Firetruck, Ball, Dictionary

This is the third incarnation of this post, each published on the eve of that phenomenal event known as the "annual physical." Tante Louise, though gone, lives on in the spirit of every citizen in Tête de Hergé and this jot marked her début as elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle's first Official Greeter, Docent, Porter, and Grande Dame.  The custom died out, unfortunately, largely due to her absence, that void of steely graciousness so difficult to emulate.  The genetically indentured Manor Staff, as you likely foresaw, found this change in its generational routine assignments as a violent upset to the Marlinspike Hall apple cart.  

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****
REPOST:  IN MEMORY OF TANTE LOUISE,
WHO HAS MOVED ON
TO WARMER CLIMES.
*****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****


The official motto of Syldavia: 

Eih bennek, eih blavek 

 If you gather thistles, expect prickles (roughly translated)

These days, when you see the Physician's Assistant for the 5-minute cursory exam that has replaced your family doctor's annual physical, she is likely to include a simple test of your short term memory.


 "I'm going to say three words.  In a few minutes, or at the end of this cursory exam, whichever comes first, I will ask you to recall these three words."


Then she will say something like "firetruck, ball, dictionary."


After giving you prescriptions for a new anti-depressant, maybe a statin or two, some thyroid hormone, and a recommendation to lose weight, as your PA is leaving the examination closet, hand on the doorknob, she'll ask you, over the shoulder and not slowing one bit, what those three words were.


Try to be ready.

Sad to say, that's my best approximation of the prevailing ambiance here at elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle, with its lopsided equivalencies, all those adverbs for ballast, my subordinate clause. Unrhymed but metered tercets, I write strings of words that I repeat to strangers in the hope that they will remember, and speak them back.


Just because I have problems with words doesn't mean I've the right to sour the whole experience.


Sensing a looming depression settling over his beloved valley, The Captain recently sent us a team of motivational speakers, the ideal long distance gift from an absentee Manor Lord.  During a cold lunch that featured a perfect mound of tuna salad rising from a Botticellian shell of Boston lettuce -- surrounded by pale green, slightly mottled frozen grapes that were, themselves, punctuated with watermelon and sour cream quenelles -- 


During *that*, we listened to our Plenary Session guru, a self-styled Cicero who could sell Ginzu knives and Veg-a-matics to desert ascetics.


After changing into the Haddock Corporation's new line of  70% bamboo/30% spandex Ye Olde Sea Salt athletic wear, The Manor's indentured-unto-perpetuity Domestic Staff spent the afternoon doing team-building exercises, often blindfolded, sometimes with various legs lashed together.  At one time or another, each employee fell backward -- full of faith -- into the extended arms of their waiting coworkers (relatives, mostly), in whom they already knew *exactly* how much to trust.


Times are tight everywhere, even in Tête de Hergé. We think that's what is fuelling The Captain's new love of all things corporate.  It's not that he doesn't have almost infinite resources -- good Lord, just look around you!  It is more a question of liquidity.  For years, we ran Marlinspike Hall with the proceeds from collectible comic books and by selling off coveted domaine names, snatched up back in the days before Spielberg had his eye on Hergé's Tête.  Shoot, we used to make payroll thanks to a horse stall full of pristine Bengali editions of King Ottokar's Sceptre, carefully packed in hay.  


The bottom line is that we are opening almost the entire Manor and Haddock family land holdings to the public in an effort to make Marlinspike Hall a self-sustaining endeavor.  The Captain wants to be, forgive the pun, a captain of industry, among other things, and so we find ourselves scheduled to host a series of BigSpeak SpeakEasy MiniTraining Camps, sort of an Outward Bound experience for the buttoned-down world.  Not just for at-risk youth, our outdoor adventures!  


It's kind of a test.  That's right, we're beta testers.       


Fred has been in close consultation with the Garden, Grounds, and Outbuildings Guild, trying to achieve and maintain a level of preparedness that would rival any scouting organization.  Their first obstacle, of course, was  access to toilets -- just what the forward-thinking Fred had predicted.  But because they had money to throw at the issue, the solution was fairly simple, and would also help us attract people to other events, such as ManorFest and our fledgling 3-Day Substance Abuse Intervention Program for Carnies and Sideshow Freaks (Born and/or Made)*.  Not having a decent place to go would no longer be reason enough to stay away and certainly no longer an excuse to refuse help.

* I know you must be wondering about our work among these talented folk.  It all began when some Cirque du Soleil people escaped from the Lone Alp Rehab.  Lost and high, they were drawn to the various riggings and natural performance venues of Marlinspike Hall.  We found them swinging like inebriated monkeys from the hefty hemp rope that connects the Manor Stables to the Computer Turret. The only way in or out, up or down, that pesky turret is via this thick rope ladder, dyed caution yellow, that extends down (but mostly sideways) out to the Stables. (It's more bridge than ladder, Fred always says.)  Anyway, with the help of our Cistercian monk neighbors, almost everyone got sober, and the word spread.  Lots of our ManorFest vendors have carnival connections, and it turned out that Abbot Truffatore and Father Anthony, Guest TaskMaster, offer a special Retreat twice a year for Sideshow Freaks.  And you thought all those monks did was peddle ink and toner supplies!

Fred waved this Toilet brochure under my sweaty nose as he ran off to tackle some other pressing Guild issue.  


