Francis Crick died on Wednesday. I'm still miffed about the Rosalind Franklin thing, but this isn't the day to get into that.*

I once lived with someone who lived with someone who shared a Nobel Prize with Dr. Crick in 1962. Figure that one out.

And at this moment I cannot remember who it was who had that dream about the double-helix—as I recall, it was monkeys dancing in two helical shapes. Somehow I think it was Crick, but I could well be wrong. Professor Purkinje, let me know. Or maybe I'll call my mom, who knows all this stuff.

Hat tip: James.

* I mean, what was the Nobel Committee thinking?—Franklin had been dead for four years when Watson and Crick were awarded the prize for figuring out the structure of DNA. If her cancer was indeed caused by her research, she died so they could get the prize—and so we could improve . . . well, everything. Wouldn't you think she deserves a Nobel footnote or something? Maybe a technical award, like those Oscars for computer programmers that aren't quite statuettes, but are more like plaques. No one on the Nobel Committee has called me for help with this. Not one. I sense a conspiracy. Someone alert Michael Moore.

Posted by: Attila at 02:36 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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