Conspiracies against progress: why the rise of the modern conspiracy theory should concern us all

by David Lambert

Contrails are the wispy white clouds of frozen water vapor that streak across the sky in the wake of jet engines. But according to 17 percent of 18 to 29-year-olds—my generation—contrails are actually “chemtrails,” poisonous chemicals sprayed by the government for sinister reasons. As the world becomes an increasingly scary and complex place with no simple answers, the temptation to create narratives explaining all of its evil will grow. And here lies the heart of the modern conspiracy theory. Yet when fantasy overtakes reality, progress suffers.

Whenever anything bad happens in the world today, from September 11th to the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, there is a growing gaggle quick to cry, “wake up sheeple!” Continue reading

CATEGORY: PersonalNarrative

A bad case of Schrödinger’s Flu

Losing myself. Literally.

I haven’t posted in a while, because I had to take some time to lose myself. Literally, I’m not the man I used to be, because I didn’t like going upstairs.

On a good day I would make three trips upstairs. I didn’t like going upstairs. It was work, and all my toys were downstairs.

But one cold January day, when I got the top of the stairs on trip number 2, I shuffled over to the bed to take a nap. My wife was concerned.

“You know, you really shouldn’t get so out of breath from just walking up the steps,” she said.

“I was carrying something,” I gasped.

“You’re carrying a diet coke and a pencil,” she replied. “You just don’t sound right. When is the last time you went to the doctor for a physical?” Continue reading

San Francisco junk time

Skewed Priorities Dept.: While you’re debating funding Israel, what are American tax dollars doing for people like this?

The two men were clearly friends. The man in the cap was young, baby-faced, and probably still in his late teens. The man on the ground, well, he was probably a few years older than his companion, but his frailty, ugly bruises, and generally wretched appearance made it hard to tell.

Continue reading


Why can’t you ladyfolk be nicer when explaining feminism to us? [trigger warning]

A personal perspective from the front lines of the war on women

Oh. I see. Share this if you get it.

Source: name withheld for safety

In the quote that follows, “I Blame the Patriarchy” blogger Twisty addresses a question I, like all feminists, have SO often been asked: “Don’t you think you could win more men to your cause if you were nicer?” And now, now, in my late forties, my answer is a firm “NO! NO I FUCKING DON’T.”

In my thirties, while I was also busy volunteering at and raising funds for battered women’s shelters (did you know the most requested item at a women’s shelter is hair dye, to make the women harder for their abusers to spot? If you ever run across a great sale price on hair dye, buy some extra and donate it to a women’s shelter, please – they always need it) and I was volunteering at the Women and Children’s Free Restaurant, and producing “The Feminist Papers” and “The Vagina Monologues” on my campus and marching in “Take Back the Night,” and taking the stage at “Speak out against rape” and being active in my campus Women’s Studies club and writing and editing the biweekly social justice newsletter for my church, and going to college with a near-perfect 3.9 grade point average, and raising a female child under the patriarchy, often as a single parent having to bring my daughter to classes with me as my military husband was frequently deployed during this period, I was also willing to take precious time to talk to men, both online and off, who demanded that I explain feminism to them, convince them – and it was required to be sweetly, nicely, patiently, with a smiling, pleasing feminine demeanor, and I complied, used up lots of time complying. Continue reading

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Open letter to Mark Zuckerberg: you owe us one hell of an explanation

Did Facebook’s scientific study contribute to user suicides? We’ll never know, but statistics demand that we ask the question.

Dear Mr. Zuckerberg:

As the title of this post indicates, you owe us one hell of an explanation. Indulge me, if you will.

As you are undoubtedly aware, your company, Facebook, recently had a scientific study published online in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America (PNAS). I would naturally assume, social media being your element, that you are aware of a degree of outcry about the ethical lapses that appear evident in your study’s methodology. I doubt you registered my own outrage, so ICYMI, here it is.

A key element of my expressed outrage is this:

Did you know that you were consenting to have your emotional state manipulated? Continue reading


Even high jumpers get the yips

The yips plague athletes in many sports, and even musicians. Hopefully sports psychologists can find a cure.

Golfers know all about “the yips.” If they’ve never experienced it themselves, they’ve probably played with someone who has. And they certainly know the stories of famous golfers whose careers were challenged, if not devastated by the phenomenon. This list includes Tommy Armour, who coined the term to describe the condition that forced him to abandon tournament play. He was hardly the only one.

Golfers seriously afflicted by the yips include Bernhard Langer, Ben Hogan, Harry Vardon, Sam Snead, and Keegan Bradley, who missed a simple 6 inch putt in the final round of the 2013 HP Byron Nelson Championship due to the condition (although he may also have been suffering from Strabismus).

Continue reading


How to drink without getting drunk: does the yeast method work? (Food & Drink Week)

Esquire blog discusses a famous brewer’s secret for staying (relatively) sober. We test it out.

You may have seen Aaron Goldfarb’s recent Esquire blog entitled “How to Drink All Night Without Getting Drunk.” Great headline, and how cool would that be, right? I was skeptical, for obvious reasons, but it turns out that what is proposed is an idea developed by Joseph Owades, who Samuel Adams co-founder Jim Koch calls “the best brewer who ever lived.”

I figured I’d test the method myself, and not just because it would give me an excuse to drink too much.

First, how does it work? Continue reading

CATEGORY: PoliticsReligion

Hobby Lobby hypocrisy: 401k plan invests in contraception

HobbyLobbyEverydayObamacare litigant secretly profiting from the very immorality it publicly opposes.

The story by Molly Redden in Mother Jones, “Hobby Lobby’s Hypocrisy: The Company’s Retirement Plan Invests in Contraception Manufacturers,” is absolutely worth a few minutes of your time. In short: three-quarters of the Hobby Lobby retirement plan investments are in funds that invest in pharmaceutical companies that produce contraceptive devices that Hobby Lobby’s owners object to having covered by their insurance plans: Continue reading


Tackling poverty means that there will be more KFCs in Africa

Photo credit: CIMMYT.