It *is* exciting:


• "Green System" uses minimal water and Green Manufacturing. 
• Warm Fireplace in Women's restrooms. 
• Hot and cold running water. 
• Black Onyx Decor counter tops. 
• Self contained water tank (up to 800 uses). 
• Holding tank allows approximately 2,000 uses before servicing. 
• Ample exterior lighting. 
• Marbled patterned walls. 
• Diffused sconce lighting throughout. 
• Heated and air conditioned. 
• Fully enclosed individual stalls. 
• Sanitary Hands-Free pedal flush toilets and urinals. 


They had me with the sconces!


It's not the sexiest part of Hergé Manor Maintenance, but I know that Moat Conditioning is going to be a terribly divisive topic, what with so many first time corporate visitors arriving by submarine. It's a tenuous ecological balancing act -- on the one hand, we can flood the Submariner's Mooring area with Commercial Grade Bacterial Enzyme Treatments to transform industrial-grade sludge and out-of-control nutrients ("Up to 1,000 Lbs Per Day!") into Essential Angel Farts;  on the other hand, we can quietly, efficiently, and cheaply drown out our problems with algaecides (copper sulphate, iron salts, rosin amine salts and benzalkonium chloride). 


Fred has a dream.  He wants to press The Manor's Miniature Families into special service, such as Moat Maintenance.  I don't know that this is the time for such forward-thinking measures, but you try calming down an excited Fred.  "For only the cost of toothbrushes!" he crows.


I am limited by a pesky Non-Disclosure Agreement, and had to have even this little bit of blog copy pre-approved... but I am pleased to announce that these BigSpeak SpeakEasy MiniTraining Camps mark the first event use of our new Class IIa Abbreviated Wilderness Trail and Bird Sanctuary.  It's an amazing piece of artifice made, seemingly, of concentric oak hammocks and dense coastal pine woodland looping around a central marsh, that is, itself, carefully maintained and divided by a system of unobtrusive dykes.  The fake marsh is host to seven tiny -- and very real -- nesting islands.  Weirdly enough, the comment we hear most often from the BETA specialists on site at Marlinspike Hall, as they gaze down from its rarefied heights?  "Nice... but no waterfalls."


Having enjoyed a Power Nap or two, the motivational speakers were excited to herd us mild-mannered mid-management types through the Stable, over the rope bridge, and into the Computer Turret, where we were sequestered for a special brainstorming session. Fred was a little miffed. He kept reminding everyone to send thank you notes to The Captain, our absent host ("...and don't stop at one, send five!").


This whole "corporations are people, too" concept is new to us, what can I say?


The only idea, bright or otherwise, to emerge from our forced meeting of minds was the decision to post some of our older, semi-retired Domestic Staff right beside the blog titles, so that visitors can be properly escorted and supported as they read.  It can be vertiginous, the experience of reading around here. Plus, these sweet old farts absolutely insist on being scheduled for a few shifts each week -- devoted old men, consecrated old women.


Walmart got the whole "Greeters" gimmick from us, you know.  Initially, we thought ourselves quite clever, tapping into such a great resource as Marlinspike Hall's kind and wizened live-in elders.  Weren't we grand, weren't we magnanimous, providing the Old Folk with a routine and some physical and mental enrichment to stave off dementia?! Still, the twinkle in their milky eyes was disconcerting: Fred broke out in guilty psychic rashes; I took to wearing Evil Eye jewelry. (But La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore laughed and laughed!) It took a few years but we finally learned that our bent and rheumatic greeting squad was happily fulfilling the final act of their lifelong (and genetic) dedication to hospitality.


We've caught several of our Cistercian neighbors trying to horn in and cover Greeter shifts. It turned out to have been suggested by Abbot Truffatore as impeccable adjunct training for those monks eyeballing the monastery's Porter or Gatekeeper position. A curious identity, the Porter spans the division between worlds, introducing one to the other, and when perfected to the job, absolutely refraining from judgment.   There's even a quiet tradition of sainthood being bestowed upon these keepers of the welcoming flame.


It's as a reflection of the Porter's mythos, then, that we publicly post our Greeters next to every bolded blog title. Maybe we're a smidgen too proud of our wrinkled Greeters but they've guided us well, without judgment, even in the brash early days when we never thought we'd be anything but Manor Squatters, never thought to make a real home here.  It's those same kind, wizened  folk who wait to show you life in Tête de Hergé, at least how it is west of the Lone Alp, and the way things are done here, in Marlinspike Hall, the Haddock family's humble ancestral abode.

Thomson and Thompson (Dupont et Dupond)
by Hergé

Serving as Honorary First Blog Guide and Greeter, you have no doubt noted, is Tête de Hergé's most famous nonagenarian, Tante Louise. Together with three cell phones, a bull horn, and her panoptic beady brown eyes, she is our first, and best, defense against fire, theft, and trauma of all sort. 

She will be hosting this post for its initial minute inside your skull, at which point Gervaise will step in as Greeter.  

I've just been notified that Gervaise wants to be called "Miss Madame Docent."


We still have a few problems to iron out.  




Firetruck!
Ball!
Dictionary!

© 2015 L. Ryan

Ecclesiastes 1:9

Dr. King's notes on Ecclesiastes 1:9
Courtesy of The King Center

REPOST from August 31, 2009.

January 4, 2015 Introduction:

Many people react as if the "recent" report(s) reclassifying as torture the Bush-era "Enhanced Interrogation Techniques" came out of an unforeseen overhead vista of cerulean blue -- that overlapping and sly sky blue. Perhaps from those interwebs' "cloud" storage devices about which I hear such rumors?

