Carlos's Odd World

The Writers Hunters

2011-08-29T22:58:00.000+02:00

The Write Agenda

I’d never heard about these folks until this afternoon (CET) when a dear friend forwarded the link: http://thewriteagenda.wordpress.com/ I presumed it was a writer’s haunt, you know what I mean; a place to meet other writers and talk (write) shop. So I followed the link and discovered a bizarre site chock-a-block with lawsuits, propaganda alerts, watch lists, boycott lists, implied threats, and a strange obsession with Victoria Strauss laced with lapidary remarks. The overall sophistic tone of the homepage brought to mind the diatribes I endured as a child from Mrs. Gutierrez, during her frequent bouts of acute constipation.

I don’t know Mrs. Strauss; cross my heart. I’ve never exchanged a single word with her, but I’ve read a few of her articles. She impressed me as a levelheaded, knowledgeable and honest lady. Yes, I know it’s one of my weaknesses but I love señoras with class, in particular if they have balls and don’t give a fuck about dropping “F bombs” (I’ve always hated euphemisms).

But wait, then I spotted on their homepage this line:

“Recent Posts” this reference: Author, Rita Webb – Cease & Desist Issued (08.26.11).

I don’t know Victoria, but I know Rita. Besides being an excellent writer, Rita is a friend, a colleague, and a wonderful person (I must be careful in my choice of adjectives because her husband once threatened to geld me if I didn’t watch my step). After several years and hundreds of exchanges with Rita, I’ve never spotted one word out of order. Even when she read and reviewed my dribble, Rita always measured her comments with exquisite property (unlike her husband who always went for the jugular).

So, I told myself: Carlos, Rita has been naughty and she’s in deep shit (The “Cease & Desist” thing had me quaking in my boots and had to reach for a drop of exquisite 16-year Lagavaulin), let’s find out what has she been up to.

The post is signed by one Michael Sigvagni. I take it Mike, (can I call you Mike?) that like me you have problems with English. Not your first language? Welcome to the club. Since you’ve signed the piece, I assume you wrote it. If you didn’t, fire whoever did.

I have a problem with your closing warning:

Please be advised that this letter is copyrighted by our organization, and you are not authorized to republish this in any manner. Use of this letter in a posting, in full or part, will subject you to further legal causes of action.

Come on, Mike, how can I comment on your post if I don’t refer to your ghastly prose? Surely it’s fair use to cite its authorship and provenance, naturally without intent. Ohmygod! I’ve used part of your post. Will you sue me? Embargo my chattels? Anything you write is copyrighted, my friend. You don’t need warnings. As a writer, you shouldn’t use bold fonts or majuscules—it’s akin to shouting and reeks of bad manners.

You open the silly post thus:

Rita Webb’s new book “Tears” on the DO NOT BUY & Boycott lists.

Hang on a minute. Do not buy? Why? Is it badly written? Is the storyline iffy? You don’t like the plot? The characterization? The tension? Boycott? Why? Is it a dangerous book? Don’t tell me it’s because you don’t like her? I see. If she doesn’t agree with you, or writes something you don’t like she deserves ostracism? The stocks? The pillory? Say, you don’t happen to know Tomás de Torquemada, do you? Nah, I didn’t think so. Do not buy? Who do you think you are? The Gestapo? Should we burn the books of anyone who doesn’t agree with you?

Next you gift our weary eyes:

NOTICE TO CEASE AND DESIST INTERNET DEFAMATON AGAINST THE WRITE AGENDA(sic)

Mike, Mike, what I’m to do with you? Go stand in the corner and write one hundred times “defamation.”

Then you continue:

Examples of your defamatory statements have been sent to our law firm and include the following:

“I am happy to hear The Write Agenda is under investigation.”

What’s defamatory about that? After what I’ve read, I would also be happy to hear The Write Agenda is under investigation. Is it not? Oh, well, if you carry on with your infantile shenanigans it may be one of these days. I didn’t know you could sue someone for hearing something. Live and learn.

But I love this passage:

Your conduct of spreading libelous and defamatory statements and comments about The Write Agenda have caused serious and irreparable injury to our business and reputation within the publishing and author community.

No conditional here: the damage is permanent. “Irreparable” means irrevocable, irreversible: final. Mike, I don’t see how deleting a post can remedy something that cannot be repaired. Aristotle will be turning in his grave at the inanity of your syllogisms. And, by the way, the subject in your sentence is “conduct.” See what happens when attributes wander all over the place? The verb should be singular: “has caused.” Get back into that corner. And while you’re there write one-hundred times “Internet” with an uppercase initial.

If I were she, I would sue you for having the effrontery of posting Mrs. Webb’s personal e-mail address without consent. Now, that’s illegal. And if you cared for writers, you would defend them to the hilt instead of threatening with fire and brimstone anyone who holds views contrary to yours.

Dear me... what have I done? Am I to be sued? Boycotted? Placed on your “Do not buy” list? Am I to be deported? Flogged? Come on, Mike, be a sport. I don’t know what your gripe with writers is, but leave my friends alone. Fancy a little fencing? (I adore alliteration) after all, I’m just a mongrel writer, a foreigner; little more than a simp in tatters and espadrilles. En garde?

To save you the trouble my full name is Juan Carlos Jiménez Cortés, and I live in Barcelona (climb over the Pyrenees and bear left) and I’m a member of SFWA, and ITW, and OFW, with whom you seem to have scores to settle, and a few others that have so far escaped your tender mercies.

