What Do I Know?

5000 Miles Away

I've heard from all my family members in south Louisiana. My niece and nephew evacuated New Orleans safely. My nephew, who'd just started med school, is celebrating his 22nd birthday today. Happy birthday, and I hope your house is still there, CB, whenever you return.

In Baton Rouge, my aunt is still without electricity, but all's well otherwise. My mom's nurse reported she didn't even know there was a hurricane going on. Dementia has its up-side.

It's been strange watching our worst fears take place from 5000 miles away. I grew up just a few dozen feet from a levee, all that stood between an often swollen river and my clapboard house. The name "Watergate" will always remind me of the year that river flooded.

There's been a lot of criticism of the media and their hurricane coverage, but for me, a few snippets on CNN International are all I have to judge how bad things are back home.  Thanks to Miles O'Brien and Anderson Cooper, I know what my family was experiencing in Baton Rouge.

It's been interesting, too, hearing the British talk about "New Or-leens" or "New Or-lee-ans." But then locals don't even agree on how to pronounce it.

But one thing they do agree on: Suggestions like this to scrap the city and rebuild elsewhere are ludicrous. The long history of the Crescent City, the culture of the French Quarter, the economic advantages of its position, the tourist industry that's centered on its rich creole heritage—none of this can be transplanted to some geographically advantageous site.

Sooner we should relocate earthquake-prone Los Angeles or San Francisco.

Blatantly Blaming Bush

Some people think we shouldn't politicize the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. No blaming Bush, they say, when people are dying.

Ahem.

I say, why, of course we can blame Bush for Hurricane Katrina! On so many levels, too...

First, the International Herald Tribune reminds us:

The hurricane that struck Louisiana and Mississippi on Monday was nicknamed Katrina by the National Weather Service. Its real name is global warming.

We all know how George Bush and his cronies in the oil industry feel about global warming. It's right up there with evolution as the science they most like to hate.

Global warming will be responsible for more natural disasters. More natural disasters=more FEMA funding, right? Wrong, as Lean Left points out in "A Government Small Enough to Drown in a Bathtub." Quoting from WaPo:

Which makes it all the more difficult to understand why, at this moment, the country's premier agency for dealing with such events -- FEMA -- is being, in effect, systematically downgraded and all but dismantled by the Department of Homeland Security.

A small government can't possibly cope with a major city that's 80% under water.

But how much you wanna bet the insurance companies will get bailed out before the people who have lost everything? It was President Bush, remember, who decided poor people had had it easy too long, and could no longer file bankruptcy when the going got even tougher. (Thanks to AmericaBlog's Michael in NY for remembering to blame Bush yet again.)

I reminded y'all earlier why breaking levees can be laid at Bush's door.

Finally, Mad Kane nails Bush with a direct hit, so to speak, right in the funny bone.

Except, I'm not blaming Bush for staying away while New Orleans drowns. I'd like him to stay as far away as possible, in the same way I'd like a firestarter to stay away from the embers of my charred home.

If you would like to join in the blame game, please leave a comment. Anybody able to connect him with a missing white girl gets extra points.

Wednesday Food Blogging: Fattoush

Fattoush, or Lebanese Bread Salad, can be a one-dish meal, or a fresh addition to a meal of Middle Eastern leftovers.

I don't care much for salad, preferring to get to the heart of the meal. In fact, I often enjoy a salad after dinner, or alongside the main course.

This Lebanese salad was just the right thing to go with the Middle Eastern eggplant dish I'd prepared the day before. (Look for that one next week.) Plus it's a perfect way to get rid of stale pita bread, or to resuscitate that package you optimistically tossed in the freezer.

Alternately, you could make the salad minus the pita, and serve the salad inside a pita pocket. Same effect, but of course it's no longer a bread salad then.

Pork: The Other State's White Meat?

When it comes to federal spending, not all pork tastes the same. In the wake of Hurricane Katrina, the discovery that funds for the Southeast Louisiana Urban Flood Control Project (SELA) had been cut by President Bush in order to fund homeland security and the Iraq war has shocked many.

Link: Did New Orleans Catastrophe Have to Happen?  'Times-Picayune' Had Repeatedly Raised Federal Spending Issues.

Yet after 2003, the flow of federal dollars toward SELA dropped to a trickle. The Corps never tried to hide the fact that the spending pressures of the war in Iraq, as well as homeland security -- coming at the same time as federal tax cuts -- was the reason for the strain. At least nine articles in the Times-Picayune from 2004 and 2005 specifically cite the cost of Iraq as a reason for the lack of hurricane- and flood-control dollars.

