6 Absolute Truths About the 5-Factor Diet

The 5-Factor Diet was originally created for celebrities. Harley was challenged to create brief (yet incredibly effective) workouts for actors, while training them during their short breaks on movie sets. In addition, he needed to create healthy meals in a matter of minutes (literally), using simple ingredients (the fewer the better) that could fit in the mini fridge on a set. Oh, and did we mention that he was relying on a blender and toaster oven for the mixing, blending, and cooking? Harley's clients were eating five times a day, cutting the length of their workouts, and transforming their bodies! As the saying goes, necessity is the mother of invention.

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Poe, Leidy, Morton, and Some Skeletons

Now that's a picture:

Edgar Allan Poe, Joseph Leidy, and Samuel George Morton at Philadelphia's Academy of Natural Sciences

Photo from A Glorious Enterprise: The Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia and the Making of American Science. Via.

Also, did you know that "diddling" can be considered an exact science?  (This and other interesting tid-bits on Poe and early American science appear in Maurice Lee's recent Uncertain Chances.)

Touring The Idea Factory....or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Bell Labs

A Special Guest Post from Ben Gross, Research Fellow, Center for Contemporary History and Policy, at the Chemical Heritage Foundation (Thanks Ben!)


First off, I would like to thank Dan and the other members of the AmericanScience community for offering a forum to discuss a subject near and dear to my heart: the history of corporate science. Specifically, I would like to take a moment to reflect upon the significance of this place:

Bell Labs, courtesy of Wikipedia

Behold, Bell Labs! Located in Murray Hill, New Jersey, during the quarter century after World War II, this facility rose above all others to become synonymous with American innovation. Although a relative newcomer compared to research organizations at General Electric or Du Pont, the technologies developed within its walls—most notably, the transistor—prompted Fortune magazine to identify it in 1958 as “the world’s greatest industrial laboratory.” Further achievements over the coming decades, such as the launch of the first commercial telecommunications satellite (Happy 50^th birthday, Telstar!) and pioneering work on solar panels, lasers, charge-coupled devices, and mobile telephony reinforced the Labs’ reputation.



Indeed, by almost every measure—the size of its technical staff, the number of patents it generated, total Nobel Prizes won—Bell Labs eclipsed all rivals. Industrialists and policymakers scrutinized the work underway at Murray Hill, eager to replicate its scientific and commercial accomplishments. Corporations like Allied Chemical and Standard Oil, attributing Bell Labs’ success to its campus-like atmosphere, went so far as to construct their own research centers in suburban New Jersey. These firms, and many others, also broadened their investments in fundamental research, due to shifts in Cold War funding policies formulated in consultation with Bell research managers like Mervin Kelly and William Baker.

Given this prominence, it is unsurprising that Bell Labs has secured a central position in the historiography of corporate science. Leonard Reich’s comparative analysis of G.E. and Bell, for example, was among the first books challenging historians to treat research conducted in for-profit settings on equal terms with academic laboratories. Steven Shapin’s The Scientific Life echoes Reich’s argument and cites the behavior of Bell Labs’ managers both to call attention to the artificiality of the sociological distinction between not-for-profit and industrial science and to promote increased discussion of the latter. (Though as Will Thomas recently observed, the scope and objectives of such a research agenda remains a matter for debate among scholars like David Edgerton and Philip Mirowski.) Whether compiling surveys of 20th century "big science" or focused case studies of the constituent technologies of the digital age, a mention of Bell Labs is almost inevitable.

Which is why my immediate reaction to the news that journalist Jon Gertner had published another volume on the subject was a combination of curiosity and frustration. For although I am always pleased to see the history of industrial science receive greater public attention, I worried that this new book, The Idea Factory: Bell Labs and the Great Age of American Innovation, would merely rehash the earlier literature and reinforce the notion that Bell Labs was the be-all and end-all of corporate R&D. "Thank goodness," I joked. "Bell Labs hasn't received enough attention over the years. Finally, someonewill take a  momentto recount the originsof the transistor!"