Smallholder farmer prepares maize plot for planting with CIMMYT improved varieties, Embu, Kenya

Gates Foundation and KFC initiatives are better news than many understand.

Rural villages in Africa are not just poor, their demography is hollowed out. Continue reading


Infographic: Commuting can be hazardous to your health. Fatal, even.

One in six Americans commutes an hour and a half a day. It makes us more angry, less happy, increases back pain and triples our risk of heart attack.

I hate commuting. Hate. It. Not only is it simply no fun sitting in a rush hour parking lot, I’m stingy about my time. Even if I’m wasting it sitting on the couch, it’s my time. If I have to commute an hour or two a day, that’s time devoted to work that I’m not being paid for. Continue reading

CATEGORY: TuesdayMorningRAW

Tuesday Morning RAW: WTF is WWE Creative thinking?

Sometimes I have no clue what the WWE Creative team is doing. Which is appropriate, because I don’t think they do, either.

Case #1: Recently the WWE made a token donation to Chris Nowinski’s organization, which is dedicated to studying and preventing Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy.

The gift is being made to the Sports Legacy Institute, a Boston non-profit with a mission to advance treatment and prevention of the effects of concussions in athletes and others, such as soldiers concussed by blasts. The Sports Legacy Institute has a pro wrestling connection: Co-founder Chris Nowinski played football at Harvard but also wrestled in the WWE under names that included Chris Harvard.

Nice gesture, and one that’s potentially even more powerful if Creative can put a storyline behind it. Almost immediately they had HHH, aka Paul Levesque, the company’s COO and one of its biggest stars, sustain a storyline concussion in a pay-per-view match with Brock Lesnar. Excellent, I thought – they’re now going to use this to illustrate the dangers of messing with a head injury.

Well, not exactly. They had HHH attempting to get back in the ring immediately, where his symptoms manifested in a match against Curtis Axel and he was unable to continue. So far, so good. But then they trot out his wife, VP of Creative Stephanie McMahon, and his father-in-law, CEO Vince McMahon, to explain that he was being withheld from further competition in the interests of his health. Great.

Except that they played Vince and Stephanie as heels and HHH as the good guy for wanting to come back and endanger his physical and neurological well being. They worked the angle so as to incite the crowd to scream for HHH’s return.

WTF? Do these people even read the company’s own press releases?

CATEGORY: TuesdayMorningRAWCase 2: In another extended program, Creative pitted Sheamus against the Intellectual Savior of the Masses, Damien Sandow. If you don’t follow WWE, Sandow plays an insufferable elitist snob and Sheamus is the lovable rough-and-tumbler from the mean streets of Dublin. In show after show, Sandow attempted to outsmart Sheamus and to make him look foolish in the process. Each time Sheamus comes out on top via a boot to the face.

Now, there are a couple of issues here. First off, Sheamus was being played as a straight-up schoolyard bully. And second, he’s the face. The storyline set the smart kid up as the smarmy asshole, the bully up as the good guy, and the payoff was when the bully beat up the brainiac.

The crowd goes wild!

So yes, WWE Creative concocted a program where the bully was the hero. Well, so what, you say? You don’t necessarily expect pro wrestling to be a font of intellectual enlightenment, right?

No, but it might not be unreasonable to expect better of a company that’s explicitly pushing a goddamned no-bullying initiative!

Be a STAR (Show Tolerance And Respect) was founded by The Creative Coalition and WWE in April 2011. The mission of Be a STAR is to ensure a positive and equitable social environment for everyone regardless of age, race, religion or sexual orientation through grassroots efforts beginning with education and awareness. Be a STAR promotes positive methods of social interaction and encourages people to treat others as equals and with respect because everyone is a star in their own right.

Currently, Be a STAR has 58 alliance members, including National Education Association Health Information Network (NEA HIN), GLAAD, STOMP Out Bullying, The Ad Council and the United Federation of Teachers all partnering together to take action against bullying.

Furthermore, The Alliance debuted Be a STAR Chapter Toolkits to help schools and communities start their own Be a STAR chapters. The free kit includes a guide on how to start a Be a STAR chapter, suggested activities, resources, a poster and other useful tools to combat bullying. The chapter toolkit has been downloaded by more than 4,000 students across the country.
Through the Be a STAR website, over 30,000 people from all 50 US states and from 91 international countries have taken the pledge to end bullying through WWE’s Be a STAR program.

In an ongoing effort to spread the word about tolerance and respect, WWE Superstars and Divas visit two – three schools or community centers per month to speak with students about bullying issues including sharing their own personal stories.

I repeat, WTF?

It’s like Creative is somehow engaged in a battle for the soul of the organization. By golly, corporate and diversity can go out and fund all the prosocial bullshit they like, but tune into Monday Night RAW to see us undermine every bit of it. Take that, goody-goody bitches.

If we ever see the company unveiling an anti-racism campaign, I guess we’ll know to expect an R-Truth heel turn where he’ll team his Negro Drug Dealer persona with “The Minstrel” Cody Rhodes (wearing blackface, of course) in a program against a fan favorite Ku Klux Klansman character. And since he speaks German, maybe you add in Antonio Cesaro as The Midnight Rider’s cool Nazi sidekick.

It makes every bit as much sense as some of the other angles we’ve seen lately…


Komen Foundation circling the drain? Good riddance, and good news for cancer research

CATEGORY: KomenThe Susan Komen Foundation announced this past week that it’s slashing the number of cancer walks it stages in half.

In a decision “not made lightly,” the Susan G. Komen Foundation for the Cure announced Wednesday that it was canceling seven of its signature three-day fundraising walks next year.

The decision comes about 18 months after the organization stoked considerable rage from some supporters when then-Komen Vice President Karen Handel pushed the organization to end funding for Planned Parenthood. Komen eventually reversed the decision, angering some other supporters.

