This gruesome 1890 image of Robert McGee has a suitably wild backstory. An explanation of how he came to be scalped in 1864 when just a lad, from The Old Santa Fe Trail: The Story of a Great Highway by Colonel Henry Inman:

One of the most horrible massacres in the history of the Trail occurred at Little Cow Creek in the summer of 1864. In July of that year a government caravan, loaded with military stores for Fort Union in New Mexico, left Fort Leavenworth for the long and dangerous journey of more than seven hundred miles over the great plains, which that season were infested by Indians to a degree almost without precedent in the annals of freight traffic.

The train was owned by a Mr. H. C. Barret, a contractor with the quartermaster’s department; but he declined to take the chances of the trip unless the government would lease the outfit in its entirety, or give him an indemnifying bond as assurance against any loss. The chief quartermaster executed the bond as demanded, and Barret hired his teamsters for the hazardous journey; but he found it a difficult matter to induce men to go out that season.

Among those whom he persuaded to enter his employ was a mere boy, named McGee, who came wandering into Leavenworth a few weeks before the train was ready to leave, seeking work of any description. His parents had died on their way to Kansas, and on his arrival at Westport Landing, the emigrant outfit that had extended to him shelter and protection in his utter loneliness was disbanded; so the youthful orphan was thrown on his own resources. At that time the Indians of the great plains, especially along the line of the Santa Fe Trail, were very hostile, and continually harassing the freight caravans and stage-coaches of the overland route. Companies of men were enlisting and being mustered into the United States service to go out after the savages, and young Robert McGee volunteered with hundreds of others for the dangerous duty. The government needed men badly, but McGee’s youth militated against him, and he was below the required stature; so he was rejected by the mustering officer.

Mr. Barret, in hunting for teamsters to drive his caravan, came across McGee, who, supposing that he was hiring as a government employee, accepted Mr. Barret’s offer.

By the last day of June the caravan was all ready, and on the morning of the next day, July 1, the wagons rolled out of the fort, escorted by a company of United States troops, from the volunteers referred to.

The caravan wound its weary way over the lonesome Trail with nothing to relieve the monotony save a few skirmishes with the Indians; but no casualties occurred in these insignificant battles, the savages being afraid to venture too near on account of the presence of the military escort.

On the 18th of July, the caravan arrived in the vicinity of Fort Larned. There it was supposed that the proximity of that military post would be a sufficient guarantee from any attack of the savages; so the men of the train became careless, and as the day was excessively hot, they went into camp early in the afternoon, the escort remaining in bivouac about a mile in the rear of the train.

About five o’clock, a hundred and fifty painted savages, under the command of Little Turtle of the Brule Sioux, swooped down on the unsuspecting caravan while the men were enjoying their evening meal. Not a moment was given them to rally to the defence of their lives, and of all belonging to the outfit, with the exception of one boy, not a soul came out alive.

The teamsters were every one of them shot dead and their bodies horribly mutilated. After their successful raid, the savages destroyed everything they found in the wagons, tearing the covers into shreds, throwing the flour on the trail, and winding up by burning everything that was combustible.

On the same day the commanding officer of Fort Larned had learned from some of his scouts that the Brule Sioux were on the war-path, and the chief of the scouts with a handful of soldiers was sent out to reconnoitre. They soon struck the trail of Little Turtle and followed it to the scene of the massacre on Cow Creek, arriving there only two hours after the savages had finished their devilish work. Dead men were lying about in the short buffalo-grass which had been stained and matted by their flowing blood, and the agonized posture of their bodies told far more forcibly than any language the tortures which had come before a welcome death. All had been scalped; all had been mutilated in that nameless manner which seems to delight the brutal instincts of the North American savage.

Moving slowly from one to the other of the lifeless forms which still showed the agony of their death-throes, the chief of the scouts came across the bodies of two boys, both of whom had been scalped and shockingly wounded, besides being mutilated, yet, strange to say, both of them were alive. As tenderly as the men could lift them, they were conveyed at once back to Fort Larned and given in charge of the post surgeon. One of the boys died in a few hours after his arrival in the hospital, but the other, Robert McGee, slowly regained his strength, and came out of the ordeal in fairly good health.