Meanwhile, $231 million for a bridge to nowhere in Alaska has remained in the budget, and the latest highway bill was chock full of pork, which mostly benefited Republican senators. (Democratic Senator Max Baucus was forced to remove his slice of bacon.)

Link: USATODAY.com - Some highway bill pork becomes road kill.

Taxpayer groups criticized Baucus' move, but it wasn't their only target. Even before the highway bill passed the Senate late Friday, critics also jumped on such provisions as nearly $3 million for a documentary about advancements in infrastructure in Alaska; the sale of a federally funded airport in California to a developer; and the renaming of a controversial Alaska bridge "Don Young's Way" in honor of the Alaska representative, who also happens to chair the House committee overseeing transportation.

Funds on worthwhile projects like SELA may sometimes be mislabeled pork, yet lives could have been saved, and countless millions of property damage would have been prevented. (Insurance companies, take note.)

Alaska, meanwhile, thanks to its Republican representation in Congress, is the national leader in pork production: The third-least populated state is the fourth-biggest recipient of transportation funds.

The residents of Louisiana, who first made the mistake of voting for a Democratic Senator and then a governor, should wonder why the hell they voted for a Republican president who would rather build bridges in Iraq than build levees in Louisiana.

Up From the Desert Comes a Bubbling Crude

Oil, that is. Black gold. Texas tea. Bring on the burkas and pass out the box cutters. (But we regret to inform you your ballet class is canceled.)

If oil hadn't been discovered in the Arabian Peninsula, we'd all be a lot better off, but especially Saudi females. In "Those Drunken, Whoring Saudis: Desert Islam's problem with women William Ridgeway explains the roots of Desert Islam, or Wahhabism, practiced formerly in the remote areas of Saudi Arabia by goat herders, who, like the hillbilly Clampitts, discovered a bubbling crude one day and their fortunes were forever changed.

The combined possession of oil and Mecca quickly gave Saudis, previously an insignificant mob of goat-herders and woman-beaters, delusions of grandeur. Having no education other than what the mullahs told them, they didn't understand the world beyond the campfire, and they didn't like it.

For the women, fortunes changed for the worse. They didn't always have it so bad—there was a time when women were allowed to go uncovered, when the "coquettish, slightly tipsy Arab woman was a beloved figure of Arab film comedies." Even alcohol was permitted until 1952, when the influence of oil-rich desert sheiks (with alcoholic sons) was too much to ignore.

Contrary to widespread Western beliefs about the trajectory of the Middle East as a hesitant but inevitable climb to liberal democracy, the region is actually going the other way — fast. Academics call this "Islamicisation", the spread of radical Shi'a and Wahhabi beliefs and practices throughout the region. Because of this trend, the Middle East one sees nowadays is nothing like it was, say, fifty years ago. Around the 1950s, about the time oil was being discovered in the Gulf, many Muslim nations were relatively liberal by today's standards. Alcohol flowed freely, women went uncovered and there was lively public debate about "Ataturk's way", the separation of Islam and state, modernisation, and dialogue with the West. The Middle East seemed to be going in the right direction.

The empowerment that came with oil allowed desert Islam to flourish, and before long, Wahhabism was exported to other countries, desperate to share the wealth that lay under the sand of Arabia.

Oil meant that the Saudis now had the means to change the world to more resemble them. The mountain would come to Mohammed. Their mission, their warped religion told them, was to change the world to be like them, except that they had Mecca and would thus be the most important women-beating goat-herders in the world.

But desert money came with strings, as cash-strapped, free-wheeling Kuwait found out in the 1960's:

Their Saudi cousins offered to help, on condition that this small country – once a drinker's paradise – banned alcohol outright. The Kuwaitis accepted the money, shut down the bars and watched as mosque after mosque popped up, spouting jihad.

Jihad, like hog jowls, was little understood by Westerners eager for their oil fix. The world has looked the other way as it pours Saudi oil into their gas-hungry tanks. Saudi leaders hold hands with American presidents, literally, and figuratively, while their values are exported at an alarming rate.

Today, Bahrain debates whether whether women should be segregated in their universities. School girls in Riyadh were prevented from leaving a burning building because they were not covered properly. In a country where some men have never seen their wives uncovered, is it really surprising they want to ban ballet?

Last month, the lunacy continued when the Saudi Education Ministry banned all schools from teaching ballet, concerned that if one looked hard enough, one could discern female bits.

