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07 Nov 2009 21:57
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07 Nov 2009 05:02
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06 Nov 2009 06:39
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04 Nov 2009 05:53
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02 Nov 2009 17:08
02 November 2009
How to Be a Conspiracy Theorist - Hamthrax version
11/02/2009 01:02:00 PMThe truth of the matter is that even though there was an outbreak of what the government and the CDC called "Swine Flu" in the 1970s, the H1N1 virus that's been declared a PANDEMIC by the World Health Organisation is actually a man-made virus. The original virus, which only really affected swine housed in overcroweded conditions, passed the animal/human barrier and spread from pigs to humans. At the time, the then-called 'swine flu' was little more than the typical seasonal influenza. However, the US government, then (and now) in the pocket of 'big drug' companies, was pressed to encourage US citizens to pay for immunizations, so that the drug companies could realise an economic benefit. At the time, revenues had been dropping steadily since the end of the 50s and 60s when prescriptions of painkillers, tranquillizers, and other drugs used to control mood disorders and mental illnesses had been at an all-time high. Drug companies developed the vaccine, as most vaccines are developed, by incubating the virus in the albumen of chicken eggs (the whites). What the researchers didn't know then was that the Swine Flu (Influenza C) virus *mutated* with a virus in several of the egg whites. This was the H5N1 strain of the Influenza A virus. A mutation occurred between the two subtypes of virus. This produced several sub-types of the Influenza A virus, such as H1N1, H1N2, H3N1, H3N2, and H2N3. The vaccine was first tested on pigs. While the vaccine did seem to aleviate the incidence (and severity) of influenza infections, something strange began happening. Those *humans* working with the swine began falling ill. It turned out the mutated Influenza strain could cross the pig/human species barrier. Scientists postulated that in incubating the mammalian virus in a cross-species manner (chicken eggs) had provided the virus the opportunity it needed to assimilate the mammalian DNA strands. Once a virus gets into the swine population, it can easily cross to humans...not through the meat (who would poison bacon? A kind and loving God would never do that), but the same way human viruses are spread - through body fluids like snot and spit and puke and poop. The first human victims of what we now know is H1N1 were misdiagnosed with seasonal influenza. This strain of the disease has been around for years. However, with the advent of much more powerful diagnostic and imaging equipment, it became much easier to discover the strain of influenza affecting humans. Early in 2008, in Mexico, doctors discovered an outbreak of H1N1 among the human population. By the time the WHO (the World Health Organisation, not the band) had been able to confirm Mecian doctors' information, the virus had begun to spread through to the United States. Within a year, H1N1 was declared a pandemic (The WHO's definition of "pandemic" is very specific - an infectious disease must be passed by humans to humans on a certain number of continents). The Big Drug companies saw this as a boost to the lagging economy - they could sell outrageous amounts of vaccines to countries and this would boost their bottom lines and please shareholders. The drug companies in turn indicated to the various health ministers from various countries that they could produce mass quantities of vaccines, but that they would have to ensure a certain purchase lot size to make the manufacture economically feasible in a time of economic slow-down. Governments were in for billions of doses of the medicine for a flu that, for the most part, was no more dangerous than any seasonal influenza (incidentally, the WHO's definition of 'pandemic' specifically excludes seasonal influenzas). Therefore, government health authorities and well-placed vocal healthcare providers were encouraged to warn the public, based on the WHO's confirmation that H1N1 had indeed become a pandemic, about the disease.
Big Drug marketing departments and political spin doctors knew that fear sells faster than sex, and so engaged the media in a massive campaign of "public information" messages (they did the same thing in the 70s with the outbreak of actual swine flu; this strain is a mix of avian flu and swine flu). This had the exact desired effect; people demanded a vaccine...which the Big Drug companies just happened to be able to manufacture...at a price.
However, as with anything in the scientific community, there were those who were annoyingly vocal about their opposition to the idea that H1N1 is any more fatal than any normal seasonal influenza. These opinions were harming the sale of vaccine, so the government had to manufacture a shortage. Everyone knows that the best way to sell your product is to claim there isn't very much of it.
Therefore, local governments have created a shortage of the vaccine, which has increased demand for it, ensuring the governments will be able to fill their orders and provide enough vaccine for everyone who wants it - but only if they're willing and able to follow a highly contrived 'distribution schedule'. If the governments claimed pregnant women and young children were most at risk, that would tug at the heartstrings of every man, woman, and child in the country. Everyone loves pregnant chicks and babies, right?
This is what a Conspiracy Theory about Hamthrax might look like. -
01 Nov 2009 10:37
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31 Oct 2009 03:39
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30 Oct 2009 08:44
30 October 2009
cenobyte answers #7
10/30/2009 08:52:00 AM 0 CommentsAs part of the Ask cenobyte Experiment, Silent Winged Coyote asks:I've always wondered this and I'm curious as to how you'd answer so here's my question: Seeing as how you've been offered the chance to, what would be the required situation for you to run for a public office at any political level?
