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Redemption at the Freaking Happiest Place on Earth

So, if you trudged through my rant from earlier this week, you know I had a crap day at Disney World. Boo-de-freaking-hoo. I know. Get over it, Ms. A.

But if you hung in with me and indulged my complaining, I wanted to reward you with a little feel good update: Friday was great. Perfect weather, fun day, wishes and dreams fulfilled. Little A’s highlight? Seeing me drenched on Splash Mountain: “Look at her – she is totally wet! She got soaked!” She giggled so hard – while trying to get other riders and park attendants to join in the hilarity – that other people started laughing, too. I guess when you are five, seeing your mother looking nonplussed and dripping wet is the height of comedy. Too bad I couldn’t have fallen into the water while trying to exit the log, too. She would have been in heaven. We had one of those really great days that don’t happen often enough, but are all the more special for their rarity. We left that night under the lights of Main Street, manufactured snow falling from the Florida sky, feeling like it was the happiest place on Earth.

disney

AIDS PSA: Does Fear Work?

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I have very mixed feelings about this new HIV/AIDS PSA from the NYC Department of Health (warning: nsfw unless you work in an anal cancer research lab):
HIV PSA

A lot of folks are up in arms about how the ad stigmatizes people living with HIV. Fear campaigns don’t actually encourage testing or prevention, they assert (without evidence).

I feel like there’s a generational disconnect, though, because while people over 35 or so probably have some memory of the worst years of the epidemic, very young guys do not. At all. The only message young gay guys have heard is about how AIDS is a manageable illness. But that’s not the whole story. The fact is, young gays are not using protection because they don’t think AIDS is a big deal, hence the HIV transmission rates for very young guys are shockingly high (such as an estimated 40% of young African-American men who have sex with men in NYC infected with HIV).

What do you think? Overkill? It reminds me of the cigarette ads with disgusting photos of cancerous lungs. Which actually do work, with me at least. If by work you mean nauseate.

The Christmas Decorations of Academic Doom

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This is not a tasteful nativity cut out. It is the harbinger of academic doom.

Once the Christmas lights are up, it starts– that aching, throbbing pain in my heart and mind. Then the Christmas music starts playing on every radio station, and I get that worrying that I left the oven on except that I don’t have an oven because I live in a dorm room.

Finally, people start wishing me a Merry Christmas, and I realize what that horrible, sinking feeling has been: It’s the week before exams. And that either means that the A’s and B’s that I have worked my ass off for the last 17 weeks are about to disappear, or that I will see how long the human body can function without sleep.

So wish me luck Crasstalk, and I’ll see you when my life is my own again.

Eh?

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Hey.

I’m not a lumberjack, or a fur trader, and I don’t live in an igloo or eat blubber, or own a dog sled, and I don’t know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada, although I’m certain they’re really, really nice.

I have a Prime Minister, not a President. I speak English and French, not American, and I pronounce it ‘about’, not ‘a boot’.

I can proudly sew my country’s flag on my backpack. I believe in peacekeeping, not policing; diversity, not assimilation; and that the beaver is a truly proud and noble animal.

A tuque is a hat, a chesterfield is a couch, and it is pronounced zed: not zee – zed!!

Canada is the second largest land mass! The first nation of hockey! And the best part of North America!

My name is Joe!! And I am Canadian!

… Thank you.

If this left you confused, or angry, you probably aren’t Canadian.

This was part of a series of Commercials released in the late 1990’s by Molson, the beer company. It prompted many spoofs and spin offs- it’s been a long running joke up here that Americans don’t know much about their neighbours to the north, a fact that both irritates and amuses. On one hand, as seen above, it can be fun to play up the stereotypes. There’s this understated sense of entitlement among Canadians that since we know more about you than you know about us, we’re just a little bit better. However, we would almost never admit it- that would be rude. As Canadians we seek our southern partner’s approval with almost an embarrassing eagerness (We’re just like you, honestly!), yet at the same time cast aside the idea that we are the same. We’re like the little sibling desperately wanting to be included with the older one, yet not wanting the fact to be pointed out.

