Warrant: Mother Blames Ghost For Hatchet Killings

Image at left from Purple Moon Galleries.





I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone blamed a ghost for an actual crime... but hatchet murders?

That's some scary ghost.

Warrant: Mother Blames Ghost For Hatchet Killings

ASHEVILLE, N.C. -- A 33-year-old mother accused of killing her two young daughters with a hatchet and then trying to kill herself told investigators that a ghost killed her children, according to a warrant.

The murder warrant against Naiyana Patel also said that she has said she does not want to live and she did not want surgery for her head injuries.

On Saturday, Patel's husband, Lalji Patel, returned home from work to find his daughters, 7-year-old Jiya and 4-year-old Piya, dead and their mother seriously injured.

Police said Naiyana Patel struck herself in the head repeatedly with the hatchet after she killed the girls.

Relatives said Naiyana was being treated for depression after a pregnancy she did not carry to full term, and, at some point she switched medication because the initial prescription did not seem to help.

Investigators removed the medication from the home during the investigation. Relatives said the children's funeral is planned Thursday.

After undergoing surgery, Naiyana was listed in serious but stable condition at Mission Hospital.

Police said she was transferred from the intensive care unit to a regular room. They're waiting to find out when she will be released from the hospital before deciding how to proceed.

Lt. Wallace Welch said it depends on how forthcoming Patel is with information. Welch said there is a possibility she could go straight from the hospital to the jail.

A memorial service for the family only is set for Thursday at the Groce Funeral Home from noon until 2 p.m.

A community event will be set for Thursday at 6 p.m. in the ball field behind Oakley Elementary School, the school Jiya attended.

Welch said the public event will celebrate the lives of Jiya and her sister, Piya.

A day ago, they were blaming the medication.

Pretty shocking stuff for a peaceful town like Asheville.

My novenas are with the children and other survivors.

SAD (but three-dimensional!) update

So there I was on Sunday night, idly flipping channels as usual, and I suddenly came upon numerous hotshot CELEBRITIES with million-dollar winter-tans, trillion-dollar designer-gowns, thousand-dollar botoxed facial expressions (or lack of them) and fancy upswept hairdos, wearing... what?! 3-D glasses! They looked like my dearly departed grandpa at the drive-in movie! (In fact, it was a segment of the Grammy Awards.)

I admit, I laughed my ass off and made Mr Daisy come look at the spectacle of rich people with astronomically-expensive faces, hair and makeup, wearing cheap-ass 3-D glasses that looked like they came out of a Crackerjack box. HAHAHAHA! Did they know how stupid they looked? DEAD AIR certainly hopes so!

Interestingly, I can't find any photos of this humorous event online... did the stars agree to do it only if nobody took photos of audience-members while they looked dopey? If I'd known that, I woulda grabbed my camera for a video capture...


EDIT: In response to this post, skinner.fm has helpfully provided us with video captures of celebs in 3-D glasses at the Grammy Awards.--DD

~*~

In other news, blogging is becoming an old people's thang (something I have long suspected!):

Could it be that blogs have become online fodder for the — gasp! — more mature reader?

A new study has found that young people are losing interest in long-form blogging, as their communication habits have become increasingly brief, and mobile. Tech experts say it doesn't mean blogging is going away. Rather, it's gone the way of the telephone and e-mail — still useful, just not sexy.

...

The study, released Wednesday by the Pew Internet & American Life Project, found that 14 percent of Internet youths, ages 12 to 17, now say they blog, compared with just over a quarter who did so in 2006. And only about half in that age group say they comment on friends' blogs, down from three-quarters who did so four years ago.

Pew found a similar drop in blogging among 18- to 29-year-olds.

Overall, Pew estimates that roughly one in 10 online adults maintain a blog — a number that has remained consistent since 2005, when blogs became a more mainstream activity. In the U.S., that would mean there are more than 30 million adults who blog.

"That's a pretty remarkable thing to have gone from zero to 30 million in the last 10 years," says David Sifry, founder of blog search site Technorati.

But according to the data, that population is aging.

The Pew study found, for instance, that the percentage of Internet users age 30 and older who maintain a blog increased from 7 percent in 2007 to 11 percent in 2009.

Pew's over-18 data, collected in the last half of last year, were based on interviews with 2,253 adults and have a margin of error of plus or minus 2.7 percentage points. The under-18 data came from phone interviews with 800 12- to 17-year-olds and their parents. The margin of error for that data was plus or minus 3.8 percentage points.

So why are young people less interested in blogging?

