Helen H. Moore's Blog, page 974
October 21, 2015
“It’s not your bra”: Gwyneth Paltrow’s under fire for pushing debunked breast cancer myth
The truth about Bernie Sanders’ “socialism”: Everything you need to know about the candidate’s mould-breaking political philosophy
“Today, corporate executives who answer only to themselves and a few wealthy stockholders make basic economic decisions affecting millions of people. Resources are used to make money for capitalists rather than to meet human needs. We believe that the workers and consumers who are affected by economic institutions should own and control them. Social ownership could take many forms, such as worker-owned cooperatives or publicly owned enterprises managed by workers and consumer representatives. Democratic socialists favor as much decentralization as possible... Democratic socialists have long rejected the belief that the whole economy should be centrally planned. While we believe that democratic planning can shape major social investments like mass transit, housing, and energy, market mechanisms are needed to determine the demand for many consumer goods.”Democratic Socialism and Social Democracy do have much in common, of course, but the latter is more concerned about providing basic necessities to all citizens, while the former is focused on spreading ownership of capital and creating a truly democratic society. Sanders promotes policies that reflect both. As a Social Democrat, he advocates universal healthcare and free college tuition, while as a Democratic Socialist, he promotes employee ownership and worker cooperatives. Most of these policies are not considered very radical in other industrialized societies -- just common sense. Yet in America, words like “slavery” and “communist” and “genocide” tend to pop out the mouths of certain people in opposition -- and not just fringe lunatics on social media. Indeed, now that Sanders has become a major presidential candidate, right wingers are falling back on their McCarthyist tradition. Rand Paul, who has tried to sell himself as the mature and reasonable Republican candidate, is obviously feeling his growing irrelevancy, and attacked Sanders in the paranoid tradition of the John Birch Society. “It amazes me, and it actually kind of scares me. I’ve been making and spending more time going after Bernie and socialism because I don’t want America to succumb to the notion that there’s anything good about socialism,” said Paul in a radio interview, “I think it’s not an accident of history that most of the time when socialism has been tried, that attendant with that has been mass genocide of people or any of those who object to it. Stalin killed tens of millions of people. Mao killed tens of millions of people. Pol Pot killed millions of people. When you have a command economy, when everything is dictated from one authority, thats socialism.” (I was not aware that the Scandinavians were a bunch of genocidal maniacs. Thanks, Rand!) Of course, as DSA explained above, a centrally planned, command economy is not advocated by Sanders, and his policies have nothing to do with 20th century communism. Neither does he want to abolish private property, as most GOP candidates will begin spewing eventually. “Democratic Socialism means democracy,” said Sanders on Sunday, “It means creating a government that represents all of us, not just the wealthiest people in this country.” Sanders’ message has obviously resonated with many of the American people, who are fed up with Washington D.C., and the latest polls reveal that he has received the largest boost from the Democratic debate (he also leads Trump by 9 points). His speech on Democratic Socialism could help in finally un-demonizing a word that has long been used as a political smear. Sanders must emphasize that Democratic Socialism is nothing like communism, and it is not about “free stuff,” but fairness and democracy. While working people have seen their wages stagnate over the past few decades, the top 0.1 percent has seen their share of household wealth triple. This is not an accident, but a result of globalized capitalism, where so few own so much of the worlds productive and intellectual property. Democratic Socialism (and Social Democracy) is not about abolishing private property or the market, but spreading ownership and creating a market that works for everyone, or as Robert Reich puts it in his latest book, Saving Capitalism: For the many, not the few.” All of the loved socialistic programs that the United States has already adopted, like Social Security and Medicaid, is another point that Sanders should emphasize. A great deal of Americans -- especially millenialls -- seem ready to move past the paranoid tradition and fear-mongering of old. The Sanders' campaign is bringing socialism back to the mainstream, but as he has made clear, only a "political revolution" can really bring it to Washington. [image error]
Netanyahu’s dangerous Holocaust lie: Yet another disgrace shows he’s one of the world’s most repellant leaders
In a sense, Benjamin Netanyahu's recent incendiary comments about the Holocaust are a relative triviality when compared to the never-ending host of other issues plaguing the most protracted conflict in the world.
Yet Netanyahu's attempt yesterday to pin the intellectual foundation of the genocide of six million Jews on Haj Amin al-Husseini, the Palestinian religious leader whose ties to Adolf Hitler have rendered him a figure of historical infamy, is so eye-popping that it deserves further consideration.
Here's what Netanyahu said:
Hitler didn’t want to exterminate the Jews at the time, he wanted to expel the Jews. And Haj Amin al-Husseini went to Hitler and said, "If you expel them, they'll all come here." "So what should I do with them?" he asked. He said, "Burn them."
This is, of course, ahistorical nonsense—if there is a consensus around any fact in the world, there is a consensus that Hitler was quite capable of coming up with the Holocaust on his own, and there is no evidence that the above dialogue ever took place. After making the statement, Netanyahu was quickly denounced from all sides and forced to backtrack. End of story, it would seem.
