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Download Billion Dollar Brain (1967) torrents and select free movies from direct links to movie pages. While Haag waited for an answer, the family of Robert . He was the fourth Spring. Drug researcher David Nutt discusses brain-imaging studies with hallucinogens. Researchers have published the first images showing the effects of LSD on the human. Some chapters are long, over 20 pages and include the original material because of their importance and for documentation. It's intense involvement and very different. Longtime broadcasters Bob Costas and Jon Miller grew up playing Strat baseball, while director Spike Lee turned his real- life obsession of replaying the Brooklyn Dodgers' '5. The board game evolved into a computerized version more than a decade ago, allowing contemporary players to compete in highly organized online leagues that feature everything today's deepest fantasy leagues offer: dynasty drafts, trades, long- term scouting. And there's little room for fly- by- nighters. Subscribe and SAVE, give a gift subscription or get help with an existing subscription by clicking the links below each cover image.Billion Dollar Brain is a 1967 British espionage film directed by Ken Russell and based on the novel of the same name by Len Deighton. The film features Michael Caine. Colombia has found a Spanish galleon that went down off the country's coast with a treasure now valued between $4 billion and $17 billion. Contrary to what drug advertising and popular belief suggests, there is no evidence supporting the idea that depression is caused by a chemical imbalance. Most of the guys who play Strat football are older - - 3. Unlike fantasy football, Strat issues its annual player- card release in August. So, later this summer, players of both the board game and computer version will get their first peek at last year's rookies and Super Bowl- champion Broncos. And then there's other guys who only play the board game, and that takes forever, but they enjoy that solitude of rolling the dice and writing the stats down and calculating it by hand. Features: Mystery at Rohm & Haas. There is good science, and there is bad science. The distance between the two is an infinitesimal divide. THERE IS GOOD science, and there is bad science. The former can be replicated. The latter is guesswork and gaps, hunches rather than cold, unshakable certainty. The distance between the two, the good science and the bad, is an infinitesimal divide. It’s the difference between innovation and failure, industry and paralysis, and sometimes, without exaggeration, between life and death. Throughout his career with the Rohm & Haas chemical company, Tom Haag knew good science. His first job there was lab assistant; he was just out of high school, and Dwight Eisenhower was in the White House. Except for two years the Army claimed, he would spend the next 3. Rohm & Haas, from chemist to lab chief to R& D and marketing. By Haag’s own estimation, his invention — acrylic latex semi- gloss paint — has resulted in $4 billion in profits. Some might call that great science, with a capital G. When Haag retired in 1. The company’s Spring House compound in Lower Gwynedd Township, Montgomery County, had become his second home when it opened in 1. He walked away from Rohm & Haas on very good terms, with a quarter of a million dollars in his pocket, and a four- bedroom sanctuary in Beach Haven Inlet to share with his wife, Dot. He had Rohm & Haas — the nation’s sixth largest chemical company, with $8. Haag hadn’t thought of Wayne Kachelries for years, but in his Shore house on an August morning in 1. Wall Street Journal. He read about an Amoco chemical plant in Illinois where an unusual number of brain cancers had been discovered — four malignant tumors since 1. Amoco responded by closing 3. A few details reached out to Haag: The Amoco employees all worked in the same building. They probably worked with some of the same chemicals that Wayne Kachelries once handled at Spring House. And Kachelries, at age 4. After a couple phone calls to Rohm & Haas went nowhere, Haag, then 6. Phil Lewis. Applications chemists like himself, Haag explained, regard synthesis guys like Kachelries, who are often exposed to high levels of dangerous low- molecular chemicals, “as coal miners regard canaries.” Haag’s curiosity spilled onto the page: Did Kachelries have the same type of cancer as the Amoco workers? Were there chemicals in common between his old friend and those “poor fellows”? Haag understood all the ways in which the Haas family has quietly shaped Philadelphia, with charitable gifts measured by the millions each year. With lives possibly at stake, Haag knew he’d hear back soon. He was the fourth Spring House man to die of the same brain cancer since 1. Amoco victims. There were more before him, and more yet to come. Eighteen Spring House workers had brain tumors, of which 1. Today, those 1. 4 employees are dead. Thirteen of them worked in the same three buildings. Rohm & Haas has launched two investigations of its own, but Spring House remains open. And Tom Haag is still waiting for good science to answer his questions. CHEMISTRY ISN’T SEXY. Hollywood heroes don’t wear lab coats, and Sissy Spacek wouldn’t have an Oscar if she’d played a chemist’s daughter. But to follow Haag’s analogy, coal miners and chemists share some occupational concerns. No matter how cautious they are, no matter how many years they’ve spent down in the tunnels, or “on the bench” testing new compounds, they never know. Today could be the day the earthen roof gives way and shrouds you in black forever. Today could be the day you expose yourself to a chemical that will kill you. Coal miners and chemists understand the risks they take, and they share a knowing bravado. Safety doesn’t mean you’re ever really safe. Men die in coal mines. Men also die for science. If there’s an aboveground equivalent to the coal mine, it was industrial Philadelphia in the first