Professors usually spend about 3-6 months (sometimes longer) researching and writing a 25-page article to submit an article to an academic journal. And most experience a twinge of excitement when, months later, they open a letter informing them that their article has been accepted for publication, and will therefore be read by…
Yes, you read that correctly. The numbers reported by recent studies are pretty bleak:
– 82 percent of articles published in the humanities are not even cited once.
– Of those articles that are cited, only 20 percent have actually been read.
– Half of academic papers are never read by anyone other than their authors, peer reviewers, and journal editors.
That’s rough, and definitely a problem…
I’m cheating a bit since I’m in chemistry… but… its nice to be in the top half, not the bottom half.
14 cites on one paper and 5 on the other (my third paper is much closer to the average… with 2 cites…) Its not like these are great high-impact papers… but at least one or two people not in my research group and not the editors/reviewers has read them, and that’s fun…
I hope you enjoy this story, at least as an entertaining diversion from all the news.
Ain’t No Grave: A Triptych.
It was just before dawn on Sunday –it was a lazy, chilly, midsummer morning; one of those times where the damp of the heavy pre-dawn dew makes rheumatics of us all. The fog lay sluggardly in the little valleys, while the little hills of the local terrain barley poked through the fog to observe the allegedly rosy fingers of the dawn. On every other foggy morning, the people of the little town in the little valley knew by experience that it would take the sun a number of hours to bake all the fog off and clear up the day. Nevertheless, Rudy pulled his mower (the one of the older riding kinds) off his trailer and into the town cemetery. The grass needed mowing, and he’d put it off and put it off, though it was his job and he got paid for it, and now there was a funeral today, so it had to be done.
He started it up just as the dim twilight of dawn shifted and the shadows appeared on the hilltops. Here in the cemetery, not quite at the bottom of the valley, but still below the fog, the visibility was low. Rudy put on his headphones and cranked the music so he could hear it over the mower. As he mowed, a shadow moved. It was just in the corner of his eye. Then he felt a bump and knew that something like a big stick had gone through the mower. It couldn’t have been a stick though, as there were no trees in or near the boneyard. He kept mowing and jumped: he’d jumped at one of the grave marker obelisks. It had crept up on him. Crunch! Just as his heart slowed back down, he hit another big stick, a little rotten too, if the sound said anything.
Rudy got down from his mower, and that’s when they got him. They swarmed out of the fog. They ate him alive. Two of them were missing a hand.
By midday in middle America on that Sunday, everyone everywhere knew what was happening. If scientists somewhere had an explanation, there was no way of finding out. The dead were not as dead as they had been and (in some people’s mind) seemed to be getting less and less dead by the minute. The useless wags pointed out that ‘Zombie’ was a particular thing, the creation of a Voodoo master not the general reemergence of all the dead bodies. The slightly less useless clucking hens said that the movies would call them zombies, zombies they were. The bold useless people discovered that removing the head or destroying the brain was not effective in stopping these zombies. A small group of the latter category of useless people were holding a defensive position on the south side of a street. The panic of the zombie appearances had led to looting, pillage and burning of the cities by a great number of panicked but otherwise totally normal people. Buildings were burning, and women who were sane this morning were walking out into the street to hack other woman to death: or to set a man on fire. It seemed though, as the little group watched, that none of the victims died: they walked (or dragged themselves) away from the scene of their murder to commit atrocities of their own.
The little group looked into the street. In the midst of this screaming frenzy and the smell of burnt hair, a man of nondescript age sat, reading a book of poems. And around him swirled the chaos and the crimes of the day.
‘Hallo!!!’ Called the de facto leader of the small group, ‘Why don’t you come over here with us, it’s safer here!’
‘Is it?’ the man said.
Nevertheless he walked over to where they huddled together. He walked slowly, deliberately over, still reading for a moment when he arrived.
He looked up and said ‘Why do you think so?’
The leader said: ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘You said it was safer over here.’
‘Of course it is, we all still have our minds and we have some weapons too.’
‘You’ve seen someone get killed today?’
‘What happened next?’
‘They didn’t actually die’ He admitted grudgingly.
‘What were you reading?’
‘Donne: would you like to hear some?’
The man did not give them a chance to say anything: he immediately began reading:
At the round earth’s imagin’d corners, blow
Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scatter’d bodies go;
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o’erthrow,
All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you whose eyes
Shall behold God and never taste death’s woe.