Persecution of women is one thing. Western countries (and some A-list bloggers) can turn their heads—after all, there was a time in America when women couldn't vote. Why should we, uh, throw stones? But exported Saudi values have more terrifying results: The Taliban in Afghanistan was a Saudi creation, born with Saudi money and Saudi fighters. Those 9/11 hijackers of course were Saudi.

Cigarettes have warning labels. Maybe gas pumps should too. Every time a tank is filled with Saudi oil, another woman must wear the veil. Another terrorist is financed. Another wife is beaten.

Just like Mr. Drysdale embraced the hillbilly Clampitts to further his own career at the bank, George Bush has embraced the desert Islamists. He's done little to further research into forms of alternative energy. He's never condemned Saudi Arabia despite clear evidence of financial support for terrorism.

Houston oil barons like hog jowls, it turns out: Halliburton's made quite a profit on our "war on terrorism" that's created jihadists where none existed and turned formerly liberal Iraq into desert Islam's model community.

Jed Clampitt sometimes regretted the day he discovered crude. While it's too late for regrets, if only, instead of the deserts of Arabia, vast oil reserves had been discovered in, say, Norway.

Just imagine: Gold plated gnomes. A Lutheran jihad. Lutefisk for every infidel!

And women in Saudi Arabia could still dance.

Dear Asshole Neighbours

Dear Fellow Residents of my formerly Tranquil & Bucolic Underworld,

Your party last night put me in a very bad mood. I don't know if you had an actual live band in your garden, or a DJ with some honking amps and a hearing problem, but your music throbbed in my eardrums while I was trying to sleep since SOME OF US HAVE TO GET UP MONDAY MORNING.

Your house is located several hundred yards from my house, and there are many trees between us, so I shouldn't have had to be bombarded by the sounds of your Gomorrah in full swing. But because you chose to violate the codes of conduct we normally observe here in Residential Land by pumping out decibels reserved for discos—no, not even West End clubs play music that loud OUTDOORS—I had to listen to your stupid thumping bass when I'd rather have been sleeping (as I normally do between eleven and midnight). Not even my thick walls, which keep this house cool on the hottest summer days, could keep out the sound of your horrid music—by the way, have you any idea what decade this is?

I don't give a fuck what you were celebrating. A wedding, most likely. Such occasions happen every day in an orderly manner and there is no need to throw a huge party that clogs up residential lanes with big ass cars and violates noise ordinances. Your inconsiderate behaviour will no doubt bring bad karma to the newlyweds. If not, the curse I've placed on you and your house will cause your testicles to shrivel and your plumbing to back up. (With raw sewage, should these things go as planned, which they hardly ever do—but still, should be enough to ensure a few sleepless hours for you and yours.)

Let this serve as a notice to the rest of my neighbours: Should you violate the quiet of this neighbourhood with anything other than Guy Fawkes fireworks or the occasional whoop of joy at having passed your A Levels, the Third Ring of Hell shall be as nothing compared to my wrath.

Signed,
Sleepless and Grumpy, and her faithful dog Cerberus

P.S. Bah. Humbug.

(Disclaimer: This website does not condone, etc., violence, etc. or even, in fact, believe in curses.)

An Ill Wind

Looks like Hurricane Cindy will be replaced by Hurricane Katrina in the U.S. news, for which George Bush can only be grateful. Cindy Sheehan and the anti-war protest she's fostered was the first item on the BBC radio news yesterday, and will probably continue to remain there despite Katrina: the British have little concept of hurricanes, they can't, in fact, even pronounce the word correctly.

I was in Baton Rouge last fall when Ivan threatened New Orleans. The roads, despite being turned into one way routes leading out, were clogged with standstill traffic. Some evacuees reported spending 10 hours on the eighty-mile stretch between New Orleans and Baton Rouge.

The hurricane jogged at the last minute, sparing the Big Easy, but ironically, a branch in my aunt's back yard came down, right on a power line. That was good enough reason to break out the beer and the canned goods I'd hoarded in anticipation. Nothing like creamed corn when adversity strikes.

Katrina, which was also my nickname in college, is now a Category 5 hurricane. Everyone who can is leaving, but the poor and infirm have no way out. (Can we refrain from calling them "stupid" here in the blogosphere?)

Best of luck to all my friends and relatives in the area. Stay safe, and drink an Abita for me.

UPDATE: I was wrong. This mother has everyone talking, including the Beeb. The financial news even lead with Katrina and her effect on oil prices.

Hang in there, y'all.

I Told You Parking Was Impossible Here!

In order to park in High Wycombe, you must be accompanied by a disabled badger.

