Bigfoot? Bigfoot! OMG they have a Sasquatch for an olympic mascot. That is just excellent beyond…well beyond everything, really.
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Bigfoot? Bigfoot! OMG they have a Sasquatch for an olympic mascot. That is just excellent beyond…well beyond everything, really.
Something I’ve learned, as the mother of a toddler is that the desire for answers begins quite young. Most of the time, I’m able to answer the questions but sometimes I have to admit I don’t have an answer, and can’t simply flip open the Reader’s Encyclopedia for a quick overview (talk about an invaluable reference tool). This does not go over well with children, as adults are expected to not only provide the explanation to the query, but also do it in a concise, simple to understand sentence. Enter organised religion and psychiatry-a couple of cults claiming to possess all life’s answers without a shred of empirical evidence. Both rely on faith, which cannot be dragged into a laboratory and tested. Psychiatry is not science. While there might be an outcry were the State to force acceptance of religion, there’s very little noise made when people are involuntarily forced into the practice of the belief system that is psychiatry.
When Britney Spears was court-ordered into "treatment" and parenting classes, the State was sanctioning a belief system. That it is now a front-page worthy story with people who have never met her, much less treated her, feeling free to diagnose her mental state-without questions of the validity of such an exercise, says quite a bit about how accepted this religion masquerading as science really is. Try to criticise this system and watch how quickly accusations of mental deficiency are leveled in your direction. Much as one cannot criticise the political leadership of Israel without being labeled an Anti-Semite, one cannot criticise the psychiatric industry without accusations of being in need of its services.
It’s easy to understand the appeal-who wouldn’t want a list of things they need to do to live happily ever after? Horoscopes, astrology, they all claim special ability to alter the course of one’s life. Shamans that perform elaborate rituals to exorcise evil claim secret knowledge as well. Still we haven’t (as yet) seen astrology, tarot readers or Ifa divination being court-ordered, much less calling in the local witch doctor to rid the house of bad spirits. Instead, the State relies on the brain industry and the various practitioners to miraculously change a person’s personality when all they are "changing" is a behaviour response. The State could save a good amount of taxpayer money by hiring dog trainers-either way it is obedience training and frankly it is difficult to see much difference between offering a treat for good behaviour or a pull of the choke chain for bad. Good behaviour (i.e. following "treatment order")=keeping children, staying free of psychiatric confinement, etc.
I always try to reiterate the point that I do not personally care if someone wishes to engage in psychiatric treatment-no more than I care if you wish to practice trepanation, attend Mass, or take diluted herbs to cure cancer. If you’re an adult and engaging in these activities of your own free will-bully for you. I only become concerned when these decidedly non-scientific "treatments" are involuntarily forced upon people with the authority that should not accompany something so very impossible to demonstrate has any merit. How society ever got to the point of accepting this as widely as it has (so much so that it has legal standing) is very nearly incomprehensible. Still, I’ll concede it isn’t all that difficult to swindle large numbers of people into pinning their hopes on the impossible be it a South Sea Bubble, the lottery, or an Election. The promise of something that will swoop in and make everything better is terribly appealing.
I resent the brain industry (helped along with State approval) pathologising every aspect of life. Disobedient children are no longer brats; they are suffering a malady called "oppositional disorder". Asshole drivers are suffering a road-rage disorder. The unhappy are "depressed", a range of emotions is now "bi-polar" and pretty much anything a person engages in with any interest becomes "obsessive." Why? Why not? There’s so much money to be made from it.