First, let me just say that the idea of a "winged coyote" is somewhat disturbing. Never mind a "silent winged coyote". I mean, whether it's 'silent-winged coyote', which prompts images of a hungry, mangy, slightly deranged predator mammal/carrion eater that you can't hear coming through the air until you hear the smack and slurp of its cracked, sharpened teeth against your throat; or whether it's 'silent winged-coyote', which brings to mind the same beast, but it's completely *undetectable* when it hovers until you a) smell it, or b) see it upon you...well...just unsettling. That's all. Also: "Humber" is an AWESOME name/word/place name. It sounds like what bears do when they're walking down a hill - they don't quite "lumber", because they get up to quite a clip. So they "humber". Anyway. For me to run for political office at any level, the following requirements would need to be met: 1) My children would have to be grown up. Er. Adults. Um. Responsible people over the age of 18. 2) My husband would have to be in full support. Running for political office at any level at the moment could make things uncomfortable for him, as the nature of his job usually places his work within the context of having to work with government and/or government officials. It could be a conflict of interest. 3) I would have to be 100% debt-free (it won't be long now!!!) 4) A political party would have to actually understand that I would not 'toe the party line'. While there are some things I can keep my opinion to myself about, there are other things I would not do so for. 5) I would probably have to take down this bournal. And any other super secret bournals that may or may not be in existence. 6) Realistically, I would need an awful lot of fundraising to be done. 7) On a very personal note, I would have to quash my own feelings about (and dislike for) popularity contests in all their forms. None of these are unmeetable requirements, and holding representative office is not an unreachable goal. While I'm sure I'd be okay with the death threats, public scrutiny, and word-mangling that happens to elected officials, I'm not sure I'd be okay with the huge responsibility it would be to represent the people whose interests I would be representing. Oh. 8) John Gormley would have to buy me an expensive dinner and talk books and literature all night. He would know, and I know, that I would be (and am) one of the "left wing-nuts" he ridicules, but I would really like to talk about art and culture with him at the restaurant of his choosing. Actually, I'd really like that *anyway*, even if I weren't going to be running for elected office. I'd bring him a gift, maybe something from my personal library, and I think that would be a really fun night.29 October 2009
cenobyte answers #6
10/29/2009 11:51:00 AM 5 CommentsAs part of the Ask cenobyte Experiment, Brille also asked:I have another but if you don't get to it that's all right. What is,..simply..the scariest book you have ever read. Could be a one line answer...which I will then further research.
Hm. Ever? Hm. Well, a lot of it is subjective, right? I mean, when I was eight, I read a novel called "Coma", which is a terrible book, but the opening scene is horrific. But I was WAY TOO YOUNG to read that book. I read a book whose title I can't remember now about two sisters, one of whom develops leukemia. THAT was scary, because I read it and assumed that every time I got a nosebleed, I had leukemia. I made the stupid decision to read "It" when I was fourteen. I thought it would cure me of my perfectly healthy and reasonable fear of clowns. It did not. I couldn't sleep while reading "The Tommyknockers". "The Vanishing Country" by Mel Hurtig scared me, but in an entirely different way. So did "A Doctor's Compendium of Childhood Illnesses and Diseases". Dumb, cenobyte. Real dumb. Hmmm...is there a book that was/is *so scary* I couldn't actually finish it? I don't think so. I've been a fan of horror since I was about two, according to my mother. I used to get horror comics (there was one where a brother and sister went to the chocolate easter bunny factory and were eaten by a giant chocolate easter bunny. They went head first. Lots of blood and gore). On this topic, there are *many* extremely creepy stories in Edge Science Fiction/Fantasy Publishing's Tesseracts Thirteen. The Tesseracts series are anthologies of Canadian S/F short stories, poems, and even novellas sometimes. In fact, I'm interviewing the editors of Tesseracts Thirteen tonight (Nancy Kilpatrick and David Morrell. You might remember David Morrell as the Canadian author of First Blood, the book that was turned into the movie "Rambo"). Yeah. LOTS of creepy stuff that makes you hear noises in the dark when you're at home reading them after the kids have gone to bed. Dumb, cenobyte, dumb. I think Edgar Allen Poe's "The Telltale Heart" is still one of the best 'horror' stories out there. That and "The Cask of Amontillado". If you haven't read Poe, go do it. Right now. I'll wait. ... See!? GOLD. But mostly I've only talked about fiction (with the exception of The Vanishing Country). I've read some court transcripts that would scare the eggs out of dead chickens. And all the "non-fiction" haunting books are good....but...OH!!!Mysteries of the Unexplained was an encyclopaedic-style book put out by Reader's Digest. There are stories in that thing that STILL give me the heebie-jeebies. Particularly the story of Skippy the Wonder Horse who was found eviscerated in a field. *shudder* Oh. OOOH. Whitney Strieber's Communion. Hhhhnnnnnnniggggnnnnhhnnnn.Labels: questions
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29 Oct 2009 06:44
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28 Oct 2009 04:38
27 October 2009
cenobyte answers #5
10/27/2009 12:45:00 PM 3 CommentsAs part of the ask cenobyte experiment, Brielle asks:I know the answer that pops into your head when I ask this, as it does every mother. But put that aside for a second and really think beyond your kids and family because that's a given. Let say...What is your greatest fear? Or, if you'd rather What have you always feared. Yeah that one is better I think.
