat surprisingly, having Hugo around was actually good for the atmosphere in my lab; he allowed a union of forces, albeit temporarily, between Neal and Opera-Singh, both of whose opinions of Hugo wavered between disdain and utter disgust.

“Hugo,” I said into the phone, “would you please stop by for a minute.”

“Hallelujah, Steve, God willing I’ll be right there.” I could already see Neal cringe at hearing the twang of Hugo’s nasal voice.

Neal scratched his left ear and stared at me with a look of pure skepticism. “You don’t really think Hugo is going to be of any help, do you?”

“Of course not,” I said cynically, imitating Neal’s tone of irritation, “but let’s not get him angry at us for going over his head.”

“If we did to him what King Henry the Eighth did to two of his wives, we wouldn’t have to go over it anymore,” he muttered sullenly.

Hugo arrived and sat down in my office in the empty chair beside Neal. He was a thin man of medium height with narrow shoulders and small brown eyes. He wore a rather sparse moustache proclaiming his masculinity via testosterone-induced facial hair. He came to work every day with his battered attaché case, wearing scuffed and peeling dress shoes, wrinkled dress pants, and a button-down shirt that never properly concealed his white tank top. He also made a habit of really overdoing the aftershave.

Neal would often complain, “He’s barely got whiskers, why does he have to shave every day? He smells like a fucking perfume department. When he gets near the lab, before I even realize it’s him, I foam at the mouth afraid that the organic chemists downstairs are terrorizing us again with their bloody concoctions.” Opera-Singh, whose sense of smell had never been very good, had different ideas. “If de department vuh able to dispense of Mr. Gunther, shuhly ve could find bettah vays to utilize the money saved.” No doubt Opera-Singh had plans of his own to set up a speaker system so that he could listen to his operas from any of the labs in the department.

“How’s everything, Hugo?” I ventured politely as Hugo sidled into my office.

“Praise be the lord, wonderful. No problem at all,” Hugo answered automatically. I could see Neal pivot in his seat and glance at his watch. I noticed that his nostrils were quivering slightly, perhaps in a vain attempt to avoid breathing in Hugo’s all-embracing aftershave.

“Listen, Hugo. The good lord once said ‘Let there be light,’ isn’t that so?”

“Hallelujah, Hallelujah. Thus sayeth the Lord, and light there was,” replied Hugo.

“Well listen, then, Hugo. The maintenance department here at the university has a bone to pick with God. Three out of the nine fluorescent bulbs in Opera-Singh’s lab are out, and the chaps at maintenance refuse to obey the good lord and provide us with light. We could really use the light, you know—it’s surprisingly helpful with the research.”

“Sorry, Steve, those are orders from the top. The university has decided that this way they can cut down on one-third of the electricity resulting from lighting the buildings.”

Neal was about to say something, perhaps a sarcastic comment about the possibility of ordering night vision goggles, but I cut him off abruptly preempting him with a wave of my hand. “Listen, Hugo, we need the light. What happens if I order three more desktop fluorescent lights for each lab. Will that mean that the university will have to give us three more working neons?”

Hugo thought for a moment. Neal later would claim that he could hear the wheels clicking in his head, the isolated IQ beads knocking into each other as the process of thought perforated through his brain. Indeed, Neal would often groan that Hugo’s problems could be resolved rather easily by a simple IQ transplant. “Yes sirree, praise the lord, that’s true. But you’ll have to pay for the new light fixtures through your own research budget.”

“Fine,” I agreed, “just do it quickly please, before we need to bring light bulbs from home in order to work, or even candles.” I recalled a story Neal had told me some time ago. While working at the department where he had obtained his master’s degree, there had been a month when Neal received his monthly scholarship receipt with seventy-five dollars deducted for electricity. Neal claimed that he had gone directly to his lab supervisor, who was also his employer, and said, “Professor Winters, I know that I may have forgotten to turn off the lights one evening when closing up the lab, but isn’t that a little too steep?” It had eventually turned out that a guest professor whose name was also Neal Parsons had been staying at a university guest residence, and that somehow there had been a real mix-up. Neal lamented, “These mix-ups are never in my favor somehow.” It’s hard to disagree with that.