The story of the massacre was related by young McGee, after he was able to talk, while in the hospital at the fort; for he had not lost consciousness during the suffering to which he was subjected by the savages.

He was compelled to witness the tortures inflicted on his wounded and captive companions, after which he was dragged into the presence of the chief, Little Turtle, who determined that he would kill the boy with his own hands. He shot him in the back with his own revolver, having first knocked him down with a lance handle. He then drove two arrows through the unfortunate boy’s body, fastening him to the ground, and stooping over his prostrate form ran his knife around his head, lifting sixty-four square inches of his scalp, trimming it off just behind his ears.

Believing him dead by that time, Little Turtle abandoned his victim; but the other savages, as they went by his supposed corpse, could not resist their infernal delight in blood, so they thrust their knives into him, and bored great holes in his body with their lances.

After the savages had done all that their devilish ingenuity could contrive, they exultingly rode away, yelling as they bore off the reeking scalps of their victims, and drove away the hundreds of mules they had captured.

When the tragedy was ended, the soldiers, who had from their vantage-ground witnessed the whole diabolical transaction, came up to the bloody camp by order of their commander, to learn whether the teamsters had driven away their assailants, and saw too late what their cowardice had allowed to take place. The officer in command of the escort was dismissed the service, as he could not give any satisfactory reason for not going to the rescue of the caravan he had been ordered to guard.

The story of the massacre was related by young McGee, after he was able to talk, while in the hospital at the fort; for he had not lost consciousness during the suffering to which he was subjected by the savages.

He was compelled to witness the tortures inflicted on his wounded and captive companions, after which he was dragged into the presence of the chief, Little Turtle, who determined that he would kill the boy with his own hands. He shot him in the back with his own revolver, having first knocked him down with a lance handle. He then drove two arrows through the unfortunate boy’s body fastening him to the ground, and stooping over his prostrate form ran his knife around his head, lifting sixty-four square inches of his scalp, trimming it off just behind his ears.

Believing him dead by that time, Little Turtle abandoned his victim; but the other savages, as they went by his supposed corpse, could not resist their infernal delight in blood, so they thrust their knives into him, and bored great holes in his body with their lances.

After the savages had done all that their devilish ingenuity could contrive, they exultingly rode away, yelling as they bore off the reeking scalps of their victims, and drove away the hundred of mules they had captured.•

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I always remember, especially on seemingly difficult days, that some people in the world starve to death. They don’t have enough food and they suffer from malnutrition before their organs shut down and they die. It’s horrible. You and I on either side of this blog post are very fortunate. That isn’t our condition.

But realizing we’re lucky to have what we have doesn’t mean we shouldn’t point out the things that don’t work well in society, even if they’re not life-and-death things. When I sit with my laptop in a café in 2012 in Manhattan, thought of as the key real estate in America, I’m struck by how incredibly slow my Internet connection is. It’s as bad or worse than the dial-up connections I used during the ’90s. How is that possible?

The short answer is that there are way more wired gadgets than there were then. Not only have laptops exploded in popularity, but now we have millions of tablets and smartphones. The stress on the infrastructure is incredible. But it’s hard to believe this is the best we can do, that the system’s failings aren’t our failings as well.

I’m happy President Obama invested stimulus money in desperately needed alternative energies–and that the investments have thus far turned out so well–but we need some sort of large-scale federal planning to correct our faulty Information Superhighway as well as our physical highways. Not only does business depend on it, but so does the exchange of information. The free market just isn’t handling these issues.•

One of the many interesting tidbits I learned from reading Jon Gertner’s The Idea Factory earlier this year is that the genius physicist John Van Vleck was always allowed to ride the nation’s passenger trains for free after helping the railroad industry perfect its schedule for maximum efficiency. (For whatever reason, he became obsessed with rail schedules when he was just seven.) Of course, transportation of all types is a target of improvement in the era of Big Data. From Doug Newcomb in Wired:

“IBM is testing the new traffic-management technology in a pilot program in Lyon, France, that’s designed to provide the city’s transportation engineers with ‘real-time decision support’ so they can proactively reduce congestion. Called Decision Support System Optimizer (DSSO), the technology uses IBM’s Data Expansion Algorithm to combine old and new data to predict future traffic flow. Over time the system ‘learns’ from successful outcomes to fine-tune future recommendations.