But let's pause for a second and think about what Netanyahu did, and in what context he did it. There is currently a renewed wave of violence in Israel and Palestine. At least 50 Palestinians and 9 Israelis are dead. In that climate, Netanyahu chose to rewrite the history of the Holocaust so thoroughly that he was accused of echoing the conspiracy theories of Holocaust deniers. He did this for the purpose of recasting both the current conflict and, really, any conflict with Palestinians, as something ground in a permanent Palestinian tendency towards anti-Jewish hatred. Never mind the ongoing occupation of Gaza and the West Bank, or the inexorably expanding settlements, or the fact that more Palestinians were killed by Israel last year than at any time since 1967, or the discrimination and despair that Palestinians in Jerusalem face: It is anti-Semitism, and anti-Semitism alone, that is responsible. In this retelling, Palestinians are reduced to the status of wild-eyed brutes, driven to murder by unfathomable evil.
It is one thing to have an opinion about which side is most to blame for the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, or which set of historical facts is most pertinent in understanding the situation. People will likely be doing that until the end of time. It is another to say that history does not matter at all, that it is something in the very nature of the people on one side of the conflict that is influencing events. That Netanyahu wanted to drive home this point so much that Germany itself felt compelled remind him it was responsible for the Holocaust is quite something. This is racism of the crudest kind, and it does nothing but add another match to the flame. If a Palestinian leader made up a similar story as a way to blame Jews for an atrocity like that, Netanyahu would have been apoplectic.
Still, we should not be too stunned by what has happened. Netanyahu attracted similar opprobrium for his openly bigoted—and extremely, electorally successful—campaign tactics back in March, when he warned that Arabs would be in the driver's seat if he wasn't re-elected, and promised never to grant Palestinians their statehood. He also presides over a Knesset that Haaretz called the most racist in the history of Israel. It is no huge shocker that he would launch yet another abhorrent broadside at Palestinians. But it is depressing and infuriating nevertheless, and it cements Netanyahu's position as one of the more repellant world leaders of our time.
[image error]
October 20, 2015
Obamacare saved my a**: Really, it literally saved my a**
When I was a kid, I broke my nose eight times over the course of ten years. As a toddler, a four-year-old girl named Jessica pushed me down the stairs while I was on a Hobby Horse. Then I fell off a slide. Ice-skating, tobogganing, a particularly inglorious game of Red Rover: these are all things that took an unfavorable toll on my face. Perhaps most embarrassingly, I once accidentally smashed myself in the snout with a wizard staff while role-playing a game of Elfquest with the girls who lived across the street.
My nose’s misfortune was one of the many reasons I was lucky to have been born and raised in Canada. All the rides to the infirmary; the X-rays; all the bandages and painkillers; these are things that ended up costing nothing (read: zero dollars), thanks to Canada’s government-funded health care system. The only burden on my poor mother were the phone calls that dragged her out of work and the icy stares from the doctors, who after a while must have assumed that she had been beating me with a tire iron. My point is this: my mother took care of me as best she could; but when she couldn’t, my country stepped in. We were protected.
Everything changed years later when my parents announced we were going to move away from Toronto, to Orlando, Florida, right before my senior year of high school. The reasons for this were various: my mother had been pining for life in a warmer climate, and my stepfather simply did whatever my mother wanted. As for me, well, apparently my mom overheard me say that I might want to study marine biology once I got to college. The very next day, I came home to find my bedroom walls laden with scientific posters of whales and dolphins, as my stepfather busied himself setting up a freshwater tank next to my desk. We would make the trek come summer, I was told, to a place with all the fish I could ever want to study.
This was difficult for me to swallow. First off, the allure of fish-- no matter how many-- was not as sumptuous as one might imagine. For my parents, this move was merely an opportunity to wear Bermuda shorts in wintertime. For me, it meant leaving friends and family behind, certainly; but also my country—which, in a lot of ways— was worse. Canada is cold, yes. Very, very cold. But it is also clean, and polite, and safe. To my knowledge at the time, the U.S. was a hotbed of cocaine, guns, and speedboat-related gang shootouts (to be fair, I’d gleaned much of my info from old episodes of Miami Vice). Plus, as was explained to me, people actually had to pay for health care. I would have to be very, very careful with my nose.
My folks were undeterred; they eagerly sacrificed their existence in the Great White North, ostensibly to facilitate my quest for higher knowledge. Oblivious to the state of education in Florida, we rented an RV that June, filled it with everything we owned, and drove straight down into a dank, spider-infested nightmare.
During my tenure in the Sunshine State, I would learn three things: a warmer climate does not necessarily mean a more pleasant climate, windows cannot be left open in a state made of swampland, and cockroaches can fly.