A redacted, unclassified version from the United States Senate Select Committee on Intelligence is available HERE. This short version addresses the years 2001 to 2006, and represents "an executive summary" of the key findings. The complete edition, still classified, was adopted by the SSCI in 2012. The CIA response to the SSCI document, delivered in memorandum form on June 27, 2013, was released in a redacted, unclassified version in early December 2014, and can be found HERE.

Where does the political and media "shock" come from, and the straight faces from which the surprise and awe are delivered?

I don't know.  You've only to have followed the work of the ACLU and the individual FOIA requests of hundreds of reputable organizations and individuals over the years -- and beyond the neatly forgiving endpoint of 2006. The ACLU Torture Database documents their efforts to obtain documentation and is the basis of their document, "U.S. Torture Program: A Blueprint for Accountability," which can be downloaded HERE.

Maybe you recall President Obama's quiet statement from August 2009, summarized this way in the New York Times:

WASHINGTON — The Obama administration will continue the Bush administration’s practice of sending terrorism suspects to third countries for detention and interrogation, but pledges to closely monitor their treatment to ensure that they are not tortured, administration officials said Monday.

Perhaps my skepticism of the tardy, off-Broadway response by the public, the pols, and the Fourth Estate last month can be forgiven if my bouts of hypertension and re-postings of Buckeye Surgeon's blogging on torture and the clear knowledge of it within the Executive Branch of our Esteemed Estate o'er in the United States of America are taken into account. Such interrogation techniques are unheard of in our present home in Tête de Hergé, though I wonder sometimes at the bovine revelations emanating from the Animal Husbandry Division of Marlinspike Hall's Miniature Genetic Project. (Yes, I am something of a Dr. Doolittle.)

I like one of the comments to a related ACLU article on Torture, American Style, left several years ago:

Simple solution.Water board members of the Bush Administration, until they tell us the truth.
"Whenever I hear anyone arguing for slavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally." -- Abraham Lincoln

And, of course, should you, like me, feel that the top of your head may explode any day now (Hey, Congress reconvenes tomorrow!) -- there is always the pointless and yet temporarily invigorating method made popular by the movie Network:

In the oppressive spirit of "[w]hat has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.," then, we republish "Pourri, Pot," and hope you are not terribly jarred by the redundant hodgepodge of cats and Dick Cheney.  Close your eyes and pretend it's August 31, 2009.

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POURRI, POT

Pot pourri (rotten pot). Fitting that the name for a beautifully arranged bowl yielding questionable scents derives from the Spanish designation for olla podrida -- pork&beans. True, the Spanish being Spanish,said pork&beans stew is subject to the rarefying whims of the creative cook, a clay pot, and a long cooking time, and becomes a satisfying culinary hodgepodge.

I learned from reading the entry for potpourri in Wikipedia that,
"(when mixed, you need to enclose the mixture in a bottle or jar,and let it
sit for a few weeks. Towards the middle of the weeks, the soon to be potpourri
may smell rotten. If you wait a little while longer, it will start to smell
better, so don't get discouraged or disappointed." (I particularly relish, and
appreciate, the encouragement to fend off the ravages of clinical depression.)

Yes, indeed. Words to live by, words with which to guide your children: If you wait a little longer, it will start to smell better...

So many unimaginative people of my generation... uh-oh, incoming, incoming! Flying lyrics, flying lyrics!

People try to put us d-down (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
Just because we g-g-get around (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
Things they do look awful c-c-cold (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
Yeah, I hope I die before I get old (Talkin' 'bout my generation)

This is my generation
This is my generation, baby
-- The Who, "My Generation"

As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted, the more anemic among us are humming "Teach Your Children," and feeling oh-so-competent. And organic. You know what I mean -- don't you? Look around you -- aren't there a few competent/organic types lurking in your shadows, obnoxiously humming:

You who are on the road
Must have a code that you can live by
And so become yourself
Because the past is just a good bye.
-- CSNY, "Teach Your Children"

The men ye shall know by their thin ponytails and receding hairlines. (The women ye shall spot by their insistent middle-of-the-hair part -- a style best reserved for those few of perfect face.)

Pot pourri. Potpourri.

Sadly, we have actual odor issues going on this morning. Fred decided to change cat litter brands -- again -- and I believe there is some sort of intestinal rebellion in the works. He wants to "go green," an impulse we all applaud, in public, but occasionally regret, in private.

I want to be as eco-friendly as possible. Really, I do. Thus far in our kitty greening, we've done recycled paper litter, corn litter, and alfalfa litter. At the moment, I believe we're using a combination of compressed sawdust and alfalfa. [One of the eternal questions: Why are simpler, less-processed products more expensive than standard commercial stuff? Shouldn't the cost of production be lower?] And as often as possible in our upkeep of Captain Haddock's ancestral home, we try to use products original to its construction -- the reason we have two-pound cans of clean sheep tallow tucked in various nooks and crannies, plus a stash of sustainably harvested local wood in [our replica of] the Knoppenburg Manor* Stables.

And should the good Captain Haddock ever depart Bongi-country and approve our plans for expansion, we've opted to employ straw bale in our framing and pneumatically impacted stabilized earth (PISE) -- or rammed earth* -- in the construction of our walls.