Sarcasm aside, I was excited to read Gertner's account, particularly after learning he would be dropping by the Chemical Heritage Foundation (CHF), where I am currently working as a postdoctoral researcher, for a public conversation with fellow electronics historian David Brock. The event was held last Wednesday and on the whole I was pleasantly surprised, both with the book and Gertner's willingness to acknowledge the challenges associated with compressing nearly a century of complex scientific and political history into a relatively brief 350 pages.

The sheer scale of the Bell Labs organization forced Gertner to confront a question familiar to historians of collaborative research: how to winnow down an otherwise overwhelming array of actors into a coherent cast of characters. In the CHF discussion, Gertner acknowledged that his initial approach utilized technologies as an organizing framework (one chapter on the transistor, one on satellites, etc.), but that he ultimately discarded that scheme to concentrate on a handful of key figures ranging from managers like Kelly and Baker to scientists like William Shockley and Claude Shannon. While his choice of actors was not arbitrary—nearly all self-identified as members of a prominent group of researchers nicknamed the "Young Turks"—Gertner's final chapter hints at a persistent tension between "the individual versus the institution." (358) To what extent, he asks, can the efforts of a select handful shed light on the dynamic realities of the corporate research enterprise? Gertner never provides a decisive answer, either in his book or his CHF visit, preferring to concentrate on his chosen few while occasionally gesturing towards the otherwise unrecognized masses of technicians and development engineers working behind the scenes.

Similarly, while Gertner sometimes called attention to the fact that Bell Labs was not the only industrial research laboratory exploring solid-state phenomena, he was less interested in highlighting interactions between Murray Hill and other firms. Indeed, Bell Labs scientists in Gertner's account might as well have been working in a bubble, isolated from counterparts at GE, IBM, RCA, and other companies sharing an interest in electronically active materials. Situating Bell Labs as one research center among many, however, would have strengthened his case that its accomplishments were only possible due to its unique status as the research arm of a government-sponsored monopoly. So long as AT&T retained its position as the sole caretaker of America’s telephone network, it could pursue a wide range of research projects without worrying about time pressures associated with competition. Once the government forced AT&T to divest of its local affiliates, the so-called Baby Bells, in 1984, the Labs found itself under the gun as money was diverted towards short-term projects. Having never needed to worry about market research in the past made the successful commercialization of such work all the more challenging.

Gertner's success in driving home the point that Bell Labs was the exception rather than the rule so far as industrial research was concerned is, I believe, his most lasting contribution to the historiography of corporate science. One could see hints of this in the questions following his CHF talk, where several audience members asked him to speculate about what would have happened if AT&T had retained its monopoly beyond the 1980s. Rather than delve too deeply into the counterfactual, Gertner responded by noting the contrasting attitudes of Bell Labs personnel and modern venture capitalists concerning competition. While contemporary firms tend to frame competition as a driver of innovation, Bell Labs provides a powerful counterexample, suggesting that the absence of rival firms can facilitate the maturation of technological projects that might otherwise be canceled due to concerns with short-term profit margins.

Regardless of the merits of either position, Gertner emphasized that the economic and legal frameworks associated with Bell Labs' successes were historically contingent. One could not simply transplant their research model to another firm or industry and recreate the atmosphere of Murray Hill. This willingness to treat Bell Labs not as some idealized endpoint that other research organizations failed to reach but as the beneficiary of a unique set of economic and legal circumstances, is the most compelling aspect of Gertner's book. It is certainly enough to differentiate it from the vast majority of writing on the subject and persuade even the most jaded historian of corporate science to give Bell Labs another look.

Facebook and Conspicuous Affection

A little over 110 years ago Thorstein Veblen published The Theory of the Leisure Class, in which he spelled out his now famous and well-known idea of "conspicuous consumption." As Veblen argued, people conspicuously consume, buying silver wear and other luxury goods when cheaper stand-ins would do, because they desire to flag their social status.