Once Hugo was gone, Neal furtively asked me whether he should raid Jenkinson’s lab and grab all the fluorescents and light bulbs before they disappeared anyway. I could see that he was well informed and had already heard of Jenkinson’s sad fate. But I wouldn’t allow him to land on poor Bruce’s lab like an eagle in for the kill. It was too vulgar. I eventually shunted Neal back off to work, with a few new ideas to play with, some articles to dig up in order to see whether they contained methods applicable to our research, and lots of new experiments to plan. Neal was the type that always had to be busy, he always had to have ten things cooking at the same time. Of course he complained about the masses of work and pressure that I constantly put him through, but he enjoyed the work. “Happy like a pig in shit,” he himself would say. And I usually managed to supply him with his necessary “shit.”

I sat down and tried to get myself organized. The key for me was to set up weekly lists and schedules of important things to do and keep crossing them off in real time as I managed to accomplish them. Unfortunately, crises with university bureaucracy, Neal, and Opera-Singh were not included in my lists of accomplishments. These were daily issues that had to be defused as they came along. No wonder so few of us actually received tenure and were kept on at the university. Between the bureaucracy and squabbling within the lab, I felt better prepared to be a kindergarten teacher. Maybe Jenkinson couldn’t handle that part of the work. I knew him from way back and was sure that he was qualified to do first class research. Perhaps he didn’t have the management skills. But as these thoughts flooded my brain, I remembered Smithers’ sadistic grin and decided that this was unlikely. Oh shit! I had to stop this. I wouldn’t be able to get anything done if I kept thinking of the future. I had to go step by step.

I looked at my list for this week. My main occupation should be gathering ideas for a new proposed grant application. This application was focused on studying a horrifying, debilitating mental illness known as “manic-depressive disorder.” It has more recently become known as “bipolar disorder,” due to its habit of swinging the patient’s mental status back and forth from severe depression to manic highs. Although I had built up my reputation and the lab on the more common depressive and anxiety disorders, I think that ultimately I had always intended to diverge into studies of this illness.

Unlike the other depressive disorders, of which many could be induced chemically in animals, this particular illness is especially difficult to study since no animal model is available. For this reason, this type of research requires a very close collaboration between basic researchers, such as myself, and qualified psychiatrists.

Fortunately, a new psychiatrist here at the adjacent hospital, Dr. Julia Kearns, is very interested in a collaborative effort. I have promised Julia that I will have an outline ready for her to read and critique by the end of the week. However, each time I finally manage to sit down and disentangle myself from Neal, Opera-Singh, and the others, I just can’t seem to concentrate on the proposal. I sit here facing my computer and feel its hypnotic effect sweeping me back years and years to my childhood in that cold, snowy prairie city of Regina.

 

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Losing it–a non-chemical dependency

Posted on October 13, 2011 by Steve Caplan

“My name is Steve Caplan and I have a problem…”

Isn’t that what they say at alcoholics anonymous? Well, that’s what I’m told they say–you’ll have to take my word for it.

Almost 3 weeks ago my office computer gurgled, made a weird grating noise and died. Or at least went into a coma. Since that day, my work-life has been a series of frustrations and I’ve been forced to close my office door to prevent some rather volatile cursing from escaping the confines of the office.

My computer is an Apple–and while, believe me, they are far less likely to crash and die than the rival computer types, they are far from immortal. Luckily I backed up nearly everything–emphasis on “nearly.” My Endnote library with approximately 5000 papers in it–gone with the wind. Cost for recovery by an external company–nearly $2500. “Forget it,” I said. “I’ll make a new library.” Papers worth their weight in gold…

I’m told that the information technology staff (very dedicated and skilled people, I might add)–who are entirely overwhelmed by their workload–was designed to mimic companies with a ratio of 1:250 people. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s probably close. The problem is that in a company, I would assume that there would generally be one computer per employee, and being a company, I would further assume that most of the computers and applications would be the same.

