“I guess…”
“Youguess ?” Diehl turned to face him. “Let’s show a little enthusiasm here, Josh. I’m telling you, this is a great idea. What’s the recidivism rate in addiction-treatment programs today? Eighty percent? Ninety percent? A hundred percent? Most rehab doesn’t work for most people. That’s a fact. How many addicts are there in this country? Christ, we got more than a million in prisons. So how many are on the streets? Twenty million? Thirty million?”
Josh was beginning to sweat. “That would be like, eight or ten percent of the population.”
“Sounds about right. I’d bet ten percent of the American population is addicted to drugs, when you include alcohol. Ten percent, easy. Which makes the maturity gene a hell of a product!”
Josh was silent.
“What do you have to say, Josh?”
“Uh, I guess it’s a good idea…”
“You wouldn’t be fucking with me, would you?”
“No,” Josh said. “Of course not.”
“You wouldn’t be holding out on me. Striking out on your own?”
“No,” he said. “Why would you say that?”
“Your mother called today,” Diehl said.
Oh shit.
“She’s very proud of what you’ve done, and doesn’t understand why I haven’t given you a promotion.”
Josh sank into a chair. He felt drenched in cold sweat. “So, what are you going to do?” he said.
Rick Diehl smiled. “Give you a promotion, of course,” he said. “Did you keep records of the dosages you administered?”
CH030
In a glass-walledconference room on Madison Avenue, the marketing firm of Watson & Naeme was engaged in naming a new product. The room was packed with hip young people in their teens and twenties, all casually dressed, as if they were attending a rock concert instead of a dry lecture from a professor standing at a lectern wearing a bowtie and talking about a gene calledA 58799-6B. The professor was now showing graphs of enzymatic action, black squiggly lines on white. The kids sagged, slumped in their seats, thumbed their BlackBerrys. Only a few tried to focus on the material.
Sitting in the back of the room, the team leader, a psychologist named Paul Gode, spun his finger in the air, signaling the professor to wind it up. Bowtie looked surprised, but he concluded smoothly.
“In summary,” the professor said, “our team at Columbia University has isolated a gene that promotes social harmony and group cohesion. It does this by activating the prefrontal cortex of the brain, an area known to be important in determining belief and credence. We have demonstrated this gene action by exposing experimental subjects to both conventional and controversial ideas. Controversial ideas produce a distinctive prefrontal signature, whereas conventional ideas create a diffused activation—what you might call a warm glow. Thus subjects with the gene show a marked preference for conventional thinking and familiar ideas. They also show a preference for group thinking of all kinds. They like television. They like Wikipedia. They like cocktail parties. They like small talk. They like to be in agreement with people around them. Our gene is an important force for social stability and civilization. Since it’s the gene that promotes conventional wisdom, we call it the conventional gene.”
The audience sat silent. Stunned. Finally one of them said, “You call itwhat ?”
“The conventional gene.”
“Jesus, that’s terrible!”
“Suicide.”
“Forget it.”
“Or,” the professor said quickly, “we call it the civilizing gene.”
Groans in the room. “Thecivilizing gene? That’s worse! Worse!”
“Horrible.”
“Argh!”
“Jump off a bridge!”
The professor looked nonplussed. “What’s wrong with that name? Civilization is a good thing, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” said the team leader, coming forward from the back. Paul Gode stepped up to the lectern. “The only trouble is, nobody in this country wants to think of themselves as joiners or civilizers. Just the opposite—we’re all rugged individualists. We’re all rebels. We’re antiestablishment. We stand out, we strike out, we do our own thing, go our own way. The herd of independent minds, somebody called it. Nobody wants to feel they’renot a rebel. Nobody wants to admit that they just want to fit in.”
“But in truth, everybodydoes want to fit in,” the professor said. “At least, almost everybody. About ninety-two percent of people have the conventional-wisdom gene. The real rebels lack it, and they are—”
“Stop right there,” the team leader said, holding up his hand. “Just stop. You want to make your gene valuable. That means your gene creates something peoplewant to possess—something exciting and desirable. Conventional wisdom is not exciting or desirable. It’s mundane. It’s buttered toast with grape jelly. That’s what the group is telling you.” He gestured to a chair. “You might want to take a seat, professor.”
Gode turned to the group, which now looked slightly more alert. “All right. People? BlackBerrys away. Let’s hear it.”