(Note: This carpark is not located in Wisconsin, where there are unfortunately many disabled badgers, though they don't like to be held. Disabled badgers are a lot harder to come by here, though I could handily come up with a disabled pigeon.)

It's Hip To Be Hippy

I went to get a hair cut today, since I was beginning to look like a middle-aged hippy, and that's no way to get Kos to like me.

I wouldn't make a very good hippy anyway, since I like to wear mascara and my arches are too high for Birkenstocks. But I am against the war, have been ever since the beginning, and I wasn't too happy about the Afghanistan war either.

There are Democrats falling all over themselves to proclaim they are "pro-war" or "war pragmatists" but I'm not one of them. I remember on the eve of the invasion of Afghanistan my daughter's friend was in tears, and I tried to convince her the plight of the Afghan people would only be improved by the coming of the American military. I told her they'd surely starve without our food rations, even invoked the image of candy-bar parachutes (a la the Berlin airlift), but I didn't really convince myself either.

We ended up fighting that war largely from the air, and killed more innocent Afghans than the total number of 9/11 deaths. Not even candy bars rationalize that.

War is only excusable, in my opinion, when there's a compelling need for intervention to prevent loss of life. If I'd been president, we'd have gone into Bosnia and Croatia long before President Clinton finally convinced a reluctant Colin Powell and members of Congress there was a need for American military intervention. I'd also have sent troops to Rwanda.

And the only time I've cried with pride to be an American was when I watched fighter pilots patrol the skies over Somalia as American transport planes brought food to a starving nation.

I guess this makes me a "bleeding heart war supporter" or maybe an anti-war keyboard protester. Am I on the far-left fringe? I don't think so. To look at me, you'd think I was pretty normal. I could blend in with any mall crowd. I don't ride a bike, smoke weed, or quote Ferlinghetti—but I do have a poster on my office wall, Ferlinghetti's "A Buddha in the Woodpile."

Oh, what the heck? What better time to quote Ferlinghetti?

If there had been only
one Buddhist in the woodpile
to teach us how to sit still
one saffron Buddhist in the back rooms
just one Tibetan lama
just one Taoist
just one Zen
just one Thomas Merton Trappist
just one saint in the wilderness
of Waco USA
If there had been only one
calm little Gandhi
in a white sheet or suit
one not-so-silent partner
who at the last moment shouted Wait
If there had been just one
majority of one
in the lotus position
in the inner sanctum
who bowed his shaved head to the
Chief of All Police
and raised his hands in a mudra
and chanted the Great Paramita Sutra
the Diamond Sutra
the Lotus Sutra
If there had somehow been
just one Gandhian spinner
with Brian Willson at the gates of the White house
at the gates of Eden
then it wouldn’t have been
Vietnam once again
and its "One two three four
What’re we waitin’ for?"
If one single ray of the light
of the Dalai Lama
when he visited this land
had penetrated somehow
the Land of the Brave
where the lion never
lies down with the lamb—But not a glimmer got through
The Security screened it out
screened out the Buddha
and his not-so-crazy wisdom
If only in the land of Sam Houston
if only in the land of the Alamo
if only in Reno
if only on CNN CBS NBC
one had comprehended
one single syllable
of the Gautama Buddha
of the young Siddhartha
one single whisper of
Gandhi’s spinning wheel
one lost syllable
of Martin Luther King
or of the Early Christians
or of Mother Teresa
or Thoreau or Whitman or Allen Ginsberg
or of the millions in America tuned to them
If the inner ears of the inner sanctums
had only been half open
to any vibrations except
those of the national security state
and had only been attuned
to the sound of one hand clapping
then that sick cult and its children
might still be breathing
the free American air
of the First Amendment

Call me a hippy if you must, but I'm really just a mom with a keyboard, who'd like very much to "visualize peace."

Friday Pig Blogging

This little piggy did not go to market...nor the lab. 

After discovering what my former employer wants to do with pigs, I decided it was time to post a photo of this porcine beauty I came across last week at the Cotswolds Farm Park. She and her brother were born in March and are visited every day by hundreds of children and their parents.

I'm not sure, but I think she might be a Gloucester Old Spot pig.

Pigs, by the way, are  smarter than the average dog. They make a wide variety of noises, say those who know them., and I can attest that my conversation with this one was loaded with meaning ("This stupid hay is itchy! Pigs like MUD, people! And can we declare a moratorium on pig jokes please?").

But don't be tempted to keep one in your home as a pet. They need to be with other pigs, and kept outdoors, say the the folks at Pigs, A Sanctuary.

And of course, they should never go near a dinner plate.