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space,
For if above all these my sins abound,
‘Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace
When we are there; here on this lowly ground
Teach me how to repent; for that’s as good
As if thou’hadst seal’d my pardon with thy blood.
They all decided that the poetry enthusiast was just as crazed as the woman who had lit herself and her family on fire in the street, just a different insanity.
At that moment, the undead and the maddened living seemed to have run out of other victims and they began to draw nearer and nearer. The zombies approached nearer and nearer. The group fired their guns into the ever larger crowd of zombies, but not even shooting them in the head stopped them for long. Their heads healed. Well, they didn’t really heal. The zombies were clearly in agony and their agony clearly increased when you hurt them. And when you blew off their head with a shotgun, the bits of it seemed to reassemble themselves somewhat where they belonged. Not quite the right way, though. And the agony of the zombie-person was apparently increased. Certainly their rage was. So the fight became a shoving contest, one small group of (fairly) sane people against an ever growing horde of furious, pain filled, zombies.
The poetry man was fighting back too, with all his strength (which seemed to be greater than theirs). He shouted encouragement and exhorted them to stand and fight, and to not lay down on the ground with the hopeless ones. When they had nearly fallen: when their hearts had nearly broken: a man leapt off the roof above them and landed right in the middle of their nearly crushed group. He laughed, a deep chest-ful laugh, and he stepped to the front of the group. He was a walking anachronism. He had on blue jeans and a leather coat, but rather incongruously, he carried a spear. He said (again in his voice full of chest) ‘Stand back, my brothers, and rest: for your battle is over and has been won.’ The battle between the spearman and the zombies was short lived. During the battle it seemed to their eyes that those pierced by the spear dissipated rather than lived on. At some point, the zombies fled.
There didn’t seem to be much worth doing, so going for a country drive made sense. The late afternoon sun burned warmly through his window. He smiled when the opening beats of ‘Ain’t No Grave’ came from his truck speakers. The cities burned and everything was happening too fast to really affect the countryside yet. There really wasn’t time for swarms of people to leave the cities: they probably got devoured instead. Eventually, he supposed, the zombies would pour out of the cities… but maybe not. Anyway, on he drove. ‘Ain’t no grave can hold their bodies down…’ Johnny sang. He thought, and drove on.
Have you ever driven through the vast seemingly empty rural America? If you have you’ve seen the churches in the middle of nowhere. They were for the farmers: the farmers would form the congregation and there wasn’t any real reason that a church had to be in a town, the town would be too far. (There used to be a lot of schools like that too, sitting alone on a hilltop, waiting for the farmer kids who no longer come.)
Well, the road he was on came to a T, and at the other side sat a big brick church. As he stopped at the intersection the bells began to ring. Each time it rang, he felt it shake him to his soul more and more. Perhaps it was the emotion of the day, the apocalyptic feel, but he could not resist getting out of his truck and walking, slowly, to the church doors.
He stepped inside. The smell of an old country church is nearly unique. It smells of old (but not rotting) woodwork and stale candle smoke perhaps. It is a hard smell to pin down, but if you have ever stepped into an old country church, whether it be Lutheran (for the Germans) or Catholic (for the Poles), they smell the same. It’s a good smell, though an old smell. Perhaps they always have smelled like that, perhaps that is the smell of the ancient faith swirling around the sanctuary and spilling over into the rest of the church. The carpet was red and the floors creaked. It was a little cooler than the just barely warm summer day outside, and as he walked further into the church he felt a slope in the floor. He stopped: suddenly realizing that, while hymn singing in church was very normal, what was not normal was the number of voices considering that there were no cars outside. They must have all walked in from somewhere, he thought.
He walked further into the church. As he entered the narthex, he looked through the doors into the sanctuary. The sanctuary was completely full. In fact, they were standing and there did not appear to be any more room whatsoever. And they all sang.
O Savior rend the heavens wide
Come down, come down with mighty stride
Unlock the gates, the doors break down
Unbar the way to heaven’s crown.
He turned. He went back. He opened the door, and looked out. The appearance on the horizon of a number of shuffling figures answered his first question: yes, the zombies will come out of the cities. And he turned to go back inside. If it were possible, there were more people in the church. In fact now there were a few in the narthex as well. One of them handed him a hymnal, and just before he started singing with them;
When I hear that trumpet sound
I’m gonna rise right out of the ground
Ain’t no grave
Can hold my body down
Ran right through his head and he looked around. He expected to be shocked, but was at ease, and sang with them.