I would also be faced with a series of what my step-dad referred to as “cultural differences.” When kids at my new high school found out I was Canadian, for instance, they would uniformly respond with “I’m sorry”. Whenever I would say “I’m sorry” (which, given that I’m Canadian, was a lot), kids would uniformly mock my accent, peppering in a few ‘eh’s’ in case I didn’t get the gist. On my first day of class, my marine biology teacher, Mrs. Jarrell, asked if my last name was “a Jew name,” then went on to announce that, “for some dumb reason, your people willingly ignore the scriptures.” (I lost interest in the study of aquatic life shortly thereafter.) However, the most significant difference between Canada and America, at least from my purview, was the American attitude toward health care.
In this new world, this U.S. of A., not only was health care not free, it was so insanely expensive, people actually had to purchase protection from one of a number of private corporations in order to avoid financial ruin. Further, if people couldn’t afford this protection, they were considered lazy, which I would come to learn, in the U.S., is synonymous with “poor.” As fascinating as this new ritual was, the idea of paying for medical insurance didn’t thrill me. And that is why-- once I inevitably assumed the even more daunting expense of college tuition—I opted not to bother.
And so, at 18 years of age, I joined the myriad shruggers and gamblers and budget prioritizers who tiptoe through the United States hoping they don’t contract West Nile or get hit by a bus.
For the first time in my life, I was uninsured.
To be fair, for a long time it didn’t really seem to matter. I whizzed through my 20’s with the confidence of an immortal-- albeit an immortal with chronic sinus infections (guess why). In my early 30’s, I got a decent job. Through the job, I got fancy-pants insurance. With the insurance, I got the peace of mind I’d once had in Canada. For the first time in a long time, I got regular check-ups. I got free contact lenses. I got cocky.
But then, around my 38th birthday, I got my first bout of hemorrhoids. This is one of those rites of passage no one warns you about when you’re young. No mother ever sat her child down to recall the first time the veins around her own anus swelled up like a snakebite. It just doesn’t have that “there will come a special day…” feel to it. A hemorrhoid, after all, is not like an erection, or a period, or a mysterious wet spot in your pajamas. It’s not a life-affirming body change. A hemorrhoid is the fuse on a ticking time bomb, the beginning of the end. It is a tiny, thrombosed step toward oblivion.
So, yes, I went to the doctor, who assured me that this type of thing is perfectly common for a person my age, and whose days consist of sitting in mid-back office chairs while eating a cavalcade of low-fiber foods. He prescribed an over-the-counter cream, and then glanced at my chart, which up to that point had mostly chronicled half a decade’s worth of sinus infections. It was my family history that concerned him this time-- specifically, my mother’s battle with both colon and anal cancer. I was “at-risk”, he told me, a “perfect candidate” for the early development of a host of horrendous colorectal maladies. Inasmuch as my anal canal was already causing me problems, he recommended a preventive colonoscopy.
Pro tip for Canadian-Americans: with insurance, preventive procedures like this one are typically one hundred percent free. As it happened, I had the fancy-pants insurance, so I figured it couldn’t hurt. I took the doctor’s referral, and a few days later, went in for a consultation. There, the gastroenterologist gave me a very delicate explanation of what was about to happen. For those who haven’t had the pleasure, here’s the gist:
1. You drink a gallon of foul-tasting syrup.
2. You shit for 24 hours straight.
3. The next day, you’re drugged and anally probed with an HD camera attached to a plumbing snake.
Despite all that, I made an appointment for the following week.
However, two days before the actual procedure, I got a call from my insurance company. My first adventure with hemorrhoids had apparently raised one of their billion red flags, and-- according to the relentlessly cheery agent on the other line-- qualified as a pre-existing condition. The upshot was that my colonoscopy would no longer be free. In fact, I was now on the hook for 70 percent of the cost of the procedure, a sum totaling over $3500. Those hemorrhoids had literally and figuratively come back to bite me in the ass. The Canadian in me seethed at being denied something so crucial, but given that my salary left no wiggle room for the frivolity of preventative medicine, I canceled the procedure.
A year later, the job ended, and with it went the fancy-pants insurance. Instead of going through COBRA (which was $450 a month!) I opted to sign up for a very basic plan, one that would cover only the worst case scenarios-- the type insurance companies refer to as “catastrophic.” I didn’t need much of a safety net: I was a non-smoker, I didn’t eat raw oysters, and I was, overall, still young-ish and spritely-ish. I figured I was in an optimal position to pot-hunt for the bare minimum.
Except I wasn’t. I was refused. By every carrier to which I applied.
Turns out those year-old, long-gone hemorrhoids were still itching and blazing in the annals of my medical records. I was told very matter-of-factly that I would not be eligible for coverage until I had an elective colonoscopy, to prove that my expired butt piles weren’t the symptom of something more insidious. Naturally, I would have to pay for this myself, 100% out-of-pocket. I would have to plop down five grand just for the privilege of plopping down another fifteen hundred a year for insurance that probably wouldn’t cover anything anyway. Because if hemorrhoids are a means of exclusion, then so is everything else: dry skin, premature balding, unsavory foot smell. all those yearly sinus infections. Life, as it happens, is one big pre-existing condition.
