DIY Surgery

On the commute home, I caught the tail-end of a story about a 19th Century woman who learned she had breast cancer and performed her own mastectomy. According to the DJ, she survived the operation and lived many more decades after that.

The story sounded bogus to me — for one thing, I can’t imagine how she could deal with the blood loss — so I decided to see what I could find out about people who have operated on themselves.

Considerable gore below the fold. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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It’s all over but the crying

Garbage, It’s All Over But the Crying . . .

It’s all over but the crying
Fade to black I’m sick of trying
Took too much and now I’m done
It’s all over but the crying

Baby we’re done

From Karen: “Except with Hillary, it would be, ‘It’s all over but the screaming.'” Hissssssss!

D.

Something to consider

From my son:

Dust

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More later. I’m watching the returns.

D.

Sweat it out

A question for the women in the room: In high school phys ed, did y’all strip naked for showers? Purely an academic question, naturally, since you never know when I might have to write a scene featuring high school girls in a locker room setting, and I wouldn’t want to get it wrong, would I?

Well, we stripped. It began in junior high, and I’m not sure what the point of it was. Lord knows it wasn’t necessary. We didn’t get all that smelly. At the time, I considered it a rite of passage, or perhaps a hazing ritual. We dissected cadavers in med school in small part to learn anatomy, in large part to overcome the taboo of not cutting people open with sharp implements. So what was the point of getting naked with a bunch of other guys? For what part of adult life did that prepare me?

This is no small point. Like girls, boys mature at different rates. In my 10th grade gym class, side-by-side in the locker room we had a boy who lacked the slightest poof of pubic hair (NOT me, so get that out of your mind) alongside a fellow I’ll call The Donkey (also not me, but if you want to think I’m lying, I won’t argue with you).

The Donkey once told the story of how his girlfriend had broken up with him, but had wanted him back within the fortnight. Implicit was the suggestion they had been sexually active and her dalliances elsewhere had not matched up. We all shook our heads knowingly. With clothes on, we would have figured him a BS artist, but in the locker room, we trusted the evidence of our eyes.

I used to wonder, and perhaps worry a little, about the prepubescent kids. The Hairless Ones. To me, this would be more profoundly disturbing to the adolescent male psyche than girls comparing their breasts’ Tanner Stages. Some girls never get past a Tanner 2, yet they’re just as feminine as a Tanner 4. But the guy with the Tanner 1 prick really does have something to worry about. His whole sexual future depends on making progress. If he’s thirteen and hairless and surrounded by a bunch of Tanner 2s and 3s and even a well endowed 4 (The Donkey), why shouldn’t he worry?

It’s not the worst part about PE. The worst part is war ball. Nevertheless, it ranks up there if you’re one of those Tanner 1s. So I’ll ask again: why was this necessary? Admittedly, I have to get nekkid around the guys in my gym’s locker room, but we’re all adults. It ain’t the same dynamic.

Maybe it’s that old life lesson that the world isn’t fair. I learned early on that some kids were richer than me, cuter than me, stronger or faster than me, more talented than me. That’s the way it was. That’s the way it always would be. I would never be the star quarterback, no matter how much I willed it, and I would never run a mile in under nine minutes. I would never play guitar like Peter Frampton, play chess like Bobby Fischer, or look good with an assault rifle like Patty Hearst.

And I would never, ever be hung like The Donkey.

D.

Junk

I spent a good part of the day attacking the RV garage.

You have to understand: we bought this place because it was a steal, and because it had a killer view. Did we need all this square footage? Did we need an RV garage? NO! And while those things are nifty-cool for resale value, they have led me to accumulate hundreds of pounds of junk.

Trouble is, it’s not really junk. Much of this stuff will have value to someone; I’m sure I could make a bit of money hosting a yard sale, but that’s not my goal. My goal is to get rid of all of this junk before the big move. Relay for Life is coming up, so perhaps I can donate everything to our hospital’s team.

I found some neat stuff amongst the dirty cages, computer cables, stuffed animals, Legos, and cat turds . . .

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Kid, meet candy store

Necessity is the mother of invention . . . which at Chez Walnut means, if Jake hogs the gaming computer, I have to look for older games to download for this one.

That brought me to Game Downloads, where for nine bucks I can download freeware, shareware, and abandonware for a full month, no limits. I’m downloading Neverhood right now. It’s a claymation game for PC (and that’s unique thing, all by itself) released by Dreamworks back in 1996. Meanwhile, I’m also working my way through GD’s abandonware list, which includes such remarkable finds as all three Discworld games, Frederik Pohl’s Gateway, and the original text-based Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy!