Leaving aside for a second that the last sentence there is fundamentally incorrect – Komen did not reverse the decision and everyone, including the usually on-the-spot staff and, I don’t know, seemingly every news organization in America, fell for the PR misdirection – this is dire news for the foundation and good news for everybody else, including those who lives depend on finding a cure for breast cancer.

If you recall, S&R was brutally critical of Komen’s decision to put social conservative ideology ahead of women’s health, and until such time as the organization is fully rid of those responsible for the Planned Parenthood decision (primarily founder/CEO Nancy Brinker and, one assumes, all of her close associates), the conviction here remains the same: burn it to the ground, scrape the lot and dedicate our resources to those whose commitment to curing breast cancer has as its top and only priority, you know, curing breast cancer.

In this light, Komen shutting down half its events strikes us as good news, but the job is only half done. And don’t be fooled by the foundation’s slickly-crafted official statement, which is, not surprisingly, more PR smoke and mirrors:

“Many participants have reported that enthusiasm for the series remains very high, but it is more difficult for people to donate at levels they had in the past,” she said in a statement.

Yes, it’s more difficult because millions of former supporters are now done with Komen because of its conservative religious agenda.

But wait – it gets worse. Komen has been dinged a couple other times in recent months, as the Ragan article notes.

First, Komen has cut the proportion of its revenue that goes to actual research by half, with only 15% of the cash it rakes in finding its way into actual cancer research programs. That may not get them on the 50 Worst Charities list, but it has them closer to the neighborhood than a prospective donor might like.

Second, many potential supporters couldn’t have been happy to learn that Brinker’s salary jumped. Boy howdy, did it jump.

The embattled former CEO of Susan G. Komen for the Cure made $684,717 in 2012, Dallas News reported.

That’s 64 percent more in 2012 than she earned from April 2010 to April 2011.

Maybe this, plus the decision to hire a high-profile PR firm, helps explain why they had to trim their proportional commitment to research funding.

As I say, this is all potentially very good news for cancer research. There are a lot of very good cancer charities out there, and 11 of them earned an A- grade or better from At least three of their top-rated organizations are explicitly dedicated to breast cancer, including the National Breast Cancer Coalition Fund (A) and the Breast Cancer Research Foundation (A+). The latter says it dedicates more than 90 cents of every dollar it collects to research and awareness programs, and while I’d like to see the details on the “awareness” component, which might well include the in-house marketing and development budget, the available evidence suggests that their on-point expenditures come in well north of Komen’s.

Let’s do a little math here. The Reuters article says that Komen spent $63M on research in 2011, and that this represented 15% of the donations they received. Which means their total donations were roughly $420M, right? Let’s be extremely generous and take Komen at their word about their expenditures. If we do, and if we attempt to parallel them with what BCRF’s “research and awareness” probably entails, then we get to around 75% of Komen’s total spend on education, research awards and grants, screening and treatment.

Now, say that instead of all that money going to Komen, it went to the BCRF. And let’s suppose that the BCRF managed those funds the way they manage the ones they already take in. Komen’s theoretical 75 cents on the dollar vs. BCRF’s 91 cents on the dollar adds up to a difference of $67M and change, if my calculations are accurate. Again, this is being as generous to Komen as we can possibly be.

So let’s not lament the Komen Foundation’s self-inflicted downfall. Their demise doesn’t hurt our search for a cure in the least – in fact, if all that energy and enthusiasm that Komen so effectively harnessed is simply redirected toward better organizations, it should actually be a good thing.

Seven down, seven to go.

A surprise at the urologist’s office #NSFW

NOTE: “NSFW” isn’t quite right. Not Safe To Read, period, is closer. WARNING: This article contains depictions of a doctor inserting a hypodermic needle into a man’s penis and may leave readers lying in a fetal ball on the floor.


by Patrick Vecchio

The local urologist is a nice guy, but I wish he and I had not come to know each other so well over the past months. I’ve learned about his personality, sense of humor, professional demeanor and medical acumen. As for what he has learned about me—well, let’s call it inside information. Three times, he has slipped on a latex glove and lubricated his index finger for what I call the “Star Trek procedure.” That is, he boldly goes where no man has gone before. He was almost apologetic the third time and laughed when I shrugged and said, “Buy the ticket, take the ride.”
He and I met about a year ago after a kidney stone sent me to the hospital pleading for industrial-strength pain medication. I knew what I was dealing with; X-rays simply confirmed it. I was hospitalized for two days, spending the first in a narcotic fog. He discharged me after the pain inexplicably vanished the second day and said if the stone didn’t pass in a week, he’d go in after it.

After a week, I didn’t need more X-rays to tell me the stone hadn’t budged. I’ve passed somewhere between a half-dozen and a dozen kidney stones over the years, and as they scrape their way to the outside world, the stone-passer is in what I’ve seen referred to as “exquisite agony.”


The last half-inch of the stone’s journey is particularly unpleasant. I force myself to drink lots of water so my urine stream can blast the stone out. When a stone shoots out, it announces itself with a little “tink!” when it hits the porcelain of a toilet or urinal. During the week after I was discharged from the hospital, none of those things happened.

So the doctor booked me for surgery. There is, of course, just one open passageway from the outside world into the kidney, and he took that path while sliding a minuscule camera inside me to find the kidney stone. Fortunately, I was blissfully anesthetized.

After the brain fog lifted, I asked him how big the stone had been. He said he didn’t find one. “You must have passed it,” he said, to which I replied, “I’ve passed kidney stones before, and believe me, I know when they pass.” And the X-rays showed this one was the size of El Capitan.
The only trouble with my theory was that I had been pain-free after being discharged from the hospital, and considering that this particular stone announced itself by putting me in the hospital in the first place, my argument didn’t hold. So I went along with the urologist: I had unknowingly fired an asteroid through my apparatus. “You’re not a doctor,” I reminded myself. “Stranger things have happened.”

Earlier this month, strange things started happening again. My first signal something was amiss came when I was standing at a urinal at work and noticed not one, but two colors: the usual mellow yellow, and red.

