Finally!

President Bush has finally made a statement today that draws a definite line in the sand.

An excerpt from NPR follows below:

President Bush stiffened economic sanctions against Sudan on Tuesday in a bid to end the bloody conflict in the African nation's western Darfur region.

Reiterating that Washington will not just ignore genocide there, the president said during a White House briefing that the U.S. will continue to push for full implementation of a peace agreement.

Hurray for the Sad Little Man from New Haven, Connecticut. Now, how about a proper, multi-nation, peace keeping force on the ground? Eh? Oh yeah, Iraq...yes, of course.

Gorilla Escapes Enclosure

Or should I say, "Gorilla Frees Self."

Here's a link to a story about a Gorilla running free, if only for a few minutes, at a Dutch zoo.

Just to whet your appetite, here's an excerpt:

AMSTERDAM, Netherlands (AP) - A 400-pound gorilla escaped from his enclosure and ran amok in a Rotterdam zoo Friday, biting one woman, dragging her around, and causing panic among dozens of visitors before he was finally subdued, officials and a witness said.

...

"I saw the beast running through the park with a woman behind him, him grabbing her forearm," De Jonge said.

At a distance of around 30 yards, he saw the gorilla lie down near the woman and then heard her scream.

"He bit her, or I think he bit her, because when he stood up his mouth was covered in blood," De Jonge said.

Sad...Very Sad

Source: Evos Marin's Flickr account

UN Points Finger at Sudanese Government

Sudanese security forces took part in the killing of some 100 people in the war-torn Darfur region, the UN says.

UN Human Rights Commissioner Louise Arbour says Border Intelligence Guards took part in eight raids this year during clashes between Arab groups.

(Article excerpted from BBC News, May 18, 2007)

What Am I Reading?

I have been reading a lot of graphic novels lately. My interest in graphic novels was sparked by the movie, 300, which was adapted from a graphic novel by Frank Miller and Lynn Varley. I found the 300 book to be a little too dark and so never read it.

I did, however, go to my local library and found a lot of fiction/anime type stuff and next to all this dross were books like Shenzhen: A Travelogue From China, by Guy Delisle. A great and funny book. Delisle describes a Chinese man as speaking English like a Spanish cow...hilarious within the context of the book.

Yossel by Joe Kubert is a fictionalized account of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising of 1943. A great read.

I am currently reading Deogratias, by J.P. Stassen: "The 2000 winner of the Goscinny Prize for outstanding graphic novel script, this is the harrowing tale of the Tutsi genocide in Rwanda, as seen through the eyes of a boy named Deogratias." (Powell's Books).

Walk to Cure Diabetes

My brother-in-law and niece are participating in the Walk to Cure Diabetes. Their goal is to raise $100 for diabetes research.

Please click here to make a contribution towards their goal:

The Walk to Cure Diabetes is Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation’s most powerful fundraising event attracting over 45,000 Canadians every year who are just as dedicated as they are to find a cure for diabetes.

Thank you for help.

Quitting is Fun!!

Here's a link to an article by Charlie Brooker, "Warning: giving up smoking can seriously damage your health," off The Guardian website. Nevermind, here's the whole article:

Charlie Brooker
Monday May 14, 2007
The Guardian

Smoking is the stupidest thing you can do to your own body, short of hurling it off a ferry. It turns your fingers yellow, your teeth brown, and your lungs black. Lungs. Lungs. While I was smoking I often pictured my lungs, just to torture myself; in my mind's eye, years of steady puffing had transformed them from cheery pink wet breathing baubles into a brittle pair of crackling, desiccated paper bags, dangling side by side like twin toasted wholemeal pitta breads filled with tar and tumours. Little wonder I wanted to quit.

But I couldn't. For years, cigarettes and I were trapped in an abusive relationship. They beat me up, internally speaking, yet I couldn't live without them. To say I smoked like a chimney would be misleading. A chimney emits smoke serenely, with little apparent effort. I screwed my face up like a constipated pug, dragging on one deathstick after another like it was my second career. I even smoked in the shower. Honestly. It's easier than you think.
Every so often, I'd come to my senses and kick the fags out, promising myself it really was over for good this time. And then, months down the line, I'd forget about the bad times, forgive all the damage. Truth was, I still fancied them. And in a weak moment, after a few drinks, there I was, back in their arms. If they had arms, which they don't.

Still I wanted out. I tried cold turkey. Lasted 12 hours and wound up walking to an all-night garage in tears. Next came the patches. You have incredible dreams on patches; vivid 3D Imax productions like you wouldn't believe. One night I spent hours floating in space wielding a gigantic cannon, firing planets into suns and watching them explode. Stick that up your Spiderman 3.

Thanks to the patches, I quit for five years. Then I had a harrowing break-up and decided it would be a wheeze to amplify my misery by taking up smoking again. This time, the habit stuck fast. I tried the patches again, but my heart wasn't in it. I ended up using them as a "pause button" for the habit proper: I'd slap a patch on in the morning, pretend not to smoke all day, then peel it off at night and puff my way through a 10-pack. Some time later I started going out with someone who thought I had quit. When she stayed at mine, I'd smoke in secret; pop out "to buy a paper" and light up round the corner. With judicious use of breath mints, you can get away with that for a surprisingly long time. And it's genuinely exciting, like an illicit affair.