The company’s technology allows traffic engineers to quickly take action based on constantly updated information, such as putting detours in place or providing alternative routes to get traffic moving after a snag. They’re unable to do this now, according to IBM, since most metro traffic management centers rely only on video feeds and color maps showing real-time traffic conditions. Jurij R. Paraszczak, director of Smarter Cities IBM Research, says this means traffic engineers don’t have a ‘360-degree view’ of traffic, and depending on predefined responses or making reactive decisions, they don’t always fully take into account all current and future patterns.

‘Rather than pulling all the data together and displaying it in one place where people make decisions on to what to do with it, the idea is to pull the data, display it and then provide tools to drive what-ifs,’ Paraszczak told Wired. ‘The idea is to help them make decisions.'”

“Anchor finds himself enchanted by Grace Anne.”

WANNA GREAT CHRISTMAS IDEA FOR YOUR FAVORITE BOOK LOVER???? WELL, REFUSE TO SINK IS YOUR ANSWER! 

I PROMISE YOU WILL BE ENTHRALLED!! “REFUSE TO SINK” touches on the after life, dealing with the loss of a parent, living with regret and gaining of personal strength from all the enchanting characters involved.

“There are many versions of THE LOVE STORY. Most of them start with the epic first encounter, then progress to the first kiss, sex and hopefully a happy ending after they overcome a certain obstacle that SHOULD tear them apart. Simple and done before, over and over. Well, this story is a bit different. It’s a story that is filled with personal realization, pain, grief, hilarity, and above all romance. I, honestly, got the inspiration to write this, gem of a book, while browsing online one day. I accidently came across a picture that simply read “LETS GO TO THE CITY AND FALL IN LOVE”. After that it’s like the whole story flowed through me and spilled out through my fingers like a river, until it was finished.” -D.C GARRIOTT-

“REFUSE TO SINK” by. D.C GARRIOTT

-HE LOST EVERYTHING, TO FIND HIS EVERYTHING-

In the aftermath of suddenly losing his father, Anchor is faced with a huge responsibilities to uphold. His family which includes his younger brother, Chance. As well as his disgraceful mother, Wynna.

Anchor is compelled to carry on despite the unfortunate turn of events. Anchor embarks forward with intentions of a novel life when he inevitably encounters Grace Anne. Anchor, unexpectedly, is caught of guard by Grace Anne. She affectionately lulls his sorrows with her whimsical ambitions, replacing Anchors heartache with a passionate love. Anchor finds himself enchanted by Grace Anne. While she has aspiring hopes of living in the city, Anchor is apprehensive of their impending future and is torn between true love the obstacle that could eventually tear them apart.

This story is very enthralling and at the most magically enchanting. To watch these characters develop their love through the toughest of situations is something we all should attempt to obtain.

The main characters, Anchor and Grace Anne are very accomplished and remarkable. The ending twist will blow you away and electrify your love of reading again!

This story is TRULY UNFORGETTABLE!

Building ballparks for wealthy businesspeople is a scam that never helps a local economy. The same goes for legalizing gambling. It’s a bad bet that politicians keep making despite a preponderance of economic studies that prove the folly of such schemes. Urban theorist Richard Florida writes about New York’s drift into becoming a gambling haven in, of all places, the New York Daily News, which isn’t exactly known for its think pieces. An excerpt:

“For politicians, casino money is a powerful allure. Casinos offer a potent triple whammy of big ground-breakings; new jobs in construction, hospitality and gaming tables; and substantial new sources of public revenue. ‘[I]t’s important to look at other sources other than taxing people to death,’ Florida City’s Mayor Otis Wallace (whose city just proposed a 25-acre horse racing, jai alai and casino complex), told the Miami Herald.