Alternative sources of protein

2010-12-23T13:00:00.000+01:00

Let’s face it; Earth is overpopulated. Today’s crisis is just the first of many to come, each more violent and unpredictable. Cynics out there reckon that one way out of our predicament would be to feed the homeless to the poor. The idea has merit, but with the credit crunch biting harder, we should consider alternative forms of protein and I doubt cannibalism is the way to go. But fret no more; I have the answer: a wonderful source of cheap food.

“Rats! This sounds too good to be true.”

Mmmm... you’re a clever one. How did you guess?

On a recent trip, a friend complained about the damage French culture had done to the Haitians. When African slaves first arrived in Haiti, they were well nourished. They brought with them the African practice of consuming rodents. Once the French colonists imposed on the slaves a change of diet—from rats and mice to French white bread—their nutritional state fell rapidly.

My friend reckons Haitians should sue the French for damages.

Think about it; rat is as ethical a dish as you can serve on a dinner plate.

Low-fat Rat meat is a healthy alternative to rice and grains and has the food values of chicken, not only in protein but also throughout the entire spectrum of nutrition.

Low in food-miles Since rats are coprophagous (they eat excrements among many other things) they’re ideally suited to cities. We could turn our sewers into efficient low-cost farms; bolster employment and net huge savings on transportation costs.

Natural grown For those concerned about organic stuff, rats are as free range as you can get.

Easy to cook Rat meat has almost no bones and is thus ideal for children and fussy eaters. It’s a little spongier than chicken and gentle on the stomach.

From future posts, you can collect a treasure of yummy recipes I collected in Africa and India: stews, pies, hearty soups, and delicious sandwiches to pamper the most demanding palates.

Heterosexual Pride

2010-12-10T20:25:00.000+01:00

I’m gay. There, I’ve said it.

Obama came through on his campaign proclaiming June as "Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Pride Month". From now on I plan to have a whale of a time every June. The rest of the year I’ll tend to fans and the local sexually-deprived talent. Not only I’m gay but weird. I’m not even a man. So what?

I read somewhere about a crackpot group calling for Heterosexual Pride Month to voice their legitimate moral objections to gays, their sexual practices and aberrant lifestyles. Legitimate? Moral objections? Aberrant lifestyles? Is it legitimate to object when my upstairs neighbors—a guy who works for the local union to show blacklegs and other scabs the error of their ways—dons his six-inch stilettos? Not in my book, though I asked him nicely if he wouldn’t mind replacing his drag with a cute tutu and ballet slippers so I could get some sleep. Now all I hear are whispers when he practices “Coppelia.”

Although a majority of people are heterosexual, they are loath to flaunt their bedroom habits. Blame an ingrained sense of outdated modesty in the practice. I mean, why shouldn’t we discuss the merits of breeches, handcuffs or the good ol’ quenning stool—if that’s what tickles your whatever—with friends, neighbors or passersby? But no matter where I look, when someone speaks about heterosexuality they bundle tradition, boring marriage practices, nuclear family, morals, faith, and religion into it, as if being heterosexual needed justification. What’s wrong with being heterosexual for the hell of it, because one likes the opposite sex and couldn’t care less about what other people do with their bodies?

I find the celebration of heterosexuality bigoted and intolerant. In my opinion, the social mainstream looks down upon those who are different, when there’s nothing wrong with being homosexual, bisexual, heterosexual or plain strange, like me. And there’s nothing to celebrate either; we are what we are, thank you very much. Gay or straight pride is stupid, and akin to furry bush, freckled back or blond-hair pride. What’s to be proud about? I was taught to have pride on my accomplishments, not in something I was born with.

I used to be confused about what I am and my preferences. Not anymore. I’m out of the closet. I’m a butch lesbian in a man’s body.

Are you for recycling?

2010-12-07T14:37:00.000+01:00

I imagine a nodding head. Green is cool. We must stop poisoning the earth, else there won’t be any Earth left to poison. Right?

More nodding? I’m glad you recycle. In Europe, we have containers for glass, others for metal, still others for paper and specific drop points for batteries, fluorescent lamps, you name it. We’ve gone green all over, as any responsible citizen should.

But I’ve always suspected the ‘green’ movement is a fraud, a pose; words, hypocrisy and much, much recourse to euphemism.

I have a question. If you suspected someone planned to dump mercury, carcinogens, dioxin and a host of nasty chemicals into the air, would you report him? Nodding? Then, unless you planned to stand by your convictions—and recycle yourself—wait no longer. Go give yourself up.

The average funeral rites in developed countries are very un-green. If we’re talking ground burial, we have formaldehyde (a carcinogen) in embalming fluid and the glue used in chipboard caskets (the great majority). Then there’s the concrete. In the U.S. alone, they bury 1.6 million tons of the reinforced stuff in cemeteries. Naturally, gunk leaks out, reaches the water tables, and ends up coming out of our taps.

But…cremation is more environmentally friendly, no?

On the contrary. A cremation consumes scarce fossil fuels, produces 100lb a throw of carbon and sulphur dioxides, dioxin, acids and mercury.

Mercury?

Definitely. From dental fillings. Only in the

, 16% of the mercury released into the atmosphere stems from cremations.

Granted, there are some uses for ashes. A long time ago I wrote a short story about the woman who couldn’t get her good-for-nothing husband to do a stitch of work during his uneventful life. Upon his demise, a local craftsman fashioned an hourglass but used the ashes of the departed instead of sand. This way he could, at last, do something useful. But I’m getting off track.

Take heart. Organic material is a great fertilizer. Since some 60 million of us permanently stop using the Internet each year, we could use a fair share of the three-million tons of organic matter we destroy or lay to waste.

So, besides championing using the same bag, receptacle or container (condoms included) twice, what about real recycling?

