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"Science is Broken," Says Scientists

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Scientists Conclude Science May Be Fatally Flawed, Pending Further Study (Photo: Getty-ish) By Z Zeighmn Blog Updated Nov. 13, 2025, 2:11 p.m. MST In a stunning realization by prominent experts across nearly every field—from chemistry to medicine, environmental studies to genetics, physics to economics—the world’s leading scientists are now joining forces to prove, or possibly disprove, a single startling theory: That science itself is broken. According to several alarming studies—including a 2015 Science meta-analysis that found fewer than 40 percent of landmark psychology experiments could be replicated—research has become harder to verify, impossible to reproduce, and increasingly at odds with past findings. Or so the data suggest. Then again, if the scientific method itself is in question, how can we trust the data suggesting that science is in crisis? If science is collapsing, who’s to say that isn’t just another hypothesis awaiting peer review? I spoke with leading experts in the...
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The Neighbor's Tree

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SERIES OF SHOTS: A spry, middle-aged man wakes up before sunrise.  Reaching over to the bedside table, he puts on his glasses.  He springs from bed, and begins a series of robust stretches and lunges in his clean bedroom—which, though small, is well-kept, affording him plenty of space for his lunging exercises. He sways and bends from the hips. Rotating his pelvis. He arches his back, far backward—then forward—like an exaggerated dance, though with no set beat or rhythm. Random. Swaying.  With gusto.  A single photograph hangs framed on the wall. It's an old picture of a young boy standing beside an old man. Very formal. They stand beside each other, arms at their sides, next to a young sapling, freshly planted in the ground. The man looks at the picture between lunges. Between stretches which increasingly move his entire body's posture in extravagant poses in his room, dawn growing outside. Later, in the kitchen.  Though he is fit, we see him extract a whole pa...
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peep-peep

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I've been feeling better.  Losing weight. Discarding some bad habits and states of mind. It won't always be this great.  But it's been a load off. Looking back on some old garb hanging in the back of my closet, I found an old friend.  For an ancient red hoodie, it still looked okay.  This one had been with me a long time. There is one small hole, and the seam of one of the two front pouch pockets is separating.  But otherwise, suitable.  It fits well again.  It has that familiar feel, and a baked-in ease to it.  Those times weren't always great.  But it's nice to be able to look back from a distance.  I prefer the zipper hoodies to the pull-over ones. There's really no comparison.  I zipped it up and wore it out last weekend, running errands.  I found myself entering a kind of strange mental niche all the sudden.  Not bad.  Better than bad.  It was good.  When I parked and stepped out of my car, I looked up ...
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They're Just Dreams

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You were in my dream last night. The same dream I always have, though details change. I decide to tell you how I feel about you. Have always felt about you. But as the dream goes on, the way we are makes it so it doesn't need to be said. We go together, talking and smiling. We do the things that people do in their dreams.  Nothing makes sense, but it doesn't matter. We're together. The moment comes. We look at each other and share the same thought. I tell you without having to say it. And with a look, you know it, and tell me back. I wake up and realize all over again—it was just a dream. Somewhere, you're out there, unaware that I still wonder what it would be like. What if I had actually said it? Back when I had the chance. There were plenty of them. What if instead of smiling between unspoken words, I told you? A part of me always believed that I already knew what you would say back. I didn't.  So, I don't. They're just dreams.
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Chicken Gristle Girl

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One may never feel more vulnerable and untethered as your first day of high school.  Maybe your first night in prison comes close. First day of freshman year, at the teacher's instruction, the class drew our chairs into a great big circle, all of us facing inward. Some 20-30 of us all around, looking at one another, with the "get to know you" assignment of telling the class our name, our favorite school subject, and one story about ourselves.  "It can be a funny story," the teacher advised, "Or, if you're brave, it can even be a sad story. It's up to you." One by one, we each had our turn. Of course, new incoming high school students on their first days of their freshmen years, in a room full of their peers-- most of us strangers, still trying to establish where we would fit in the hierarchy of popularity-- would never dare to share a sad story about ourselves.  Like almost everyone else in class that morning, I must've told a "funny...
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Rage Over a Lost Penny