Naturally, I got caught out one night. A lighter flew out of my pocket while I was getting undressed. For several minutes I stood there in my pants, indignantly bellowing that it must have fallen through the ceiling, from the flat upstairs. I don't lie well under pressure.

This madness couldn't continue, so I resolved to quit once and for all. Hypnotism proved effective, by which I mean painless. I did it several times. Contrary to expectation, the hypnotist didn't programme me to assassinate Tony Blair, just stop lighting up: 72 hours with a bad mood and a head cold and the nicotine had gone. The problem was that three-month mark: three months into my new life, I'd visit a pub and somehow come out smoking. And after my last lapse, I was too ashamed to return to the hypnotist. Instead, I tried a miracle pill I'd heard about. Zyban, the prescription wonder.

You take one a day for six days, then increase the dose. After 11 days, you stop smoking. Stay on the pills for seven weeks, and you're done.

It worked. Eleven days in I didn't want to smoke, as though the nicotine-craving bit of my brain had been deleted. A pharmaceutical magic trick.

But. There was a "but". A week after my "quit date", I was at home, watching a film with a friend. As the credits rolled, a frantic, nameless dread washed over me. Within minutes, I was a quivering wreck. My mind was drifting away from reality, tethered only by a narrow thread that might snap at any moment. Heart pounding, palms sweating. I clutched my head, blinking, hyperventilating, nerves jangling at 9,000 rpm.

It was a major panic attack, which eventually lasted over four hours, deep into the night. I've never known such terror. I became obsessed with the notion that I might snap at any moment; attack my friend, leap from a window, gouge my own eyes out with my thumbs, screaming, shrieking; a banshee. I've had better evenings in.

The next day I decided I'd had enough of that for one lifetime. I threw the pills away. Thing is, it takes days to clear your system. For a week, I walked around like a de-tuned radio, continually anxious, fighting insane paranoid notions; a horrified alien visitor on a tour of my own life. I was terrified it was permanent; slowly, normality returned.

Weeks later, I still can't believe I was legally prescribed something that could bend my brain over its knee with such demented zeal - although it's worth pointing out I have no evidence that what happened to me had anything to do with Zyban. All I know is it happened while I was taking the drug, and stopped several days after I binned the pills. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe I'm just crazy. I don't know. I do know, however, that pharmaceutical companies have ominous legal departments orbiting the planet in almighty Death Stars, and that a lawyer twice as powerful as God is doubtless reading this right now.

Anyway. Smoking kills, and I'm glad I've stopped. Quitting's worth it. Just don't choose a cure worse than death.

Heavy Petting Anyone?

I thought my wife was joking about a story of a little Indian girl forced to marry a dog in India about a month ago. After a short search, I found it on the Times of India and the BBC websites.

No urban myths here. Nope, just cold, hard, facts. Which set me to thinking...have other people married other animals in the past? Why, yes! Funny you should ask!

Like this story of a British woman (apparently rich and nutty) marrying a dolphin

Or this: Sudanese man forced to marry a goat after he was caught being more than just a good shepherd. The source for this bit of news is none other than the BBC -- so you know it's true.

An even funnier follow up to the goat marriage story was the untimely death of "Rose" the Sudanese goat...who died on May 4, 2007.

And lastly, back to India: Where a woman was reportedly married to a cobra after falling in love with it in 2006. I'm guessing that the woman died on her honeymoon.

A Touch of Ebola

I have recently had a bout of pneumonia, a small case mind you, nevertheless, between the fever, the shivers, the anti-biotics and the second such infection in 4 months, I have sworn off the cigarette. Smoking, I am ashamed to say, is the only reason I have been so susceptible to respiratory infections lately.

"Extra Light," my ass. Post script: The Smoke-O-Meter is back in play.

Total Cost of War in Iraq

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To see more details, click here.

To help you make sense of this number go to Mathcats.

Uncle Ben Promoted to CEO

It seems that Mars Inc., makers of Uncle Ben's Rice, have re-visioned Uncle Ben from a lowly Black cook (or racist spokes-character) to an imaginary CEO. You can take a tour of his office here.

I found out about Unlce Ben's new found status at Slate's article on racist spokes-characters - a slide show essay. Here's an excerpt from the Slate article:

"...the image of the servile African-American soon became a popular motif in American marketing, one that's proved remarkably enduring. You're looking at the most successful example of them all. Aunt Jemima was dreamed up in 1889 by a white businessman who was inspired by a character at a minstrel show. Looking for a way to sell a self-rising pancake mix, Chris L. Rutt conceived a jolly ex-slave who lived on a Louisiana plantation and made legendary flapjacks in the days "befo' de wah." Eventually, she'd be boycotted by the NAACP, attacked by Langston Hughes, and belittled by Public Enemy. But this quintessential "mammy"—a black woman who lives to nurture, clean, and cook for whites—was a marketing phenomenon from the start..."

Photo 1947 ad courtesy Jim Crow Museum of Racist Memorabilia