Bush's Poll Numbers Sink; Rats Jump Ship

When Chuck Hagel said he thought Iraq was another Vietnam, I applauded him. Now, word on the street is he's thinking of becoming an Independent.

WaPo has more about Chuck Hagel and the tour of Vietnam he shared with his brother Tom:

The first time, their unit was on patrol and the man who was walking point, in the lead position, triggered a Vietcong booby trap, blowing himself to smithereens and leaving Chuck with a gaping wound in his chest that spewed blood until Tom could stanch the bleeding with bandages. Only then did Tom find shrapnel in his own left arm. The company captain had rotated the Hagel boys off the point  only minutes before the booby trap exploded.

I'm not endorsing Chuck Hagel, regardless of whether he switches parties, (Russ Feingold has my endorsement) but wouldn't you rather trust this man to be commander-in-chief than a man who avoided Vietnam and now has sent almost 2000 American soldiers to their deaths needlessly?

(By the way, the reference to "rats jumping ship" is not meant to be pejorative. I love rats. Comparing Hagel to a rat is a sincere compliment here at WDIK.)

Bridge Blogging: You Look Like You Could Use a Vacation Deportation

My favourite Brit bloggers are still on holiday. Most people in America don't realize their European counterparts take far more vacations than the average employed American. (The unemployed, however, are living it up.) Unless your name is George Bush; then your vacation time is sacred, and multiplied by the number of unemployed you create.

Meanwhile this family is forced to take a vacation in Malawi, while this one is living it up in Barbados.

Now that the Home Office has released a list of acts that will get you deported, I'd better watch what I say around here.  I wouldn't want to call Tony Blair a "liar" for instance, in case  I could be accused of provoking google bomb violence.

I also don't want to "foster hatred" in case I might be mistaken for a radical Christian tele-evangelist.

Nor would I ever "foment, justify, or glorify violence" in the manner of known hate groups. 

Helping out the Irish: wedding photographers northampton UK (Whoops, there I go, google bombing again!)

I saw the movie Wedding Crashers recently with my secret crush Owen Wilson. (I mean, he was in the movie, not with me, unfortunately.) He gave a fine performance, mostly playing his goofy self, but what was interesting was the cameo appearance by John McCain and James Carville. Ever hear the sound of one person cracking up? (Possibly I was the only one who recognized them.)

Now, I think I'll go Blogcrashing. (Is there such a thing as Bridge Blogcrashing? And wouldn't that hurt?)

Disclaimer: This website does not promote violence. This one does. So does this one.

Wednesday Food Blogging: Somen Noodles with Stir Fried Vegetables and Smoked Tofu

Smoked tofu nestles in a bed of noodles and veggies. (What could be more delicious than nestling tofu?)

Most people think vegetarians must eat tofu every day, and most non-vegetarians think they don't like it. Hence a shortage of vegetarians in the world.

This is a shame. I find I cook tofu about as often as I clean my car, but it's not because I dislike the taste. In fact, tofu is as flavorful and delicious as the ingredients it's cooked with. Smoked tofu, which is becoming more common on supermarket shelves, is even more of a flavor kick, in fact in some dishes it can overpower the rest of the ingredients—watch your mild-mannered tofu cop a 'tude! (Apologies. My daughter hates it when I pretend to know slang.)

I like crisp-cooked tofu, sauteed over medium to high heat in a bit of oil, garlic and ginger until it develops a light brown color. The secret is to keep turning it until it browns on all sides.

Somen noodles are similar to soba noodles and are especially convenient for stir fries, plus they're a nice break from sticky rice and cook in a fraction of the time. Like tofu, they absorb the taste of the ginger, garlic, and liquid ingredients. And if you think broccoli rabe only belongs in Italian dishes, think again. These slim stalks are perfect for stir frying.

So go on, try tofu. And if you're wondering what to do with the carton afterward, make Chinese lanterns.

Purple Haze All in My Blogroll

Yesterday I finally turned all the dark purple names on my blogrolls to light purple. (This means I clicked on all of them in the last couple of days.) With the last batch of houseguests gone, a daughter starting cross country practice, and the other adult in the house in Russia, I'm bored. Fortunately I found a lot of great stuff to read.

I was telling someone that most frivolous lawsuit stories are urban myths, but I didn't have a source handy. Now I do, thanks to Wampum. Also read his deconstruction of the Vioxx settlement, and don't believe the headline writers.

Already I'm thinking of my next vacation. According to The Religious Policeman, Saudi Arabia sounds nice, though I must get there before they knock down the idolatrous historical sites. Plus, I haven't been stoned since high school. Might be fun. (via Jarndyce)

Pharyngula smacks down Deepak Chopra so I don't have to.