“How about the smart gene?” someone said.
“Good, but inaccurate.”
“Simplicity gene.”
“Good direction…”
“Social gene.”
“Oversell.”
“Socializing gene.”
“Therapeutic.”
“Wisdom gene. Wise gene.”
“Wise gene. Good, very good.”
“Right-thinking gene.”
“Too Maoist. Or Buddhist. Come on, wake up here!”
“Party gene.”
“Fun gene.”
“Stone-washed genes. Hip-hugger genes.”
“Happy gene.”
“Live-it-up gene.”
Gode was frowning, and held up his hand again. “Redirect,” he said. “Back up. Rewind. Rethink. What’s our problem? This gene is really the gene for conventional wisdom—the conventional-wisdom gene—but we don’t want to say that. So. What’sgood about conventional wisdom? What does embracing conventional wisdom do for a person? Quickly, now.”
“Makes you belong.”
“You don’t stand out.”
“You think like everybody else.”
“Reduces friction.”
“You fit in.”
“Means you read theTimes. ”
“Nobody looks at you funny.”
“Makes your life simpler.”
“No arguments.”
“Feel safe expressing an opinion.”
“Everybody agrees with you.”
“You’re a good person.”
“You feel good.”
“Makes you comfortable.”
Gode snapped his fingers and pointed. “Good. Conventional thinking makes uscomfortable …Yes! No surprises, no distress. In the world out there, everything is constantly changing, every minute. It’s not a comfortable place. And everybody wants to feel comfortable, right? Old pair of shoes, comfortable sweats, favorite chair…”
“Comfortable gene?”
“Comfy gene.”
“Comfort gene. The comfort gene.”
“Warm and fuzzy gene. Warm gene?”
“Happy gene.”
“Friendly gene? Easy gene?”
“Soothing gene. Smooth gene.”
“Calm gene. Balm gene.”
This went on for a while, until finally there were nine candidates scrawled on the whiteboard. A furious argument ensued as names were deleted, though of course all the names would be concept-tested with focus groups. In the end, everybody agreed the winner would be the comfort gene.
“Let’s test itin the field,” Gode said. “Professor? Tell us: Where is this gene going, commercially?”
It was too early to say, the professor explained. They had isolated the gene, but they didn’t yet know the full range of diseases associated with it. However, since nearly everybody in the world carried the comfort gene, they believed that ma
ny people probably suffered from genetic anomalies involving the gene. For example: People who were overly desirous of joining the majority—that might prove to be a genetic disorder. And people who felt depressed when they were alone, by themselves—conceivably, another disorder. People who joined protest marches, went to sports games, who sought out situations where they would be surrounded by lots of like-minded people—a potential genetic disorder. Then there were people who felt obliged to agree with whomever they were with, no matter what was said—yet another disorder. And what about people who were afraid to think for themselves? Fear of independence from the surrounding group?
“Let’s face it, that’s a lot of people,” the professor said. “Nobody thinks for themselves if they can help it.”
“You mean all this behavior is going to be considered pathological?” someone asked.
“Any compulsive behavior is pathological,” the professor answered.
“But positive behavior? Protest marches?”
“Our position,” the professor said, “is that we are on the verge of identifying a range of disease states all related to sociability.” These genetic anomalies involving the comfort gene had not yet been definitively established, but Columbia University had applied for a patent on the gene itself, meaning that the gene would have increasing value as disorders involving it were identified with certainty.
Gode coughed. “We’ve made a mistake. These are all disorders of sociability. This needs to be the sociability gene.”
And so it was.
FromBusiness Online :
SCIENTISTS FIND GENE FOR SOCIABILITY
Is the tendency to sociability inherited? Scientists at the Morecomb Laboratories, at Columbia University, believe that it is. They report they have found the gene that regulates it, and they have applied for a patent on the gene…
Op-Ed Commentary from theNew York Times :
A “SOCIABILITY GENE”? WHEN WILL THIS NONSENSE STOP?
Columbia University researchers now claim to have found a sociability gene. What’s next? The shyness gene? The reclusive gene? The monastic gene? How about the get-off-my-back gene?
In truth, researchers are taking advantage of the public’s lack of knowledge about how genes actually operate. No single gene controls any behavioral trait. Unfortunately, the public doesn’t know that. They think there’s a gene for eye color, for height, and for hair curliness, so why not one for sociability? Geneticists will not speak out. They all sit on the boards of private companies, and are in a race to identify genes they can patent for their own profit.