Since the publication of Veblen's book, people have invented many and multifarious ways of being noticed.

I have recently been thinking a great deal about the technological dimensions of self-presentation. Let's call them technologies of conspicuous affection.


For several years, I've been talking about the role of conspicuous abstention in our society. You are sitting at a table with a group of people who are conversing. Paul brings up the fact that he watched Mad Men last night. He says the episode was keen. "Draper was a jerk. It was great." Harold, who is also sitting at the table, begins to fidget. Everyone can sense his agitation. Finally, Harold feels the need to blurt.  He seemingly just has to inform everyone at the table that he does not watch tv and, in fact, does not even own a tv, and life is much better tv-less, thank you very much. Hypothetically, Harold could have kept quiet and let the people who like Mad Men talk about Mad Men, but for whatever personal reason, he wanted or needed people to attend to his renunciation of a certain technology.

This is immodest conspicuous abstention, where someone informs others what he or she doesn't do/own. It is probably more common among some slivers of society than others. Especially now that sustainability is chic, some see life as a series of teachable moments in which to educate others about the virtues of not owning a car, not eating meat, not frequenting Starbucks, not buying anything with styrofoam in it, not ever even stepping into a McDonalds unless it is for a pit stop on the highway. Yada, yada. "Even my dog is vegan."

Conspicuous abstention is simply par for the course in some social circles. When confronted with a conspicuous abstainer, it is usually best to bite your hand and let the situation pass. FYI, abstainers don't take kindly to being called killjoys!

Perhaps it is worth noting how central technology is to the things people conspicuously abstain from. Not owning a car is obvious enough on this score, but that choice often goes hand-in-hand with owning and advocating for another technology, namely the bicycle. (+10 points for a fixed gear bike.) The choice not to own a tv is often connected to Neil Postman-like or Robert Putnam-esque criticisms of what television has "done" to our society. Even people who eat meat may avoid McDonald's because of its connection to factory farms, because its industrialized food is tasteless and unhealthy, and because it uses our societies complex technological systems to deliver sweet, syrupy drinks by the vat-load. One could argue that our lives are so thoroughly intertwined with technologies that every kind of choice is related to them in the kinds of ways I just enumerated, but it may be worth pondering how conspicuous abstention is connected to other, long-standing forms of public refusal of technologies, such as the traditional image of the Luddites. 

Social media, or Web 2.0, is shifting the ground of conspicuity. Thirty years ago if you wanted to tell 150 of your friends what you did or did not like, you would have to call each of them on the phone or mail each of them a self-printed pamphlet, for instance, extolling the virtues of Magnum, P.I. and Tom Selleck's short-shorts therein. Social media is really great in this way. It lets you quickly and easily tell everyone what you like (or don't). As everyone knows, social media is so obviously good for this that Facebook created the "like" button, a technology for signaling our inclinations. We have entered the age of conspicuous affection.

(I'm sure that whole dissertations are being written right now on Facebook's decision not to include a "don't like" or "hate" button. Perhaps the company is simply worried about law suits around carpal tunnel resulting from all the clicking that would ensue such an invention.)

The full of weight of conspicuous affection became clear to me a few weeks ago when I was texting with my friend, Mike. We were talking about the weird things that people "like." I was asking, why does anyone need to "like" NPR? Whenever I see that someone has pressed the NPR "like" button, it is almost always completely obvious that the person would be an NPR fan. That's just the kind of person he or she is. "You mean, you like This American Life? You don't say," I note as I stare at the copies of Dave Eggers, Michael Chabon, Jonathan Franzen, and Jonathan Safran Foer on the person's shelf.  