I think fears, like loose teeth, sore shins, and acne, come and go. I think they change. They *must* change. That being said, the easy answer is clowns. I have ALWAYS hated clowns with the burning rage of a thousand angry suns. From my earliest memory of the horrible things, with their rancid dead baby breath and their cracked, brown claws and rows upon rows of jagged teeth, I have always, *always* hated clowns. The genesis for that hatred is a perfectly natural and wholesome fear that they will, someday, as they are wont to do, manage to make it in to my house and destroy everything with their green acid saliva and toxic sweat. And when they're finished burning holes in floors and doors and windows, they will fold themselves up into the shadows behind things and beneath things, and they will lay in wait for a succulent piece of warm flesh, or a particularly vibrant soul, to feast upon. Also: china dolls. Whoever came up with these monstrosities clearly not only hated children, but also must have had a distinct and unobstructed desire to create mass distress. Who wants a horrid little object with matted human hair and staring, hollow glass eyes boring into them? Do you know how they make china dolls? No? Well. Let me educate you: first, they find a sad, neglected child. Sad, neglected children were a dime a dozen when they started making china dolls. First, they capture the child's soul in a little glass apothecary jar that can be used only once per soul. The souls of sad, neglected children are difficult to see, but dollmakers can always tell; sometimes they need a piece of equipment similar to a jeweler's glass, but most dollmakers are born with the ability to see the souls of children. So the dollmaker finds a child, and extracts its soul using the kind of tool pictured here:
Once the dollmaker extracts the child's soul, he stores it for quite some time, neglected on a shadowy, cobwebbed shelf. Freshly harvested souls are not often used in dollmaking, as they tend to still have some kind of hope or happiness encased in them. The body of the doll is made from the childrens' hair and dessicated bits of their tongues and liver. When the dollmaker makes the porcelain, he uses the ashes and pulverised remains of their soft little bones to grind in with the clay. Those little glass eyes are made by melting down the soul jar and pouring the molten glass into little molds. This is how the soul is captured in horrid glass eyes. This is why china dolls stare at you incessantly. This is why they rise from their places of slumber in the night, and crawl into bed with you; it's why they follow you around and flop on the couch when you're folding laundry. Because the souls of children are trapped inside each and every one. They're trying to take your soul, stealing it in your breath (sometimes they blame this activity on cats). They don't stop, either, because when you capture a child's soul in the pit of its misery, it will never, ever stop hunting. You can't stop a clown or a china doll, I always say. There is also a certain reticence to accept success that lingers oddly around me. In going through the things that people are supposed to fear, I think of things like: death, which does not scare me (unless it is death by clown or china doll); loss, which does not scare me (unless it is because clowns or china dolls have caused the loss); lingering illness, which unsettles me somewhat but does not cause me fear (unless it is the lingering illness caused by fetid clown spoor and the bacterial mileu that thrives in china doll hair and eyes); being alone, which does not scare me (unless I am alone with clowns or china dolls); failure, which does not give me fear as failure is necessary (unless it is the failure to keep clowns and china dolls away from me and my family).... I suppose the greatest fear I have (other than clowns and china dolls, which fears have been addressed above) is, and this is going to sound barmy, nuclear annihilation. At the age of six, I began hiding under the couch or the coffee table, afraid that people in the world would lose their sense and start pushing big red buttons all willy-nilly, setting off a chain reaction of nuclear missiles trained on every populated area of the world. I had visions of skin melting from bodies, of hair falling out in great, matted clumps, of losing teeth and fingernails. Children would be born with no faces, after a generation of stillbirths and spontaneous abortions. There would be no uncontaminated soil in which to grow food, and eventually, everyone would die of radiation sickness, which would have a specific name, possibly called after the doctor or researcher who tried for an entire lifetime to find a cure for it, but who failed because she could not keep her eyelashes from falling into her petri dishes. I have always been afraid of the decisions other people make on my behalf, to a certain point. Coming from such a place, is it any wonder I do not place a whole lot of faith in elected leaders?