(For an interesting, and not unrelated, take on the Zombie, see Spengler’s essay on Eternal Youth and the Living Dead.)
Also, I have two other short stories on this blog for free: The Final Crate and The Frame Shop. You can also buy for kindle a small collection or a long short story, The Magic Mirror and Other stories, and The Traveler’s Eye respectively.
Its a PSA for spacecraft passing through the area that humans have been detected… Also, if you havn’t read it yet, do read my SciFi short story The Final Crate too 🙂
I have added as a page a new short story. It is called The Final Crate (go figure) and it isn’t that long, you should read it 🙂
The other story, The Frame Shop, is still available at the top on the ‘My Works’ tab… if you feel like reading that one too.
Trying to work out what experiments are required to form a Hammett plot got exhausting so I took a break and took this color discrimination test. You rearrange tiles into the correct order and then when you submit it counts how many you got wrong.
So I got 11 tiles in the wrong place, (there are 100 tiles to move, the end ones are fixed) so that’s not too bad, I figure, 89% accuracy (and its not like I double checked my answers, I didn’t even do that on exams… 🙂 ) What was interesting from the perspective of someone who dabbles in painting is that all 11 were in the same region. I arraigned 1, 2, and 4 perfectly an made all my mistakes in (or around) number 3 as far as I can tell from the report.
Yet another oddity, I thought I did worst in row 4, and about the same in 1, 2, and 3… Well, I suggest you go and take the test and see if you are better than me 🙂 I only took about 5 minutes to do it.
I have not watched any more Sleepy Hollow because it has broken several rules of decent storytelling. Also, its not as much fun as Agents of Shield. This is a fantastically fun story about a team of rather misfitted people traipsing around in a very large aircraft solving problems and (it seems soon) taking on big shadowy Alliance types…
Did I just tip my hand there? I suppose it is possible. It seems as though the creator of this show was a big fan of Firefly… Oh right….
Anyway, I do like the show quite a bit, there are a few changes I would have made for the casting of the show though. See my horrendous Photoshop below. I have put into the Agents of Shield poster the appropriate actors for the right roles. There are two that are probably fine, and one our two that I felt a bit missing, so take a look. Anyway, despite (or because of) the similarity to Firefly, I do like the show quite a bit, although I am not sure if it is as good as Grimm… Grimm Season 3 has been very good so far.
Sleepy Hollow… that’s right, a wacky show about the headless horsemen which turns out to have been the temporarily defeated horseman of the apocalypse, the witch burnings were actually a witch war, with burning the only way to kill a witch (at least that’s how it seems) and the hero, Ichabod Crane, and a female, black, police detective. So, yes, wacky.
However, it is also delightful. I have watched the first two episodes, and I can only say that I hope Ichabod Crane remains this amazing. I get the impression that his persona is based in some part on Nathan Hale. Ichabod speaks Greek (and two other languages) was a spy of sorts, and is clearly brilliant. (From Wikipedia about Hale: ‘In 1768, when he was fourteen years old, he was sent with his brother Enoch, who was sixteen, to Yale College. Nathan was a classmate of fellow patriot spy Benjamin Tallmadge. The Hale brothers belonged to the Yale literary fraternity, Linonia, which debated topics in astronomy, mathematics, literature, and the ethics of slavery. Graduating with first-class honors in 1773 at age 18…’)
Ichabod is ready to start a rebellion against a ’10 cent levy on baked goods’ (donuts), is offended when the police lieutenant implies that she assumes that he was not too bothered by slavery, and speaks compellingly of reason. He is a most amusing character, and a great answer to the question ‘what would happen if a revolutionary patriot were dropped in modern New England?’ The very fact that it is a fictional patriot makes it even better story wise, since they can mostly avoid the historical fact problem.
I’d write more, but I have only seen two episodes, though I am looking forward to when I have a chance to waste 45 minutes to watching the third. It’s a bit someone went to mix the show Haven with an apocalyptic conspiracy theory, and the Revolutionary war can marching in to fife and drums…
Another pie? Well I was in the shower thinking about pie, and well, I wanted to try putting blueberries between the lemon and the meringue of a pie. So here is what I did (with pictures too). Also, I did have some help from my sister, and since there were basically no mistakes, I won’t have to blame them on her.