The explosion of social networking is one obvious answer. The Pew survey found that nearly three-quarters of 12- to 17-year-olds who have access to the Internet use social networking sites, such as Facebook. That compares with 55 percent four years ago.

With social networking has come the ability to do a quick status update and that has "kind of sucked the life out of long-form blogging," says Amanda Lenhart, a Pew senior researcher and lead author of the latest study.

More young people are also accessing the Internet from their mobile phones, only increasing the need for brevity. The survey found, for instance, that half of 18- to 29-year-olds had done so.

All of that rings true to Sarah Rondeau, a freshman at the College of the Holy Cross in Worcester, Mass.

"It's a matter of typing quickly. People these days don't find reading that fun," the 18-year-old student says.

I can't improve on that last line. ;)

(Thanks to Vanessa for the link!)

~*~

Pardon my spotty blogging over the past month, sports fans. I have had a pretty pronounced bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) this year, and my reliable herbal standbys, Rhodiola, Ashwanghanda and Ginseng have not helped me as much as they usually do. And then I read the Newsweek article, about how all of these BigPharma anti-depressants may be just as good as a placebo (OR AN HERB, Daisy interjected):

The research had shown that antidepressants help about three quarters of people with depression who take them, a consistent finding that serves as the basis for the oft-repeated mantra "There is no question that the safety and efficacy of antidepressants rest on solid scientific evidence," as psychiatry professor Richard Friedman of Weill Cornell Medical College recently wrote in The New York Times. But ever since a seminal study in 1998, whose findings were reinforced by landmark research in The Journal of the American Medical Association last month, that evidence has come with a big asterisk. Yes, the drugs are effective, in that they lift depression in most patients. But that benefit is hardly more than what patients get when they, unknowingly and as part of a study, take a dummy pill—a placebo. As more and more scientists who study depression and the drugs that treat it are concluding, that suggests that antidepressants are basically expensive Tic Tacs.

Hence the moral dilemma. The placebo effect—that is, a medical benefit you get from an inert pill or other sham treatment—rests on the holy trinity of belief, expectation, and hope. But telling someone with depression who is being helped by antidepressants, or who (like my friend) hopes to be helped, threatens to topple the whole house of cards. Explain that it's all in their heads, that the reason they're benefiting is the same reason why Disney's Dumbo could initially fly only with a feather clutched in his trunk—believing makes it so—and the magic dissipates like fairy dust in a windstorm. So rather than tell my friend all this, I chickened out. Sure, I said, there's lots of research showing that a new kind of antidepressant might help you. Come, let me show you the studies on PubMed.

It seems I am not alone in having moral qualms about blowing the whistle on antidepressants. That first analysis, in 1998, examined 38 manufacturer-sponsored studies involving just over 3,000 depressed patients. The authors, psychology researchers Irving Kirsch and Guy Sapirstein of the University of Connecticut, saw—as everyone else had—that patients did improve, often substantially, on SSRIs, tricyclics, and even MAO inhibitors, a class of antidepressants that dates from the 1950s. This improvement, demonstrated in scores of clinical trials, is the basis for the ubiquitous claim that antidepressants work. But when Kirsch compared the improvement in patients taking the drugs with the improvement in those taking dummy pills—clinical trials typically compare an experimental drug with a placebo—he saw that the difference was minuscule. Patients on a placebo improved about 75 percent as much as those on drugs. Put another way, three quarters of the benefit from antidepressants seems to be a placebo effect. "We wondered, what's going on?" recalls Kirsch, who is now at the University of Hull in England. "These are supposed to be wonder drugs and have huge effects."

The study's impact? The number of Americans taking antidepressants doubled in a decade, from 13.3 million in 1996 to 27 million in 2005.

To be sure, the drugs have helped tens of millions of people, and Kirsch certainly does not advocate that patients suffering from depression stop taking the drugs. On the contrary. But they are not necessarily the best first choice. Psychotherapy, for instance, works for moderate, severe, and even very severe depression. And although for some patients, psychotherapy in combination with an initial course of prescription antidepressants works even better, the question is, how do the drugs work? Kirsch's study and, now, others conclude that the lion's share of the drugs' effect comes from the fact that patients expect to be helped by them, and not from any direct chemical action on the brain, especially for anything short of very severe depression.