I’ve been struggling with ideas for posts, trying to think of topics that I know quite a bit about. Then it struck me like a hockey puck to the side of my toque-covered head- I am among a select few Canucks here. Why not write about that?

So just like SiS asks for topics about science and then writes stories on that, I am asking this of you: What is something about Canada that you would like to know about? Politics, beer, our East vs. West mentality, marijuana, shopping, sports, culture, tv personalities, healthcare, differences between the American way and the Canadian way of doing thigns, how we survive 6 months of winter… you name it, I will do my best to talk about it. If I have no clue, I’ll try to figure it out. I can’t speak for the whole country, just my little neck of the woods.

(Disclaimer: I love you guys, I really do. I mean no offence to anyone and I am sincerely sorry if any has been taken.)

My Personal “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” Moment

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I took a road trip back to Texas to see my family. I hauled ass along the 10 through Arizona and New Mexico. But once I cleared El Paso, I took the scenic route and swung down through Ft. Davis, Marfa, Terlingua, and the top of Big Bend, then back up to Junction and on to Austin.

I really miss road trips. I had forgotten how much you can see, even from the big highways. But the real pleasure comes from taking the smaller back roads. Sometimes it’s fun to take a little road, just see where you might end up.

Even when speeding along one of these county roads, you can still see a ton of wildlife. I saw deer, rabbits, turkeys, javelina, tons of different birds. But the highlight was seeing this red-tailed hawk and badger.

I was headed out of Big Bend and I saw some roadkill—no big deal, there’d been plenty of it on this trip. After all, I’m pretty much in the middle of nowhere. But then I noticed a hawk, on the ground. This is really unusual so I made a u-turn and went back to check it out.

When I got back, I saw that the hawk was actually a red-tailed hawk and was happily sitting on the roadkill. That bird was not going to move for anything! He’d rather have faced me down in my car than give up his meals for the next few days. It was only when I took out my camera and started to take pictures that I noticed the roadkill was a badger!

I’m going to geek out here for a minute and tell you guys that I have this sort of unofficial list of wildlife in my mind that I want to see, so when I see something new it’s a really big deal. I kind of freaked out and got really excited.

The other thing that was interesting is that hawks are birds of prey and don’t usually eat roadkill. They prefer to hunt and catch their prey live, which leads me to believe (along with the state of the entrails) that this must have been a very fresh kill that the hawk stumbled upon.

Several times, the hawk tried to fly away with his prize, but the badger was just too heavy and the poor guy (or girl) couldn’t really get off the ground. Didn’t keep him from trying though. Eventually he gave up and just started chowing down.

I took a few more photos, made another u-turn and snapped a few more, and drove away. Once I got to my hotel, I did a little research and found out that badgers are actually somewhat common in Texas, especially in desert scrubland like Big Bend. I’ve never seen one and neither has anyone in my family, including my grandmother (who grew up on a farm/ranch). But according to what I read, they are solitary creatures and tend toward being nocturnal. They are also burrowers (check out those long claws) so I guess that explains it.

Must. Get. It. Up. (Sadly, not the first time I have heard this)

Anyway, I thought you guys might find these photos interesting. The hawk is just gorgeous (the badger a little less so in this state). It’s nature in action!

Amazon shuts down the Wikileaks site, Lieberman ejaculates in pants.

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“The company’s decision to cut off Wikileaks now is the right decision and should set the standard for other companies Wikileaks is using to distribute its illegally seized material…I call on any other company or organization that is hosting Wikileaks to immediately terminate its relationship with them.”

-Joe “Immensely Punchable Face” Lieberman

Luckily for those of us who like government transparency and the reminder that the government doesn’t care about citizens or the UN, you can’t kill anything once it’s on the internet. Right, Tom?

This is guaranteed to end well.