But my friend pointed out that at least NPR is an organization that makes things. By liking NPR, you may learn more about new productions that you might want to check out. What's really weird, he claimed, is that people "like" things such as reading and yoga, things that are not associated with any group or person but that are simply out there in the world. Social media technology allows us to flag things that we care for that others might never know we care for; that is, our affection would be invisible if we didn't represent it through a signal.

Of course, you could just tell people these things. "I like to read." But this might seem strange. If you said that in some social circles, people would get very quiet and visibly uncomfortable. They would think that you made some kind of joke that they weren't getting. Why? Because everyone at the table likes to read. That's just not the kind of thing people usually say out loud. But for some reason it is the kind of thing that some people "like."

Jean Paul Sartre and other philosophers have claimed that the self, or the ego, is not something inside of us but rather something external in the world. For instance, Tony relates to himself in the same way you and I relate to Tony's self. His self is something that everyone, including him, tells stories about, rather than being something inside of him that he has special access to. It is interesting to consider how social media allows us to construct ourselves and perhaps gives us a sense that we can have more control of the narrative about ourselves. This sense of control is almost certainly illusory. You can "like" Charles Dickens however much you want; your nearest and dearest will still know that you spend most of your free time with American Idol. Yet, Sartre argued that the ability to control others' perceptions was something that everyone profoundly desired. The (bad) functionalist argument would go like this: And having some sense of this desire, tech companies created a technology to give some semblance of mastery . . .

This is the thing. Facebook created a button that allows us to signal our affections. At first blush, this button was to be used to strengthen social networks and increase use of the system. You post a photograph. I "like" it. You feel good that I gave you attention; you like that I "liked" it. The button also simultaneously allows us to spell out our identity. It lets us flag our fondness.

And people are pushing that button, again and again and again. 

Shotgunning, Inc.

More thoughts on beer technologies! These should go down just as smoothly as my post on canning craft beer (written up more fully here). I'll focus on MillerCoors, one of the industry's biggest packaging innovators, and in particular on one of their best-selling beers, Miller Lite. 

Look at that pour!

The fact that taste isn't the most interesting thing about Miller Lite (as the company itself has basically suggested*) is, I'd argue, not unrelated to the fact that the brand has been on the leading edge of a packaging revolution for the last half-decade. 

Consumers have a lot of trouble telling the difference between "light American lagers" by taste (just listen to these experts!). To distinguish themselves on the marketplace, a lot goes into (big surprise) marketing – but here I think we've got something more. Differences in packaging might in fact be mostly talk, but there's at least a claim to technological superiority – and that's enough to get me interested. 

Much recent design novelty is about getting the beer out of the bottle (and the alcohol into your bloodstream) faster and smoother, as can be seen in the brand's two most recent innovations.

The first is the "Vortex Bottle." Introduced in 2010, the "specially designed grooves inside the neck" are designed to let "the great pilsner taste flow right out." 

The Miller Lite Vortex Bottle

The second is the "Punch Top Can," which features "a second tab for a smoother pour." According to Miller Lite's "director of innovation and activation," the Punch Top is more popular than standard cans because "it’s more like drinking from a pilsner glass" (!). 

The Miller Lite Punch Top Can

Now, it seems pretty clear that similarity to "a pilsner glass" isn't the actual impetus behind the shift. Nor is it all that clear whether either innovation actually produces smoother (as opposed to faster) pours (though the Vortex has been subjected to rigorous experimental testing). 

What's interesting to me is that, in the case of the Punch Top, what we have is a neat case of the corporate capture of subversive consumer behavior. The practice of "shotgunning," a favorite frat-boy pastime for decades, achieved the same effect with the addition of an outside technology (such as a pen or knife).

Shotgunning the old-fashioned way

It seems like MillerCoors, in an effort to differentiate their product from identical competitors, has co-opted and attempted to monetize a longstanding traditional practice previously external to the market for the products themselves. 

Two last points to make. 