While politicians and casino magnates seek to sell gambling complexes to the public as magic economic bullets, virtually every independent economic development expert disagrees — and they have the studies to back it up.

More than a decade ago, the bipartisan National Gambling Impact Study Commission’s Final Report concluded that while the introduction of gambling to highly depressed areas may create an economic boost, it ‘has the negative consequence of placing the lure of gambling proximate to individuals with few financial resources.’

When gambling is added in more prosperous places, ‘the benefits to other, more deserving places are diminished due to the new competition. And as competition for the gambling dollar intensifies, gambling spreads, bringing with it more and more of the social ills that led us to restrict gambling in the first place.'”

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Merv Griffin interviews horror icon and Renaissance man Vincent Price in 1979.

I always thought the 1964 Price film, The Last Man on Earth, a low-budget Italian production of Richard Matheson’s novel I  Am Legend, was the most haunting screen realization of the author’s vision, despite far glitzier versions with A-listers Charlton Heston and Will Smith. Matheson did not feel the same and asked for his name to be removed from the credits.

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From the April 25, 1890 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

Salt Lake, Utah–Henry Strauss, of Chicago, yesterday purchased the wife of Fritz Lander, of this city, for $100. Mrs. Lander and Strauss were sweethearts in Germany, but became separated by circumstances. The happy couple at once took the train for San Francisco. Lander is a saloonkeeper and says the money more than compensates for the loss of his wife.”

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Santa Claus: No more gifts, 47%.

Santa Claus is a job creator. You don’t think the elves are running the workshop without him, do you? He warned those disloyal little ingrates before the election that they needed to vote for Mitt Romney or there would be consequences. Nobody listened. Now that Santa has to provide his tiniest helpers with health insurance rather than just shoot them and use them as reindeer food when they get injured on the job, he’s been forced to make some cuts. All the elves were laid off. Santa wishes them well in the world of fetish porn. No elves means no Christmas, so all of you can go fuck yourselves, too. You’re getting squat.

Oh, and Mrs. Claus also got the heave-ho–ho–ho. Old Kris got himself a Slovenian model for a trophy wife. Santa deserved a fresh piece.•

Don’t cry, Abigail. You would have gotten tired of that new dollie in a few years anyway. Oh, and did I mention that Grandma passed?

Nana (1935-2012)

Melania Claus.


Some search-engine keyphrases bringing traffic to Afflictor this week:

Afflictor: Thinking the easiest way to tell who won a Presidential election is to look at the candidates’ rides.

  • There will always, always be Twinkies.

The original Thanksgiving was the sharing of a beautiful bounty among Native Americans and white Europeans. Then, once everyone was full, the bloodletting began in earnest. A horrifying thing that so-called Indians and whites did, after we began invading and stealing their land, was to scalp one another. A story from the July 6, 1890 Brooklyn Daily Eagle, originally published in the Nebraska City News, tells how the scalps of three American Indians ended up in a shop window in Bavaria. An excerpt:

“Frederick Beyschlag concluded some fifteen years ago to make up a collection of Indian relics, such as tomahawks, bows, arrows, moccasins, buffalo robes, etc., all of which he forwarded to his aged father in Germany as a present. In the collection were three scalps, which Dr. Renner had contributed. The hair of two of them was jet black, with the braided scalplock, which designates the warrior of most Indian tribes. The third scalp bore thin, long, light, blonde hair, evidently coming from a massacred man and not a woman, for the latter generally uses a fine comb more effectively when circumstances require it.

The doctor had taken these scalps from the Sioux in August, 1804, at the time when they made their terrible raid on the Blue River region and Colonel O.P. Mason ordered him to place himself between the fleeing settlers and the pursuing Indians, furnishing only a few companions, 27 muskets and 2,000 rounds of buck and ball cartridges, which Dr. Renner distributed among the horror stricken refugees on the Blue and Sandy, whereupon he and a half dozen frontiersmen, armed with Spencer and Henry rifles, Colt’s navy and dragoon revolvers, took up the trail of thirty or forty of the marauding Cheyenne Sioux and followed it across the Republican into Kansas without any difficulty, as the doctor was acquainted with every creek, crossing, hill and valley, having been, in 1857 and 1858, a member of the surveying parties under Generals Manners and Calhoun, who established the boundary between Kansas and Nebraska, commencing in the middle of the channel of Missouri, running west along the fortieth degree northern latitude to the summit of the Rocky Mountains.