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Beethoven's Rage Over a Lost Penny What one has thought so often yet never said so well. From Wikipedia : The "Rondo alla ingharese quasi un capriccio" in G major, Op. 129 (Italian for "Rondo in the Hungarian [i.e. gypsy] style, almost a caprice"), is a rondo for piano written by Ludwig van Beethoven. It is better known by the title Rage Over a Lost Penny, Vented in a Caprice (from "German: Die Wut über den verlorenen Groschen, ausgetobt in einer Caprice)". This title appears on the autograph manuscript, but not in Beethoven's hand, and has been attributed to his friend Anton Schindler. It is a favourite with audiences and is frequently performed as a showpiece. Despite the late opus number, the work's composition has been dated to between 1795 and 1798. Beethoven left the piece unpublished and incomplete; it was published in 1828 by Anton Diabelli, who obscured the fact that it had been left unfinished. The performance time runs between five a...
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Getting Burgers

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Shannon and I watched as the tribe of hobos filled their car with containers of loose change.  There were four of them working together, unburying holes in the ground or moving makeshift covers made out of wooden pallets to the side, exposing crates full of bottles, sacks, bags and jars full of coins of all sorts.  One by one they'd extract these containers and move them to the trunk of the car. It wasn't a make or a model I recognized, the name long faded from the car's rear end. It looked old, though. Something from the early 90s, perhaps.  But it ran. It was maintained, even if it wasn't luxurious.  Occasionally the four hobos, led by the main figure who we quickly identified as answering to the name "Virgil", would mutter incoherencies to themselves.  "Those who know nothing know something about things that those who know something know nothing about," they repeated off and on, with other similar-sounding but equally cryptic credos mixed in.  Fro...
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When Words Fail

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In a language-driven world, there can scarcely be any greater relief than allowing your words to fail. "Words, words, words."  —William Shakespeare.  The relentless emphasis on communication has revealed an even greater attraction to the ambiguous, the subtle, and the unsaid.  One can be starved for speechlessness.  Especially when confronted with what language falls furthest short of capturing. I could deign to describe, at length, every part of you I'm fascinated by. Yet, the endeavor only approaches—never arrives. A description of that which arrests me—a look, or glance—a gesture, a nod—would still fail to capture the captivation.  Better, then, to simply allow those moments to slip on by—unremarked upon, but not unmarked.  "Words fail me." What a relief. Refusing to wrestle those fleeting moments into clumsy verbiage chisels them even deeper into the mind's eye. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" said some dude, once. Should I sew so...
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Ambivalence's End

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There was a knock at the door yesterday. I got up to open it. I wondered, is it a delivery? Perhaps Mormons on a mission? I briefly reflected on one particularly memorable conversation I had with two Mormon missionaries years ago. I wondered silently how they were doing—when I reached out to grab my front door handle. I opened my door and to my complete surprise, standing on my porch was neither Mormon, deliveryman, or deliverywoman. It was an alien. A fucking alien.  I gawked. Its hand was still raised upright from having knocked on my door. "Hey," it said, nervously. In utter shock, I stepped backwards. Its realness was unmistakable. It wasn't a man in a suit. It wasn't a hologram. It wasn't AI or a hallucination. It was a real alien. As sure as seeing you or whoever else at my front door. I could do little to disguise my bewilderment. It sighed in resignation at my reaction. "That's right," it said. "I'm an alien." I stammered, tryin...
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Accursed Be the White Nose Hair!

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Accursed be thee, yon white nose hair! Ne'er seen a strand in color so long and fair.      A wretched pale spire of thy damned kin,      Thou hast grown too far o'er mine own chin,     To belie  the youthful mirth of thy wearer's face,     Flaunting thy thread-like wisp in mock disgrace. Bereft of merit and void of charm art thou, A ghastly figure now waves unfurled upon my prow.      Thy wind-blown sprawls o'erreach thy nostril's tomb,      Clutching like a phantom from thy cavernous womb.      O! w hat vile purpose dost thy girded ivory will intend?      What quarry seek’st thou, that heaven dare not send? Would'st thou not resign to dress in shadow? Prithee, diminish thyself in my beard's dark meadow.     Shroud thy weedy form in concealment's strength,     Spare my neighbor's glance thy twisted, gnarled length.     Do not tempt to steal a ...
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