The birthing of a legend that never was

2010-11-29T20:10:00.000+01:00

Everywhere, from articles in sundry media, chat shows in Europe and the US there’s a story about the genesis of the retirement age. It goes like this:

The New York Times on June 30, 1998, published the following letter:

To the Editor:

Martin Brilliant (letter, June 24) refers to the definition of ''old'' for Social Security purposes as being 65. I wonder how many know how that definition came about. In 1889, Chancellor Otto von Bismarck of Germany passed a law declaring age 65 as normal retirement age. When President Franklin D. Roosevelt wanted to define old age for Social Security, he adopted Bismarck's criterion.

What's interesting is that Bismarck chose age 65 simply because his actuaries advised him that hardly anyone at the time lived that long in Germany. Therefore, the plan would rarely pay retirement benefits.

Now we see age 65 as young-old, but Government and private pension plans still keep age 65 as the arbitrary definition of the normal age of retirement.

NIELS H. NIELSEN

Princeton, N.J., June 24, 1998

Great stuff. This story highlights the perquisites of a long-lasting fallacy:

Unimpeachable source: The New York Times.

Hmm… no. The NYT only printed a reader’s letter.

Written by an authority: Niels H. Nielsen

Mr. Nielsen may be an authority on many subjects, but history is not one of them.

A historical fact: Von Bismarck’s law.

Yes, Herr Otto, introduced a law, but retirement at sixty-five was nowhere in it.

A cheerful-looking guy, wouldn’t you say?

And here’s Gunilla, gorgeous, demure, and with a striking likeness to her forebear, but I digress.

Specialists in disinformation know that people will always believe historical facts if delivered by an authority on the subject and published by unimpeachable sources. Naturally, the disinformation savants also know that most people’s knowledge of history is sketchy; that anyone in uniform, frock or suit and tie is viewed as an authority—especially if he speaks loud enough—and that unimpeachable sources are like the three-balled unicorn: they don’t exist.

So, what about the retirement age?

On November 17, 1881, German Kaiser Wilhelm I issued an imperial decree stating that: "…those who are disabled from work by age and invalidity have a well-grounded claim to care from the state."

The German pension system, financed by mandatory contributions from employers and employees, was enacted in 1889, and set seventy as the retirement age. Von Bismarck was seventy-four at the time. It was not until twenty-seven years later, in 1916, that the Germans lowered the retiring age to sixty-five. By that time, The Iron Chancellor, dear Von Bismarck, had been dead eighteen years.

Hang on a minute… and how do we know you’re telling the truth?

You don’t. But if people approached information with your healthy dose of skepticism our ravaged planet would have more valleys and fewer tears.

If you really want to know, check John Breuilly’s, 19th-Century Germany : Politics, Culture, and Society 1800-1918, Bloomsbury 2001, or David Blackbourn’s History of Germany, 1780-1918: The Long Nineteenth Century, Wiley-Blackwell; 2 edition 2002 or even Volker R. Berghahn’s revised edition of Imperial Germany, 1871-1918: Economy, Society, Culture Berghahn Books, 2005.

There goes Rome (again.)

2010-11-18T19:46:00.000+01:00

The recurring concepts underlying my posts are: rarities, semantics, hypocrisy, delusion, and above all our bent for euphemism; our inability to name things for what they are.

There are genres. Genres are different. There are races. Races are different. The number of voices screaming foul and claiming we’re alike is irrelevant. We aren’t.

“Let’s mix and match so we’re one race!” cry the liberal masses. “Imagine a Beige humanity!”

Well, it doesn’t look so straightforward to me. The race that created Western Civilization is on its way to extinction. Blacks have most of Africa and a good chunk of Asia. Yellows have the rest of Asia. There are Browns in most continents. And since the flow of immigration is one way, chances are Blacks, Yellows and Browns, breeding at twice the rate as Whites, will sustain their races while the Whites disappear.

Is this a bad thing? I don’t know, but I wonder why we frown at the concept of interbreeding when related to other species and champion human mixing. Why we downgrade mongrels and favor Labradors or Dobermans? What about livestock? Vegetables? Grains? Fruits? In fact, the single issue that made viable our civilization of sprawling cities was careful strain-selection in agriculture and husbandry. Without these, Earth would have billions fewer humans. Or, to put it another way (as the actress said to the bishop,) if we didn’t select seeds and livestock, there would be no next year for 90% of the world’s human population.

Rome was unable to curb its reach, control its population, or defend its frontiers. Their armies and cities became a mismatch of peoples and races each with their own agenda. Eventually, a human flood swamped the greatest empire that had ever existed. The outcome? Darkness and ashes.

I believe we’ve left behind the point of no return as we barrel against a brick wall and I wonder what will be built on top of our Rome’s ashes—and more to the point, who will cart the bricks.

Odd behavior

2010-11-07T13:04:00.000+01:00

Why do we act as we do? Uh? Come on and say it: "This is the dumbest question I’ve ever read."

From the moment we’re squeezed out into this world, we are like sponges. We learn from our parents, our surrounds, other people, books, media, you name it. We’re gluttons for information. This is a good thing, I suppose: We owe what we are to this particular quirk. But curiosity without skepticism is a dangerous trait. Our betters know—and merrily exploit—that if someone delivers a truckload of bullshit with enough authority we’ll swallow it whole. Don’t get me writing about terrorism, religion or the climate change; I’ve promised to be a good boy and don’t flaunt my scienteist bent.

Take milk. Once upon a time, and counseled by sage quacks, those of us suffering from delicate stomachs drank lots of the stuff. This was until someone looked into the matter to discover that milk was poison for queasy guts. Vitamin C, fish oil, acupuncture, homeopathy, and scores of other frauds soon followed suit. Yes, I know billions still believe in ghosts and the Martian canals. How can that be? I suspect we are entitled to the level of ignorance we’re comfortable with.