When Dr. Renner returned to this city he prepared his trophies carefully with alum and arsenic, so that they are in a good state of preservation to this day.

A few years ago the venerable father of Mr. Beyschlag died and the Indian collection came into the possession of the heirs; they were all afraid of these three scalps, nobody dared to handle them, yes, even the look of them gave the German ladies the horrors. So they concluded to sell them and did so at a fair price. This explains how the three scalps raised in Nebraska form this day an attractive feature in the show window of Mr. Offenhauser, friseur and perruquier (hair dresser and wig maker) on the ‘Schranne’ or corn market in Nördlingen, a thriving city in Middle Bavaria, the native place of the Beyschlag family.”

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A film about their amazing Pacific Palisades house. Wordless.

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A one-paragraph portrait of technologist Elon Musk as a child in South Africa, from a new Smithsonian profile by Carl Hoffman:

“As a child growing up in Pretoria, South Africa, his mother thought he might have hearing problems. ‘We called Elon ‘genius boy,’ says his mother, Maye. ‘His brain was just ahead of everyone else’s and we thought he was deaf, so we took him to the doctor. But he was just in his own world.’ Musk shrugs when I tell him that story. ‘They took my adenoids out, but it didn’t change anything. It’s just when I’m concentrating on something I tune everything else out.’ He was bullied by other kids. He hated going to school. He was obsessed with facts and reading. ‘If someone said the Moon is, like, a million miles away,’ says Maye, ‘he’d say, ‘No, it’s 238,855 miles from the Earth, depending on when you view it.’ Kids would just go ‘Huh?’ He’s just curious about everything and never stops reading and remembers everything he reads. He’s not in la-la land; he just sees everything as a problem that can be fixed.'”

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From Mike Douglas’ talk show. The above photo is a Mapplethorpe, of course.

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Microsoft, once ferocious and now an afterthought, has filed patents for augmented-reality glasses to compete with Google. It’s hard to believe the company will become the dominant player in any category again, including this one. From Unwired View:

“Microsoft has it’s own Project Glass cooking in the R&D labs.

It’s an augmented reality glasses/heads-up display, that should supply you with various bits of trivia while you are watching a live event, e.g. baseball game. The device was made public via Microsoft’spatent application published today.”

That pardon isn’t for free, Paulie. We need you to work with us.

President Obama continued a Thanksgiving tradition today when he pardoned two turkeys, Paulie and Frankie. In order to secure the pardons, the brothers agreed to help the Feds bring down their family’s racketeering operation. Paulie turned state’s evidence and Frankie wore a wire. They tried to play it cool, but word got out that they’d flipped, so they had to be taken out. You know how it is when you go against the family, boys. It’s nothing personal–just business.

A bullet in the neck for you, Paulie.

You lived like scum, Frankie, and you died like it.

Paulie (2012-2012).

Frankie (2012-2012)

I promise that I will never rewatch “Goodfellas” during a holiday week again. Remember, kids: Crime doesn’t pay. Except for most types of white-collar crime. Happy Thanksgiving, Afflictor readers!

And a special thanks to everyone helping to prepare my vegan Thanksgiving dinner. It looks delicious!

From the January 15, 1899 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

Seattle–C.R. Maltby, who has arrived here from Dawson, was fifteen months on the Edmonton route. With about 100 other prospectors, he wintered at Wind City. When he left, in January, sixteen men were sick with scurvy. He heard in March that Dr. Mason of Chicago and W. Gauche, son of a Chicago banker,were dying. There were about fifty men stranded there, scurvy stricken and frozen. The Indian guides reported several parties lost in the mountains. These men will never be heard of again.”