Unfortunately, keeping it the hell away from one’s life is increasingly more and more difficult as other members of the cult try to draw you in (willingly or not) and won’t be satisfied until each and every drop of the Kool Aid has been consumed. Don’t believe me? Have a look at THIS lovely column in the Globe and Mail. These are the opinions of the public on how to deal with an alcoholic relative. Note how it is accepted that it is proper to force the person into treatment-or leave them to die. Tough-love, should have sought treatment, blah blah blah. What it sounds like honestly is an attempt to become more comfortable with telling someone to screw-off. You know, you tried to get them help for their own good, but they just wouldn’t accept your help-so fuck off and freeze to death on the street or something. Strange how when people begin insisting someone must seek help it isn’t out of concern for the person, but because it inconveniences everyone else. I’m sure accusations of mental instability never come up in marriages as a way of exerting power over a spouse- or in a divorce. After all, who would abuse that sort of power? When the concern is genuine, it is so patronizing it’s a wonder anyone ever speaks to the person(s) staging the "intervention" again. I know I wouldn’t. The brain industry ghouls assume that we’re all helpless victims of our personalities in need of intervention. Again, the arguments for treating (re-educating) those who stand accused of being mentally ill are focused on being able to fit into the accepted norm-not because the individual is actually, personally suffering harm from their personality. The harm is always argued as being unable to hold a job, get along with others, etc. Yes, we want to help you-so we don’t have to put up with you.
I’m not arguing that if you see someone on a rooftop about to jump you shouldn’t try to talk them down. I’m arguing that if they don’t wish to come down, it isn’t the State’s role to force them down and into a psychiatric prison until they can be less unhappy. The role of caring for one another shouldn’t rely on the State institutionalizing people. Even in "outpatient treatment" we’re still essentially making people accountable to the government for their moods. Now that’s crazy.
Actually, some of these are already a bit stale, but I’m just first getting around to posting them.
England, Your England-get those tots reading sooner…so they can completely burn out by age ten? Funny, how everyone knows this is counter-productive but eh, let’s just go ahead and do it anyway.
You know, perhaps I’m just a paranoid old timer but THIS article about the Army urging a greater civilian role in the "war on terror", just screams "skills draft" to me.
Now the firefighters are fighting terrorism-and snooping around in your house without a warrant. This really strikes me as too stupid to be for real. Can you imagine the sort-of out-of-control fires, etc. we’ll be seeing because people are afraid the firefighters will bust them for dope or whatever? Hey, I know-maybe we can have them check green cards and do ICE work at the same time! Read the article-the criteria for suspecting someone is a terrorist is pretty damn vague-cameras and maps? Brilliant, just brilliant.
Update-Rusty and Jerome have just signed on for starring roles in a sequel to Meet The Feebles. What’s more, they’ve ditched their creator’s daughter because she’s much, much too bossy and were last seen engaged in an orgy with Kukla Fran and Ollie. Oh, the Outrage! I mean, if we could just get the public this worked-up over something important like, I dunno, the dead bodies that keep stacking up as we wage these pre-emptive wars against civilians…
Oh look, I’m a statistic! Still, I think if you’re going to drop out of the professional world, cheesemaking is as good a direction as any to go.
I suppose it is only a matter of time before THIS crap starts happening in the US. I wonder, with so many people being diagnosed with "mental disorders" for the benefit of drug companies, will there be any supposedly "sane" people left to give the children to? My sense is that this will be used selectively, as ammunition in cases where the social workers are unable to find any demonstrable evidence of abuse but still want the child removed-a quick background check to see if you’ve had a psychiatric diagnosis will be grounds enough to seize the child. This particular case is so awful as the child has not even been born yet, and they are claiming (sans any evidence) that the woman will abuse the child and must be taken away at birth. Way to go Britain! Make sure you hit those quotas for removing children from their homes.
Obviously, I’m having too much fun with THIS because Danny now screams, "No laughing", when I’m doubled over at the computer. My inner pragmatist is funnier than your inner pragmatist.
I thought about posting a note that it is a parody site, but then thought better of it. I mean, if you not only think Dewey is still alive, but alive and hawking Baby Einstein videos and scented candles…I don’t know, a parody label probably won’t help you much.
I really love the idea of a surly, cruel John Dewey that hates children, curses too much, and delights in the misery of others.