Once again, I was uninsured: a word that held a wholly different connotation now that I was in my 40’s. It echoed in my mind like ‘slutty’ or ‘artsy’ or ‘socialist,’ or all those other labels that carry a mild civil stigma, even in a universe of imperfections. Uninsured people still live with their parents, whisper the cool kids. They might be okay for a good time, if that’s what you’re after, but you definitely shouldn’t marry one. The American in me felt irresponsible and ashamed. The Canadian in me longed for the protective embrace of my mother country. To be uninsured in this place, with its lax gun laws and over half a billion germy, unwashed hands seemed a little bit like doom.
But then came the Affordable Care Act.
ObamaCare, with its insurance exchanges and extended coverage. ObamaCare, with its subsidies, patient protections, and its elimination of the pre-existing condition. ObamaCare, with its terrible fucking website that made it infuriatingly difficult-- but not impossible-- to sign up. For less than the price of the ‘catastrophic’ insurance I was denied, I was able to get coverage comprehensive enough to cover a 90-year-old with one lung.
Best of all, I was able get that colonoscopy.
I drank the syrup. I spent a day on the toilet. I got violated by a doctor whose career choices I find baffling. But it was all worth it.
Because the doctor found and removed two sessile polyps from my colon, both of which were precancerous.
So you can rant to me all you want about the deficient, unconstitutional, big-government, communist health care forced upon us by a leftist dictator; believe me, it will fall on deaf ears. It’s the only thing remotely Canadian about this country, and that is nothing to be “sorry” about. The Affordable Care Act saved me thousands of dollars this year, and will have saved me hundreds of thousands down the road. Also worth mentioning: it potentially saved my life. At the very least, it saved my ass.
When I was a kid, I broke my nose eight times over the course of ten years. As a toddler, a four-year-old girl named Jessica pushed me down the stairs while I was on a Hobby Horse. Then I fell off a slide. Ice-skating, tobogganing, a particularly inglorious game of Red Rover: these are all things that took an unfavorable toll on my face. Perhaps most embarrassingly, I once accidentally smashed myself in the snout with a wizard staff while role-playing a game of Elfquest with the girls who lived across the street.
My nose’s misfortune was one of the many reasons I was lucky to have been born and raised in Canada. All the rides to the infirmary; the X-rays; all the bandages and painkillers; these are things that ended up costing nothing (read: zero dollars), thanks to Canada’s government-funded health care system. The only burden on my poor mother were the phone calls that dragged her out of work and the icy stares from the doctors, who after a while must have assumed that she had been beating me with a tire iron. My point is this: my mother took care of me as best she could; but when she couldn’t, my country stepped in. We were protected.
Everything changed years later when my parents announced we were going to move away from Toronto, to Orlando, Florida, right before my senior year of high school. The reasons for this were various: my mother had been pining for life in a warmer climate, and my stepfather simply did whatever my mother wanted. As for me, well, apparently my mom overheard me say that I might want to study marine biology once I got to college. The very next day, I came home to find my bedroom walls laden with scientific posters of whales and dolphins, as my stepfather busied himself setting up a freshwater tank next to my desk. We would make the trek come summer, I was told, to a place with all the fish I could ever want to study.
This was difficult for me to swallow. First off, the allure of fish-- no matter how many-- was not as sumptuous as one might imagine. For my parents, this move was merely an opportunity to wear Bermuda shorts in wintertime. For me, it meant leaving friends and family behind, certainly; but also my country—which, in a lot of ways— was worse. Canada is cold, yes. Very, very cold. But it is also clean, and polite, and safe. To my knowledge at the time, the U.S. was a hotbed of cocaine, guns, and speedboat-related gang shootouts (to be fair, I’d gleaned much of my info from old episodes of Miami Vice). Plus, as was explained to me, people actually had to pay for health care. I would have to be very, very careful with my nose.
My folks were undeterred; they eagerly sacrificed their existence in the Great White North, ostensibly to facilitate my quest for higher knowledge. Oblivious to the state of education in Florida, we rented an RV that June, filled it with everything we owned, and drove straight down into a dank, spider-infested nightmare.
During my tenure in the Sunshine State, I would learn three things: a warmer climate does not necessarily mean a more pleasant climate, windows cannot be left open in a state made of swampland, and cockroaches can fly.
I would also be faced with a series of what my step-dad referred to as “cultural differences.” When kids at my new high school found out I was Canadian, for instance, they would uniformly respond with “I’m sorry”. Whenever I would say “I’m sorry” (which, given that I’m Canadian, was a lot), kids would uniformly mock my accent, peppering in a few ‘eh’s’ in case I didn’t get the gist. On my first day of class, my marine biology teacher, Mrs. Jarrell, asked if my last name was “a Jew name,” then went on to announce that, “for some dumb reason, your people willingly ignore the scriptures.” (I lost interest in the study of aquatic life shortly thereafter.) However, the most significant difference between Canada and America, at least from my purview, was the American attitude toward health care.