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“The house just outside Escondido where massive amounts of explosive materials were found has been declared a public hazard and will be burned down, San Diego County officials told area residents Tuesday night…The house, dubbed the “bomb factory” house by officials, was found to contain amounts of materials of the kind used by terrorist bomb makers worldwide, as well as blasting caps, homemade grenades, and small-arms weapons. Bomb experts last week declared the one-story stucco house on Via Scott to be too dangerous to re-enter. On two occasions, they had entered the cluttered house and gathered evidence. Sheriff Bill Gore said at the meeting that burning the house is the only safe way to rid the neighborhood of the explosive materials.”

Momma always said, “Is it so highly explosive that it’s dangerous to be around? KILL IT WITH FIRE.”

The Wonder Dog

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I took my dog Casey to the vet today — nothing too serious, just a persistent infection. While I was there, I couldn’t help thinking about other dogs, other trips to the vet, other Thanksgivings.

Let me tell you about Kona the Wonder Dog, the dog who’s faster than a speeding squirrel, who can climb sheer hillsides with a single bound, the scourge of cats from coast to coast. The same Kona who steals my dinner off the grill as it cooks, then hops onto the sofa and naps at my feet. The same Kona who bares her belly shamelessly, begging for tummy rubs. And the same one who lets me wrap my arms around her and cry into her fur, who lets me know that she’ll always be there for me.

A chunky, 70-lb shepherd mix, black and tan, with a big smile and a floppy ear, Kona is nearly 14. She’s slowing down some, but she remains as wondrous as ever.

Remains.
Remains.
Remains.

They are on the dining room table in a tin canister. Her tags, collar and leash are in a bag.

The night before Thanksgiving Kona’s back legs gave out. She needed to get to a pet hospital but I couldn’t handle it. I want to say I held her through the night, that I kissed her and told her I loved her, but the truth is, I don’t remember.

I do remember spending Thanksgiving Day at the hospital. Pneumonia. Possibly cancer. Tests and more tests. I couldn’t breathe: Friday morning I was supposed to get on a plane to California to see my father, who recently told me has cancer, a type of melanoma that doesn’t respond well to treatment, that is said to act quickly.

Couldn’t I postpone my visit a couple of days? Some friends — who know more about parents? who know less about dogs? — ripped me apart. It got too late to change plans, I was too tired. So that night, Thanksgiving night, I stayed with Kona for hours, telling her her life’s story — how she came to live with me and my ex. How we got her a sister dog. How she, Astro and I left their dad and moved to Washington, D.C.

A few hours’ break, clothes in a suitcase, hugs and kisses for Astro. Back at the hospital, Kona was too weak to walk to a private room. So I lay down on my belly on the floor in front of her cage, rested my head on her rear and continued with her story. Ten minutes into it, she turned around so we could be face to face, eye to eye, nose to nose. She was so beautiful, but so tired, so pale, so old. I cried more as departure time approached. I hadn’t finished her story. I told her I was saving the rest for my return, so she would have to wait for me.

She didn’t. She couldn’t.

Four vets worked fiercely that weekend but cancer had spread through her body. The only question was which would kill her first — cancer or pneumonia.
Then Saturday they thought she’d stabilized! She might even be able to come home with me. But Sunday she was worse. They made a last attempt while my family took me out for dinner. It was my birthday.

The plasma transplant failed. Late that night I had to make the decision. It was easy, really: Everything we’d done so far had been to prolong her life; anything more would only prolong her death.

A sweet veterinarian cried on the telephone with me, then said something lovely: We don’t put her down, we don’t put her to sleep. We let her go.

I wasn’t there and when I got home Tuesday night, she wasn’t here. Only Astro, scared and skittish and lost. She needed me so I gave her enough love for two dogs.

Death is new to me. I’d expected a constant, crushing agony. Instead it is a numbness broken by brief but painful crying jags. It’s a feeling I’m afraid I’ll come to know very well: Dad is noticeably thinner and paler than he was six weeks ago.