Taking navel gazing to new heights: Neuron gazing.

I've been harping here about people who refuse to support the troops. Now Maggie at m-pyre joins the chorus. She explains why a lack of support for the troops after they come home is leading to...well, just go read it.

To tie up a theme (wouldn't want anyone to trip and file a frivolous lawsuit) I was listening to Radio 4's Front Row last week and they were talking about Jimi Hendrix, voted greatest guitarist ever in Total Guitar. Most interesting tidbit: The first time he smashed a guitar was an accident. Worked out well for him after that, though, so they would tape up the already smashed guitars to be resmashed on stage. A really smashing discussion, I thought. (Sorry. All the funny lines were snorted already.)

The Electric Acid Road Test

My daughter and I went to Reading today, which reminds me a lot of Ireland. Even with a map you still drive around in circles, dead lost.

People in the States can't understand what it's like driving here. Driving on the other side of the road is the least of it; you soon adjust to that. It's that there are so darn many roads, with roundabouts every few feet forcing you to decide which spoke to get off on. "Three o'clock or nine?" I shout and my daughter looks confused. "It's only eleven thirty," she tells me, at which point I'm already on the way to Basingstoke.

Of course when you need a roundabout in order to make a U-turn, that's when the road turns into a dual carriageway and you whiz by your destination, the largest—and most elusive—mall this side of London, The Oracle. (Oracle, my ass! If that place could read my mind it would move to the suburbs of Basingstoke which is where any self-respecting mall should be located. It's about convenience, people! Get a freaking clue!)

At one point I turned into the bike lane, which totally embarrassed my daughter, until I told her it was perfectly acceptable to drive in the bike lane here. I was lying, but what does she know?

I refuse to resort to GPS. I tried spellcheck, and now I can't spell for crap. I don't want to lose my sense of direction the same way. Besides, I don't even think GPS could figure out Reading.

We did accomplish our goal, though, which was to find Tom Wolfe's Electric Acid Kool-Aid Jungle Juice Test, or something like that. She needs to read it for her American History class, which makes me wonder just which part of American History they'll be learning this year.

I'd also wanted to go to the Museum of Rural English Life, which is inexplicably located in downtown Reading, but the only road that went there was going in the opposite direction, and I couldn't convince my daughter driving the wrong way on a one-way was perfectly acceptable too.

Maybe after she reads Tom Wolfe she'll be ready for more adventures in Reading, but first I'm getting a psychedelic bus. Hey, who needs GPS when you've got LSD?

Coincidence? No, Merely Proximity

The other day, PSOTD posted about discovering someone he knew had a blog. I clicked on the link, and discovered I knew her too: Natalie was a familiar name from the writers' lists I used to belong to. She always gave good advice, I thought.

That same day I learned another friend of mine, also a writer, has a blog. Gabi's also teaching gifted Lang/Lit at my daughter's previous school.

This, of course, came the day after I read about my former employer being busted by PETA.

So Tom Friedman was wrong. The world is not flat, it's merely quite small.

Like Pigs at the Trough

I wouldn't have been too surprised to read this Huffington Post article about yet another professor on the take from a large corporation, this time Taser International: 

USA Today: Fairness of Taser study in question.

An adviser to a federally funded study concerning the safety of stun guns made by Taser International also is a paid consultant to Taser, the Justice Department acknowledges. The situation is raising questions about potential conflicts of interest in the $500,000 study, which is being done amid reports that dozens of people have died after being shocked with stun guns.

And while my heart aches at the thought of the inhumane experiments he proposes to perform on pigs, one of the most intelligent creatures on earth, again, redundant and unreliable animal testing takes place every day.

What got my attention was the name of the professor involved. I used to work for him.

He seemed like a nice old man, although the truth is I hardly spoke more than a few words to him, despite the fact I sat right next to him for nine months. He signed my checks, and I signed his emails. We were instructed to never disturb The Professor (emeritus) for any reason, and I remember lying creatively to anyone who called asking to speak to him.

Now he wants to

attach electrodes directly to the pigs' skin and implant catheters near their hearts to measure the effects of Taser shocks. He also wants to dose the pigs with cocaine and use a "Super-Taser" device to induce heart arrhythmia.

If they survive that, they'll then be killed to study the effects.