As the inexorable rise in the use of antidepressants suggests, that conclusion can't hold a candle to the simplistic "antidepressants work!" (unstated corollary: "but don't ask how") message. Part of the resistance to Kirsch's findings has been due to his less-than-retiring nature. He didn't win many friends with the cheeky title of the paper, "Listening to Prozac but Hearing Placebo." Nor did it inspire confidence that the editors of the journal Prevention & Treatment ran a warning with his paper, saying it used meta-analysis "controversially." Al-though some of the six invited commentaries agreed with Kirsch, others were scathing, accusing him of bias and saying the studies he analyzed were flawed (an odd charge for defenders of antidepressants, since the studies were the basis for the Food and Drug Administration's approval of the drugs). One criticism, however, could not be refuted: Kirsch had analyzed only some studies of antidepressants. Maybe if he included them all, the drugs would emerge head and shoulders superior to placebos.

Now, we need to talk about placebos and why they work. I think, you know, it's something quaintly known to some of us as FAITH.

Which leads me to...

~*~

Left: Cross by Wes-Wilson (1968)



And finally, more brawling over Jesus, Krishna, Moses, and all their friends. Good God (joke deliberate)--will I never learn? Why do I do this? I should know by now to listen to myself and what I hear myself saying: The atheists are as intractable as the fundamentalists. Buddha's extremely sane Middle Path will never go over with either party, so why on Earth do I bother?

I quit arguing with the fundies, since I decided their minds were already closed, but I really hate giving up on the atheists. I thought they were supposed to be SMART? If they are, do they honestly believe that the VAST MAJORITY of people in the ENTIRE WORLD will give up our magic talismans and superstitions?

Barefoot Bum, in above link, keeps lambasting me unmercifully as superstitious... but what he doesn't seem to understand is that I fully grant him the point. Now, in his perfect religionless world, what is he going to do with all of us incurably-superstitious people? Psychiatric hospitals? Gulags? Collective farming in the countryside? It's all been done. Didn't work. Now what?

Honest question, not at all rhetorical, and I put it out there for all "militant atheists" (name of thread wherein aforementioned brawl took place) to answer. I know what the fundies think. What do you think? You can't consign us to hell, since you don't believe in it, so would you lock us up? Barefoot Bum says no, of course not. But if you think certain people are DANGEROUS and spread evil and ignorance simply by existing, don't you think they should be locked up? If not, you must not really think we're that bad and it's all an exercise in advanced rhetorical hubris.

The above argument was borrowed from Michael Kinsley, who used to demand (during his stint on CNN's Crossfire) that pro-lifers answer the question: Would you put all women in jail who obtain abortions? If you say no, you must not truly believe abortion constitutes the crime of murder, as you SAY you do. Gotcha.

If Christians are dangerous wackos, it seems you would believe we should be locked up in hospitals for wackos. If you think we are spreading vicious awfulness and engaging in horrific hate-speech, you would of course want us to at least be ARRESTED, yes? And you don't?

Excuse me, radical atheists, I call bullshit.

Michael Phelps for Drug Czar

Left: Michael Phelps and the bong hit seen around the world.

There is no better example of what a screwed-up country we live in, that an amazing and heroic Olympic champion is currently being ostracized and shamed for choosing the safest drug in the entire world to relax with, instead of a truly dangerous one, like, say, alcohol.

How many deaths due to alcohol IN ONE YEAR, around the world? Include the domestic violence, the homicides, the vehicular manslaughter, and all the rest of it.

How many deaths to due cannabis HAVE EVER BEEN RECORDED? IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD? None. Ever.

Alcohol is poison and rots the body. Marijuana is known to reduce the risk of several conditions (i.e. Parkinson's) and has an anti-spasmodic effect that is great for general spasticity, muscle strains and arthritis. It is a safer alternative than ibuprofen, antidepressants and insomnia meds by far, with few if any side effects.

Now, what if Michael Phelps had picked up some PROZAC or some other antidepressant that half of America is currently ingesting in record numbers? No doubt, that would have been widely considered just fine. Taking a drug with such a high risk of documented side effects (by comparison) is so acceptable, these drugs are advertised on TV every single night in prime time, no less. And if he had taken one of those? No one would have criticized or challenged him. Instead, he chooses the drug with the lowest incidence of side effects... in other words, he deliberately chose the healthiest alternative, and they are all over his ass.

Insanity. Just insanity.

Of course this country once elected Dubya; so there is certainly some precedent for this kind of dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks stupidity. Some people in this country, obviously, just have it all ass-backward.

Get DRUNK like a PROPER AMERICAN, Michael Phelps! Put down that reefer, which will wear off in 3-4 hours and reduce your muscle tension, allowing you to sleep peacefully... much better to go out and drink a few and yell and scream and get in fights over women. That's the AMERICAN WAY.