In this new world, this U.S. of A., not only was health care not free, it was so insanely expensive, people actually had to purchase protection from one of a number of private corporations in order to avoid financial ruin. Further, if people couldn’t afford this protection, they were considered lazy, which I would come to learn, in the U.S., is synonymous with “poor.” As fascinating as this new ritual was, the idea of paying for medical insurance didn’t thrill me. And that is why-- once I inevitably assumed the even more daunting expense of college tuition—I opted not to bother.
And so, at 18 years of age, I joined the myriad shruggers and gamblers and budget prioritizers who tiptoe through the United States hoping they don’t contract West Nile or get hit by a bus.
For the first time in my life, I was uninsured.
To be fair, for a long time it didn’t really seem to matter. I whizzed through my 20’s with the confidence of an immortal-- albeit an immortal with chronic sinus infections (guess why). In my early 30’s, I got a decent job. Through the job, I got fancy-pants insurance. With the insurance, I got the peace of mind I’d once had in Canada. For the first time in a long time, I got regular check-ups. I got free contact lenses. I got cocky.
But then, around my 38th birthday, I got my first bout of hemorrhoids. This is one of those rites of passage no one warns you about when you’re young. No mother ever sat her child down to recall the first time the veins around her own anus swelled up like a snakebite. It just doesn’t have that “there will come a special day…” feel to it. A hemorrhoid, after all, is not like an erection, or a period, or a mysterious wet spot in your pajamas. It’s not a life-affirming body change. A hemorrhoid is the fuse on a ticking time bomb, the beginning of the end. It is a tiny, thrombosed step toward oblivion.
So, yes, I went to the doctor, who assured me that this type of thing is perfectly common for a person my age, and whose days consist of sitting in mid-back office chairs while eating a cavalcade of low-fiber foods. He prescribed an over-the-counter cream, and then glanced at my chart, which up to that point had mostly chronicled half a decade’s worth of sinus infections. It was my family history that concerned him this time-- specifically, my mother’s battle with both colon and anal cancer. I was “at-risk”, he told me, a “perfect candidate” for the early development of a host of horrendous colorectal maladies. Inasmuch as my anal canal was already causing me problems, he recommended a preventive colonoscopy.
Pro tip for Canadian-Americans: with insurance, preventive procedures like this one are typically one hundred percent free. As it happened, I had the fancy-pants insurance, so I figured it couldn’t hurt. I took the doctor’s referral, and a few days later, went in for a consultation. There, the gastroenterologist gave me a very delicate explanation of what was about to happen. For those who haven’t had the pleasure, here’s the gist:
1. You drink a gallon of foul-tasting syrup.
2. You shit for 24 hours straight.
3. The next day, you’re drugged and anally probed with an HD camera attached to a plumbing snake.
Despite all that, I made an appointment for the following week.
However, two days before the actual procedure, I got a call from my insurance company. My first adventure with hemorrhoids had apparently raised one of their billion red flags, and-- according to the relentlessly cheery agent on the other line-- qualified as a pre-existing condition. The upshot was that my colonoscopy would no longer be free. In fact, I was now on the hook for 70 percent of the cost of the procedure, a sum totaling over $3500. Those hemorrhoids had literally and figuratively come back to bite me in the ass. The Canadian in me seethed at being denied something so crucial, but given that my salary left no wiggle room for the frivolity of preventative medicine, I canceled the procedure.
A year later, the job ended, and with it went the fancy-pants insurance. Instead of going through COBRA (which was $450 a month!) I opted to sign up for a very basic plan, one that would cover only the worst case scenarios-- the type insurance companies refer to as “catastrophic.” I didn’t need much of a safety net: I was a non-smoker, I didn’t eat raw oysters, and I was, overall, still young-ish and spritely-ish. I figured I was in an optimal position to pot-hunt for the bare minimum.
Except I wasn’t. I was refused. By every carrier to which I applied.
Turns out those year-old, long-gone hemorrhoids were still itching and blazing in the annals of my medical records. I was told very matter-of-factly that I would not be eligible for coverage until I had an elective colonoscopy, to prove that my expired butt piles weren’t the symptom of something more insidious. Naturally, I would have to pay for this myself, 100% out-of-pocket. I would have to plop down five grand just for the privilege of plopping down another fifteen hundred a year for insurance that probably wouldn’t cover anything anyway. Because if hemorrhoids are a means of exclusion, then so is everything else: dry skin, premature balding, unsavory foot smell. all those yearly sinus infections. Life, as it happens, is one big pre-existing condition.
