#393 Haachoo!

Science works in mysterious ways. We all like to think the great innovations in technology and drugs came from patient, trial and error experimenting. The living proof of the scientific method: form a hypothesis based on quiet contemplation; devise an experiment to test the hypothesis; document the results; change one variable at a time in the experiment; arrive at either a confirmation or a rejection of your hypothesis. If a confirmation, devise another series of experiments and eventually propound a theory, which can be tested and duplicated by your scientific peers. Unfortunately, or perhaps I should say fortunately, that’s not the case. Fortunately, because most scientific breakthroughs involve fortune—as in good fortune, as in chance, as in serendipity. Serendipity, that random coming together of things that ends up being good, not the gel used by today’s Ryan Seacrist wannabees, that leaves their hair oh so perfectly tousled, Serendipity-doo. Like when penicillin was discovered in bread mold. The greatest antibiotic of the 20th century. The first great broad spectrum antibiotic. The first in a salvo of drugs that kept us one step ahead of the bacteria—for a while. Until we shot our antibiotic wad, untrained our immune systems, and the superbug swooped into the hospitals to be the single biggest cause of death. But bread mold, whodda thunk it? How many potential discoveries have I thrown out just because it thought it was rotting food? An early alchemist stored buckets of urine in his cellar, hoping it would turn into gold—if only because his neighbors paid him to get rid of it. Instead, it turned into a glowing goo that finally burst into flame. The element phosphorus had been discovered. Not to worry, phosphorus is only in urine is small quantities. A lot of distillation and dehydration is required for it to dry down to the point of bursting into flame. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to drink lots of water. The same guy that discovered penicillin, Alexander Fleming, also found an antibiotic enzyme in nasal mucus when he accidentally sneezed into a petri dish culture. Oops. His snot kept the microbes in the dish from proliferating. Apparently nasal mucus contains an antibiotic substance. Which problem explains why my shirtsleeves never get infected. But there’s that serendipity thing again. What are the chances that the guy who discovers an antibiotic in nasal mucus would be named Fleming. And in 1992 they did a drug trial on welsh miners. Miners as in diggers, not as in underage persons. Good too, because the drug was supposed to treat angina. Didn’t work too well. But the miners reported an interesting side effect. Or should I say front effect? Cause the drug was sildenafil citrate, now better known as Viagra. Hmm. Could be a great ad jingle. Was a miner, had angina, so his love she had to pine. But Viagra made him finer, so he would love Clementine.
America, ya gotta love it.