Not true for academia. First, for a lab of about 10 people, we have over 20 computers. I myself have a PC and 2 Mac laptops at home–actually a 3rd old Mac laptop (8 years old and still running, but not fast enough anymore). We have a computer per person in the labs, + computers hooked up to various pieces of equipment that include scanners, a Nanodrop spectrophotometer used mostly to measure protein and DNA concentrations, and a confocal microscope. Obviously, between Mac and PC, individual use and equipment use, we have a wealth of different applications. All necessitating an Information technology (IT) expert who can be available to troubleshoot when trouble (frequently) arises.

When my computer drive gave up its unix-like soul, I realized again how dependent I had become on these machines and the technology behind them. I reverted to a “nothing” lacking all power and feeling altogether paralyzed. Completely handicapped.

In the US, the issue of computers at academic institutions is a funny thing. Grant money given to the researchers (from NIH and most funding agencies) cannot be used to buy computers, computer equipment, IT services, etc. The reason? Each institution negotiates an “Indirect Cost” with the NIH–usually a very high percentage (45-70%) of the researchers’ grants–that goes to the institutions supposedly to support facilities and such. Including electricity, telephones, office supplies, and computers. But I am digressing into politics, and don’t want to. Not now.

All I do want to say is that I felt as though I was “losing it” these past few weeks, with grant deadlines, paper revisions with references that couldn’t be formatted, and all the frustrations of waiting in limbo for a solution. And I am not an especially patient person–at least for this kind of thing.

While I had nearly everything backed up, it turned out to be getting the new programs installed, talking to each other and running properly that was the biggest hurdle. But if I hadn’t had my things backed up, I would really have been up the creek without a paddle. Probably with several holes in the boat and no life jackets either.

So please remember to back up your data! As an IT guru said to me: “There are two types of computer users: those that have lost data, and those that will lose data.” Don’t let it happen to you!

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Science in isolation

Posted on October 8, 2011 by Steve Caplan

A recent invitation and very pleasant visit at the University of Oklahoma Health Sciences Center (UOHSC) served as a stark reminder of the degree of isolation that I have been facing on a daily basis since moving to the University of Nebraska Medical Center (UNMC) 8 years ago. Both campuses share a number of common features: 1) they are small-medium in size (as US medical centers go), 2) they are state universities, 3) they represent the citizens of small states (Oklahoma- about 3.7 million, and Nebraska 1.8 million), 4) Oklahoma and Omaha are extremely widespread cities, each sporting populations of around 1 million in the greater metropolitan regions, and 4) both universities serve large rural populations.

Of course, there are major differences, with Oklahoma City (and the state) being rich in oil, and Omaha being a hub for insurance/telecommunications.

One difference that I perceived was that despite the similarities in size, OUHSC had a distinctly larger proportion of researchers working in my chosen field–cell biology and protein trafficking in the endocytic pathways. It’s not hard to beat UNMC, because by my reckoning, my lab is really the only one on campus devoted to this type of basic research. Now I would be exaggerating to say that other labs don’t dabble or collaborate with us on some of these research questions, but essentially, we are the only ones to focus primarily on these types of studies. At OUHSC I was pleased to meet a handful of such researchers.

This was one of my initial concerns in coming out to Omaha as a new faculty member; after the tremendous critical mass of pure cell biologists at NIH–where I did my post-doctoral studies–would I be able to find an atmosphere conducive to the type of research that I do?

When I first visited Omaha as a faculty candidate in 2002, I wasn’t sure. The medical center had a microscopy core facility with a single older model confocal microscope. While I was promised a laboratory in the new Durham Research Center (where I now have a lab)–built with private money donated by local philanthropist Charles Durham, the 8 story building was still in early construction stages and the temporary space offered to me looked like something out of a science museum. Fortunately, I was able put these temporary issues aside and project a little into the future; today there is now a second Durham Research Center (II), built again largely with funds graciously provided by the same Mr. Durham. And I have my own personal confocal microscope.

So where am I going with this? What’s the problem?

Who said there was a problem?

I wouldn’t define it as a problem, but given the lack of researchers in my field, there is a degree of isolation. Des Moines, Iowa is the nearest city–about a 2 h drive, but smaller than Omaha. Kansas City is larger, and there are some good labs and institutes there, but that’s a 3 h drive. The next orbital includes Minneapolis, Denver, Chicago, St. Louis–all full day drives or an hour’s flight.