Once again, I was uninsured: a word that held a wholly different connotation now that I was in my 40’s. It echoed in my mind like ‘slutty’ or ‘artsy’ or ‘socialist,’ or all those other labels that carry a mild civil stigma, even in a universe of imperfections. Uninsured people still live with their parents, whisper the cool kids. They might be okay for a good time, if that’s what you’re after, but you definitely shouldn’t marry one. The American in me felt irresponsible and ashamed. The Canadian in me longed for the protective embrace of my mother country. To be uninsured in this place, with its lax gun laws and over half a billion germy, unwashed hands seemed a little bit like doom.
But then came the Affordable Care Act.
ObamaCare, with its insurance exchanges and extended coverage. ObamaCare, with its subsidies, patient protections, and its elimination of the pre-existing condition. ObamaCare, with its terrible fucking website that made it infuriatingly difficult-- but not impossible-- to sign up. For less than the price of the ‘catastrophic’ insurance I was denied, I was able to get coverage comprehensive enough to cover a 90-year-old with one lung.
Best of all, I was able get that colonoscopy.
I drank the syrup. I spent a day on the toilet. I got violated by a doctor whose career choices I find baffling. But it was all worth it.
Because the doctor found and removed two sessile polyps from my colon, both of which were precancerous.
So you can rant to me all you want about the deficient, unconstitutional, big-government, communist health care forced upon us by a leftist dictator; believe me, it will fall on deaf ears. It’s the only thing remotely Canadian about this country, and that is nothing to be “sorry” about. The Affordable Care Act saved me thousands of dollars this year, and will have saved me hundreds of thousands down the road. Also worth mentioning: it potentially saved my life. At the very least, it saved my ass.
Fox News’ bogus CIA terror analyst fed off a nation hooked on lies: Wayne Simmons is a symptom of a much deeper disease
TV’s most conservative show isn’t on Fox News: This new cop show glorifies everything Bill O’Reilly holds dear
Aside from the main problem with this—which is that the working class traditionally didn't do white-collar customer service; it's the middle class that got killed—prison labor for profit is a real, radical, and terrifying issue. Here is how it boils down in the episode. Dash—a precog who is still reintegrating to society—hesitantly says, "doesn't seem right." Vega responds: "I'll save my crocodile tears for the victims and their families." Immediately thereafter, they confront the inmate that has threatened Vega. The prison they are in stresses rehabilitation. Vega is openly dismissive of any efforts to change, expressing real anger that the inmates are allowed excursions as part of their incarceration. When she meets the inmate, he appears somewhat rehabbed. So she insults his independence and compares him to a housebroken poodle—which goads him to attack her. She quickly overpowers him, and asks if he wants to go best of seven. And that's it; that's the scene. One might expect some fallout from this event, that would push Vega to less radical territory. One might expect some pushback from other characters. There is none. At the end of the episode, Vega finds the woman who killed her father—by storming into her house, without a warrant or probable cause, and holding a gun to her. The woman pleads that she has changed. She, at gunpoint, is the only character to advance the notion that criminals may not all bad. It's not that "Minority Report" doesn't know what it's doing. Little asides in the show indicate that every cop wears a body-cam, and "force authorized" shows up when a cop can go to town on a criminal. A Defense Intelligence Agency higher-up complains about how unconstitutionality interfered with the maintenance of law and order. Terrorists bombed the National Mall and destroyed the Washington Monument just a few months after the PreCrime program ended; that symbolic castration is felt by law enforcement, too. And in the first few episodes of the season, nearly every bad guy the heroes catch is a formerly “haloed” criminal—one who was imprisoned by the PreCrime program, and after it was dismantled, moved to a rehabilitation facility. The proliferation of wrongdoing ex-haloes indicates to Vega and Dash that the PreCrime program had the right idea—and not, as Willa Paskin observed at Slate, “that some of these insane bad guys were once innocents, radicalized by a flawed system.” “Minority Report” the show is a kind of fever dream of centralized police power. It's underscored by how the show has trouble extending compassion to any of its characters except Vega—in "The Present," even the terrible experience of the precogs is backgrounded so that Vega can solve her cop-dad's murder. [The precogs, when they see their visions of crimes, experience the pain and horror of them. In the episode, Dash shudders and gasps as the "bullets" hit him.] Its premise is founded on the notion that PreCrime, that supernatural stand-in for surveillance and control, is not such a bad thing; its execution emphasizes the duality between police and criminals, as if one is good, and one is bad. The show is unable to extend any compassion towards its purported bad guys whatsoever—and instead runs amok in the sandbox of police power excused by precognition. Vega is supposed to be our heroine, and yet time and time again she is quite cruel. It's worth observing that “Minority Report” is very careful to not use race as a signifier of guilt, as is too obvious in our current practice of law and order—Good, among many other actors in the ensemble, are people of color. But it's almost an odd misdirect in what is otherwise a rather conservative narrative. “Minority Report” fits intimately into a worldview of mass incarceration and police overreach, at a time where consciousness on these topics has reached new heights. And though it's politically disturbing, the real problem is one of adaptation—this is what happens when the adapters aren't paying attention to whatever it is they're desperately trying to reboot.Sixty years ago, companies outsourced all this stuff abroad and killed the working class, causing incarceration rates to skyrocket. Now we give the working class their jobs back, only this time, behind bars—for two cents on the dollar.