Blood in the urine is a tad unsettling. Nonetheless, I tried to rationalize it away. “It must have been my workout on the treadmill last night,” I thought. “I really pushed it. I probably just banged up my guttyworks a bit.” And sure enough, the next day the blood was gone. I congratulated myself for the self-diagnosis.

A week later the bleeding resumed, this time after I’d spent the day mowing my lawn. With a riding mower. Workout? Strenuous? Probably not. I went to bed hoping the situation would again resolve itself overnight.

The next morning, after I had finished peeing, it looked like somebody had poured a carafe of Merlot into the toilet bowl. I couldn’t see to the bottom. This was more than a tad unsettling. As the week passed, so did more blood. Clots, too. I looked into the mirror. “‘Tis but a scratch,” I said. “I’ve had worse.” The guy in the mirror didn’t believe me.

I called the urologist, who ordered a whirlpool of tests. I had blood drawn for analysis so often that I felt whiter than the Pillsbury Doughboy. Soon, just one procedure remained. I had been X-rayed. I had been ultrasounded. This time, I was CT scanned. Immediately after the scan, I had an appointment with the urologist so he could discuss the fresh images with me.

I checked in at his office and waited a few minutes. The usually crowded waiting area was vacant. Then the nurse showed me into what I thought would be one of the routine exam rooms where the doctor and I had met before. But I knew something was amiss when she left the room saying, “Take off your pants and underpants and lie on the table on your back.”

Hmmm, I thought, lying on the table and studying the ceiling tiles. This is a change in the routine. I figured she had told me to take my pants off because the starship USS Enterprise was on its way. But a nagging little voice in my brain told me I was wrong.

I sat up and looked around. I saw strange machines with weird knobs and baffling gauges. I saw mysterious instruments and vaguely menacing medical accessories. The inside of my mouth started to feel like I had eaten a tablespoon of flour. Thinking back to the empty waiting area, I hoped for a moment that I was in this room because the other rooms were full—but the moment passed. My anxiety started to spread like bacteria in an infected urine culture. I had the caffeine shakes even though I hadn’t had any coffee. Trying to breathe was like inhaling cotton.

My adrenaline surged, but before I could flee, the urologist wrapped on the door twice with his knuckles. He and the nurse came into the room, and he said, “You have a bladder stone.” It sounded benign, considering the other possibilities, and relief washed over me like a cool sheet on a July night. I sat up and started to step off the exam table so I could start putting my pants back on.

Then he asked me to lie back down. The nurse was still in the room. She drew a curtain so that nobody opening the door could see what was going on. The cartoon thought balloon over my head was filled with three letters and a punctuation mark: WTF?

And then he started swabbing the tip of my—well, let’s just say he wasn’t swabbing the tip of my big toe. I bolted half-upright, elbows on the table.

“You’re not going in, are you?”



Male readers—and female readers, for that matter—have no doubt begun to wince, shudder, make horrified faces or cross their legs—maybe all four. I say this because I was doing the same thing. And I was doing the same thing because I immediately remembered being in the exact same situation with a different doctor many, many years ago. It had not gone well—at least until they gave me an IV shot of something; I think it was Valium. Once it kicked in, they could have been going in with a chain saw, for all I cared.

As the doctor continued swabbing, there was no talking my way out of it. Couldn’t I get a shot of something first? Did we have to do it today? Before long, the urologist demanded that I lie back and relax because the more I moved and the more I resisted, the more uncomfortable I was going to be. I tried to relax, but it’s never a good sign when doctors use words like “uncomfortable.”

So I tried not to pay too much attention as he began slipping what felt like a needle into me. This was to numb me—or a particular part of me, anyway. “You may feel some discomfort at first,” he said in an all-business voice. Given what I was feeling and where I was feeling it, I wasn’t sure the word “discomfort” was appropriate, but at the time I couldn’t describe exactly how it felt as he was treating my equipment like it was a pincushion.

Next, he threaded one of those tiny cameras inside so he could take a look around. “I’m inside your bladder now,” he said in a voice that sounded like it was coming from another room. “You have a bladder stone.” After a pause, he said, “I don’t see any tumors.” At that moment I realized why he had looked inside instead of simply relying on images from X-rays and ultrasound and the CT scan: He wanted to see for himself. He was finished moments later. I was dazed but grateful.

We met a few minutes later in his office, where he showed me the pictures from the test earlier that morning. “There’s the stone,” he said. “This is causing the blood in your urine.” It looked like it was the size of a black bean. Clearly, it wasn’t going to go anywhere.

For the briefest of moments, I considered asking him whether this was the missing kidney stone. Had it dropped from the ureter into a bladder backwater—and no farther—where it had rolled around and accumulated a mineral coating like a peanut inside an M&M? At that point, though, I only wanted to get out of his office as quickly as possible, so I didn’t ask. I suspect there’s no way to know, anyway.

So now he’s going to go back in again with a laser to break the stone into small enough pieces to pass. Before the surgery, I am flying to Florida for a family get-together. I am not a good flier. At the slightest bump in the flight, I start death-gripping the armrests and watching the flight attendants’ faces for signs of alarm.

But if the ride gets at all choppy either on my way South or on my way home, I’ll simply think of my reaction when the urologist began swabbing me down. That should take my mind off any bumps in the air.

I just hope the passengers next to me don’t freak out when I start wincing and crossing my legs.


Angelina Jolie and a brave, terrifying decision

Dice (representing probability)

At what odds would you want someone second-guessing you?

Subjective rant in 3…2…

This one’s for those with opinions about Angelina Jolie’s boobs, especially those who don’t have ’em. Sadly, it seems even some women don’t get this. Generally, I couldn’t give less of a crap about celebrity anything, but I’ve got a soft spot for her. I respect her for the difficult decision she made. I mean, seriously…you think it was an easy decision? Step into her mind for a moment (at least as I imagine it…you might imagine it differently).