* Rammed earth, also known as taipa[1], pisé de terre or simply pisé, is a
technique used in the building of walls using the raw materials of mud, chalk,
lime and gravel. It is an ancient building method that has seen a revival in
recent years as people seek more sustainable building materials and natural
building methods. Because of the nature of the materials used it is
incombustible, thermally insulating and very strong and hardwearing. It also has
the added advantage of being a very low cost and simple way to construct
walls.

Ha! Dobby just came by to give the computer a good sniff.

Dobby is sometimes known as The Nose. Small, pink, and often quivering, his nose misses nothing. He insists on sniffing certain things -- and we participate... because we're weird. For instance, my water bottle. One of the ways in which I supported Hillary Clinton during her bid for the presidency came through the purchase of this 32-ounce water bottle, appropriately festooned with her name and a hint of the American flag. I drink probably 100+ ounces of water a day, so this monster bottle is never far away. I also have a Hillary tee that is totally irksome. I cannot prove it, but I believe it is a factory reject. An ounce too heavy, a few stitches awry.

In the beginning, Dobby was just fascinated with the movement of the water inside the dark blue cylinder, and I would turn it sideways to make "waves." He would slap them with his paws. Then he became curious about what was inside, about whatever it was that drew me so often to the bottle. So I would hold the open bottle in front of his small, pink, and quivering nose, and he would begin the serious task of sniffing.

I am a clean person. Good hygiene, and all that. Almost spotless house. I floss. But Dobby? Dobby is absolutely scrupulous about cleanliness. Dobby is Mr. Clean. Mr. CleanCat. When he encounters something off in his environment, the cat stands and delivers -- loud, obnoxious vocalizations.

No one may rest until all is well in DobbyLand.

I offer The Dobster whiffs from the Hillary Bottle about three times a day. He plants his front paws, approaches the opening with The Nose, and takes about three good sniffs. All is well, I drink the water, and we rewind.

Yesterday, at the first Hillary Bottle offering, he blink-blink-blinked and recoiled in obvious horror. As there had been a break in the water main down the road from Marlinspike Hall, I thought: "Aha! I'm like a miner with a canary. Thanks to Dobby, I've been saved from sure poisoning."

I rinsed it out, and added fresh filtered water. A few hours later, now confident in the quality of my water, I offered the little idiot another whiff. He looked at me in abject terror, then turned and ran, vocalizing a banshee's keening wail.

Everyone's a critic.

Even though the human consensus was that the bottle was clean and that Dobby was touched in the head -- after I scrubbed the Hillary Bottle inside and out with an old toothbrush and ick-smelling lemon detergent, Dobby once again was happy to offer his schnoz.

Pot pourri. Potpourri.

"Maybe I could interest you in a hot cup of shut-the-fuck-up..." (Jon Stewart, 3.18.09)

Oops! Sorry! I didn't mean to write that out loud, much less carefully attribute it by author and date of original production.

I was just sitting here, cozy in the chiaroscuro of pre-dawn, waiting for those rosy fingers, Homer's trope, contemplating Dick Cheney's latest pronouncements.

Obama's decision to authorize Attorney General Eric Holder's investigation "serves as a reminder, if any were needed, of why so many Americans have doubts about this Administration's ability to be responsible for our nation's security." He went on to call it an "outrageous political act that will do great damage, long-term."

"I just think it's an outrageous precedent to set, to have this kind of, I think, intensely partisan, politicized look back at the prior administration," Cheney said in an interview aired on "Fox News Sunday," during which he was peppered with pre-determined, softball-type queries, dotingly, lovingly pitched by Chris Wallace.

A politicized Justice Department? An Attorney General, under the thumb? There's a name that keeps nibbling at my crumbling memory... Who was it? Something guttural... G-g-g-g?

Gonzales?

Oh, and I really want to hear how Cheney and Bush kept us "safe" (for eight years, Cheney qualifies, and even that is wrong). There was that tiny glitch on September 11, 2001 -- and then, Cheney likes to pretend, nothing! Absolute safety, brought to us by virtue of EITs, enhanced interrogation techniques -- some of which qualifies as torture.

John McCain, who perhaps has the most informed opinion on the matter, said this of Cheney's remarks during his appearance on Face the Nation:

"I think the interrogations were in violation of the Geneva Conventions and the convention against torture that we ratified under President Reagan," said the Arizona Republican. "I think these interrogations, once publicized, helped al Qaeda recruit. I got that from an al Qaeda operative in a prison camp in Iraq... I think that the ability of us to work with our allies was harmed. And I believe that information, according go the FBI and others, could have been gained through other members."

There ought to be a Hallmark card. I bet that Chris Wallace has that covered, that and the Whitman Sampler. Andrew Sullivan has a slight opinion about his journalist colleague, though he expresses it in tepid, half-hearted fashion. That's what they're known for at The Atlantic:

When future historians ask how the United States came not only to practice torture but to celebrate it and treat torturers as heroes, a special place in hell among the journalists who embraced and justified it should be reserved for Chris Wallace.

I find it outfrigging outrageous that we continually have to deal with this frustrated little man that is Cheney.




*Knoppenburg Manor is, in fact, for sale. Sad that one of its key selling points is that this area of Belgium has "remained free from the threat of terrorist attacks." Our stable replica is a lovely place in which to relax, chat, contemplate -- at least on warm days. Built some time in the 16th century, the Manor Knoppenburg's charm is in its simplicity and functionality. Make a bid!