Our behavior—singly or in groups—is fascinating and frequently disturbing. Why do we act as we do? From whom do we learn to do stupid things? If I think back to the inane acts I’ve done in my life I can usually find someone to blame: My parents taught me so; I acted under orders; everybody else does it, etc.

We take piping hot coffee and cool it with milk or cream before struggling to dissolve sugar in the lukewarm liquid. Other times we press down harder on the remote, even though we suspect that the batteries are flat, or keep coming back to open the door of a bare fridge when hungry. In summer, we cool our houses winter fashion, and in winter we warm them summer-hot. Go figure.

But we’re much worse in company. In groups we do the oddest things, like favoring the people of our clan over much worthier ones, or seeking figures to worship, or copy other members’ idiocy, mimicking, monkeying.... Which brings me to a recent discovery that has shattered one of my dearest-held beliefs.

A banana has two ends: the stalk that attaches the fruit to the branch and a button on its other end. Like everybody else, I peeled bananas it from the stalk end. Why? It’s natural, everybody does it, my mom taught me, etc. As usual, I followed the example of others around me and accepted established custom without bothering to check with experts.

The other day, I stared mesmerize at a bedraggled ape at our local zoo. The beast, grabbed a banana in the fashion I assumed was the correct one. After careful consideration, he turned it over, peeled from the button side, and munched away. I couldn’t believe my eyes. So I waited. Another of his furry pals soon repeated the performance. From the button. I spent the rest of the afternoon parading in a state of shell shock before cages of apes and monkeys, where experts taught me the correct way to peel a banana.

You see? Peeling from the button down, the skin comes off with the stringy bits, which is a much neater procedure. Surely, you agree monkeys know a thing or two about bananas.

A shadow of my former self, I crept back to my lair and had a good cry. I can’t bear to think that I have wasted my life peeling bananas the wrong way.

VALUE FOR MONEY

2010-10-30T19:16:00.000+02:00

I suspect that most of the real problems in our lives stem from the unreasonable notion of being short-changed no matter what. I have had a fair experience of divorces, both in my flesh and that of friends or acquaintances. In every instance, after listening to both contenders yell “I deserved better,” I couldn’t help wondering why what we lay on the scales has greater weight than whatever our friend, partner, or companion, contributes.

I’ve given her, him, it, “everything.” That may be, but for the other, our “everything” wasn’t enough. In a nutshell, he, she or it felt cheated: short-changed. We expected more. Society, hearsay, or simple wishful thinking led us to believe we would get greater value for our money, however unreasonable this may be with the benefit of hindsight (or the morning after which, in this instance, is synonymous.)

Our confusion between price and worth may be at the core of this riddle. What's the worth of a glass of water or a boat ride? I mean, how much is it worth it to you?

Perhaps it will depend on the exact set of circumstances.

The other day, in a Barcelona street, I heard someone complain about having to pay 1€ for a tiny bottle of water. The detail brought to mind a visit at noon in a dry month to the great pyramid of Kheops. As I emerged from the stifling pharaoh’s tomb into a sweltering and barren landscape, two enterprising Egyptian boys had set up shop: scores of water bottles in an oil drum weeping condensation and packed high with ice. A steal at 6€ apiece (almost $10.) Soon there was a long line of tongue-hanging hopefuls under the scorching sun. The problem with the man complaining about the expensive water was that his thirst wasn’t worth €1.

When souls reach the shores of the River Styx, they find Charon, the man with the punt. As you know, a punt is a flat-bottomed boat for shallow waters. The boatman must maneuver a pole, dig it into the silt below the water and with considerable effort propel the craft. Venetian gondolas are punts of sorts, but I digress.

To ferry a soul across the rivers Styx and Acheron—and all the way to Hades—Charon demands the payment of a coin the ancients termed “obol.” This is the reason for the custom of placing such a coin in the deceased’s dress, resting on a closed eyelid or in his mouth. Since it seems that any soul not able to pay their obol will have to spend one-hundred years wandering the Styx’s shores, it’s wise to be prepared when meeting the eternal ferryman. To thwart post mortem thieves, I always keep the smallest denomination copper coin handy. As soon as I notice anything funny I plan to swallow it. So far, I’ve had a few false alarms, that’s why I’ve chosen the smallest coin. (Remember the morning after? I knew you would.)

Of course, there’s much more to this. Life is seldom simple and there’s no reason to suppose death should be. What will we get for our money? Once more, there’s price and worth: we need the punt and Charon doesn’t need the obol; after all, he has nowhere to spend it. There’s a rumor about the harpies willing to throw in a quickie for next to nothing, but after reading about their graces I’m not surprised there are no takers.

Let’s analyze the situation: We have a wretched soul in an inhospitable shore, cold, miserable, clad in whatever shroud the funerary staff didn’t steal, and clutching his precious obol; his ticket to Hades. He hopes to find warmth, rest, and the guys and gals who beat him there. Then there’s Charon. The man has a monopoly on the ferry business and couldn’t care less; either pay or wander.

If you search for an image depicting Charon, you’ll come across representations of a thin and cowled man hard at work while the soul lies wrapped on the other end of his craft. False. Don’t believe it. Artist’s representations are a fraud. These images, like political or social sciences, have been created to mislead and give us the wrong kind of expectations.

To the soul’s surprise—and frequent outrage—once Charon had been paid he won’t move a muscle. If the soul wants to make way, he or she will have to slog their guts. Hey, how come? I’ve paid!

Right. You’ve paid to ride the punt not for a slave to ferry you across. Does it ring a bell? To use his goodies the boatman must be paid. And then… then, my dear friend, then we must row, and row, and row, and row...