Does it matter? Perhaps less than I would have predicted. There is e-mail, the telephone, FAX, video conferences, Skype–you name it, technology has it. Collaborations with researchers around the US and across the globe has never been easier. If an expert in actin is needed and not on campus–then collaborate with one at UCL in London. It’s not as though I’m as lonely as poor “Lonesome George,” in the Galapagos. It is also pretty easy to get to meetings–after all, being “in isolation” doesn’t mean being under quarantine–although I sometimes find it hard to take on too much travel and be away from my family.

There are also advantages. I spent my childhood in a house where there were no tools. My parents were barely capable of changing a light bulb, not to mention changing a tire or oiling a rusty hinge. I picked up a little know-how in the army, but my “repair skills” have really developed in dealing with my microscope, as a service technician needs to come in from Minneapolis, Chicago or St. Louis when we have problems. Even for diagnostic issues, I am becoming adept. After all, the technicians need to diagnose with me on the phone, send the suspected necessary parts by FedEX, and then fly in once the parts arrive to do the repair work. So learning to manage minor issues on my own has become necessary to keep the scope running for the lab.

So how do I feel “in isolation” 8 years later? Nothing in life is ever utopian, and every place has its advantages and disadvantages. I can only laugh and recall my  impression of Omaha and UNMC 9 years ago on my first visit. As I was leaving the department after my first visit–certain that I would never end up here–an administrator from the office handed me a packet with information about the city and a map–just as I was about to be taken to the airport. Stuck with this packet in my hands at the airport, I searched for a trash bin to lessen my load. As fate would have it, I couldn’t find one nearby, and ended up stuffing the papers into my backpack before going through security.

The map squashed in the backpack was the one we eventually used to chart the houses on the market and buy our home.

Need I say more?

 

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A happy and healthy new year…

Posted on September 29, 2011 by Steve Caplan

Being the Jewish New year (5772 since the world was created, of course), although I am totally secular, I find myself taking a couple days off my “Denisovich” lifestyle to visit with family. It seems that one of the main wishes for new year, be it Jewish, Christian or other religions–at least those with which I have some vague familiarity–is for a “happy and healthy new year.”

We can all argue what “happy is about”–for some of us it’s getting off work and heading to the pub for some pints, for others, it’s family life, and for others still, taking work home and being “happy as a pig in sh*t.” But how do we define healthy? And more specifically, how do we stay healthy?

I think there is a lot to be said that the evidence is out there. Smokers can expect a 10 y average reduction in lifespan, not to mention life quality. The same goes for obesity, which dramatically increases the likelihood of succumbing to a variety of diseases that go well beyond diabetes and heart disease. Today good evidence exists for increased risk for a variety of GI-based and other cancers. Perhaps it’s not the obesity per se, but the tendency of obese people to eat certain foods that increase risk. The jury is still out on those issues, but the risks are fairly clear.

Well, what about preventive medicine? Here’s where I came across an article in Newsweek some time ago–the type of article that I don’t often have time to read. This one, entitled “No! The one word that can save your life” was written by Sharon Begley (Aug. 22/29 edition, 2011), whose articles about science and medicine I think are generally pretty good.

Not this one.

The underlying premise of this article is that there are too many medical tests being done–not just an issue of saving money, but rather tests that confuse and ultimately lead to more harm than help. The author takes as an example a Professor (Emeritus) of family medicine at Brown University who tells his own physician not to order PSA tests for prostate cancer screening or electrocardiograms for heart irregularities. She cites a Professor of Medicine, Dr. Redberg, at UCSF who maintains that mammograms are not worth doing because they detect too many false positives. The latter notes that “There are many areas of medicine where not testing, not imaging and not treating actually result in better health outcomes.”

Many of the examples given are of the anecdotal nature, about which much has been said in this blog on OT and others. The elderly woman who had her colon perforated by an unnecessary colonoscopy and died. But as distasteful as my hypochondriac nature views such a screening (recommended at age 50 in only a few years for me)–perhaps the little pill-camera gizmo will be in general use by then? Please!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mQX2lbutli0

In any event, there is no arguing that colonoscopies are for the most part very benign procedures that have saved many lives by early detection of colorectal cancer.