If I'd known Professor Webster would one day be involved in such pointless animal experiments, I'd have quit immediately. (He was near-vegetarian when I worked for him, oddly enough.) One of his colleagues, involved in an unrelated research grant, pulled out publicly when she heard what he was up to:

"We would welcome the opportunity to work with another collaborator on this research, however I cannot in good conscience collaborate with a faculty member whose experiments on animals are repugnant to my sense of human as well as animal welfare."

Dr. Webster's conflict of interest and questionable methodology was noted by another researcher, James Angelo Ruggieri, P.E., MIEE:

Dr. Webster's plan to rely on questionable information supplied by and/or prepared on behalf of Taser International and the personnel he proposes to use for this project are personnel affiliated with Taser International. However, there is no information to the NIJ included in the protocol identifying this potential conflict of interest."

Another professor has also pointed out the inadvisability of the experiments:

"An anesthetized pig is a very dubious model for a highly adrenalized, conscious, heart-racing, stressed culprit. . . . It would be much more convincing to examine human data exhaustively," states Colorado State University's University Distinguished Professor of Philosophy and Professor of Biomedical Science Bernard Rollin. He goes on to say, "[W]e are living in an era where scientific credibility in general, and animal research in particular, are, as it were, on trial. The cavalier treatment of animals to test weaponry mocks the oft-repeated claim that animal research is justified by being a powerful tool to further animal and human health."

I'm no scientist, but I've worked with quite a few. Thanks to Dr. Webster, I know what a peer review is, and I know science isn't reliable when it's conducted with a financial bias, and with preconceived notions of the outcome.

And humans aren't humane when they inflict needless suffering on animals.

You can write to the University of Wisconsin here. You can write to Dr. Webster here. He doesn't read his email, I can assure you, but someone will. Maybe she'll quit too.

Ireland: Toss the Guidebook in the Bin

I went to Ireland, hoping to discover the romantic angst I'd read about, but the only angst these people have is from the influx of tourists on their wee roads, racing up behind dead slow hay tractors (one overturned, and instead of brawny Irish men heaving it back aright, Sean there was summoning help from a cell phone), and demanding directions in the middle of the night from citizens as they leave the bar.

Note: Do not ask drunk Irishmen for directions. After first instructing you to head toward where the old bridge used to be (when even they cannot agree on the location), they will send you the wrong way up a one way road, frequented by large lorries.

I must say, much of my time in Ireland was spent wondering where I was and how to get somewhere else. A good map does not help, as the roads do not appear exactly as they do on the page. They're not green or orange, for one. But, as our hostess helpfully explained, "You're in Ireland now, girrl. Stop and ask anyone, even in the middle of the night. They'll be glad to help you." We did this many times, and indeed, most people were quite happy to help, regardless of their state of inebriation.

A few road signs would have been immensely more helpful, but that's neither here nor there, literally.

And besides, it's the little adventures in life (such as coming face to face with a large lorry at midnight) that make you glad to be alive.

When traveling in Ireland, follow your nose instead of the guidebook that, remember, thousands of other tourists are also following, sheep-like. Avoid tourist traps (literally) like Kilkenny and Adare and head generally in the direction of the mountains you can see from almost anywhere. Ignore the weather too—a "light mist" only enhances the view.

We stayed in centrally located Tipperary County at the lovely Ballyboy guest house, where owner Breeda Moran has knocked out some fantastic gardens in between chatting up guests and guiding them in late at night. Spreading out to the River Tar behind the ruins of Ballyboy Castle, the gardens offer a surprise at every turn: stunning dahlias, abandoned curraghs and whiskery kittens—these are definitely a few of my favorite things.

Ballyboy, near Cahir, is located at the foot of the Knockmealdown Mountains. They will truly knock you down, especially on the drive toward Lismore through the Vee. (Breeda says you can see four counties from the top.)

The Dingle Peninsula on the west coast is more charming than its name, especially the beach at Inch, where the water recedes a mile out at low tide, leaving about an inch of water and a treasure trove of shell-covered sand. The surrounding green hills contain some of the oldest relics found in Ireland. I wish we'd had more time to explore them, but of course we'd forgotten to schedule time for getting lost.

By far the highlight of our trip had nothing to do with scenery, and everything to do with the people themselves. If you think Riverdance and U2 are the sole representatives of Ireland's musical talent, think again.

Bru Boru is more intimate than Riverdance, less slick than U2, and the place to find some quality craic after the performance. The Bru Boru Heritage Center is located in Cashel, at the foot of the imposing Rock of Cashel, said to be dropped by Lucifer in his rush to escape St. Patrick and his silly shamrock analogies.