26 October 2009
cenobyte answers #4
10/26/2009 09:04:00 AMAs part of the Ask cenobyte Experiment, Melistress asked:Have you ever taken inventory of your books and if so, what is the current count and what would you say to be your favorite of them all?
I have begun an inventory of my books many, many, ma-hany times. Probably more times than gypsies fart. However, I always get distracted by "Ohhhh. THIS book! I LOVE this book!" and that's about where the inventory ends. I have attempted to catalogue my books on Shelfari and on Goodreads. I didn't even get as far as putting any books in my Shelfari account, and according to Goodreads, I have 637 books on my shelf (does that mean I own them?) and 500+ that I've read...I spent a VERY late night putting most of that stuff in there. Oh look. I just got distracted again by my Goodreads account. I suspect there are easily a thousand books in my house. Probably more, if you count the ever-growing stacks of 'give-away' books. And I cannot, absolutely CANNOT choose a favourite. They are all my favourite, for different reasons. Well, maybe not *all* of them, but I do have something good to say about each of them. Damn. There, it happened again. Got distracted by Goodreads (you can see, over to the left there, a feed that shows some of the books I have read/am reading/will read). But I will say, at the top of my list is The Velveteen RabbitCat's CradleCome, Thou TortoiseThe Catcher in the Rye, nearly anything by Douglas Adams or Terry Pratchett, or by my international literary boyfriend, Neil Gaiman...there really are too many to name. I could never pick just one.25 October 2009
cenobyte answers #3
10/25/2009 09:03:00 AM 4 CommentsAs part of the Ask cenobyte Experiment, Schmutzie asked:What is a particular object to which you have a great attachment? Why?
I have a great attachment to the piano which sits in my dining room. It was one of the wedding gifts my great-grandparents received from my great-great granparents. It's a Heintzman upright grand piano, made in Toronto in the 1890s sometime. It was well taken care of by my grandmother, who never played, and it is the piano I learned to play on. Its keys fit my fingers properly; they have the perfect weight. The texture of those keys is like coming home on a chilly day. It has a nice tone, and still has its original ebony and ivory keys. I believe only two strings have been replaced. I am attached to it because the first day I played that piano in my own house was the last day I saw my grandfather alive. He and my father hauled the thing up out of my grandmother's basement (no small feat) and into the back of my father's truck. They sweated and swore and slapped at the back of the bloody thing until they were panting and wheezing and calling it "you bitch" and "goddamned whore". I remember them, standing in the bed of the truck, grinning and filthy and their faces all running with sweat. I remember them shaking hands (men didn't hug in those days) while I ran after them with the piano bench, knowing they would lift me in to the back with them. My Gramps opened the lid off the keys, opened the top of the piano to "let the music out", and he played the first five bars of Let Me Call You Sweetheart. He closed up the lid, and he closed up the keyboard, and they tied "that bitch" down to every place they could. We jumped down from the truck and went inside for lunch. Harvest was over; all the grain was cleaned and in the bins. It was early September, and the sun was hot and the sky was the brightest blue, with the tiniest wisps of clouds scattered around. We walked up the steps to Grandmother's house, and Gramps stopped to take off his dusty, oil-stained workboots. "Gramps," I said, "I don't like your boots." "Why not?" he asked, his easy smile lighting up his eyes. "They're dirty," I said. "Oh; I'll die with my boots on," he said, and laughed, and gathered me on to his lap, which had been steadily and strangely shrinking since my fifth birthday three years before. I don't remember how long after that it was I was walking to the babysitter's for lunch - maybe a week; maybe two weeks - when I saw my mother standing at our front door. Dad's truck was in the driveway; this was odd because they were both teachers. I got excited...I never got to go home for lunch! Mum called me inside, and I skipped and shouted how lucky I was to go home at noon! I burst into the entry, and saw Dad sitting in the rocking chair in the living room. Mum told me to sit down, but I didn't want to. The air in the house was wrong. The energy in the house was wrong. Something...something was wrong. The piano sat up against the wall in our living room. Dad looked at me with an expression on his face I'd never seen before. "There's been an accident," he said. Then my father burst into tears.
Dads don't cry, though, I thought. Dads don't cry.
Mum hustled me off to my bedroom, but I could still hear him sobbing. I could feel his heart breaking from two rooms away. Gramps had been killed in a farm accident. Gramps was dead. He'd died in those dirty old boots, alone in a field under the pale blue sky. Gramps, with the sparkling eyes and the belly laugh and who smelled like dust and spice. Gramps, who couldn't read any better than a six-year-old, but who held me on his lap and let me read to him. Gramps, who I loved more than anything.
Gramps never got to hear me play, so every time I do, it's how I talk to him. I let the music be my voice, and I thank him for his gift.
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