But let’s return for a moment to PSA testing. Infallible, it certainly isn’t. It’s well documented that there are a lot of false positives. There is even evidence that recent male ejaculation may alter blood PSA levels. While randomized trials and calculating statistics are complicated by a large number of factors, gliding through PubMed as a scientist without medical training, I find the evidence fairly conclusive that PSA screening is worthwhile. Especially when combined with a yearly digital prostate exam. One of a number of articles noted: “Men in the screening group in the European Randomized Study of Screening for Prostate Cancer were 20% less likely than those in the control group to die from prostate cancer. The absolute difference was only 0.7/1000, implying that over 1400 men needed to be screened to prevent one prostate cancer death. Screening was also associated with a 70% increased risk for being diagnosed with prostate cancer.” Those may not be wonderful odds, but if I were that 1 person out of 1400, I’d take it. Especially when all that’s needed is a tick by my physician on a form when doing a blood test anyway.

In this article, a battery of anecdotal cases are described–the woman who did a cardio CT and had plaques show up, and the ensuing medical tests led to a torn artery and ultimately a heart transplant.

In my humble opinion, this type of article only serves as a “scare tactic,” and does a disservice to medicine by warning off the not-as-well-informed population–something that is reminiscent of the anti-vaccine proponents.

Don’t get me wrong; I have no doubt that there are risks involved and inherent false positives in many of today’s largely accepted medical screening tests. I have heard a first-hand account of someone who decided to do a full-body scan, which identified a shadow on the lung. The subsequent biopsy led to infection and a very long and slow recovery from–what was essentially nothing. These cases do occur (and I’m not sure that full-body scans are on any physicians regular screening tests in any case), but they are not representative of the numerous procedures that are done–many of which prove useful.

I would charge that science journalists–particularly those with a wide following who are–in a way–serving as interpreters for the general public, would be wise to carefully weigh any anecdotal and emotionally compelling stories with statistical evidence.

Wishing you all a happy and healthy Jewish New Year.

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Announcing: the first documented Occam’s Typewriter scientific collaboration

Posted on September 26, 2011 by Steve Caplan

I am very pleased to announce–after many months of work, revisions, and re-revisions–(to the best of my knowledge) the first scientific collaboration born out of Occam’s Typewriter. After all, in addition to all the peripheral fun of being a scientist and contributing to the dialog on OT, it’s certainly nice to receive true peer recognition.

Here’s to many more! Cheers!

Accepted for publication in the Journal of Cell Science, Sept. 26, 2011.

Differential regulation of actin microfilaments

by human MICAL proteins

Sai Srinivas Panapakkam Giridharan1, Jennifer L. Rohn2*, Naava Naslavsky1* and Steve Caplan1*.

1Department of Biochemistry and Molecular Biology and Eppley Cancer Center, University of Nebraska Medical Center, Omaha, Nebraska 68198-5870, USA, and 2MRC Laboratory for Molecular Cell Biology, University College London, London, WC1E 6BT, UK.

*Address correspondence to:

Steve Caplan: scaplan[at]unmc.edu, Naava Naslavsky:  nnaslavsky[at]unmc.edu, or Jennifer L. Rohn:  j.rohn[at]ucl.ac.uk

 

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One day in the life of Ivan Denisovich–no, no, in my life

Posted on September 24, 2011 by Steve Caplan

For the record, I had actually planned this blog for some time, but for one reason or another, never got around to writing and posting it. With the furor over scientists’ approach to work in the lab still fresh from Jenny’s recent blog on the 24/7 culture in some high-powered labs and the interesting threads that ensued, I think it’s time to capitalize on others’ fame take advantage of the interest and perhaps add a new twist. Perhaps this expands on Stephen Curry’s superb film “I’m a scientist” to explain “what I do on a daily basis as a group leader.”

We here at OT appear to be quite heterogenic in our composition with regards to how we all relate to the glorious enterprise of science–from librarians and editors, to students and those really “doing the experiments,” to some very senior and highly recognized scientists. And everything in between. My assumption is that our readers (in my case, perhaps that should be in singular) also come from “all walks of scientific life.”