half of the 2. Northeast. The factories that blackened those blue skies and filled the air with an acrid stench defined folks there as much the neighborhoods they lived in. You weren’t from Philadelphia; you were from Bridesburg, and wiping soot from your windowsills when the wind blew across open mountains of coal from Koppers Coke was as natural as breathing. You worked for Allied Chemical or Rohm & Haas, and if you didn’t, someone on your street or in your family did. No one knew the names of the chemicals they mixed in 1. But everyone knew that come the Fourth of July, there would be hot dogs and ice cream and the best fireworks display in the city, all courtesy of Rohm & Haas, whose founder, Otto Haas, was said to regard his workers as his own children. Like Colonial settlers bearing gifts for the natives, Rohm & Haas arrived on the Delaware from Germany in 1. That was a very good thing for the booming tanneries in Frankford, and for their neighbors. It was war, though, that clamored for the company’s next invention, Plexiglas. Thanks to World War II, Rohm & Haas became one of America’s fastest- growing chemical interests, and its shatterproof plastic shielded pilots in both the American military and the Luftwaffe. Back home in Philadelphia, the price to pay for innovation was as obvious as the frequent staccato air- horn blasts that sounded after explosions. As a Bridesburg worker once told an Inquirer reporter, “When you went to work for a chemical plant, you knew you weren’t working for Breyers ice cream.” So commonplace were mishaps that the company paid for its own ambulance corps. Its buildings were designed with fly- away roofs that would blow off and walls that would break away, to minimize damage. Catastrophes weren’t just possible. They were inevitable. IN 1. 96. 7, FOUR years after the Spring House campus opened, eight Rohm & Haas executives gathered in the new corporate headquarters at 6th and Market streets, which overlooked Independence Mall and was dressed up with Plexiglas chandeliers in the lobby. Founder Otto Haas was no longer alive, but his sons, F. Haas, were there, listening to the results of an independent study that linked the chemical BCME with the lung cancer that was sweeping through a black, windowless monolith in R& H’s Bridesburg plant known as Building 6. Mice exposed to BCME were overcome by cancer at an alarming rate, just like the men who worked with the clear liquid and breathed its fumes. Though its conclusions seemed obvious, the science behind the study wasn’t good. Hazelton Laboratories, hired by the company to study BCME, wanted quick results, so it used mice already predisposed to cancer, a protocol one expert would later call “stupid.” But while another cancer authority subsequently acknowledged holes in the study’s methodology, he cautioned, “The signal it gives should not have been disregarded.” Rohm & Haas did just that, declaring the results “not conclusive” due to the questionable research. So men like Bob Pontious, a 2. BCME processes from a raging fire inside Building 6, continued to work, and the massive kettles continued to release their vapors. Two decades later, the company would settle the last of the lawsuits from the widows of the Death House, as it was known among its workers; the body count is estimated to stand at well over 6. Building 6 would change the company forever. New hires were given copies of “5. Who Died,” the groundbreaking Inquirer report that revealed the BCME crisis, and the book that followed, Building 6. Safety, once a guideline, became a prime directive. An in- house department of epidemiology was also created, to track and analyze any unusual illnesses among workers. It would practice good science, in service of the workers’ health, not the bottom line. Tom Haag figured the ghosts of Building 6 would spook his former company into fast action regarding his letter about Wayne Kachelries. The company’s medical director, Phil Lewis, passed Haag’s concerns down to Arvind Carpenter, Rohm & Haas’s chief epidemiologist, and gave him two directives: Call the head of the Amoco study, and examine the Rohm & Haas cancer registry. A quick browse through that database turned up five cases — not enough, Carpenter said, to warrant concern. He never called Amoco. For the next six years, the company did nothing more. BARRY LANGE NEVER saw the old Rohm & Haas- sponsored fireworks in Bridesburg — he grew up in Levittown, where his bedroom also served as his chemistry lab. Those childhood experiments led him to a career as a celebrated polymer chemist at Spring House. Everyone there seemed to know him, and if Rohm & Haas had been a high school, Lange would have been its homecoming king. He played softball with his R& H buddies, and harmonica in a blues outfit dubbed the Beaker Band. What Lange most looked forward to every year was July, when he’d rent a beach house on the Outer Banks for a week with his wife and their two daughters. Away from work, Lange was a goofball, always joking around with his girls — always doing something, like molecules in perpetual motion. That’s why, in 2. His wife, Linda, figured he was exhausted — he’d just left Rohm & Haas after 2. Johnson & Johnson. The average Rohm & Haas career lasts longer than most marriages, and leaving the company was an emotional parting for Lange. But now he was acting just plain weird, like during charades night, when his pantomimes didn’t match his words. It was like something had scrambled the dictionary in his head. Vomiting fits came the next week, then a seizure. An ambulance sped Lange to Abington Hospital, where surgeons removed 9. Like Wayne Kachelries, Lange had glioblastoma multiforme, a fast- moving and lethal strain of glioma — the same cancer type that had prompted Amoco to close its Illinois plant. Carpenter, the company epidemiologist, didn’t need to consult a cancer database to learn about Lange’s condition. Everyone at Spring House knew.
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