The Rest of the World Puts the USAmerican Treatment of CRPS to Shame

This is a father's account of the diagnosis, and, within weeks of that diagnosis, the inpatient treatment of CRPS in his 10-year-old daughter in South Africa. His name is Howard Feldman, and he published this in News24.

Compare this account, and please, compare the methods in use in the UK, Germany, the Netherlands, New Zealand, and Australia, as well! -- Compare the speed and efficacy of response in all those countries with the litigiously-driven and specialty-incohesive system of the socioeconomic determinative response of the Great USAmerican system of health care.

I've been careful to hide my opinion.

This little girl has a wonderful chance at being cured. We wish her well!

*************************************************************

On Holiday with CRPS
Howard Feldman
29 December 2014, 07:21

This year we debated where to go for our summer vacation. We didn’t feel bound to be anywhere and that was liberating. Our older children were doing their own thing and we only had the two young ones to take with us. I don’t have a real job and so, we could plan and fantasize and in our minds, we could go just about anywhere. We contemplated various destinations but ultimately settled on the Red Cross Children’s Hospital in Cape Town. The views of Table Mountain, its proximity to the Atlantic and well, the service, somehow just met all our criteria.

The very old and somewhat irritating adage of our grandparents “man plans and God laughs” came home to roost for us when our little girl of 10 was diagnosed a few weeks ago with CRPS (Complex Regional Pain Syndrome). At first we thought that she was doing what all ten-year-old princesses do best when living their life through a Disney lens. “You don’t understand my pain!”  was met with rolled eyes and a look of “please deal with this cause I am going to lose my mind” aimed at my wife who has been a girl her whole life. I just couldn’t figure out where the emotional pain (caused by uncaring parents) began and the physical pain of whatever it is that she had ended.

And then we were told she had CRPS. The doctor explained that in order to understand the level of agony that she is experiencing we should immerse our hands in a bucket of ice water and keep them there for 60 seconds. We should not remove it for the full period and when we can take it no longer, at the end of that time, and when we are able to remove our hands, we should know that that is what she is feeling and that she is unable to remove hers.  Another explained that what a normal person feels when a feather brushes one’s skin, feels like a blow-torch to the CRPS sufferer. This is not an illness for the faint of heart.

One of the doctors in Johannesburg told us that many adult sufferers beg for an amputation of the affected limb and that he has only seen one child with this in his entire career. His distress at seeing our child with this condition made me realize not only how tough it must be to be in the medical profession but also how serious this is.

And then we were recommended the Red Cross Children’s Hospital in Cape Town where the unit has treated CRPS kids for the last 10 years. We waited eagerly for a text to confirm the appointment and the confirmation was the turning point for us. The deterioration over the last two weeks has been tragic. Unable to even use crutches she has been confined to a wheelchair. Now even a walk outside in the beautiful Cape, along stunning shoreline is too painful for her and she remains in her bed waiting for her medication or for the pain to subside enough to move to another room.

They have treated seven CRPS patients to be exact and our daughter will be the eighth. Their approach is multi faceted with traditional approaches to pain (she will be on a drip for 10 days) as well non-traditional methods including art therapy and music therapy.  They understand the suffering of these and other children in their care, and you know that the minute you walk into their sanctuary.

The thought of being reliant on the SA public health system (something I have written about), filled me with dread, and it was only after spending two hours with the Head of the unit, after seeing the ward and hearing about the care and the approach, did I begin to relax. It is December in the Cape and the children’s ward is busy and it is filled with unimaginable horrors. And yet it is calm and busy and loving. It is clearly an efficient operation. A full team will be assembled prior to her arrival, which will take place in the first few days of the New Year.

We spend a lot of time (at least I do), lamenting the woes of living in this country. And there are many. They trip off our tongues as we list the crime and the electricity and the post office and the corruption. And, as important as it is to discuss these things, it as important to acknowledge the good that exists for us in this country.  The best of intentioned  people, the care for our fellows and the lengths that we will go to for the children of South Africa.

In the meantime, as our little girls suffers, waiting for her treatment, what keeps us positive is that there are the people of Red Cross Children’s Hospital who are waiting for her, who will be ready for her and who will do their best, with the help of God, to make her well.

© 2014 L. Ryan

maru is maru is maru; there is no other maru before maru

Uploaded to YouTube by mugumugu


Name:Maru
Breed:Scottish Fold
Male

Maru's blog'

Maru's Wikipedia entry:  Maru (まる, Japanese: circle or round; born May 24, 2007)^[1] is a male Scottish Fold (straight variety)^[2] cat in Japan who has become popular on YouTube. As of April 2013, videos with Maru have been viewed over 200 million times.^[3] Videos featuring Maru have an average of 800,000 views each and he is mentioned often in print and televised media discussing Internet celebrities.^[4]

Maru's owner posts videos under the account name 'mugumogu'. Mugumogu is almost never seen in the videos. A rare exception:"Maru's ear cleaning." The videos are edited to include title cards in English and Japanese setting up the events of the video, and often show Maru playing in cardboard boxes, indicated by "I love a box!" in his introduction video.

In August 2013, Maru's owner adopted a two-month old mixed-breed cat named 'Hana' from a veterinarian. During the two-week trial period, Maru and Hana got along very well and Mugumogu decided to make Hana a new member of their family.^[5] 

^[....]