“Hey, there’s this part of me I’ve been fretting about since I was a pimple-faced kid, that society says is more important than my brains, talent, or character, that I get judged by more often than not, and that, when dealing with men, probably has a huge effect on how much money I make, and when dealing with women probably causes all kinds of catty unspoken criticisms for being either too big or not big enough or being the real cause of any success I have, like *I* didn’t have anything to do with it. Oh, and it’s surgery, so this shit is gonna hurt. And I’ll never get to see myself in the mirror again like I used to. And I might have to second-guess whether I’m more important than my boobs to a guy who could have his pick of other women.”

Other than that? It’s none of my damned business. I know this, though. If a doctor said I’ve got a significant chance of being killed by crotch cancer, and we agree on the essence of significant, that shit’s coming off. My manhood and my humanity are defined by who I am and what I show everyone, not by a bit of extra meat-baggage. Would I be scared and probably have issues forever? Sure. But I’d be alive to have those issues. As for anyone that dared to fucking[1] question that decision?  That’s the moment that person stops mattering even a little.

[1] Any question, even hypothetical, of my possible castration or anything approximating it merits an f-bomb in my book.  If there were an even worse word to use for amplification, I’d use it.

Here’s Rosalarian‘s take on the matter.


Image credit: John Morgan.  Licensed under Creative Commons.


Death to Stabby, or couldn’t we all use a little schadenfreude right about now?

Kiwi slices

Ohhhhhhhhhh. Huh?

Today’s adventure involves scalpels.

It seems Universe is getting back at me for all the times I’ve called someone else a boil on the ass of society, except that Universe either has really bad aim or a sense of humor. In a place that um, shall we say, affects my mobility, there arose a boil a couple days ago. Not only did a hot compress do diddly, I managed to piss it off something fierce somehow. Yesterday it told me how angry it was with a hot, stabbing pain any time I (pick one/mix and match): bent down, turned, twisted, knelt, squatted, climbed, or carried. Luckily, that was only the last half of the day. Before that it was just mildly uncomfortable. If this doesn’t cause at least a little schadenfreude from some quarters I’ll be both mystified and disappointed.

This morning it was bad enough that I decided it was a fine day to visit the ER. I’m not generally one for polite euphemisms, but when standing at an ER desk populated with 3-5 people paying attention at any one time, and passers-by, it’s a delicate matter to state one’s reason for being there. “I’m here because um. I have this, erm.” *cough* Even if I’d whispered this, it had to sound like, “I’VE GOT AN INFECTION THAT’S GOTTEN OUT OF CONTROL IN A RATHER DELICATE PLACE AND IT’S AFFECTING MY MOBILITY!”

Naturally, the first step after that was to have a seat and answer questions for intake.


Of course, it is only then that it occurs to me that I might wish to have my insurance card handy. As it happens, it was conveniently tucked away in my wallet. In my back pocket. I can have either a twist and a *stab* or a stand *stab* and sit *stab* Decisions, decisions. I opt for the solo *stab* and twist to reach my wallet. I forgot about the twist to right myself after that. *stab* I got two bonus *stabs* for putting wallet back. “Oh, my ID?” *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab*

When they wanted emergency contact information, I gave them my significant other’s. Having given me a ride there, she was standing right behind me. Name? Check. Address? Check. Phone? Check. Relationship? Check. *typetypetypeclickclickclick* And how long has this been going on?

“Oh, about three years.”

A look a shock from the clerk. A pause.

“Oh, you mean the infection! 2-3 days!”

A round of laughter rolls through ER, thankfully including my significant other.

I was joined by a young man in the examination room. Judging from his clothes and the fact he was sent in by the others, I can only assume he belonged there. I don’t think I ever saw his nametag or learned what his role was. What he did says, “medical assistant” or “nurse,” but his clothes said, “EMT.” He’s got plenty of other medical history questions, and I let him know from the start that I only shared part of the story out there, given that there’s um, delicate areas involved.

I let him know the full extent of the reason for my visit. After writing it all down he agrees. “Yup, ‘delicate area’ works for me.”

I figured as long as we’re talking about my horrid deformations I’d bring up the sebaceous cyst on the back of my neck. It’s been sitting there, out of sight, out of mind (mostly) for a fair bit now. I had one there a few years ago that finally got to the size of a peach pit before I finally considered it sufficient reason to lose several days pay. Apparently the first surgeon missed a spot, because by fair bit I mean more like a year and a half, and in that time it’s grown to about the size of an almond. When asked, it’s just my CIA implant. It was almost worth having just for the looks, but what the hell. May as well cut out all the things, right?

He takes my blood pressure and my temperature. The waiting begins.

Eventually a kindly older man came in and introduced himself. We’ll call him Bill. When addressed by anyone, either by EMT-Nurse-Strangerman or someone peeking in to speak with Bill about medical things, it was always, “Bill.” Not doctor. Oh, did I forget to mention the bit where I’d already changed into the Buttless Robe of Medical Shame? Sitting or lying, there was no way I couldn’t help but to go all Sharon Stone on my hapless audience.

Luckily for me, there were no precog psychic grammar nazis there. Not near the scalpels, at least.

EMT-Nurse-Strangerman took off. Bill had a good, thorough look over the Occupied Territories. Upon spotting my friend Stabby, he proceeded to press it like a patient pushing the call button for more morphine. Yes, that was an 8 on the 10-point scale, thank you. The one on my neck got the same attention, but that one wasn’t sore, so nyah.

We agreed to take care of the CIA implant first, then get around to Stabby. EMT-Nurse-Strangerman returned for the procedures. The only thing that sucked about getting the CIA implant sorted out was the lidocaine shot. Those bastards hurt a bit. After that, the only thing notable was the amount of gunk that came out. Turns out it was a peach pit after all. It was just playing a friendly little game of Iceberg.

It was all downhill from there.

Let’s just say that Stabby was Vastly Unamused by the lidocaine needle. I went all Spinal Tap and declared it an 11.

After all the preliminaries had been seen to, Bill turned to the tray.

“Doc, do me a favor will you?”