In the wake of Jenny’s blog, I found myself siding against any forced 24/7 culture, but noted that I perceive science as a “way of life,” with expectations that students and post-docs share a dedication to their work that goes beyond the boundaries of the lab. Not that I meant that scientists need to spend every waking hour thinking/talking/reading/writing and breathing science outside the lab. But as a generality, I do think that those who do spend some extra time engaged, interested, curious and thoughtful about their work outside normal business hours are likely to be more successful and productive. And this is especially so if one is a PI.

Why bother to write about a day in the life of a PI? Because throughout the career of a student or post-doc, there is no training received for becoming a PI other than scientific expertise and specialization. There is no training in managing a budget, no training in handling and motivating personnel (or hiring them), no training in how to use your time efficiently and how to be an administrator. Sure, there is safety training, radioactive training, training in culture diversity and issues relating to sexual harassment. But the training in the day-today running of a lab is exclusively “on the job training.”

So what is a day in the life of a PI? I can only give my own anecdotal evidence, but I would liken it to CHESS–where a master is playing what is called a “simul“–meaning a simultaneous game with more than one (and often 20 or more) players at the same time. Here are some typical activities in a given day:

My alarm goes off at 5:45 a.m., and having made lunch I am out the door ~7 a.m. and drive my daughter to school. Since age 40, I have been increasing the time of my exercise regimen and arrive at the gym shortly afterwards and spend over an hour or so before showering and continuing on to work. On the treadmill, before I get to higher speeds, I usually manage to scan the 30-40 e-mails that accumulate overnight (on average–and this is after UNSUBSCRIBING from everything, and designating as junk mail 90% of what actually comes in) on my BlackBerry, and sometimes even answer a few of the more urgent ones.

When I first get in to my office, I feel compelled to finish up any e-mail business, or at least put any requests that come through into my schedule. For example, on any given morning I may be asked to write a reference letter for a student on whose committee I serve or served for a fellowship with a specific deadline. Read a manuscript for a collaborator and make comments. Send an updated CV and list of my current funding to our departmental administrator. If I can, I do it immediately and cross it off the list. If there are more pressing issues, I key a time to do it or deadline into my calendar so as not to forget.

Usually, on a given morning I receive 1-10 papers to handle for a certain Public online journal (beginning with the letter P) on which I serve as an academic editor. Although I decline the lion’s share of such requests (as they are outside my expertise), this means that I am handling simultaneously and at different stages 8-10 papers at any given time. Looking for reviewers, chasing reviewers for critiques, comparing reviewers’ critiques and making decisions on manuscripts. And handling appeals, when that happens.

I teach in two different graduate courses, one of which I coordinate, so an hour of teaching, or sitting in on a fellow instructor’s lecture is a common activity. I also facilitate something called Problem Based Learning for 1st year medical students, where I read a case and facilitate discussion about it with a group of 10-12 students.

Right now, I have a big grant deadline due in 10 days, and I always feel fresher writing science in the morning (although that’s a luxury I can’t always hold on to). So spending an hour or two working on the grant, the budget, the personnel, etc. is a common morning activity at this time of year. There is a second smaller grant to follow 2 weeks later. This is an ongoing cycle.

I frequently receive requests to review manuscripts for other journals, and in a given week could have 0-4 papers of my own to review. Add to this one of my big time consuming activities–grant review. I am a chair of a panel at the American Heart Association, and review at NIH. The former means I need to build a review group, and when the applications come in, actually designate which of the 50-80 grants are to be reviewed by which reviewers. That can be a headache. Then, for both panels, 12-13 grant applications to review is the standard. With AHA, I often end up with several more if there are last minute problems. The math shows that with 2x reviews for each panel, that’s close to 60 grants a year to review. Each one can take anywhere from 3-8 hours to do a proper review and write-up.

As chairperson of our curriculum committee, we meet now and then to discuss issues of graduate curriculum and peer review of instructors. As a member of the graduate committee, we meet frequently to follow the progress of the students enrolled in our program and make decisions about admissions for the following year. As a member of the university research and development committee, we meet monthly to discuss research on campus and to review (yes, more review) internal grant proposals.