Dr. Scott Reuben: A Slap on the Wrist, Another Lie on the Lips

This piece was originally published on 1 August 2010. I only reread it due to its sudden surge in popularity among visitors to this blog, surpassing even those obsessed with that physician turd, Ochoa. Then I realized that Scott Reuben must be celebrating, not just one of the season's holidays, but his release from court-ordered supervision. May his patients be protected, his research unfunded, and any attempt at publication, refused.

In the course of preparing the recent posts on CRPS-related clinical trials, thoughts popped up of Dr. Scott Reuben.  I was reading the background for a trial about the anti-hyperalgesic effects of Coxibs, and Reuben's name and face came to the forefront of my consciousness when I read that there was "no valid information available" on the topic.

Yes, a quick review of the original 21 fudged and fabricated articles shows the long arm of Dr. Reuben, hard at work, and featured in a peer-reviewed journal:

Update on the role of nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs and coxibs in the management of acute pain.  Reuben SS.  Curr Opin Anaesthesiol. 2007 Oct;20(5):440-50. Review.
PMID: 17873597

In fact, Reuben was prolific on the subject of coxibs (COX2 inhibitors), almost as if he had a personal stake in their reception and use:

[One journal editor] estimates that Reuben's studies led to the sale of billions of dollars worth of the potentially dangerous drugs known as COX2 inhibitors, Pfizer's Celebrex (celecoxib) and Merck's Vioxx (rofecoxib), for applications whose therapeutic benefits are now in question. Reuben was a member of Pfizer's speaker's bureau and received five independent research grants from the company.

On June 24, 2010, Dr. Reuben was sentenced to 6 months in prison, after pleading guilty to a single count of fraud.  Oh, but that's not all. No, he also has to pay a $5,000 fine and $361,932 in restitution.  Lord only knows how much money was made in collusion with pharmaceutical companies and [I am convinced] silent partners (also known as "co-authors").

The legal system's wink at his wrongdoing and its impact is almost as insulting and frightening as the crimes themselves.

In my first post about Reuben, I asked:  "How to accurately quantify the amount of pain this man has caused? How many 'adverse reactions,' how much permanent impairment, how many deaths?"

The title of that first post was "Follow the money." By presuming him to be a common criminal, I seem to have hit upon the truth pretty easily.

Harrumph!

What trumps my harrumph is the load of total crap that has been delivered as his "defense," and which constitutes the ultimate insult to anyone dealing with pain management based on his fraudulent research.

The poor man fudged all those research studies while MANIC... My eye!  Mon oeil!

He surely is impugning the character of people with bipolar disorder by naming the psychiatric disorder as the cause of this fraud perpetrated on his field of study, his co-workers and larger colleagues, his patients, and science, in general. 

What an ass, what a jerk, what a con.

There is a growing literature on bipolar illness and criminality, most of it written by and for a medical audience.  In strictly legal terms, however, the liaison is more tenuous, in that a mood disorder does not affect cognition.

Comorbidity of psychiatric disease with twisted conduct, in the case of Scott Reuben?  Unless the claim is that depression and mania ought to be linked with some kind of periodic antisocial disorder... Oh, please.  It's such good news that he's feeling much better now.

If the mania of bipolar disorder mitigates his guilt in committing these frauds, what explanation is there for his failure to rectify his wrongs once he had cycled on to some other affective phase, once he had begun treatment? Unless, of course, he did not think that imposing his opinions constituted a crime because of his innate superiority, because of the presumed stupidity of his colleagues (the peer-review process didn't exactly have him shaking in his boots!) and patients (he never thought they would actually consult, and weigh the value of, his purported research).

Or, it could have been all about the money.

I fear that the delusions of mania being claimed as defense and explanation by Reuben are borne of the same deluded self-image that we encourage in our physicians and researchers, though we're much more comfortable with the narcissism of a trauma surgeon than we are of the pain manager/anesthesiologist.

Looking back, it's scary to see the evidence of our willingness, as patients, to subvert what we know to be right due to our own delusions, our worship of Dr. God.  Witness this comment left after one of the first discussions of Reuben's falsifications:

Keep in mind he isn't a person off the street he's a DOCTOR and has many years of service and experience...

And this, from one of his patients, still boggles the mind:

I do know that new drugs are not passed by FDA without a certain amount of research on so many people. I do know him and he was my Dr. for many years. Those people that know him and had him as Dr. can all say the same thing, you can't find a more gentle, caring, concerned Dr. as Scott Reuben. If all he did was altar names on charts then that's not so bad. Keep in mind the HIPA law.

If this doctor (married to a psychiatrist, by the way) lacked the massive insight required to know right from wrong in an instance such as inventing test subjects for a fictive drug trial, I might wonder if his problem was not so much a persistent megalomania but more a high-functioning psychosis.

Oh, but have no fear of future wrongdoing to complement his decades of past criminality, because Dr. Reuben will undergo THREE whole years of supervision upon his release.  How it is that he retains his medical license is beyond my powers of comprehension.  And clearly wrong, given the severity of his psychiatric impairment.

When Reuben entered his guilty plea, his attorneys claimed that he had been suffering from an undiagnosed bipolar disorder during the period when he committed the fraud, the apparent result of a manic phase. Reuben was unusually prolific with “research” projects during a 2000-2001 sabbatical, having published 8 papers. Dr. Reuben’s wife, Susan Romm Reuben, MD, is a psychiatrist. Dr. Reuben attempted suicide twice in 2002, his lawyers said. His claim of mental illness has been called under question however.