“Once you’ve got the knife, don’t sneeze.”

“You don’t either.”

Bill and EMT-Nurse-Strangerman seemed to appreciate my sense of humor.

Finally, Stabby was drained by the turn of events and stopped being a huge pain. A bandage was surgically taped in place, a promise of fun to come tomorrow. And Friday. And Saturday. And Sunday. I’m thinking of starting a new grooming trend and calling it a Montanan.

Much aftercare was discussed, many good-natured jokes of the “let’s not embarrass Sharon Stone here any more than we have to” variety, and I vigorously agreed to follow all of the directions. “After all, last word I want to hear from you is ‘gangrene.” Pause. Bill: Amputation! For comic effect, EMT-Nurse-Strangerman even flicked open his pocketknife, an impressive piece with a nice combination blade. Most awesome ER moment I’ve ever had. Comedy genius!

I ditched the Buttless Robe of Medical Shame once they cleared out, put my clothes back on, headed out, wrapped up paperwork, and got my prescription for antibiotics and pain killers as well as a return to work note.

Might I say I’m extremely glad to be surrounded by kind, thoughtful, tactful, and considerate folks here. The person to receive this documentation at work also happens to be the boss’ wife. She didn’t even bat an eye at the words presented to her on the return to work note.

“Frank has had minor surgery on his neck and groin, should work in a clean environment until Monday.”

Considering I basically cover myself in filth for a living, whether it be dust and dirt and chaff, or grease, new and old, or any of no less than four different species of poo, she was quite amenable to letting me run a deficit on my sick time.

And this is how I got a five-day weekend.


Image Credit:

Kiwi slices by Dan4th @, licensed under Creative Commons.


Hey, Chicago Bulls fans: I’m starting to worry about Derrick Rose

Starmelo is in the news today telling everybody to LEAVE DERRICK ROSE ALONE!

“I wish y’all would stop rushing Derrick back,” said Anthony, whose Knicks, winners of 13 straight, play the Bulls on Thursday night. “Please. He shouldn’t come back until he’s about 110 percent ready. I don’t think he should come back if he’s not ready to go out there and play. If he can’t compete at a high level, then what’s a couple more months going to do? What’s two more months going to do? I don’t think he should come back, and that’s just my opinion.

“I really don’t know where he’s at with his rehab and stuff like that, but I feel bad for him because I know he’s got to deal with that every day, he’s got to deal with that question. And nobody really knows on the outside what he’s really going through, what his body is going through. So until he’s 100 percent right, I would hope he would sit out.”

Anthony probably has a point, although he also has some vested interest in Rose not rushing back. Heck, sit out next season, too, just to be safe, you know?

But then we get to the thing I find myself pondering on: “A source told in early March that Rose has been medically cleared to play but needs to regain his confidence in his left leg before he will return.”

Fact 1: Rose is medically cleared to play. For a month, and counting. Given how valuable Rose is to the team, I’m guessing the docs are being pretty conservative in their diagnosis, too.

Fact 2: Despite being physically okay, Rose is refusing to play.

I’m sensitive to the psychology here because, as the kids these days are fond of saying, “I been there.” In January of 1998 I destroyed my left knee playing hoops. It sounds, from all I can gather, like Rose’s injury was pretty similar to mine: torn ACL, torn meniscus. I promise you, he has my full and unconditional sympathy. I have never felt pain like that and the whole surgery and rehab process never stopped sucking.

But … Rose is reluctant, whereas I couldn’t get back to playing fast enough. Rose had surgery on May 12, 2012 – 11 months ago to the day. I was back playing baseball – with limited activity – in four months. I was back on the basketball court in six months.

I hear you laughing. You’re thinking “bitch, please – you ain’t never been Derrick Rose.” Which is true. At no point was I placing my knee under the kind of competitive stress that that Rose sees every trip down the floor.

On the other hand, I was 37 by the time I had surgery and was well past my physical prime, whereas Rose is a superhuman elite athlete in the heart of his healing peak years. So, to some extent, maybe we’re talking six of one, half dozen of the other?

I don’t know Derrick Rose, but I know why some are questioning him. He doesn’t want to come back until he’s 100%. He wants to be mentally confident. He has no interest in returning until he knows he can be a premier contributor to his team. I get all that and I respect it.

But if it were me, I’d have been back on the floor the second the physicians cleared me. I think that’s probably true of a lot of pro athletes. And while you don’t hear his fellow players calling him out, I guarantee you that a lot of them are questioning his courage in private. You’re medically cleared. Your body is ready. Your team needs you. And you’re sitting it out down the stretch because you want to make sure you’re 110%? Derrick, at 85% you’re still one of the best players in the league. Right now, you’re a difference maker.

And yet … he isn’t playing. He hears the whispers, he hears the veiled implications in the punditry, so he knows he’s being talked about. He knows people are questioning his courage, his commitment, his cojones.

I’m worried about Rose because I know what it’s like that first time you step on the floor. The first time out on the break. The first time you make a pivot in a crowded post. You cannot help being afraid. You can’t. Your body is ready to dance, but your mind remembers the pain of the injury and the months of instability as you rehab. You remember vividly being unable to do a single revolution on the exercise bike because the knee is still too swollen. You remember the first few nights after the surgery, when you have to sleep strapped into a machine that flexes your leg – 45% to -5% and back again. You remember how hard it is to sleep with that damned thing. You remember how something as simple as taking a shower or fetching a soda from the fridge becomes an ordeal. You remember being helpless.

I remember these things to this day and I promise you, Rose does, too. And right now, his fear is winning out over his desire to compete.

His fear is winning out at a time when many of his colleagues and who knows how many weekend warriors across the country would be battling their orthopedic surgeons and physical therapists demanding that they be allowed to play.

I don’t know what this means about Rose long-term. Maybe he’s back on the court and playing like the injury never happened a week fro now. Maybe he never again, ever, reacts in a way that would tell you he was ever hurt in the first place.

Maybe. But right now, he’s telling us something about who he is.