I serve on about 10 student supervisory committees (not including those of my own 4 current students), and those committees meet twice a year. This also means that I need to read and examine the dissertations of these students.

But wait–there’s more! I haven’t even got a chance to wander into my own lab and find out what’s going on! I try to meet daily with everyone–that would be 2 post-docs, 4 students and a technician. Usually I have a more formal meeting in my office at least once a week with everyone individually, to discuss progress, strategy etc. In a good scenario, when things are going well, I could be working on writing of one or two papers and revisions for one or two more. So I have to make heart-wrenching decisions of priority–which paper first, and do I stop the paper-writing to advance the grant-writing, or do so in parallel?

There are dozens of other student issues that I need to address daily. Abstracts and fellowship proposals to be submitted awaiting my critiques, recommendation letters, training plans–you name it. There are progress reports for grants awarded, and budget meetings with departmental administrators. There are online training sessions that crop up like weeds after the rain.

For those of you who have not served in this capacity, believe me when I say that there are hundreds of other time-consuming things that I need to do to keep my lab in business-but it’s becoming tiresome to relate them all here–everything from seminars, faculty meetings, teaching retreats and on and on.

Now, you may or may not have noticed that I haven’t allocated any time to read and keep up with the science in my field. That’s a luxury that I often am forced to leave for home. Along with thinking calmly about each project and the progress and ideas for how to navigate. This is a lot of the fun. And these things I often relegate to my time walking or exercising.

If I don’t have to take a child to a sports practice or other event after work, I am usually home before 7 p.m., and after our family eats a late dinner, by 8:30 p.m. I am usually cleaning up and ready to be with my kids for a few hours until their bedtime. From 10 p.m. until midnight, if necessary, I catch up on some work. And then comes my joy–reading. On some evenings, if I can spare the time, I write my fiction for an hour or two before moving to a horizontal position to read until I pass out.

What can I say? I love it and wouldn’t trade it for any other job in the world.

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Decisions, decisions…

Posted on September 15, 2011 by Steve Caplan

Books have always been dear to me. As a child/young adult, I skipped directly to adult books and was known to read 7-8 different books in parallel (now 3-4 is my limit + audiobooks for the car, and the new PLAYAWAY audio books for my treadmilling and exercise). My immersion in a good novel became so complete that my parents could shout at me in front of my face and I wouldn’t notice. Now my kids shout at me when I’m reading and damage incurred from the military prevents me from hearing (and it’s heading south–no offense intended for those of you in NZ).

In fact, in boot camp, I used to shove torn pages from books that I was reading in my pockets so I’d have an escape when endlessly waiting in the hot sun. I can even remember lighting a candle in a 2-man pup tent in the field, with 2 hours to sleep, in order to read and stay sane.

At some point, I began to fancy myself as a potential author. I wrote and published a few short stories online, but always dreamed of writing novels. And then it hit me. In the middle of my Ph.D. 200 pages or so gushed out of me in a week when I was sick with a horrid flu and couldn’t get out of bed. I had to do something.

Flash forward. 13 years an agent and a bazillion submissions later and I gave up on finding a publisher. Not that I tried very hard after the first two years, although we had just moved to the US and the opportunities were greater than faraway Jerusalem. But I was a tad busy with my post-doc and other minor issues.

Luckily, I had saved a paper draft, and even (very fortunately) moved from Dinosaur-WORD to semi-modern WORD, and from floppy disc to CD. Last year I decided that it was time to publish “Matter Over Mind,” because when I wrote it as a 30 y old graduate student, the protagonist was a 37 y old PI fighting for tenure. When I finally self-published “Matter Over Mind” I was a 45 year old tenured associate professor. Prophetic?

I don’t regret the self-publishing route at all. For one, I’ve learned a huge amount about writing novels. It’s been 11 months and I’ve sold somewhere in the range of 450 books (paperback + Kindle)–mostly by being a pain in the ass and including a slide about the book at seminars, handing out “Matter Over Mind bookmarks”  at scientific meetings and reviews and being generally aggressive in personalized marketing. An example is the recent “trailer” I put together, inspired by Dr. Amy Roger’s eye-catching trailer on her new science thriller “Petroplague” and by our own Stephen Curry’s dramatic and enthralling trailer “Coming Soon.”