7 bizarre aphrodisiacs that helped our ancestors get in the mood
Last week, we wrote about what our ancestors used as lube. This week, the conversation turns to ancient aphrodisiacs. Amy Reiley, author of
Romancing the Stove: The Unabridged Guide to Aphrodisiac Foods
, says the simplest description of aphrodisiac could read, “any food that improves romance and/or sex life.” There’s also the scientific approach. Neurologist Paola Sandroni told ABC News that the term refers to "anything that uses serotonin increases arousal at the brain level to promote sexual activity.” Listed below are some of the strangest aphrodisiacs used in the past. 1. Lizard flesh. The skink is a small leaf-eating lizard found in most parts of the world. Roman author and naturalist Pliny the Elder first made mention of the skink and its amorous properties in his text Natural History. Its feet, skin and urine were thought to serve as potent aphrodisiacs for men. 2. Marijuana. In ancient India, practitioners of Ayurvedic medicine recommended cannabis as a decongestant, an astringent and a means of stimulating appetite. It was also considered an effective aphrodisiac. The plant is also recognized in the ancient Hindu tantric traditions as a powerful sexual stimulant.
Bhang
is the name given to a special concoction that became popular during the seventh century. People mixed the plant with milk, water and other spices to enhance sexual pleasure. 3. Ants. Colombia’s leafcutter ants have been used as an aphrodisiac for over 500 years. The ants, which are loaded with protein, are thought to heighten sexual arousal when eaten. 4. Carrots. Given its phallic appearance, it’s not hard to see how the carrot got involved in sex and arousal. The vegetable was distributed among Middle Eastern royalty during ancient times to help aid in the art of seduction. The ancient Greeks referred to it as a
Philtron
, meaning love charm. According to them, the carrot helped make both men and women more affectionate. 5. Whale guts. Ambrein is a substance that comes from the guts of sperm whales. Sure, it may not seem like the most accessible aphrodisiac out there, but thought to be well worth it once obtained. Practitioners of Arab folk medicine used the substance to treat headaches and improve sexual function. Scientist recently put this one to the test by measuring the effect ambrein has on male rats when administered in small doses. The test rats were assessed by erectile response and “homosexual mountings in the absence of female” (gay rat sex). Base on their findings, the researchers concluded that the drug could indeed function as a sexual stimulant, writing, “The present results… support the folk use of this drug as an aphrodisiac.” 6. Arugula. This one may not be as strange as the others on this list, but the story behind it is. In ancient Rome and Greece, arugula was considered such apowerful aphrodisiac it had to be served alongside other ingredients that could combat its effects. Lettuce became a staple of salads to prevent “excessive libido at the table.” So next time you’re preparing a salad, remember, it’s not just about a balanced diet. The leafy green was seen as a neutralizer to the sexy side-effects arugula was known to bring on. 7. Frog juice. Ancient Andean cultures used to access a revered aphrodisiac by liquefying a specific species of frog. In addition to its purported aphrodisiacal properties, the scrotum water frog (yes, really) was said to cure bronchitis, tuberculosis, asthma and arthritis. Today, the frog is listed as a critically endangered species, although “Peruvian Viagra” continues to be illegally bought and sold throughout South American markets today.
Last week, we wrote about what our ancestors used as lube. This week, the conversation turns to ancient aphrodisiacs. Amy Reiley, author of
Romancing the Stove: The Unabridged Guide to Aphrodisiac Foods
, says the simplest description of aphrodisiac could read, “any food that improves romance and/or sex life.” There’s also the scientific approach. Neurologist Paola Sandroni told ABC News that the term refers to "anything that uses serotonin increases arousal at the brain level to promote sexual activity.” Listed below are some of the strangest aphrodisiacs used in the past. 1. Lizard flesh. The skink is a small leaf-eating lizard found in most parts of the world. Roman author and naturalist Pliny the Elder first made mention of the skink and its amorous properties in his text Natural History. Its feet, skin and urine were thought to serve as potent aphrodisiacs for men. 2. Marijuana. In ancient India, practitioners of Ayurvedic medicine recommended cannabis as a decongestant, an astringent and a means of stimulating appetite. It was also considered an effective aphrodisiac. The plant is also recognized in the ancient Hindu tantric traditions as a powerful sexual stimulant.