For the past week, Danny has been pestering me to unpack the Nativity set. Finally, I said we could do it on Thanksgiving (there’s no way this kid was going to wait until Sunday). Bright and early, he’s up this morning pointing to the bright green cardboard box on the dining room sideboard. Still trying to get my first cup of coffee, I start unwrapping the set, placing each one on the table for Danny to play with.
"Great." I thought. "That should give me at least twenty minutes of peace and quiet."
So I’m puttering around, doing morning stuff, and I notice he has all the figurines queued-up at the edge of the table. Danny looks up, notices me staring and explains:
"They had to go to the grocery store to get presents for baby Jesus. They have to wait in line. The wise man has a coupon. Jesus wanted a Mustang, but his mama Mary said Nooooo. He really wanted a Mustang. The Shepard brought him a chocolate cookie. His mama said noooooo."
-What are the odds Prince Philip will get through the anniversary events without uttering one of his wildly offensive comments? All this attention is just begging for one of his outbursts. This ought to be fun to watch.
I have a commentary up at Unknown News this week. You can read it HERE (if you feel like it).
Lots of other great stuff there this week as well-be sure to have a look around.
It’s strange: I’m not even close to being what people would describe as a nostalgic sort of person, but the last few weeks have been drawing me back into times and places whether I enjoy it or not. Really, I’m rather not enjoying it.
At first I thought perhaps it was the change of season, and the coming holidays-you know, watching my son as I was at that age. That’s probably rubbish though as holidays at our house were anything but joyous and I doubt I was too excited by the change of weather (in Chicago? Oh my gosh, no one looks forward to that).
Then, I started blaming the Old cooking magazines I bought at the library sale-looking at all those advertisements from 1972 must have been bringing back memories of home baked cookies and….well wait, that never happened either. Still, every time I pause I’m struck (in the almost physical sense of the word-assaulted even) by some thing that reminds me of some thing and before you can say skinless chicken stewed in a bottle of V-8 juice-I’m back in my mother’s bright orange kitchen with the gigantic flowers painted on one wall trying to gag down another forkful of courgettes cooked beyond recognition. It’s not like she did it deliberately (at least I don’t think she did). I’m sure some woman’s magazine put the idea in her head and it somehow didn’t match her skill level and well, you know. I still don’t believe (as some will argue) that she woke each morning looking for something positively disgusting to feed us. Anyway, I’ve been spending quite a bit of time in that kitchen lately and though no one is pushing overcooked vegetables on me, I’ve been surprised to find myself remembering where we kept the spices, the good dishes, and the oven mitts. It’s creepy, actually. Do I really need to remember that we kept the boxes of cereal in the cabinet over the stove in 1971? That the chewable vitamins were in the cabinet over the sink? That we had a big portable dishwasher that made it impossible to hear on the telephone when it was running-yet we still kept the phone right next to it? I don’t need to remember this stuff out of the blue, completely unprovoked-I don’t ever need to remember it really. As I said, I’m not a nostalgic, sentimental sort and even if I were, it’s questionable that knowing where the chewable vitamins were three decades ago is ever going to be information I need again.
Still, here I am with memories of a crummy upstairs bathroom that would leak water downstairs over the back door.
I’ve been ill this past year, though I don’t blog about it much (I mean really, what could I possibly find to say about it other than, "Oh my gosh, I’m going to throw up again"). Sometimes, I get these ideas that I can eat things that were I in the most stellar of health, I probably wouldn’t consume. You know, things like a Crown Jewels Cake, Tuna Pate, or in today’s example of poor judgment- a "beef stick."