I’m the last guy in the world to advise someone coming back from injury to push it, to take chances. I don’t want you back until the experts say you’re ready. But once your body is ready, I can’t help noticing when the mind lags behind.

And I can’t help wondering what this means about your commitment down the road.


Mississippi is fat and wants to stay that way

mississippi-smith-fatMississippi Republican State Senator Tony Smith, who, as a restaurant owner as well as a state senator, conceivably profits from the poor nutritional choices of his constituents, has proposed a piece of state legislation being dubbed the “anti-Bloomberg bill.”  The act’s official title is “An act to reserve to the legislature any regulation of consumer incentive items and nutrition labeling for food that is a menu item in restaurants, food establishments and vending machines; to specify that the act would not affect the federal regulation of nutrition labeling under existing federal law; and for related purposes.”

The purpose would be to prohibit cites or other entities in Mississippi from enacting legislation like that in New York banning enormous sodas (which was recently derailed by a judge). It would also prevent bans on the plastic chachkes that fast food loves to include in its kids’ meals – “Hey kids, collect all 6 and get fat in the process.”

The bill passed 50-1 in the Senate.

Lest you think that the drive to remain the most obese state in the union is somehow partisan, I offer the following. The bill’s sponsor in the House, Democratic Representative Gregory Holloway, explained “We don’t want local municipalities experimenting with labeling of food and any organic agenda.” That’s right, organic food has its own agenda. It’s right up there with the feminist agenda and the homosexual agenda in its threat level to Mississippians.

Perhaps, not surprisingly, Mississippi also gets another prize: worst state for math and science education.

For years, Mississippi has been awarded the “fattest state in the US” prize. If the legislature has its way, they’ll continue an unbroken streak for the foreseeable future. Go Mississippi!

CATEGORY: WarSecurity

Emphasis added: the foreign policy week in slices

The U.S. military, “witch burning,” negotiations with Iran, among other affairs.

Emphasis, as always, added.

A “fundamental problem with COIN.”

Where foreign forces go, violence follows.

. . . a wave of “insider-attacks,” perpetrated by members of the Afghan security forces, has killed 60 coalition troops this year (compared with 35 last year). Leon Panetta has described these killings as “kind of a last-gasp effort” of the Taliban to resist their inevitable demise. He also remarked, “It’s near the end of their effort to really fully fight back.” It’s hard to say which is worse: our president and defense secretary deliberately misrepresenting the situation in Afghanistan to such a degree, or our president and defense secretary genuinely misunderstanding it to such a degree.

The Last Men, Luke Mogelson, The New Republic


The promotion system reinforces professional ignorance. Above the company grades, military ability does not count in determining who gets promoted. At the rank of major, officers are supposed to accept that the “real world” is the internal world of budget and promotion politics, not war. Those who “don’t get it” have ever smaller chances of making general. … Its result is generals and admirals who are in effect Soviet industrial managers in ever worse-looking suits. They know little and care less about their intended product, military victory. Their expertise is in acquiring resources and playing the military courtier.

Rank Incompetence, William S. Lind, The American Conservative

The UK’s National Health Service: “a benevolent deity”

By now I am convinced that the NHS – and I hyperbolise, but only slightly – is the greatest achievement of humankind, the nearest we get to a benevolent deity, a goddamn superhero. It is an imperfect manifestation of a beautiful ideal – free care based on need, free care for all, without judgement, without reservation.

However long this [the author’s father dying] goes on for, they’ll continue throwing resources at this individual and never show a single sheet of figures to any of his relatives.

This Is How You Healthcare: American Death in London, Sarah C. R. Bee, NSFWCorp

To Netanyahu, Syria Just Another “reason to blow Iran to smithereens”

Netanyahu can’t unring the bell in Syria either, but there’s little doubt that he’d like to. The Israeli prime minister remained suspiciously silent during the Syrian uprising’s first 90 days but then, as if testing the wind, began to cautiously support the rebels. By July of last year he was all in, but only after his silence bordered on the embarrassing. Even then, he characterised the May 2011 Houla Massacre (in which a reported 108 Syrians were slaughtered by Assad’s henchmen), as being carried out primarily with the help of Iran and Hezbollah. It was almost as if the Syrian military was a bystander.

This was all part of the same sad drumbeat, as if Netanyahu feared that (in the midst of the Arab Spring), we’d lose sight of the real agenda — which was finding a reason to blow Iran to smithereens. It wasn’t so important that the Houla Massacre was evidence of the Syrian government’s hate of its own people, (you see), it was important that it was carried out by people who hate Israel.

Israel’s democracy myth, Mark Perry, Al Jazeera

Protecting Papua New Guinea’s “Witches”

Even assuming the political will emerges to invest in stronger policing and community protection, it will be years before the terrorism fades in communities like Simbu, an epicentre for violence.…

Bishop Anton Bal, the Catholic bishop of Kundiawa, the capital of Simbu … argues that the catch-22 with sorcery is that the more it’s talked about, the greater its power and allure. So his programs include training up networks of local parish volunteers as a kind of resistance movement. Operatives deflect and douse conversations about blame as soon as a death in the community occurs. They go to the funeral and when someone brings up the question of sanguma they shift the topic — talk about the weather, shut it down. Or raise the alarm.

It’s 2013, And They’re Burning ‘Witches’, Jo Chandler, The Global Mail

Cross-posted from the Foreign Policy in Focus blog Focal Points.

CATEGORY: PoliticsLawGovernment

Urgent: stand up for a rapist’s right to choose [trigger warning, as if that’s not obvious]

Paul Manship's bronze, Eve (#1)

Seriously, how could you not “rape” this?

The Sanctity of Human Life Act is back.

In a new year only 3 days old at the time, Rep. Paul Ryan, fresh from seeing his chances at VP aborted, wasted no time trying to breathe life back into the Sanctity of Human Life Act.