Glenn J. Treisman, MD, PhD, professor of psychiatry, behavioral science and internal medicine at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine in Baltimore, said that although some criminals have bipolar disorder, the condition does not necessarily foster antisocial behavior. “Lots and lots of people have bipolar disorder who don’t commit fraud,” Dr. Treisman said. Equally strange is when “that person was better and knew that he did wrong but didn’t come forward.” Dr. Treisman said it was “unlikely” that Dr. Reuben’s disease would have gone undiagnosed for so long, given that he was a physician married to a psychiatrist. “By the time someone’s tried suicide twice, their psychiatrist wife would have known something was going on,” he said.

Reuben’s bogus research was published in various prominent journals including Anesthesia & Analgesia, Anesthesiology, Journal of Clinical Anesthesia, Journal of Arthroplasty and other titles, which have since retracted the papers. The journals stressed that Dr. Reuben’s co-authors on those papers have not been accused of wrongdoing. He has been accused by at least two of his co-authors of putting their names on his papers without their consent. Anesthesiology News uncovered fraudulent inclusion of one co-author by contacting the alleged research partner he claimed.

Dr. Reuben’s research helped lay the foundation for an emerging area of perioperative care known as“multimodal analgesia”. The scope of the fraud has left “a large hole in our understanding of this field,” said Steven L. Shafer, MD, editor of Anesthesia and Analgesia, “It will take a while for science and practice to sort this out.”Anesthesia and Analgesia published more of the tainted papers than any other journal and quickly announced changes to its guidelines to avoid similar incidents. Allegations of rampant fraud involving Dr. Reuben’s research and the retraction of papers were first reported by Anesthesiology News (March 2009) after Baystate Medical Center officials uncovered evidence of wrongdoing following a routine audit. Falsified reports involved at least 21 articles dating back to 1996. The “research” was funded by grants from Pfizer, Merck & Co. and Wyeth/Rays of Hope for the drugs Celebrex, Vioxx and others.

For what it is worth, I cannot fathom how the pharmaceutical companies with which he colluded (there *had* to be collusion -- you know it, I know it) are walking away unscathed from the revelations of bad and evil science;  Nor do I understand how "co-authors" claim to be unaware of their publishing histories!  Academic publishing is highly insular... Who publishes, when, and where, is common knowledge, fodder for everyday gossip and little things like job retention and the granting of tenure. 

Maybe these hapless co-authors don't read some of the foundational journals in their field?  Is that their explanation?  Or -- maybe -- they were all so lost inside of a huge cloud of clinical depression that they just couldn't find the energy to care? 

More likely?  The Mysteriously Published were too busy meeting the needs of nymphomania, screwing their colleagues, right and left...

The Powers That Be may have blinked, and winked -- but not everyone has lost the capacity to unscramble the plots of this tragicomedy:

Pfizer: The Drug Giant That Makes Bank from Drugs That Can Kill You
 
To say Pfizer’s been accused of wrongdoing is like saying BP had an oil spill. Other drug companies have a portfolio of products, Pfizer has a portfolio of scandals including, but not limited to, Chantix, Lipitor, Viagra, Geodon, Trovan, Bextra, Celebrex, Lyrica, Zoloft, Halcion and drugs for osteoarthritis, Parkinson’s disease, kidney transplants and leukemia.

During one week in June Pfizer 1) agreed to pull its 10-year-old leukemia drug Mylotarg from the market because it caused more, not less patient deaths 2) Suspended pediatric trials of Geodon two months after the FDA said children were being overdosed 3) Suspended trials of tanezumab, an osteoarthritis pain drug, because patients got worse not better, some needing joint replacements (pattern, anyone?) 4) Was investigated by the House for off-label marketing of kidney transplant drug Rapamune and targeting African-Americans 5) Saw a researcher who helped established its Bextra, Celebrex and Lyrica as effective pain meds, Scott S Reuben, MD, trotted off to prison for research fraud 6) was sued by Blue Cross Blue Shield to recoup money it overpaid for Bextra and other drugs 7) received a letter from Sen. Charles Grassley (R-Iowa) requesting its whistleblower policy and 8 ) had its appeal to end lawsuits by Nigerian families who accuse it of illegal trials of the antibiotic Trovan in which 11 children died, rejected by the Supreme Court. And how was your week?

To read all posts about Scott Reuben on elle est belle la seine, click HERE.
Graphic credit: Clinical Guidelines for the Use of Coxibs in Osteoarthritis (OA) and Rhematoid Arthritis (RA)

"Time for Santa"

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind, and as whirlwinds are difficult to describe for the best of writers, this one won't even try!

However you celebrate this season, however you work to tamp it down, you've likely a fond memory somewhere in that head of yours, and a few lingering issues from childhood. 

In lieu of a holiday card, please enjoy this physics-inspired explanation of how Santa gets it done, something about which everyone, no matter their tradition, no matter their age, has secretly wondered.

A few words about the poet, one HG Pfadenhauer, who only recently appeared in our region of Tête de Hergé, west of the Lone Alp.

He's one of the few remaining troubadours in this world that needs a good many more of his sort.