Let me clue the uninitiated in here: a "beef stick", is sort of like beef jerky, but thicker and less dry. It still has the squishy fat and in the case of the thing I bought today-a good amount of gristle. I’ve never really understood the appeal of these things, seeing how we’re not exactly living in pioneer days without the benefit of refrigeration. Maybe, if I were camping, or traveling in the Third World. As a well-fed middle class American it is pretty damn unlikely that I’m going to be suffering from nutritional deficiencies (inability to eat aside) requiring me to make use of preserved meats. I still don’t know why I wanted it other than possibly because salt will often settle my stomach. On a pretzel, or a saltine-not a hunk of greasy, over-spiced beef of questionable origin. Eh, well you know me-I paid for it, so I was determined to eat it. I could have had the undying appreciation of my dog had I chucked the last of it into his bowl, but instead I sat there nibbling away between choruses of "Davy Crockett." I feel like a real frontierswoman-I ‘d go out and split logs, but it’s getting kind of dark early these days.
Mind you, I didn’t get much sleep last night and that might be impairing my thought process. In the middle of the night-three-ish, I had this dream about Spanish dancing and flamenco dancers and the "click-click-click" of castanets. Then, I sort of woke-up a bit and realised the click-click-click was coming from the closet next to my bed where I’d set a couple of mousetraps. Then I realised it was a not quite dead (not al all really, by the sound of it) slamming itself against the wall trying to get out of the trap. There really isn’t much going back to sleep after that, you know?
It has been thirty years (almost exactly) since I last consumed a preserved beef product of this sort. I remember it as clearly as my mother’s orange kitchen because it was three very day we moved from that orange kitchen to a house with a brand-new brown kitchen. October 1978.
You know how moving can get, particularly when they’d spent over twenty years in that house and had tons of crap to move that would probably never be seen again until the subsequent move. My father wisely went to work that day and was nowhere to be seen until very late that evening when we were all over at the new place. Why we didn’t just order a pizza like normal people, I’ll never know but instead I remember going with my sister to a gas station and buying beef sticks, potato chips and peanut M&M’s. After a day like that, it probably made sense, and there weren’t any 24-hour grocery stores at the time. As it was, we had to find a gas station down on the highway that sold more than fuses and bottles of pop.
We’re friends here, right? So I can share that I spent the first night in our new house puking my guts out all over the green marble tile in the elegant (for the day) bathroom my parents had designed for their two daughters. It was larger than my present day bedroom, and very, very green. We even had two sinks, just in case we both wanted to wash our hands at the same time-which I’m sure came up really often. You know how it is, you have a few bucks in your pocket and you’re building a house and even though it is unlikely, you wouldn’t want your daughters to be forced to share bathroom sinks. Anyway, I found out an important fact about our new house that I’d keep in mind through my later teenaged years when I’d be tempted to overindulge in alcohol- the green and white-stripped inlay tile was really uncomfortable to kneel on for any extended period of time. It was so much easier to throw up in the driveway, or the neighbour’s lawn. Kneeling over the stool puking is also a good time to get acquainted with the plumbing because you may someday need to know whether you have an American Standard or a Bemis. You’ll know after subsequently having a good beef stick barf because the maker’s logo is the only thing at eye level and no matter how hard you may try; it is impossible to not read in the bathroom. Besides, it was a brand new bathroom (the house newly built) it’s not like there was interesting rust stains or anything else to look at in the bowl.
Right, so I think thirty years is a pretty good run for having avoided the lure of greasy, salted somewhat dried beef-don’t you? You’d think with all the other lovely things popping into my head lately that I’d suddenly remember being about as sick to my stomach as I’ve ever been-instead of the silly grey, vinyl-covered dresser we had at the top of the stairs or the bobble-head dolls with magnetic lips (for kissing, of course) that my mother had on the dresser. Or the hanging lamps with velvet shades in navy and brown stripes. Or the pepper grinder (wait, actually, I’m still using that pepper grinder) and so on. All this useless information churning around in my head (I can still remember the covers of hundreds of my comic books for heaven’s sake) but I can’t manage to remember that the after effects of that beef stick in 1978 was worlds worse than the bout of amoebic dysentery I had in 1992.