If you got it, flaunt it?

2010-10-23T20:06:00.005+02:00

As a lifelong practicing atheist, I’m often asked to explain the reasons for my lack of beliefs. Once upon a time, when I was young and foolish (now I’m old and foolish) I would climb my soapbox and launch into a tirade, philippic or whatever you choose to call it. In time, the stupidity of my reaction settled in. The person before me didn’t seek enlightenment nor had a brain in his head to process anything I could say. The question was meaningless. Nonexistence doesn’t require proof, existence does.

Nowadays I change subject, smile, look a round in case I’ve missed the local talent or whistle a few bars of ‘There’s a Hole in my Bucket.’ People are entitled to believe what they want regardless of the opinions of others, even that Earth is flat.

Respect is another matter. I respect thieves and crooks, and pimps and anyone who lives by a creed regardless of its nature, but I abhor hypocrites and cheats. Take Hannibal Lecter. There’s a man worthy of respect; he is what he is and he doesn’t pull any punches about it. Oh, but he should be locked away to protect society! Of course he should, but that’s another matter.

I once endured the repeated attempts at proselytizing from a neighbor; a Jehovah’s Witness striving to fill his quota of converts. Out of civility, I listened to his ramblings until the day he confided that the end of the world was around the corner. How long have you know? I asked him. Four, five years, he answered. We departed in less than friendly terms. The bastard had bought his house on a 20-year mortgage just one year earlier.

This morning, on my way to feed the sparrows, I paused to look at a gathering of well-heeled men and women in their Sunday’s best, crowding the steps of a nearby Catholic Church, apparently waiting for a bride to make her appearance. So, I settled on a bench, fed the birds, and lit a cigarette.

After ten minutes—rejoicing at the display of shallow smiles and much fidgeting from the torment of untamed shoes and tight corsets—the crowd became more animated. A scout must have warned of the bride’s approach because a young man, cell phone in hand, jumped up and down as if he’d just discovered sex.

A Roman Catholic marriage is not for the fainthearted. Naturally, the contract stipulates ‘until death do us part,’ a joke merrily celebrated by divorce lawyers. But there’s more. The white gown is a symbol of purity, signifying that the bride presents herself virginal and innocent to the ceremony.

When the motorcade poured onto the square, I lit another cigarette. So much for her Little Flower. The bride’s pregnancy was advanced; she could barely negotiate the steps and I wondered if the idea was to let nature take its course on hallowed ground. No veil, no loose garments but a tight tube-like resplendent white dress that seemed painted on the mother-to-be. I scanned the crowd for paramedics on attendance.

What? Can’t a pregnant bride marry in church? Of course she can, or in the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. But a Roman Catholic bride--at a Roman Catholic church and surrounded by a crowd of Roman Catholics--flaunting her hypocrisy is appalling.

Mother Teresa’s Fraud

2010-10-15T16:46:00.005+02:00

Those in love with an illusion often refuse to see reality. This is a well-known fact, as any historian worth his salt can confirm.
One vote gave Hitler leadership of the Nazi Party? Nope, the vote was 553 to 1—in his favor.

Napoleon was short? Not really, I am. He was 5'7".

Vitamin C is great to ward off colds? False.

Marie Antoinette said, "Let them eat cake?" Garbage.

Mussolini made the Italian trains run on time? Wishful thinking; Italian trains have never run on time, before, during or after Mussolini.

Why then we believe such claims? Well, it goes like this: If enough people assert something with sufficient aplomb (in particular if the speakers occupy pulpits, don uniforms or write articles) hordes will believe them. After all, our betters can't be wrong, can they?

The ol’ Vatican folks have marketed Mother Teresa for altruism, yet whatever good work she did was ruined by the evil she promoted.

Evil did you say?

Yup, I did.

“Every child is an expression of god’s love,” she kept on reminding the poor. Then Teresa went round exhorting the poor to have as many poor kids as they could. The poor-poor took her word seriously and fueled a poor population explosion.

The net result? Because of her opposition to birth control, she actually helped create far more misery than she ever eased. As Sanal Edamaruku once remarked. "India has no reason to be grateful to Mother Teresa." Had she obtained and distributed condoms, the people of India would have been far better off.

The legend of her Homes for the Dying—crafted with the enthusiastic connivance of the media—moved the world. But reality was different: In overcrowded and primitive little homes, she treated her patients with good words and insufficient or outdated medicines applied with unsterilized old needles. She wouldn't consent to painkillers. What for? Helping her patients to experience great suffering she believed would bring them closer to Christ. Closer to hell, in my opinion, but I digress.

Despite countless millions of dollars donated to her charity each year, her missions catered to the critically ill and simply afforded them a place to die. All hope abandon ye who enter here. Yet, when Mother Teresa became ill, you reckon she roughed it with her children? With the untouchables? No, she did not. Rather she moved to the world's finest health care facilities for treatment.

A summary of Teresa's mission? Certainly. A dying man was in excruciating pain. Rather than giving him morphine or good old dope, she consoled him: "You are suffering like Christ on the cross. So Jesus must be kissing you."

The man replied as I would have. You guessed it. "Then, please, tell Jesus to stop kissing me."

I want to be a doctor

2010-10-09T16:42:00.004+02:00

I feel discriminated. You see, I’ve always wanted to be a physician. I dream of donning whites, poking at abused flesh, and dispensing medicine—like Cesar bestowing baubles. But this would be the boring part. I want people to call me ‘doctor’ in hushed voices, and stare at me with expectant watery eyes while I mull over life and death verdicts.

"Doctor, doctor… what’s wrong with me?"