Sad thing is, by the time I finish downloading Neverhood, it’ll be time to make dinner. And the whole point of this exercise was to find a game I could play to kill time until it was time to make dinner.

Live blogging tonight . . . unless Neverhood totally rocks.

D.

, May 3, 2008. Category: Games.

Nothing on Flickr . . .

So let’s see what’s on The Smoking Gun.

Mugshots.

Hey! He stole my name!

It’s fun to speculate on their crimes. The dude above shoplifted some elevator shoes. These gals got caught fighting over meth lab equipment. This woman assaulted her hair dresser. And our front-pager stole my breath. (Sorry, sorry. Eeew . . . cheese.)

Hat tip to La Fark.

D.

, May 2, 2008. Category: Humor.

Thirteen photos for my mom

As y’all know, I decided the other day that I would put together some sort of photo montage for my mom for Mutti’s Day. (She hates it when we call her Mutti. I have no idea why.) Why not kill two birds with one stone and share those photos with you?

If you’ve seen some of ’em before, well . . . sorry.

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Asshat of the day

From National Defense, via Sadly, No (hat tip to Daily Kos):

Now a fixture at Department of Homeland Security science and technology conferences, SIGMA is a loosely affiliated group of science fiction writers who are offering pro bono advice to anyone in government who want their thoughts on how to protect the nation.

The group has the ear of Department of Homeland Security Undersecretary Jay Cohen, head of the science and technology directorate, who has said he likes their unconventional thinking. Members of the group recently offered a rambling, sometimes strident string of ideas at a panel discussion promoting the group at the DHS science and technology conference.

Oh, those brilliant SF authors! However can we thank them for their altruism? And there’s no telling what gems they might come up with. After all, the late Arthur C. Clarke thought up geosynchronous satellites, and Jules Verne predicted “helicopters, submarines, projectors, jukeboxes, and other later devices.” Larry Niven gets credit for a variety of innovations such as the ramjet spacecraft, which propels itself between stars using intersellar hydrogen for its fuel.

Speaking of Niven . . .

Among the group’s approximately 24 members is Larry Niven, the bestselling and award-winning author of such books as “Ringworld” and “Lucifer’s Hammer,” which he co-wrote with SIGMA member Jerry Pournelle.

Niven and Pournelle are on this group? Awesome! I can’t wait to hear —

Niven said a good way to help hospitals stem financial losses is to spread rumors in Spanish within the Latino community that emergency rooms are killing patients in order to harvest their organs for transplants.

Whaaaaa?

So Larry Niven channels Robin Cook, and he has the ear of Homeland Security. Lovely. Guess it was too much to ask that he would offer solutions to our dependence on foreign oil, global warming, or the world food shortage. No, all Niven has to give us is a healthcare crisis solution that has been with us for as long as there have been social classes: kill the poor.

Larry, I never liked your books. Ringworld, your “masterpiece,” is a bloated, boring dreckfest populated with secondrate cartoon characters. You and Jerry used Inferno to take potshots at an author whose belches were more engaging than your best work, and Mote in God’s Eye went on and on and on, with an ending that hardly seemed worth the bother. Oh, and don’t forget more characterizations straight from the back of a box of Captain Crunch. And that was you in your prime, Larry. Well, guess what, you just jumped the Puppeteer. Time to put up your feet, drink your Budweiser, and kvetch about those kids today, cuz that’s all you’re good for. STFU already and go to Hell, where you can be buried like you buried Vonnegut, beneath a gravestone reading “He went to an ER for a simple case of appendicitis, and they removed his liver and kidneys.”

Vile. Absolutely vile.

D.

Mother’s Day prezzies

A friend was bemoaning not knowing what to buy her mom for Mother’s Day. Good thing, too, since this provided me a nice reminder about Mother’s Day. I have a bad habit of forgetting these things.

Karen, fortunately, is one of these people who hates Madison Avenue holidays. I usually get her something for Mother’s Day anyway (or I might fix her a dessert she likes), but if I forgot, I doubt she would be all that upset. MY mother, on the other hand . . .

She’s impossible to buy for. Well, yes and no. In reality, she’s super-easy to buy for. She likes baggy pastel sweatshirts with sequins, the gaudier the better.

Nope. Not gaudy enough. (She would like the color, though.) Maybe,
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