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Before Mailer and Breslin tried to relocate to New York City’s Gracie Mansion, William F. Buckley made his own quixotic run for the mayor’s office for the Conservative Party. In these 1965 clips on NBC’s Meet the Press, Buckley discusses his candidacy.

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Opening of a story from the Next Big Web about an inventor of a bottle that can fill itself with much-needed H2O, even in the most arid of climates:

“The Namib Desert beetle lives in an area that only gets half an inch of rainfall per year, and so it draws 12 percent of its weight in water from the air to quench its thirst. NBD Nano co-founder Deckard Sorensen was inspired by the beetle to the point that he created a self-filling water bottle, which he hopes to bring to the market by 2014.

Every morning, the beetle climbs to the top of a sand dune, faces away from the wind, and ensures that water condenses in hydrophilic areas of its back. Eventually, the water flows to a storage area in the beetle.

To mimic nature, Sorenson layered a surface with hydrophilic and hydrophobic coatings, used a fan to pass air over the surface, and eventually managed to get water to condense. This eventually led to the design of a self-filling water bottle.”

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In a Q&A with Time, Oxford psychologist Kevin Dutton points out, among other things, that not all psychopaths are violent. Dutton has authored the new book, The Wisdom of Psychopaths. An excerpt in which he shares his belief that his father was a non-violent psychopath:

“Question:

You write that you think your father was a psychopath…

Kevin Dutton:

It sounds like a crazy thing to say, but there’s no doubt at all about it. He was a nailed down psychopath.  He wasn’t violent. He was a market trader [in the U.K., a person who sells things at an open-air street market].  One of the central messages of the book is that you don’t need to be violent to be a psychopath.  My dad was ruthless, fearless and also extremely charming. He could have sold shaving cream to the Taliban.

Question:

So what would be an example of his psychopathic behavior?

Kevin Dutton:

When I was a kid, probably about 9 or 10 [years old], we went to an Indian restaurant for dinner. Just as my dad was about to pay, he suddenly tinked his spoon against his glass and stood up. The whole restaurant went silent. My dad said, ‘I’d just like to thank you all for coming; some from just round the corner, some from much further afield. You’re all most welcome to join us for a little drinks reception across the road.’

And so an entire restaurant of strangers who had never seen us before were  all applauding wildly because they didn’t want to be seen as gatecrashers. We just took off. He [told me] we’re not going to the pub really and [explained that his] old friend Malcolm had [just opened a new pub across the street].

If you think about the front you need to do that: it’s a whole different kind of personality. On a personal level, I guess I wrote the book to figure out my old man.” (Thanks Browser.)

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In my early Catholic grade-school years, I had to write a one-page book report, and I chose to do it on Dick Gregory’s autobiography, which had this title. That might not be seen as odd today–or perhaps it still is—but a tiny child in all-white school choosing that book was, shall we say, unusual. It was in no way a political statement on my behalf nor was I mischievously trying to use a bad word; I just thought it was an interesting book. (It was co-written by the excellent Robert Lipsyte, by the way.) My teacher, who didn’t need this shit, was uncomfortable. On the positive side: The priests never touched me. 

In this 1965 clip, Merv Griffin interviews the civil rights activist / stand-up comedian in the aftermath of the Watts riots.

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Stores have long spied and eavesdropped on customers, but now they have a still and silent army to aid them in mining data: mannequins. From Andrew Roberts at Bloomberg:

“Store mannequins are meant to catch your eye. Soon you may catch theirs.

Benetton Group SpA is among fashion brands deploying mannequins equipped with technology used to identify criminals at airports to watch over shoppers in their stores.

Retailers are introducing the EyeSee, sold by Italian mannequin maker Almax SpA, to glean data on customers much as online merchants are able to do. The 4,000-euro ($5,072) device has spurred shops to adjust window displays, store layouts and promotions to keep consumers walking in the door and spending.

‘It’s spooky,’ said Luca Solca, head of luxury goods research at Exane BNP Paribas in London. ‘You wouldn’t expect a mannequin to be observing you.'”