In the small theatre there a troop of musicians play traditional Irish instruments, sing mournful Irish ballads, and dance as if their feet were attached with rubberbands. Cameras were clicking, but even the fastest shutter can't catch the spinning ankles of the dancers, nor can pixels convey the "stomp!" of the heels on the boards.

Afterward the audience was invited to join the performers in an informal session where anyone who wanted could play, dance or just enjoy some good craic. (What the heck is craic, you're wondering? The closest translation is the New Orleans phrase "laissez les bons temps roullez", or simply sharing music, jokes and a fun time.) Even the youngest were welcome to try the boards—the Irish love kids, we were told over and over.

And do check out the Rock of Cashel and Cormac's Chapel while you're there. Even though it's the top tourist attraction in Ireland, it's worth a visit, if for no other reason than the view.

Other interesting and child-friendly sites (we were traveling with a three and six year old) include the windmill at Blennerville, (the largest in Britain and Ireland) the Hook lighthouse (dating from the thirteenth century, possibly the oldest in the world) a crumbling fifth century church, and the gardens at Lismore Castle.

What about that angst I'd been looking for? There were signs, some pointing to famine graveyards, a church where three thousand were burned by Cromwell's man, a ghost in a lighthouse with blood-soaked walls...but mostly the Irish heritage is a fierce determination to enjoy their lives on the green isle, even as they sing beautiful ballads full of woe.

Who needs angst when you can dance instead?

 

Did You Not Hear Me the First Time?

It's time for another reminder from What Do I Know: Support the troops, damn it, including the ones who have fallen.

Or maybe I'll let Operation Truth's Perry Jeffries say it for me:

Mr. Northern:

I am a Veteran of the Iraq war, having served with the 4th Infantry Division on the initial invasion with Force Package One.

While I was in Iraq, a very good friend of mine, Christopher Cutchall, was killed in an unarmoredHMMWV outside of Baghdad. He was a cavalry scout serving with the 3d ID. Once he had declined the award of a medal because Soldiers assigned to him did not receive similar awards that he had recommended. He left two sons and awonderful wife. On Monday night, August 16, you ran down the memorial cross erected for him by Arlington West.

One of my Soldiers in Iraq was Roger Turner. We gave him a hard time because he always wore all of his protective equipment, including three pairs of glasses or goggles. He did this because he wanted to make sure that he returned home to his family. He rode a bicycle to work every day to make sure that he was able to save enough money on his Army salary to send his son to college. At Camp Anaconda, where the squadron briefly stayed, a rocket landed inside a tent, sending a piece of debris or fragment into him and killed him. On Monday night, August 16, you ran down the memorial cross erected for him by Arlington West.

One of my Soldiers was Henry Bacon. He was one of the finest men I ever met. He was in perfect shape for a man over forty, working hard at night. He told me that he did that because he didn't have much money to buy nice things for his wife, who he loved so much, so he had to be in good shape for her. He was like a father to many young men in his section of maintenance mechanics. They fixed our vehicles with almost no support and fabricated parts and made repairs that kept our squadron rolling on the longest, fastest armor advance ever made under fire. He was so very proud of his son-in-law that married the beautiful daughter so well raised by Henry. His son-in-law was a helicopter pilot with the 1st Cavalry Division, who died last year. Henry stopped to rescue a vehicle belonging to another unit on what was to be his last day in Iraq. He could have kept rolling - he was headed to Kuwait after a year's tour. But he stopped. He could have sent others to do the work, but he was on the ground, leading by example, when he was killed. On Monday night, August 16, you took it upon yourself to go out in the country, where a peaceful group was exercising their constitutional rights, and harming no one, and you ran down the memorial cross erected for Henry and for his son-in-law by Arlington West.

Mr. Northern - I know little about Cindy Sheehan except that she is a grieving mother, a gentle soul, and wants to bring harm to no one. I know little about you except that you found your way to Crawford on Monday night in August with chains and a pipe attached to your truck for the sole purpose of dishonoring a memorial erected for my friends and lost Soldiers and hundreds of others that served this nation when they were called. I find it disheartening that good men like these have died so that people like you can threaten a mother who lost a child with your actions. I hope that you are ashamed of yourself.

Perry Jefferies, First Sergeant, USA (retired)

(via The Liquid List)

Friday Sheep Blogging: What Were They Thinking? Edition

Sheep in Ireland love to go on holiday. The ewes especially enjoy the views.

Finally, some sheep who appreciate the view, from the top of the Knockmealdown Mountains in County Tipperary. We will not comment on their attire, however, as we don't wish to make them feel self-conscious.

Although they are bloody PAINTED RED! Would you eat feta made by one of these tarts? No, I didn't think so.