First, the blueberries:
2 cups blueberries
1-2 Tbs sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla
small amount of whiskey (It was, sort of on hand, photo-bombing the whole process)
Heat in a small sauce pan until the berries begin to break down and juice. take a few tablespoons of the juice and put it in a lidded bin with 1.5 TBS corn starch and shake. Add back into the berries and stir on low heat until thick. Set aside for later.
The lemon, we put slightly more lemon than the consensus of online recipes called for….
1 cup water
1 1/2 cup sugar
5 TBS corn starch
Juice of 5 medium-small lemons
Some lemon peel
When it starts to thicken, added 2 TBS butter, then whisked about 1/2 cup of the thickening sauce into 4 egg yolks (whites for meringue) very slowly. Then this is added back into the lemon curd and stirred on warm until thick.
(I have no idea what that little cup full of whiskey is doing there…)
Pour it into the baked pie shell…Top with blueberries…So that it looks awesome… Then make the meringue. This is accomplished carefully. First the 4 egg whites must be entirely free of yolk. Second they must be whipped on high while the 6 TBS of sugar are added slowly. (This pie is really a teamwork pie… I think it must be an old lady superpower to be able to make it alone… ‘Easy as Pie’ emphatically does not apply to Lemon Meringue pie…)Then you just put the meringue on top of the blueberries and bake at 350 until the meringue is golden brown (about 10 minutes.)
Chill for about 4 hours and then eat… the pie is awesome, like all my other pies!(As an interesting side note, the red pigments in the blueberries sink into the lemon curd slightly and the blue pigment seeps up into the meringue. Since I know that the lemon curd is polar (ingredients: water (polar), sugar (polar) and citric acid (polar) ) then I suppose that the red pigment is polar in nature and the blue is more non-polar… and hence the egg-white meringue must be more non-polar as well…. I could look it up probably, but… eh…. it is a lovely effect, and much better than if the blue had seeped into the yellow and I had gotten a green layer… 🙂
A couple of notes. First, the gluten free pie crust (recipe found in my post about the chocolate mousse pie…) is fairly fragile. It is not so bad when actually eating the pie, but when baking it is a bit touchy. That is why in the picture of the pie as a whole, the meringue pulled away from the crust in places upon cooling. you seal the meringue to the crust and normal crusts hold it in place. If you don’t need gluten free, refer to my pumpkin pie recipe for a good regular pie crust to avoid this issue. Well, that’s all for now… all I have to say is: Eat more pie! 🙂
Apple Pie. It is simple, honest, looks you in the eye… that’s really why it is the great American pie. This apple pie, I do believe is the best I have ever made.
First you have to know some of my basic principles of apple pie. One, the apples must be capable and allowed to speak for themselves. I used 3 granny smith and 3 gala apples. Crisp, a little sour a little sweet… Two, the apples must be almost too many. The more apples in the pie crust the better the apple pie. And lastly, all the sugar and fats do not belong in the apples. They belong in the crust below (lard) and the crumb topping above (Sugar, butter… 🙂 ). This makes the parts of the pie complement each other, rather than have the whole pie be a sweet sugar free-for-all on your tongue.
So here is what I did:
First the apple filling: as mentioned, 3 Granny Smith, 3 Gala apples, skinned and cored and cut into thin slices (it looks like a jolly lot). Then I stirred into them:
2 Tbs Brown Sugar
2 Tbs Molasses
1 tsp Vanilla
1 Tbs Cinnamon
1 random splash of whiskey… because it was… *ahem* on hand (see that little tea-cup… not full of tea 🙂 )
Stir this gently and let sit in the bowl until needed
Next the crust. This was just the same as the gluten-free pie crust for the chocolate moose pie. I rolled it out in pieces and put the crust together patchwork. You’d never be able to tell from the finished product.
Into the crust, place the apples. Do not pour them since that will make them all stand randomly and overflow the crust. You place them in relatively slowly all on their sides and jam them all in. In the bottom of the bowl there is some juice from the apples and sugar. I put about half of it on the apples in the pie and discarded the rest (into my mouth… its tasty)
For the (gluten-free) crumb topping I mixed together the following:
The scraps leftover from the pie crust
2/3 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup rice flour
1/3 cup potato starch flour
2/3 cup butter
3 Tbs Cinnamon (to taste obviously)
1-2 tsp ground Clove
Then you mix it up with a fork and add milk until it is crumbly but not dry: like just before pie crust consistency. (I only needed less than a tablespoon.)