As reported by Laura Beck at Jezebel:

But now it’s baaaaack, which is scary because not only is the above terrifying, there’s all sorts of other creepy shit hidden in this monster. Like, if a woman who was raped in a state that banned abortions went to a state that didn’t ban abortions and had an abortion? Her rapist could theoretically sue to stop the abortion from happening, and probably win. And it doesn’t stop there with the reproductive weirdness, if passed, it’ll probably make many forms of IVF illegal.

As of today he has sponsored zero bills and has only co-sponsored this one according to the data available at  We can see where his priorities are, and they clearly aren’t focused on the economy, thank goodness.  I can understand, however much I may disagree, how pro-life/personhood advocates are so zealous on the issue.  As a matter of faith, I’m sure it’s of paramount importance to them.  But seriously, the assault on the other rights of women really needs to come to an end.

For the sake of argument, let’s just assume for a moment that even when a woman becomes pregnant from rape she shouldn’t have any say, legally, morally, ethically, or otherwise over the fate of her body or the undesired progeny of a rapist, replete with all of the possible genetic predisposition to sociopathic traits it may have instilled in it by the rapist’s insinuation of DNA into the mix.  How in the ever living fuck does this translate into a violent criminal’s right to intervene in the legal proceedings involving his victim’s rights, or lack thereof, before the law?

Stop.  Right there.  Let’s cut right to the chase here.  When a rapist decides to obstruct his victim’s access to abortion, let’s be really clear about what’s happening.  This isn’t a morally ambiguous character in some graphic crime drama generated by Hollywood.  We are talking about a man who, for a host of pathological reasons, takes it upon himself to overcome a woman’s objections by spewing his diseased sperm into her body.  Suddenly we’re to believe that this paragon of virtue is only interested in preserving the life of a zygote he created without the consent of the incubator he raped?  No.

Whoever may have standing in such a case, the rapist is the very last person who should have it.  This is not about fatherhood.  This is about a violent sociopath asserting more power over his victim, but this time, to compound injury with injury, it is legal power, the power to have his victim faced by police with guns, the power to have his victim caged like an animal, the power to potentially ruin her finances, her self-sufficiency.

Think that far-fetched? Then I humbly submit that you are not following the ramifications.  A rape victim, served with a subpoena or an injunction, runs afoul of the legal process stacked against her by not playing according to the rules established for her by people more sympathetic to the rights of a rapist than they are to her suffering as a victim.  At some point, a police officer will be involved.  Should she resist enough, she faces the very real and tangible risk of being tased or looking down the barrel of a drawn weapon, to say nothing of charges ranging from resisting arrest to assaulting a police officer, depending on just how adamantly she defends herself from this incursion by the state into her womb, all because a man forced his semen into her against her will.  Taken into custody, she will most certainly be behind bars, whether for an hour, a day, a week, or longer.  Getting out under any circumstances other than solely on her own recognizance will result in costs.

So, again, assume that the birth of the child is the singlemost important outcome in your worldview.  Just how many other ways do you feel it necessary to violate this woman’s person?

Of course, it’s not just Paul Ryan who, one might imagine, feels that his inner Fortress of Rectitude looks suspiciously like the walls of a vagina defended by the pristine Gates of Labia, both major and minor.  He is but one knight at this round table, lance at the ready.  King Arthur, in this demented twist of chivalry, is Paul Broun of Georgia.  The other knights that stand tall and proud in their desire to plant flags for Christendom in vaginas across the country are: John Carter (TX), Michael Conaway (TX), Blake Farenthold (TX), John Fleming (LA), Trent Franks (AZ), Bob Gibbs (OH), Phil Gingrey (GA), Tim Huelskamp (KS), Walter Jones (NC), John Kline (MN), Stephen Palazzo (MS), Stevan Pearce (NM), Martha Roby (AL), David Roe (TN), Harold Rogers (KY), Lee Terry (NE), and Lynn Westmoreland (GA).

What fevered impulse puts one token woman on the side of the rapist is beyond me.  Try as I might to put myself in the shoes of a pro-life zealot, I just cannot fathom this.  Maybe, in this worldview, the victim always has it coming, what with being the spiritual heir of Eve, first temptress, and bearer of a foul cesspit of wanton promiscuity.  No cry of “rape” is ever true and just.  To be cursed with a vagina is to be subject, forever, to the caprices of men.

So, since these political knights (and their fair lady) fail to see just how very personal this is to the women they prefer to beat into submission with sociopaths’ penises, let’s turn the tide for just a moment and flip their script.  Let’s make the same kind of horrid assumptions about them and their characters as they clearly make about rape victims.  It’s okay for Rush, right?  And we’re not ones for double standards, are we?

With her espousal for absolute subjection to men, one can only wonder just how lucky Ms. Roby is to not have an extensive brood of rape babies.  Has she never been alone in the presence of a man (or men) before?  Surely her vagina is clearly labeled “open for business,” right?  After all, if the “rapist” is to have the kind of rights she sponsors in this bill, we’re not actually talking about “legitimate rape” and we are indeed talking about the prerogatives of genuine and authentic fatherhood.  That kind of willingness to fully embrace the personal responsibility for what goes into her vagina, even without her express consent, must be an aphrodisiac to every swinging dick within 500 feet, and who is she to say no or allege rape, after the fact?  With that kind of spiritual purity, one might be led to think that her well-trafficked bed is the best kept secret in town.  Just how did she fund her election, anyway?

As for the men in this Society for the Creative Protection of Rapists, we may be led to wonder as to the ultimate source of their defense.  Could it be that each and every single one of these gentlemen has a problem with understanding the nature of consent?  Could it be that, according to the definition of rape as updated by the FBI, every single one of these men is a rapist with a vested interest in protecting the rights of their kind?

As long as people of this particularly troglodytic bent keep calling the shots, we may never, ever know for sure.  Me?  Were I to have a daughter, I think I’d make sure she gave all of these politicians and their associates a wide berth.


Image credit: Photo of Paul Manship’s bronze, Eve (#1) by cliff1066, licensed under Creative Commons.