The New York Times posted a story this evening reporting a series of experiments at St. Louis’s Washington University in which bacteria from the guts of thin humans were injected into the guts of fat mice and the mice grew thin.
Forget cancer, let’s research something with market potential
, damn it. Have you paid no attention to Viagra? Modern medicine is about what we want, not what we need. The Washington research stands on the shoulders of similar procedures developed to treat irritable bowel syndrome and Crohn’s disease but has a clearer notion of where the money is. This ain’t brain surgery, people.
Times reporter Gina Kolata, showing her usual restraint, waited all the way until the fifth paragraph to cut to the chase: replicating this experiment human-to-human merely requires a fecal transplant, which, however off-putting it may sound, is pretty simple.
Read the story yourself. There’s plenty of this bacteria in that mouse and the bacteria from skinny people outcompetes bacteria from overweight people (provided the mice then followed a low-fat, high vegetable diet). (Did I mention I ate a bowl of ice cream after reading this?)
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Thousand-Pound Missile
I attended a middle-age rite of passage last night as my daughter took me to her high school cafeteria for the mandatory meeting of parents of students taking driver’s education this semester.
Seventy-five students (in various states of eye-rolling exasperation at having to be seen with a parent in front of their peers) and parents (in various states of apprehension and bewilderment) trooped in and squatted at the lunch tables with attached stools. (They fold in half, with wheels, for easy arrangement.) (How do 6’7” athletes manage to sit at these and eat lunch?)
The ceiling was festooned with flags of the many nations represented at Burlington High. We’re a refugee resettlement community; 27 (last I checked) languages are represented by students. At the tables, many translated in low voices and filled out the paperwork, passing it along for the parental signature.
We were welcomed by one of the school’s business teachers, one of the in-car driving instructors. He ceded the floor to the head driving teacher whose name I didn’t catch (sounded like “Finks”), but who I will always think of as “Mr. Hardnose.”
Mr. Hardnose is exactly who a parent wants teaching driver’s ed. He launched right in on responsibility in a tone that implied that none of us – students and parents alike – had lived up to ours. Good for him. Lejla’s been a safe and responsible driver so far, but it’s Mr. Hardnose’s job to make the densest lunkhead in the class fit for the roadways. (“Before I give you the yellow card and let you get behind the wheel of what is essentially a thousand-pound missile, you’ve got to show me something.”) Seventy-five students, five driving instructors – two cars. Serious, yes; luxurious, no. Mr. Hardnose said he brings 40 years teaching experience.
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