On three different occasions, the candidate with the most votes didn't become president of the United States. We call this "The Electoral College Problem." Here's a solution. Simple. Mathematical. Rational. (With one small "but ...")
Last year a guy in San Francisco jumped on a bicycle, clicked on his GPS, clicked on an app, snapped on his helmet, and 27 miles, two and a half hours and many calories later, he'd etched a Valentine message onto a street map of San Francisco. That was nice. Now, a year later, it's getting really interesting.
A channel on YouTube lets you see what goes on deep in the bowels (excuse the expression) of a natural history museum. There are dead things in jars, drawers and basements, but best of all, there's Emily, who hosts the show. She's a volunteer curatorial assistant/storyteller who could make a thumbtack interesting.
Lulu Miller's advice for taking the edge off that unrequited love this Valentine's? Send a letter to Verona, Italy, where an office of 20 volunteers replies to thousands of notes about love and heartbreak every year.
Everybody knows you need a chicken to lay an egg. Everybody knows you need an egg to produce a chicken. What nobody knows is how the cycle started. Here's a new take, that leans eggwards — and it's fun to watch.
Drop a cat from a bed, a chair or a tree, and it will do its wriggly thing and land on all four feet. Cats are famous for this. But we've discovered an animal that does it better. Meet the new champ.
Take a boot, take a glove, take a brick, take a pan, take a car roof, spray it with this new nano-tech substance and strange things will happen. Very strange things.
Spielberg's were big, green and scaly. The real ones? They were often rosy, yellow, orange, iridescent, covered with fuzz, plumes, or feathers. Take a look at this latest take on the Jurassic, when reptiles, we think, looked more like rainbows.
Just under the iced-over surface of a Canadian lake, white pancake-shaped bubbles stack up in towers. They may look pretty, but they pack an explosive and deadly punch.
Nathaniel, a young Berkeley biologist, met a beautiful yeast who promised opportunity and adventure, but once they got together, Nathaniel was clumsy, the yeast not what he'd hoped, and their romance? Well, it didn't work out. It's now a song. Sung by Nathaniel. The yeast, lacking vocal chords, is silent.
This is the tale of one man's slobbering, very unpretty pet cat, his brave sister, his homicidal yet generous uncle, and what happened one winter night when he was a boy.
In the story The Little Prince, a boy from a tiny planet lands on Earth. The boy is tall, the planet small, and you worry he might fall off. In real life, real Earthlings once had a hint of this experience. It was 1972, and you can go there with them.
In New Zealand, where they do things differently, middle schoolers are taught statistics, probability and experimental science in an odd way. They explore frustrating supermarket lines, ungraspable tape, foot seeking thumbtacks and carpet soiling toast.
What if I told you that there's a mathematical formula buried deep in living things that tells us — all of us, dandelions, gorillas, sea grasses, elm trees, buttercups — when it's time to die. Scientists think there is such rule. It has to do with size.