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There are few things more human than throwing a tea party. You gather cups no one actually drinks from. You assign roles. You pour invisible liquids with deep sincerity. You nod solemnly at someone who isn’t there. And now, apparently, you can add this to the list of deeply human behaviors: An ape sitting down with scientists… and serving up imagination. Let’s set the scene. A research lab. A table. Toy cups. Props. Curious primate eyes. Scientists hoping—quietly, cautiously—that something interesting might happen. And then it does. An ape begins engaging in pretend play. Not just manipulation. Not just copying. Not just “press lever, get grape.” But imagination . Now, before we all grab monocles and gasp into porcelain teacups, let’s acknowledge something: humans have been guarding imagination like it’s a private club membership. “Symbolic thought? That’s us.” “Pretend play? Exclusive.” “Tea parties? Reserved for toddlers and literary heroines.” But then along ...

Every adult who now calmly explains climate feedback loops, insect communication, or marine ecosystems once sat cross-legged on the floor, chewing on the corner of a book and thinking, wow, that frog has a stressful life . That’s the part we forget. We imagine scientists emerging fully formed from laboratories, clutching grant proposals and Latin names, when in reality many of them started out as children deeply invested in whether a fictional animal was going to survive the next page. This is inconvenient for a culture that prefers to believe curiosity can be downloaded at age eighteen, preferably after tuition has cleared. Instead, the truth is messier and far more interesting: long before job titles, credentials, or professional seriousness, there were picture books, battered field guides, survival stories, and strange little narratives that made the natural world feel both enormous and personal. Not inspirational in the motivational-poster sense, but sticky. They lodged themselve...

If you’ve ever watched a magician work, you know the trick: the misdirection happens in the bright light, while the real move happens in the shadows. Right now, NASA’s flagship science hub—Goddard Space Flight Center—is experiencing the federal-government version of sleight of hand. Out front, we get soothing lines about “realignment,” “efficiency,” and “presidential priorities.” Backstage, labs are being emptied, offices boxed, and a decades-deep reserve of expertise scattered like bolts after a vibration test. And if critics are right, parts of this weren’t just reckless—they were unlawful. Let’s set the scene. In late October, Space.com published a long, meticulously sourced report alleging that NASA leadership has been treating the President’s FY26 budget request like it’s already the law of the land—months before Congress signs anything. People inside Goddard describe a campus-wide game of musical chairs where the music never stops, it just gets faster: forced moves, abrupt closu...

Remember when labs were sacred spaces of beakers, data sets, and the occasional coffee-fueled grad student meltdown— not front-row seats to a political cage match? Good times. Those days are gone. In 2025, science is less “pure quest for truth” and more “episode of Real Housewives: Capitol Hill ,” where every pipette is a political prop. The latest proof? Two respected virologists, Robert Garry and Kristian Andersen, sat politely in a House hearing while politicians with zero lab experience lectured them on why their peer-reviewed conclusion—that COVID-19 likely emerged naturally—was “unscientific.” Yes, lawmakers who think “gain-of-function” is a gym membership are now self-appointed virology referees. From Oppenheimer to Oppen-Politics If this all feels new, historian Michael Hiltzik reminds us it isn’t. Back in the Oppenheimer era, Ernest Lawrence tried to keep his Berkeley lab politics-free, only to be steamrolled by Cold War loyalty oaths. The takeaway: politicians have al...

Ah, the Royal Society. The oldest scientific institution in the UK, home to Isaac Newton’s apple, Charles Darwin’s heretical beard, and Stephen Hawking’s galactic swagger. You know, the place that exists to “promote and support science.” And what does the Royal Society do when one of its Fellows helps oversee the defunding, censorship, and slow suffocation of science itself? Well, apparently, it sends a strongly worded email and then retreats into the shadows like a disappointed Victorian governess who can’t bring herself to spank the naughty child. Let’s set the stage. Elon Musk—space overlord, electric car messiah, meme czar, and now head of the US Department of Government Efficiency (charmingly and ominously abbreviated as Doge )—has been helping the Trump administration gut scientific research like it’s an overbudget fish. Doge has become a blunt instrument for budgetary bloodletting and ideological sanitization. Peer-reviewed? Not unless it’s peer-approved by MAGA hats and TikT...