"Mmmm… let me see." The patient exhibits a dark coloration spreading over the fullness of his skin. Upon examination, we are uncertain of the ailment’s nature. He might be bruised, or suffer a jolly good gangrene, or be in need of a bath and a vigorous scrub, or simply be black—for the sake of fashion let’s pander to euphemism and make that ‘of African extraction.’ We will order some tests. What I love most is the ‘we’, like Queen Victoria. God and me. Nice. "Ah, my dear, if only medicine were an exact science. Come back next month."

A few weeks ago, I checked out the requirements. I was shocked. Has the world gone crazy? How many years did you say? Graduation? Internship? Peer review? Whatever are you talking about? I only want to be a ‘doctor’ you idiot, not to win the Nobel Prize.

I could buy lab whites and a few cool tools, nothing fancy, and rent a room and hang a shingle with ‘doctor’ in gold letters and have cards printed Joe Bloggs DOCTOR. But the bastards out there would give me funny names, like ‘quack’, and call the cops.

Life is so unfair, and the Constitution a travesty, and freedom a lie. If others produce reams of garbage, and slap them into books, and print them, and call themselves ‘author’ why can’t I call myself ‘doctor’?

On Making Love

2010-09-26T20:48:00.001+02:00

We live in a strange world of words, a world of hypocrisy, cynicism, and distorted semantics. We attach meaning to sounds, which once backed by the dubious acceptance of our betters, supersede any other sound with similar and even more accurate meaning. Once approved, some sounds garner respectability, class as it were. Other sounds we ostracize, brand with a red letter and attempt to banish from proper mouths or pens, least they soil our delicate understanding. What was that? Wash his mouth with soap. Carbolic.

Make love, they say. Make love? But we can’t share, or show, or give, or take or even express love. We can’t make or unmake love. We can only feel, sense, and suffer love; the loneliest experience of our wretched species.

The mechanics, you fool! Make love. Mechanics, procedure, activity, exercise, task, undertaking, you know? Wink, wink.

I don’t follow. How can you make love? You can make a buck, and duck a puck and with luck, muck through a ruck and even suck-in a tuck, yuck! But make love?

2010-02-09T21:07:00.003+01:00

The sparrows are leaving.

Everywhere, sparrows are driven to extinction. In Europe, the little birds have almost disappeared from cities like Prague, Berlin, London, Madrid or Barcelona. Only in Great Britain, in excess of five million pairs have vanished over the past thirty years. Sparrows are not beautiful, or great singers or even fashionable, useless in this world of disenchantment and aridity. Aren't we all? A survivor from the Neolithic, sparrows have been with us forever, their shrill chippings happy as kisses. Now, the competition of pigeons and other pests, the chemicals with which we baste our lands and the unbreathable air of our cities are killing them.

I don't know about climate changes, or vanishing morals, or the decadence of the empire; these are not signals but imaginings. The climate always was, and morals have become the wet dreams of hopefuls in an empire that never was. But I see a sign in the departing sparrows, an ominous one: by killing the humble birds we're killing what little soul we'd salvaged, and I fear there may be no hope left for us after they're gone.

World's rarest coffee

2009-04-18T15:32:00.007+02:00

From The Folks next door.

The Folks Next Door is a two-volume collection of short stories prefaced with:

Whenever the news unveil a new horror to afford us a glimpse into the darker aspects of the human soul, we often forget the actors in these tragedies are people like you or me; the taciturn bus driver, the affable hotel porter or the prim lady walking her poodle. People who awake under the same sun, dream under the same moon and harbor the wickedest thoughts. The folks next door is a collection of short stories about ordinary people; someone’s neighbors, mine or, perhaps, yours.

The original concept was to tell stories of everyday life. I wrote tales of the lonely, the sick, the poor, the different, the frightened, the confused and the strange.

One of the tales, Rare Foods. Inc, is set in Tallinn, the capital of Estonia (a stone throw from Finland and Russia), where I spent some of the worst days of my life. The research of Rare Foods. Inc, yielded this gem:

Coffee grows in dozens of countries around the world. Some varieties have earned a special reputation, often based on a combination of rarity, unusual circumstances and particularly good flavor. These coffees, from Jamaican Blue Mountain to Kona to Tanzanian Peaberry, command a premium price. But perhaps no coffee in the world is in such short supply, has such unique flavors and an, um, interesting background as Kopi Luwak. And no coffee even comes close in price: Kopi Luwak sells for $75 per quarter pound. Granted, that's substantially less than marijuana, but it's still unimaginably high for coffee.

Kopi (the Indonesian word for coffee) Luwak comes from the islands of Sumatra, Java and Sulawesi (formerly Celebes), which are part of the Indonesian Archipelago.

On these Indonesian islands, there's a small marsupial called the paradoxurus, a tree-dwelling animal that is part of the civet family. The furry animals climb among the coffee trees eating only the ripest, reddest coffee cherries.

The locals gather the beans, which come through the digestion process fairly intact, still wrapped in layers of the cherries' mucilage, (make that shit). The enzymes in the animals' stomachs, though, appear to add something unique to the coffee's flavor through fermentation.

Japan buys the bulk of Kopi Luwak, estimating a total annual crop of less than 500 pounds.

Curiously, Kopi Luwak isn't the only "specialty" food that begins this way. Argan is an acacia-like tree that grows in Morocco and Mexico which, through its olive-like fruit, yields argan oil. InMorocco, the Berbers encourage goats to climb the trees to eat the fruit. They later gather the goats' excrement and remove the pits, which they grind for oil to be used in massage, in cooking and as an aphrodisiac.

If you're in the neighborhood, drop by for a cup of coffee.