Kona’s presence can be felt throughout the house, as can feel her absence. Both make me ache.

Astro and I are going to take a trip to North Carolina’s Outer Banks. The three of us once spent a week there. Kona charmed all the beach boys into throwing tennis balls into the ocean for her to chase. I begged them not to throw so far. I was sure she would end up in England or France.

Who knows, when we scatter her ashes, maybe she will end up in France. Where she will eat baguette and pate while Astro and I grieve.

In memory of the Wonder Dog and Baby Astro, please hug your animals tonight.

Show me on the doll where the TSA touched you

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So the new right-wing talking point of the week is that suddenly the TSA’s pat-down methods go too far. Jalopnik today gave space to a truly ridiculous piece of whining by an aggrieved USAirways pilot:

For approximately five years I have been questioned, wanded and patted down every morning each day I report for work. I’ve asked for help with a solution, I’ve been through all the company and union channels to no avail.

So this has been a pressing concern of yours for FIVE YEARS, long before Obama was ever in office… yet it’s suddenly a pressing concern for you?

Approximately one year ago, I encountered something new called a groin check. This is where they run the back of their hands down your fly from top to bottom one inch to either side. I said I would allow this if they don’t touch my stuff. The screener accused me of being a “homophobe” and said he can’t guarantee he wont touch me in this area. I said then I can’t go through the check. I called the airline for direction and they agreed to assist me in finding a solution if I would JUST take the flight out. I allowed him his groin check and was so humiliated and enraged that I was pretty much useless in the cockpit, I was self-absorbed.

Yes! A professional airport screener running the back of his hand over the outside of his pants made this guy “humiliated and enraged.” So enraged that he admits he basically couldn’t do his job. This is an example of a professional pilot, one so overcome by the mental and emotional turmoil of a pat-down that he couldn’t be bothered to help fly the plane. Oh, and this guy is being trotted out by the Rutherford Institute, the millenarian Christian right-wing think tank (best-known for representing Paula Jones) that’s now supporting this idiot’s crusade against airport frottage.

This guy tells us how later on he refused the full-body scanner and so was forced to get a private screening.

I requested a private screening with the Captain as my witness (you always have the right to a witness.) They started in my shirt collar, went inside my pants waistband all the way around, up inside my crotch and squeezed around from the front each side and up the backside both sides. I was groped 4 times total! Next they rubbed my whole body down with a full palm pressure…including my buttocks and the front groin one inch either side of my fly.

That poor, poor captain. I can’t even imagine having this guy for a co-worker, being begged to follow him into his TSA pat-down like a child about to visit his eccentric uncle. And the way he describes it is hilarious. It’s like he truly believes that poor, poor TSA agent was turned on by the whole thing. Keep dreaming, dude.

Look, I’m not saying the TSA pat-downs are a great idea. There’s evidence that they’re simply not an effective way to screen passengers and people shouldn’t be treated like criminals, but this is idea that TSA employees are “groping” travelers is ridiculous. Alex Altman of Time.com notes that 81% of Americans are ok with the TSA pat-downs.

Today while the TSA’s director testified before Congress, George LeMieux, the Republican Senator from Florida, said “I’m frankly bothered by the level of these patdowns. I wouldn’t want my wife to be touched in the way they’re being touched.”

Think about that for a second. This is absolutely in-fucking-sane. We’re talking about patdowns, in an airport, with all clothes on. Not exactly a night at BMCFC’s house with candlelights and a Frankie Beverly tune. No one is getting their jollies from patting down some Republican senator’s wife’s FUPA. Does he get this upset when his wife gets a pap smear? He must want to punch her OB/GYN in the face every single time.

All this talk of shame and humiliation…. I’m starting to wonder if this is merely the lastest manifestation of America’s Puritanism.

So from now on, I propose a new Teabagger-friendly rule: All physical contact with another person will now be considered state-sponsored rape. It’s the only way to overcome our sinful desires.