Bhang
is the name given to a special concoction that became popular during the seventh century. People mixed the plant with milk, water and other spices to enhance sexual pleasure. 3. Ants. Colombia’s leafcutter ants have been used as an aphrodisiac for over 500 years. The ants, which are loaded with protein, are thought to heighten sexual arousal when eaten. 4. Carrots. Given its phallic appearance, it’s not hard to see how the carrot got involved in sex and arousal. The vegetable was distributed among Middle Eastern royalty during ancient times to help aid in the art of seduction. The ancient Greeks referred to it as a
Philtron
, meaning love charm. According to them, the carrot helped make both men and women more affectionate. 5. Whale guts. Ambrein is a substance that comes from the guts of sperm whales. Sure, it may not seem like the most accessible aphrodisiac out there, but thought to be well worth it once obtained. Practitioners of Arab folk medicine used the substance to treat headaches and improve sexual function. Scientist recently put this one to the test by measuring the effect ambrein has on male rats when administered in small doses. The test rats were assessed by erectile response and “homosexual mountings in the absence of female” (gay rat sex). Base on their findings, the researchers concluded that the drug could indeed function as a sexual stimulant, writing, “The present results… support the folk use of this drug as an aphrodisiac.” 6. Arugula. This one may not be as strange as the others on this list, but the story behind it is. In ancient Rome and Greece, arugula was considered such apowerful aphrodisiac it had to be served alongside other ingredients that could combat its effects. Lettuce became a staple of salads to prevent “excessive libido at the table.” So next time you’re preparing a salad, remember, it’s not just about a balanced diet. The leafy green was seen as a neutralizer to the sexy side-effects arugula was known to bring on. 7. Frog juice. Ancient Andean cultures used to access a revered aphrodisiac by liquefying a specific species of frog. In addition to its purported aphrodisiacal properties, the scrotum water frog (yes, really) was said to cure bronchitis, tuberculosis, asthma and arthritis. Today, the frog is listed as a critically endangered species, although “Peruvian Viagra” continues to be illegally bought and sold throughout South American markets today.
Last week, we wrote about what our ancestors used as lube. This week, the conversation turns to ancient aphrodisiacs. Amy Reiley, author of
Romancing the Stove: The Unabridged Guide to Aphrodisiac Foods
, says the simplest description of aphrodisiac could read, “any food that improves romance and/or sex life.” There’s also the scientific approach. Neurologist Paola Sandroni told ABC News that the term refers to "anything that uses serotonin increases arousal at the brain level to promote sexual activity.” Listed below are some of the strangest aphrodisiacs used in the past. 1. Lizard flesh. The skink is a small leaf-eating lizard found in most parts of the world. Roman author and naturalist Pliny the Elder first made mention of the skink and its amorous properties in his text Natural History. Its feet, skin and urine were thought to serve as potent aphrodisiacs for men. 2. Marijuana. In ancient India, practitioners of Ayurvedic medicine recommended cannabis as a decongestant, an astringent and a means of stimulating appetite. It was also considered an effective aphrodisiac. The plant is also recognized in the ancient Hindu tantric traditions as a powerful sexual stimulant.
Bhang
is the name given to a special concoction that became popular during the seventh century. People mixed the plant with milk, water and other spices to enhance sexual pleasure. 3. Ants. Colombia’s leafcutter ants have been used as an aphrodisiac for over 500 years. The ants, which are loaded with protein, are thought to heighten sexual arousal when eaten. 4. Carrots. Given its phallic appearance, it’s not hard to see how the carrot got involved in sex and arousal. The vegetable was distributed among Middle Eastern royalty during ancient times to help aid in the art of seduction. The ancient Greeks referred to it as a
Philtron
, meaning love charm. According to them, the carrot helped make both men and women more affectionate. 5. Whale guts. Ambrein is a substance that comes from the guts of sperm whales. Sure, it may not seem like the most accessible aphrodisiac out there, but thought to be well worth it once obtained. Practitioners of Arab folk medicine used the substance to treat headaches and improve sexual function. Scientist recently put this one to the test by measuring the effect ambrein has on male rats when administered in small doses. The test rats were assessed by erectile response and “homosexual mountings in the absence of female” (gay rat sex). Base on their findings, the researchers concluded that the drug could indeed function as a sexual stimulant, writing, “The present results… support the folk use of this drug as an aphrodisiac.” 6. Arugula. This one may not be as strange as the others on this list, but the story behind it is. In ancient Rome and Greece, arugula was considered such apowerful aphrodisiac it had to be served alongside other ingredients that could combat its effects. Lettuce became a staple of salads to prevent “excessive libido at the table.” So next time you’re preparing a salad, remember, it’s not just about a balanced diet. The leafy green was seen as a neutralizer to the sexy side-effects arugula was known to bring on. 7. Frog juice. Ancient Andean cultures used to access a revered aphrodisiac by liquefying a specific species of frog. In addition to its purported aphrodisiacal properties, the scrotum water frog (yes, really) was said to cure bronchitis, tuberculosis, asthma and arthritis. Today, the frog is listed as a critically endangered species, although “Peruvian Viagra” continues to be illegally bought and sold throughout South American markets today.
David Spade: This is why Eddie Murphy hated me, wouldn’t come back to “Saturday Night Live”
“Star Wars” lets Princess Leia age realistically: Is this an alternate Hollywood universe?