The idiocy of race discrimination

2009-04-12T12:55:00.005+02:00

The following is an excerpt from an interview, where Spencer Wells, a British geneticist and author of The Journey of Man: A Genetic Odyssey (Princeton University Press ISBN: 978-0691115320) gave these categorical answers:

Q. Where did Adam live and what did he look like?

A. The unequivocal answer is that he lived in Africa. Every piece of DNA in our bodies can be traced back to an African source. The Y-chromosome traces back to eastern or southern Africa, around 60,000 years ago. The present-day inhabitants of Ethiopia, Sudan and southern Africa carry the clearest signals of our earliest ancestry, signals that have been lost in the rest of us. So they give us a glimpse of our 60,000 year-old Adam. Adam would have been fully modern, both in terms of his appearance and his brain function. It is speculation, of course, but perhaps the San Bushmen of the Kalahari - who in many ways are a composite model of facial features from people all over the world - give us a portrait of Adam and his fellow early humans.

Q. If we all came from a black man, how did men and women of different colors come into being?

A. The accepted explanation for skin color differences is that we first evolved in a tropical region, in Africa. The tropical sun is quite strong, so the skin needed the protection provided by the natural sunscreen, melanin, which makes skin dark. When we started moving into the Northern Hemisphere 40,000 years ago, the sun was not as strong. Anyone who's been to London in February can tell you that! And because the sun helps us to synthesize Vitamin D, which we need to grow strong bones, we had to lose some of our pigmentation to allow enough sunlight through.

Q. So what do our genes tell us about the biological differences between, say, Europeans and Africans?

A. They are literally only skin deep. We are all African cousins separated by - at most - 2,000 generations.

http://press.princeton.edu/chapters/i7442.html

I don't dislike racists because of their opinions (some of us live in pseudo-free societies) but I abhor those who flaunt their ignorance.

Today I'm in a creative mood and I will coin a word: moronity.

I hate moronity.

Dog witness

2009-04-07T08:42:00.001+02:00

Dog appears as witness in murder trial

By Jessica Salter, The Daily Telegraph Sep 10 2008

A dog nicknamed "Scooby" has become the first animal in the world to appear as a witness in a murder trial.

The animal is believed to have been with his 59-year-old owner when she was found hanging from the ceiling of her Paris flat. Police believe it was suicide but her family demanded a murder investigation.

During a preliminary hearing the pet was led into the witness box by a vet to see how it reacted to a suspect.

It is said to have "barked furiously".

The aim was to decide if there was sufficient evidence to launch a full murder inquiry and a judge is yet to reach a decision.

However, the French legal system does have a reputation for trials involving animals, most famously evoked in The Hour of the Pig, a murder-mystery film which depicted an idealistic Parisian lawyer defending a pig charged with murder.

Er... i've seen pigs charged with murder and worse all the time.

God can do with a little help at times

2009-04-05T11:06:00.001+02:00

From: Wikinews, http://www.wikinews.org

The pilot and co-pilot of Tuninter Flight 1153, which crashed into the Mediterranean Sea in 2005, killing sixteen people, have each received ten-year jail sentences for the ditching of the flight. They were found to have prayed instead of trying to direct the plane to safety when the engines failed.

Er… praying is a good thing, but the pilots should have helped The Almighty by grabbing the controls and attempting to steer the damn thing. As the old Arab adage counsels: “Trust God, but tie the camel’s leg.”

Tia Encarna’s tale, from Once upon a Madhouse

2009-02-10T16:48:00.001+01:00

I wrote Once Upon a Madhouse in Spanish. In a section of the book there’s the account of an indomitable old widow who, after twenty years, still mourns the departure of her companion: an army sergeant killed in an act of service.

Her nephew discovers the truth behind the sergeant’s heroic death. When a drunken captain and his mount--also drunk after polishing two buckets of wine--cause a commotion on the officer’s mess, the frightened staff calls the sergeant on duty. Failing to convince the rider to dismount his sloshed mount, the sergeant attempts to maneuver the pair down a rickety staircase when the horse slips a hoof and causes the sergeant death.

In my army days, I learned of an unlikely inmate that had languished in the barrack’s stocks for several years: a mule guilty of killing an officer with a kick. This gave me the idea for the plot point.

As I translated Once upon a Madhouse into English I checked to ascertain if the mule’s affair was an isolated case and discovered other four-legged criminals had shared similar fates.

On an EFE dispatch dated October 24, 2004 I found that a Rottweiller dog was arrested by the police and thrown in the slammer after attacking a passer-by. Police Colonel Rodrigo Tamayo, head of the judiciary police of Pichichia province, Quito, Ecuador, confirmed that ‘Toby’ is in custody but well, receiving the same treatment of other inmates with visiting hours, exercise and adequate diet, although his cell is a box on the prison’s exercise yard.

From an article by Anxel Vence, a journalist at El Faro Gallego, I learned that in 1999 the mayor of Baiona ordered a cow named ‘Pinta’ to be placed under arrest after being caught in fraganti chomping the lush grass of the municipal gardens. Only after several years of trials did the cow’s defense lawyers managed ‘Pinta’s release.

There’s a rumor to the effect that after a recruit’s accidental death by drowning, the army court-martialed the culprit: a pond. Alas, I’ve not been able to substantiate such a many splendored claim.

No Queen

2009-02-01T14:34:00.001+01:00

Sadly, no posts for a full week. I’m off to London, to visit the pussycat.

Reality can be stranger than fiction.

2009-01-31T10:26:00.003+01:00

As a regular feature, I will post one newsàèr cutting from my files on Saturdays.

Er… I bet we could have reached the same conclusion without God knows how many years slogging through journalism school.