First, the whole thing about "pilsner glasses" makes clear that MillerCoors recognizes the danger in marketing alcoholic beverages on the basis of their "chuggability." Punch Tops are part of the continued effort of the manufacturers of "frat beers" to market their products without directly referencing the fun uses (flip-cup, keg-stands, funneling) to which they're put.

Second, what's on the one-hand an innovative corporate adaptation of a local practice is also a blast to the past in terms of beer containers. Remember church-keys? Time was, cans were all opened by "punching" – and featured instructions on the side for how to do it. 

Can Opening Instructions (from the 1930s)

Punch Tops, too, carry instructions. The company even released a video detailing the advantages of their "new" packaging and how to navigate it.

In a final nod to the populist roots of their marketing ploy (and as a way to not-talk-about-but-not-not-talk-about its "chuggability"), the ad campaign for Punch Tops has emphasized not their smooth pour, but rather their customizability. "How do you punch it?"

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*A recent ad contains a delightfully ambiguous line: "Because a guy that leaves no buddy behind deserves a beer that leaves no taste behind."

The Mind Diet -- Think Your Way To Weight Loss Success

If you are truly serious and ready to dramatically change your life for the better by losing weight and keeping it off, get this book.

But if you’re looking for a “lose weight fast” magic pill overnight miracle, look elsewhere.

The Mind Diet: Think Your Way To Weight Loss Success will give you a whole new way of looking at weight loss, dieting and fat by getting you to think about how weight impacts your life – how much better your life will be when you lose weight, and how much worse if will be if you gain weight or don’t lose.

I’ve tried numerous programs and read countless books over the years, and I finally realized that successful weight loss is all in the mind. I wasn’t successful at losing weight until I changed my mindset and decided once and for all that significant weight loss was a must.

As I lost weight I wrote this book. The principles in it enabled me to have an extraordinary amount of willpower, and I’ve lost plenty of weight and kept it off. The book has 121 bite-size, 1-2 page write-ups that I call “Think Abouts.” Each one asks you to think about specific topics, such as “Think About Our Supersized Culture” or “Think About Food and Stress” or “Think About Weight and Sex.”

Each “Think About” comes with practical advice you can implement now in sections called “What to do about it.” Since you eat three times a day, and are tempted by food many more, knowing how to approach each “food decision” is critical to sustained weight loss. I give you practical and easy to implement methods to give you the best possible route to sustained weight loss. Whether it’s an office party where it’s hard not to eat, a restaurant or cruise buffet or an in-law that’s filling up your plate until it can’t hold any more, there are solutions so that you don’t overeat – ever!

The Mind Diet will also show you, in a very easy-reading and understandable style, how to think about what you eat in relation to ailments (diabetes, heart disease, kidney issues, breathing problems, muscle and joint concerns), medications and other aspects of your medical history and lifestyle.

If you become a real thinker about weight as I did, you will most likely find the kind of willpower that I have, which will result in you having a completely different outlook on dieting. You’ll be able to enjoy relationships more, not be affected by annoyances and health issues that plague heavy people, and your short- and long-term outlook will be that much brighter.

The Mind Diet is for someone who has tried pills, fad diets, lose weight fast books and videos, and has come to the conclusion that none of those programs work, despite what the ads say. It’s for people who know they need to lose weight and are ready to really get serious about doing so.

If you’re ready for a new approach, The Mind Diet: Think Your Way To Weight Loss Success, is for you.

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Brooke Hindle on Early American Science

This retrospective look (from the 1980s, it seems, by Brooke Hindle) at the mid-twentieth-century origins of the history of science in early America deserves a quick read. The piece covers quite a bit of ground (including history of technology and material culture), but I found most interesting its discussion of the influence on the history of science of the tide toward "social and intellectual history," alongside the rise of institutions that I would affiliate with the American studies movement like the [now Omohundro] Institute of Early American History and Culture.

On the history of American studies generally, my first stop for an actor's account is still Leo Marx's 2004 essay, "Believing in America."