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The Mars Rover has apparently made a significant discovery, but NASA isn’t talking until the data has been confirmed. From Joe Palca at NPR:

“Scientists working on NASA’s six-wheeled rover on Mars have a problem. But it’s a good problem.

They have some exciting new results from one of the rover’s instruments. On the one hand, they’d like to tell everybody what they found, but on the other, they have to wait because they want to make sure their results are not just some fluke or error in their instrument.

It’s a bind scientists frequently find themselves in, because by their nature, scientists like to share their results. At the same time, they’re cautious because no one likes to make a big announcement and then have to say ‘never mind.'”

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“Innocent teacher.”

To the man who stole my bike last night (Astoria)

Fuck you! You low life piece of shit. Just because you are too poor to purchase a bike of your own doesn’t give you the right to steal someones personal property. Get a job you lazy mother fucker.

I pray that you witness every member of your family suffering.

I hope your daughter will contract AIDS and become pregnant with a baby that also has AIDS. Then you will watch her slowly die in pain and agony. I hope that your son gets cancer or leukemia or some other painful terminal disease. I hope that you have to pay for him to go to hospice and watch helplessly as he fades away. I hope that your wife cheats on you because she no longer wants to fuck a tiny dick and wants a real man. I want you to suffer as she takes it in the pussy, ass and mouth and finally orgasms after all these years faking it with you. You pathetic excuse for a man. I hope that your parents, if they are still alive, are mugged in their own homes. I hope your father watches as your mother is slapped around by some robbers and cries because he is too old and weak to save her. I hope that your father gets sick and can no longer stay in his house. I hope that he goes to a horrible nursing home where the nurses miss treat him and leave him to wallow in his own filth.

I hope that you are alive and well to witness all of this. And if your son, daughter, wife, or parents ever ask you why? “Why did this happen to us?” You can tell them it is because their father/husband/son is a piece of shit human being that stole a hard working innocent teacher’s bike.

Have a good day.

When the now-defunct print version of Newsweek ran its asinine “Muslim Rage” cover, I kept thinking it was fine as long as the Mideast version of the cover was entitled “American Rage.” Um, didn’t we only recently kill 45,000 people, minimum, in Iraq for no particular reason? I don’t mean our troops–they were just following orders–I mean our government. But it’s hard to fault a magazine that was obviously on it last legs, wobbling about. From Michael Kinsley’s New York interview with Newsweek and Daily Beast EIC Tina Brown, a passage about the magazine-publishing world’s ridiculously grand days of yore:

Michael Kinsley:

Newsweek, in its heyday, had correspondents all over the world.

Tina Brown:

Thirty bureaus.

Michael Kinsley:

Thirty bureaus.

Tina Brown:

You know, it was very funny—when I looked at the document of sale, it was like the vestiges of the great galleon it had been. It was like that wreck of theTitanic in the James Cameron film—they’re swimming through the rooms, and you see the chandeliers. Every so often, you would swim around a corner and see a chandelier—things like private dining. You suddenly realize, this was an era when there were things like private dining rooms. 

Michael Kinsley:

Yes.

Tina Brown:

When [Washington Post publisher and Newsweek owner] Kay Graham arrived in a foreign city, she was really like the State Department—the Newsweekbureau would be there to greet her. And that Newsweek bureau would immediately get her an interview with, you know, Ferdinand Marcos.

Michael Kinsley:

She had a private chef at Newsweek. And when she wasn’t in town, I remember the editor at the time, Bill Broyles, got to use the chef.

Tina Brown:

I know.

Michael Kinsley:

How much of that is unnecessary?

Tina Brown:

It’s totally unnecessary.

Michael Kinsley:

But it did add to what made up Newsweek.

Tina Brown:

Absolutely. No, it did, listen—it was very grand.

Michael Kinsley:

So what’s going to happen? You’re not going to be able to do that.

Tina Brown:

No, we’re not. But Newsweek still has a great deal of access and power. You go to Brazil, you go to India—we have a hugely global footprint. You can get an interview with anyone overseas on the basis of being part of Newsweek. It still has a great deal of impact.

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