US police could get 'pain beam' weapons

2009-01-29T14:28:00.002+01:00

David Hambling in New Scientist December 24 2008, reported:

The research arm of the US Department of Justice is working on two portable non-lethal weapons that inflict pain from a distance using beams of laser light or microwaves, with the intention of putting them into the hands of police to subdue suspects.

Pain from a distance? I ask you... By the way, do you know what the sadist did to the masochist?

Nothing.

Food For The Fishes

2009-01-28T14:52:00.002+01:00

By Charlie Ferro in NEWSWEEK Oct 6, 2008

Danish artist Marco Evaristti is famous for his subversive art installations, like one in which visitors were invited to purée live goldfish in a blender. His next project: inheriting the corpse of Gene Hathorn, a prisoner on Texas's death row. When Hathorn is executed, his remains will be freeze-dried, and the resulting exhibit will urge spectators to feed Hathorn to aquarium fish.

I'm at a loss for words

Have you been a naughty girl?

2009-01-27T10:28:00.003+01:00

On Sunday, November 9, 2008 Katy Guest wrote in The Independent:

Now, an even more bizarre innovation has come out of the Brazilians' evident obsession with each other's bits: the GPS lingerie tracking system.

The "Find Me If You Can" range of underwear is the brainchild of lingerie designer Lucia Lorio. The racy set consists of a lace bodice, bikini bottom and a faux (of course) pearl collar, with a GPS tracking device neatly nestled at the waist. Or rather glued on somewhere under the armpit. But it has feminists up in arms. Claudia Burghardt, who purports to be a feminist leader in Berlin, said: "It is nothing more than a chastity belt for insecure men!"

http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/fashion/news/brazilians-wax-lyrical-about-satnav-knickers-1003461.html

Claudia’s judgement is shortsighted. The possibilities are endless. Susan can drop by to say hello to grandpa, discard her underwear and go about her business au naturel. Naturally she would collect her lacy bits on her return, and before heading back home. “Hi, love. Been at grandpa’s all day and I’m exhausted. Call for pizza?”

Witches help lift Sweden's job loss curse

2009-01-26T11:44:00.003+01:00

On November 18, 2008, in The Local, a Swedish newspaper in English, David Landes wrote:

An enterprising Swedish company seeking to hire 20 witches has provided a welcome break in the country’s otherwise steady flow of dismal employment news.

According to the company’s advertisement on a listing maintained by Sweden’s Public Employment Agency (Arbetsförmedlingen), qualified candidates should be well-versed in “contact with the other side, runes, tarots, crystals, herbs, rituals, exorcism, meditation, personal coaching, and more.”

http://www.thelocal.se/15760/20081118/

Well... what are we waiting for? Let's dust up our crystal balls!

Wachiman

2009-01-25T14:13:00.005+01:00

During a stay in Santo Domingo, to impart a short workshop on lighting techniques, Luis José Jacobo, my host and long-standing friend, introduced me to the world of the “wachimen” or “watchis,” as they’re collectively called. The watchis are security men, porters or parking-lot attendants. You see them everywhere in shopping malls, at the entrances of residential blocks, shops, eateries and bars. There’s nothing extraordinary about being a guard, but watchis are different. They pack loaded sawed-off shotguns, (SBS or short-barreled shotgun). They’re badly paid, do long shifts, some are close to retirement age and don’t look very bright. According to my friend, “accidents” are commonplace.

Whenever I went out to restaurants, and spotted these guys fingering their weapon's trigger on the entrance, I always wondered if their task was to keep patrons in or out.

Pygmies, from Perfect Circle

2009-01-24T12:06:00.006+01:00

I mention pygmies in Perfect Circle. The middle part of the novel is set in the Congo’s Ituri Forest. While researching the fascinating history of these people, I came across several puzzling articles advancing the possibility that America’s prehistoric inhabitants were pygmies.

Gentlemen's Magazine, 3:8:182, 1837.

In 1837, a number of tiny human skeletons from 3 to 4 1/2 feet tall were found buried in tiny wooden coffins near Cochocton, Ohio. There were no artifacts found, but the number of graves led one observer to note that they "must have been tenants of a considerable city."
A short distance from Cochocton, Ohio, U.S., a singular ancient burying-ground has lately been discovered. "It is situated," says a writer in Silliman's Journal, "on one of those elevated, gravelly alluviums, so common on the rivers of the West. From some remains of wood, still apparent in the earth around the bones, the bodies seem all to have been deposited in coffins; and what is still more curious, is the fact that the bodies buried here were generally not more than from three to four and a half feet in length. They are very numerous, and must have been tenants of a considerable city, or their numbers could not have been so great. A large number of graves have been opened, the inmates of which are all of this pygmy race. No metallic articles or utensils have yet been found to throw light on the period or the nation to which they belonged."

A much larger burial ground, was later found in Tennessee as reported by Anthropological Institute, Journal, 6:100, 1876.

An ancient graveyard of vast proportions has been found in Coffee county. It is similar to those found in White county and other places in middle Tennessee, but is vastly more extensive, and shows that the race of pygmies who once inhabited this country were very numerous. The same peculiarities of position Observed in the White county graves are found in these. The writer of the letter says: "Some considerable excitement and curiosity took place a few days since, near Hillsboro, Coffee County, on James Brown's farm. A man was ploughing in a field which had been cultivated many years, and ploughed up a man's skull and other bones. After making further examination they found that there were about six acres in the graveyard. They were buried in a sitting or standing position. The bones show that they were a dwarf tribe of people, about three feet high. It is estimated that there were about 75,000 to 100,000 buried there. This shows that this country was inhabited hundreds of years ago."

Scientists posit that our ancestors originated in Africa, were small-framed and black. A sobering thought. Every one of us is part pygmy, and part black. Come on, be a sport, did you know this?