His musical abilities are interesting, true.  He totes several ukuleles (one electric), a sitar, and a bodhrán with the sort of patina that might drive The Antique Roadshow experts into a speechless frenzy.  Physically, he's an elegant and understated dresser, unusual for a troubadour, whom we usually picture as either some medieval jester-in-green-felt or a hobo stomping the arid byways of the Dust Bowl of the Dirty Thirties.  

Yes, he's tall and lean, his hair trimmed but long, and the lines on his face are fascinatingly cheerful.  His vests and tailored shirts are of the finest, quietest fabrics, his one ostentation a pair of Schott NYC 604 Perfecto Boot-Cut Steerhide Leather Pants, a necessary nod to his lifestyle: GW drives a vintage Vespa.

Sven Feingold is watching Bianca Castafiore watch the charming troubadour, and Sven's son, Cabana Boy, is watching them all.

It's simply been, as I said, a whirlwind of late, and when I held finger to air, the promise of entropy is what swirled against that digit.

HG Pfadenhauer has brought welcome relief, and a measure of delight.  Should you, wherever, whoever you are, need a bit of a delightful seasonal ditty, HG Pfadenhauer has authorized this blog publication of the highlight to his Wassail Festival Song Fest.

We wish you all a very Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Joyous Holidays!  

​St. Nicholas in Harper's Weekly: January 1881

Time For Santa

by HG Pfadenhauer

By way of explanation

what with the world's increasing population

bringing Toys to every nation

takes longer than it used to

so the reindeer are on vacation

and Santa uses solar radiation

to run his sleigh without cessation

everywhere he goes to

Now, Santa is a pacifist, a realist

an existentialist

a physicist hobbyist

with a theoretical kind of sleigh

an engine that can run all night

faster than the speed of light

can make Christmas very bright

for all the kids on Christmas day

You can fly around all night

as you approach the speed of light

encroach upon the speed of light

and it'll all seem OK

but once you pass the speed of light

your sense of time is not quite right

the dark begins to turn to light

time flies the other way

Santa was being shadowed by the NSA

the FBI and the CIA

Homeland Security all the way

for the Red White and BlueSA

'cause he might be a terrorist

a communist, a feminist

or a psycho...therapist

gotta keep that kind away

They searched the skies in hopes that they

could locate him while on his way

drawn by deer his laden sleigh

would leave a trail, give him away

they didn't know what Santa'd done

his sleigh now powered by the sun

and how that mighty sleigh could run

how fast no one could say

He could see himself coming when he turned around

he was off again ere he touched the ground

his sleigh too fast to make a sound

his presence to betray

Santa left his gifts that night

for all the children sleeping tight

who'll wake come morning in delight 

across the USA

Then off to Europe Santa flew

and yes, he went to Asia too

then Africa, Australia

and then to South America

then having finished leaving toys

for all the world's girls and boys

due north now did he point his sleigh

for it was nearly yesterday

Once home he put his sleigh away

with Mrs. Claus he hit the hay

and snoozed the snowy day away

somewhere far north of Nome

and when at last, his snoozing done

he watched the setting of the sun

with wife and elves, everyone

spent Christmas Eve at home

no. no. no!

Why should I worry when I know you're loving me
Why should I care when there's joy everywhere
Why can't I see the beauty of the life

Somebody I trusted, trusted
Somebody I knew quite well
Somebody I loved

But please don't put out the light
Put out the light, turn the day into night
Put out the light, put out light
Turn the day into night, turn the day into night
Hey, hey, hey, yeah

I got this good old melody
I think it's makin' me blue only
Then I hear the symphony
That's what I get and
That's what's been taken out, the best of me

Hey, hey, hey, yeah
Hey, hey, hey, yeah

Why should I hurry? I do the best I can
Do what I do and I hope you understand
Why can't I see the beauty of the life?

Somebody I trusted
Somebody I knew quite well
Somebody I loved

But please don't put out the light
Put out the light, turn the day into night
Turn the day into night, put out light
Put out the light, turn the day into night
Hey, hey, hey, yeah

Please don't, somebody I trusted
Somebody I knew quite well
Somebody I loved

But please don't
[Incomprehensible] please don't put out the light
Put out the light
Hey, hey, hey, yeah

Put out the light, don't put out the light, yeah
Put out the light, don't put out the light, yeah
Put out the light, don't put out the light, yeah

Fred tells me that Joe stopped singing for a few years because he was embarrassed by the jerky movements his body naturally made when he sang.  I fell in love with Joe Cocker because of the soul in his body and the raspy voice made raspy by the cigarettes that, I guess, killed him.  Put on Joe Cocker and everyone, every man, even the most attractive, just disappeared in the fog, and I could feel my body spasm and jerk and roll with the music.  Thank you, Joe Cocker. Oh yes, and the lyrics that are often recorded as "incomprehensible"?  Oh, they never were!

This Shortest Day

from: the course of our seasons

Nights grew long and snow came falling, 

Deep and bitter cold it lay; 

Till the year was dark and dying, 

Frozen on the shortest day. 

Sudden fires leapt on the hillsides 

Flaring in the starless night; 

High above them voices singing, 

Singing, calling back the light. 

All night long we sang, beseeching 

Time to turn its wheel around 

Wakening the green abundance 

Buried in the sleeping ground. 

When the daybreak came next morning 

Heralding the turning year, 

Joy came flooding bright as sunlight, 

Freeing every heart from fear.

So we sing that in this season

Hope may drive despair away, 

New life springing out of darkness 

Born again this shortest day.

-- Susan Cooper