Will this ever stop? Evidently not.
FromGrist online:
FEELING SOCIABLE? THAT’S PATENTED
The research office of Columbia University has applied for a patent on a gene that it says controls sociability. Does this mean that one day everyone on antidepressants, or ADD medications, or anxiety medications, will have to pay a royalty to Columbia? Reportedly, pharmaceutical giants in Switzerland are bidding frantically to license the gene.
CH031
The fact-findinghearing of the Bioethics Review Panel at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda was carefully structured to feel collegial and unintimidating. Everyone sat at the same long table in the third-floor conference room of the main building, a familiar setting, with notices for upcoming seminars tacked on the walls and the aging coffeemaker sputtering in the corner. The coffee was notoriously awful; nobody drank it.
The six scientists on the review panel dressed a little more formally for this meeting. Most had put on jackets; one even wore a tie. But they sat slouched and relaxed as they talked to the person being investigated, Dr. Ronald Marsh, forty-one, who sat at the same table with them.
“And how, exactly, did this twelve-year-old girl die?”
Dr. Marsh was a professor of medicine at the University of Texas in Austin. “She suffered from congenital transport factor deficiency.” CTFD was a fatal genetic deficiency. “This girl was treated with diet and renal dialysis from the age of nine months. She showed some stunting of growth but no mental retardation. She and her family both wanted this procedure, in the hope that she could have a normal life. Not be tied to a machine forever. As you know, it’s not much of a life, especially for a young kid.”
Those around the table listened impassively.
“And looking to the future,” Marsh continued, “we all recognized that she could not be maintained through adolescence. Hormonal changes were already affecting her metabolism. She was certain to die in the next three to four years. It was on that basis that we undertook the procedure to insert the gene into her body.” He paused. “The risks were known.”
One of the scientists said, “These risks were discussed with the family?”
“Of course. In detail.”
“And with the patient?”
“Yes. She was a bright girl. She was the one who first proposed the procedure. She read about it on the Internet. She understood that the risks were enormous.”
“Did you give the family an estimate of those risks?”
“We did. We told them the chances of success were on the order of three percent.”
“And they went ahead anyway?”
“Yes. The daughter pushed them. She felt that if she was going to die anyway, she might as well take the chance.”
“She was a minor…”
“Yes,” Marsh said. “But she was also the one with the disease.”
“You got signed releases?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve read those releases. Some of us felt the releases struck an unrealistic positive tone, minimizing risks.”
“The releases were prepared by the hospital’s legal department,” Marsh said. “And you will notice the family signed off on a statement that they had been fully informed of the risks. What they were told is also noted in the patient’s charts. We would not have proceeded without fully informed consent.”
During that speech, the head of the panel, Dr. Robert Bellarmino, slipped into the room and eased into a seat at the end of the table.
“So you did the procedure?” Dr. Marsh was asked.
“We did.”
“What vector was used?”
“Modified adenovirus infusion, in combination with standard Barlow immunosuppression protocols.”
“And the outcome?”
“She spiked a fever almost at once. It ran to 107 degrees. She had signs of multiple organ system failure on the second day. Liver and kidney function did not recover. She died on the third day.”
There was a short silence.
“If I may make a personal comment,” Marsh said, “this has been a shattering experience for all of us at the hospital, and shattering for me personally. We had cared for this girl since infancy. She was…beloved by everyone on the staff. She was a little ray of sunshine, whenever she came into the clinic. We attempted this risky procedure because she wanted it. But at night I ask myself, was it the right thing to do? And I always feel I had an obligation to take that risk with the patient, if that was what she wanted. She wanted life. How could I deny her that chance?”
A cough. “But, uh, your team had no experience with gene transplantation.”
“No. We considered sending her to another team.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“No one else would do the procedure.”
“What did that tell you?”
Marsh sighed. “Have any of you seen a patient die of CTFD? Their kidneys necrose. Their livers shut down. Their bodies swell, turn a purple-gray color. They can’t breathe. They’re in agony. They take days to die. Should I have waited for that to happen to this lovely girl? I didn’t think so.”
There was another moment of silence at the table. The mood was distinctly disapproving. “Why is the family suing now?”
Marsh shook his head. “I haven’t been able to speak to them.”
“They have stated in court documents that they weren’t informed.”
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