Have I learned a lesson from all this? Have I learned to stop before making impulse purchases in the grocer because I think, "today’s the day I’m going to eat without getting sick" when I know damn well it isn’t? I don’t know, but there’s a canister of shoestring potato sticks on the kitchen counter waiting to find out. I mean, I haven’t had those since that day we took the fieldtrip to Lincoln Park Zoo in 1974, and I knew it wouldn’t be a good idea given that it was a warm fall day and I was wearing too warm a sweater and my new school shoes and my lunch box had Patty Duke and even though I’d had a bowl of instant grits that morning I still knew that shoestring potato sticks probably wasn’t the best Idea even if they did come in a really neat canister and well, you know how it is when…
-to teach him a lesson.
A thirteen year old is being charged with felony assault after stabbing another kid with a pencil. It wasn’t completely unprovoked either-it sounds like they were both flinging pencils and it got out of hand.
But eh, why should we care if a teenager is saddled for the rest of their life with a felony arrest record? Not like the old days where it slips off your record at eighteen. No sir. In fact, I’ll bet they are going to find a way to charge him as an adult.
Even if the kid gets this dismissed by a judge, he still has a felony assault arrest to follow him when he tries to apply for a job, enroll in secondary education, rent an apartment, etc.
That’ll teach him a lesson. Maybe he can do hard time in detention (as in incarceration, not "after-school detention", which would have been more appropriate) for his felony assault. Even the principal thought it was an overeaction to arrest and charge the kid.
-Speaking of singing the periodic table, readers may enjoy THESE.
About the link below for the Tarrot of the Periodic Table-I showed it to my spouse and his reaction was:
"Hurry up and pre-order so we can get one before the Farm School Lady."
Becky always beats us to the really cool science stuff
I’m not sure which was worse, the dental work or the antibiotics I’m taking for it, but I’m not really feeling my moxie at the moment. Here are some things that caught my eye recently, but I didn’t get around to blogging.
I want one of these. I’m not into the Tarot stuff, but if this is one way to get people to think about the periodic table, I’m for it. I had actually thought about cartooning flash-cards, but this is much, much better. It beats singing the periodic table to your kid at lunchtime. What? You don’t sing the periodic table to your kid at lunchtime? Yes, I do have a life, thank you. I have a slide-rule as well…just what are you insinuating?
School cameras being monitored in real-time at the police station in New Jersey. If you need me to point out what’s wrong with this, maybe this blog isn’t for you.
Nebraska just landed a major wad of dough for one of these "Fusion Centers." I’m really glad that American companies are stepping up to the plate to cooperate with the plan to turn this country into an authoritarian hell hole. Nice work. Give yourselves a raise…or a no-bid contract, or war booty, or whatever.
What? No! I don’t believe it. Racial bias in the foster care system? No way. I mean, it’s not like we have our prisons filled with minorities, or have employment discrimination or any of that stuff anymore. Gee whiz, it’s not 1961.
This article is concerned that people will use genetic information to discriminate by race, citing subtle differences. I’m sorry to say, they probably will. It won’t matter how well the biologists explain nature vs. nurture-someone that is looking for evidence to back up their racist assertions will jump on this to what I’m sure will be popular support. Genetic predisposition isn’t carved in stone, but it may as well be once this gets around. I’m not convinced it will lead to more racism, but it almost certainly will lead to people feeling it is more socially acceptable to voice it.
A follow-up to the post from Halloween where the Omaha police were trying to do "outreach" (indoctrination) in North Omaha so the kids would trust the cops. Hey, here’s my unsolicited advice for the day-maybe if you stop beating children down (in front of Granny, no less) for no reason other than being poor black kids, they might not run every time you screech up to the corner and bodily threaten them. Again, if you need me to explain what’s wrong with this, you’re probably reading the wrong blog.