More amateurish, but entirely homemade:

The best thing all about Matter Over Mind and self-publishing, though, was the opportunity to meet and connect with so many great people, here on OT and at Lablit.

So by now, all three of you (see, I have 50% more readers than Henry) are thoroughly confused. What is Steve ranting on about. This is old news-what’s published is published.

Ahhh, yes. But in this past year, I’ve been avidly writing novel #2: “Welcome Home, Sir” (WHS). WHS is also a lablit novel, and I am including a brief summary for any of the three of you who might show interest (because I do not have a fancy trailer or anything else to show):

Welcome Home, Sir—Summary

Dr. Ethan Meyer is a professor of biochemistry who conducts scientific research and teaches at an American academic institution. Outwardly, he is a poster-child for success; he runs his laboratory with efficiency and care, projects an air of confidence, and is highly respected. Inwardly, Ethan feels as though he is coming apart at the seams, as the post-traumatic stress disorder he incurred in the Israeli army spirals into a cycle of tortuous hypochondria and threatens to unravel his personal life.

As Ethan battles his symptoms and struggles with his dual American-Israeli identity, seeking help from a psychologist but avoiding medication, he embarks on a path of self-discovery. Through a series of darkly humorous flashbacks, he realizes how his own military service—the apparent cause of his current condition—has molded his character and contributed to his academic successes.

While fighting his personal demons and struggling to keep his family together, Ethan must also navigate a series of crises at work—culminating with the dismissal of a foreign student for fabricating lab results. As the departure of his wife and child for Israel leave him with no choice but to up-the-ante in the struggle to control his hypochondria, Ethan comes to realize that his student may have been framed, and he races against time to correct his error.

I completed WHS early this summer, after receiving some tremendous literary and editorial advice from veteran author Jenny Rohn–to whom I am extremely grateful–and who I see joins Henry in immortality on Wikipedia. Then I began the usually arduous process of looking for an agent or publisher. My hope was to break my record of 13 years and perhaps–yes, just perhaps, to find a real publisher.

Imagine my surprise when among my first 20 submissions I found a potentially interested small publisher. True, these days anyone can be a publisher, but this company is owned and run by a professor of English literature. As importantly, Anaphora Literary Press publishes volumes of poetry and literary fiction, and most of its small club of authors are previously published authors, academics, journalists, even award-winning playrights or “generally important people.”

Wasn’t it Woody Allen who once said that he’d never want to join a club that had someone like him as a member?

So why “decisions, decisions…?”

I guess some people are never satisfied–perhaps that’s even more evident with scientists. I remember 2 occurrences in my life that remind me of this situation. 1) As a masters student, I submitted my first ever manuscript to a journal called “Cancer Immunology Immunotherapy.” I had 2 advisers in 2 different departments in 2 different buildings. One had a huge lab, was always traveling, and I’d have to camp out in his outer office late in the evening and ambush him for time. He was the one who worked with me on the manuscript, but I sat and worked mostly in the other lab. What this meant was that I had to make a lot of decisions that were not usually made by Msc. students.

For example, when I submitted the manuscript (yes, me, all by myself), I saw something about “corresponding author.” Not knowing any better, I put myself down. It’s astonishing now to think that the next time I would be “corresponding author” wasn’t until years later when I had my own lab.

Back to the point. When the paper came back it was virtually accepted as is. One reviewer wanted a word changed in the title. That was it. Little did I know that this would rarely if ever be repeated in the course of my career. I showed the letter from the editor to my advisor, and he almost threw it at me. “I knew we should have tried for a better journal,” he said.

My other experience was in a job search, when I was immediately offered a faculty position on my very first interview. I had barely sent out any applications yet. I had no reference–nothing to which I could compare. In this case I passed. Did it turn out to be a wise career choice? I think so, but I have no “control,” no parallel universe for comparison.

Well, let’s finish up. The three of you are up well past your bedtime. To make a long decision short–I signed on the dotted line and had an extra glass of red wine at dinner. Or maybe two–or three. Well who’s counting?

I will keep you all updated–whether you want it or not. And for me, now I can turn my attention to novel #3. You have been warned.

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