Oh, and there isn’t any racism on college campuses either. I swear, it’s like I’ve been in a freaking coma and I’ve imagined the last forty years or so. How the hell could children reared in the post-civil rights era…I just don’t understand this. I really don’t. Some days I just want to go back to bed, hide under the covers and wait to die.
Yes, please. Let’s stop wasting food. If you’re unsure how to proceed, email me and I’ll give you suggestions for your particular leftover. I’m serious.
This is just scary. Now I have to worry about baby lotion?
Another unsolicited opinion-when writing an article about how to discern whether or not your child has some serious "behaviour disorder" (they probably don’t) try to quote an expert that isn’t associated with a school currently under investigation for torturing children with electric shocks as behaviour modification. I dunno, it sort of undermines the credibility.
Wait, there’s money to be made off all those "mentally ill" children. Lots, and lots of money-and what the heck, it’s involunatry-they can’t say no! How awesome is that? Most cash cows like that require consent of some sort but here all you do is scare the shit out of the parents, promise to fix the bad parenting with pills and hey-you get a 40 fold increase over nine years in the number of kids being treated for these "disorders." God, I love capitalism.
-It’s a good thing I’m not swimming in outrage or it might be boring to read my outbursts. Regular, thought-out blogging to resume soon (I hope).
My first thought was this had to be a joke, however it appears to be for real.
And they have a blog as well. I do enjoy rutabagas (and am now the proud owner of two rather large ones that cannot be used as intended)though arguably not nearly as much as these people do.
Oooh, and it’s Rutabaga Month.
I’m still not convinced it isn’t a joke.
Ordinarily, two hours in the dentist’s chair wouldn’t be my idea of a relaxing morning, but today, it actually was. For two entire hours, no one was asking me makes and models of tractors in the farm magazine, screaming because their shirt came un-tucked (really), or wanting to know why we don’t eat lunch at ten in the morning. Please don’t misunderstand, I adore Danny, but it occurred to me that in nearly three years I’ve probably had about ten hours total alone (save for sleeping, of course). We’ve never hired a babysitter (seriously, where would we find one out here? Our neighbour’s daughter is twelve, so maybe in a few years we can ask her, but at the moment, there simply isn’t anyone we’d be comfortable watching him) and as I intend to homeschool, the opportunities for "alone time" are greatly diminished. Therefore I say, "Three cheers for the dentist!"
I’m afraid he had to pull out the big drill that goes, "Thunk, thunk, thunk", rather than the high-pitched "whirr-y" one. That’s never a good sign when the dentist resorts to the "thunker." Still, excepting the sound of the drill and the plastic thing that sucks the spit from your mouth, it was pretty quiet. They offered me headphones and a radio, but the station already piped in was so good, it would have been quite the shame to miss out on it. Anyone remember that song with the chorus of:
"For you are the magnet, and I am the steel."
That song rocks. I also sat through Jackie Blue, Chevy Van, and some song by the Commodores that I can’t remember the name of at the moment. It was like being trapped in an early 70’s K-Tel record, with drill accompaniment. Very relaxing though, I should get my teeth drilled more often.
I also have this really impressive temporary crown (gold) that shows a little when I smile. I’ll be sorry when that gets replaced with the permanent porcelain one. Surprisingly, a crown out here is half the price it was in Boston ten years ago when I had the last one made. Interesting. I don’t know if that reflects regional rates, or the falling price of materials, but had I known fixing the tooth would be so affordable, I’d have done it sooner.
I understand my son was keeping people in the waiting room entertained. Dad took him to the park across the street for a bit, but they wimped-out because it was 50 degrees and came inside. It was windy, but still, 50 degrees was a pretty nice fall day when I was growing up in the Midwest. So Danny was still pointing out people and telling him that he finds them trustworthy except for one gentleman, who as he walked out the door (I heard about it later) Danny informed the waiting room:
"That man is an egghead."
-Which perhaps he was, as the room broke into laughter.
Three weeks until my next spa dentist’s visit.
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