Instead, the various powers-that-be are now demanding Phelps issue statements claiming he made "bad choices"--when in fact, he made THE BEST CHOICE. Alcohol would have been a BAD CHOICE; nonetheless, if he'd had his photo taken whilst chug-a-lugging a few and hollering like an out-of-control frat-boy, he'd probably be asked to make a TV commercial for beer. (A whole new set of endorsements!)

Disgusting. Associated Press reports:

The sport's national governing body [USA Swimming] also cut off its financial support to Phelps for the same three-month period, effective Thursday.

"This is not a situation where any anti-doping rule was violated, but we decided to send a strong message to Michael because he disappointed so many people, particularly the hundreds of thousands of USA Swimming member kids who look up to him as a role model and a hero," the Colorado Springs-based federation said in a statement.

Is this country a total mess, or what?

To make things worse, this photo was supposedly taken in Richland County, South Carolina, and the local gung-ho sheriff, Leon Lott, is threatening to prosecute him. For a misdemeanor offense!

Of course, if this photographed event had occurred in California or Oregon, Phelps could say he got some medical pot for his bad knees or whatever, and it would all be perfectly legal. There would not even be any discussion, except maybe some giggling over it. So, different laws for different regions... do the morals change depending upon where you live? I guess smoking some reefer is a "bad choice" in SC, but not on the west coast.

Well, that makes a lot of sense. That surely sends an unambiguous moral message to the kids, doesn't it?

(((spits for emphasis)))



EDITED TO ADD: Ta-Nehisi Coates's thread about Phelps has excellent comments and discussion also.

On drugs, herbs, antidepressants, addiction, mothers and other things...

We interrupt our ongoing South Carolina primary coverage to cover a recent controversy in Blogdonia over--DRUGS.

George Carlin used to joke about the signs once visible on city street corners, notably absent in the last decade or so. We now have Walgreens and CVS selling baby formula, hair goo and toilet paper, but once upon a time, the drug store was a drug store, just like Mr Gower's in It's a Wonderful Life. Maybe you could get a banana split while you waited for the druggist (as we called them) to fill your prescription. You could buy cokes and root beers and hang out. Lana Turner would be "discovered" in a Hollywood drug store, according to myth, which made the drug store cool.

And as George Carlin joked in the 70s, go into any self-proclaimed drug store, which prominently featured a huge DRUG sign, and ask (insert stoned voice) "Hey man, gotta any DRUGS?" and the proprietor would likely bark, "Not THOSE kind, go away!"

"Hey, it said DRUGS, okay?"

Indeed, it did. And so we learned: there are good drugs and bad drugs. (As Glinda memorably asked Dorothy, are you a Good Witch, or a Bad Witch?)

~*~

The line between the "good" and "bad" drugs was always very shaky for me. As a youngster, I witnessed progressive addiction in the members of my family. My grandmother became dependent on various and sundry pain meds, Valium, and Miltown, which she would periodically swear off, only to relapse. Such events were not called RELAPSE then; there was no such language available for addiction to prescription drugs. This is why Valley of the Dolls was regarded as such a scandalous, truth-telling book, almost as important as The Feminine Mystique, and certainly, out-selling that book by millions. No one had dared say it out loud in polite, middle-class company. And the word, DOLLS. We love our dolls, we play with our dolls, we dress up our dolls and display them. Calling drugs DOLLS laid the whole enterprise bare. ("Not THOSE kind, go away!") My mother had a seemingly bottomless Rx for Dexedrine 75 mg (gonna let that dosage sink in a minute: 75 mg), which I started pilfering regularly on test days in high school. And my mother never lost a pound, it seemed.

I caught on fast: Dexedrine didn't have shit to do with weight loss. This had to do with her day-job, hard work requiring intense concentration. And then her night-job, her true love, music. She was a singer and musician; amphetamines allowed her to sing late into the twilight after a hard day's work. Songs by Kitty Wells, Loretta Lynn, Patsy Cline, Wanda Jackson, Tammy Wynette, and so many others...which seemed to go so well with the Dolls. (Maybe because several of these recording artists were also quite attached to the Dolls?) My mother's green eyes glittered, as John Lydon's, Keith Moon's, Natalie Cole's, Linda Ronstadt's and Elvis's used to twinkle and shine; an unmistakable chemically-glazed glitter that I can still spot anywhere. (Although, interestingly, I didn't seem to notice it when I looked in the mirror.)


My mother began dosing me with supplements and drugs at about the same time, further messing up my already-blurred natural/chemical boundary. She discovered Selenium, Vitamin E, Gotu Kola, and insisted I take these, which I dutifully did. And then, she tsk-tsked over my weight, my thighs, my ass. She took me to her diet-doctor to be properly dosed with the magic skinny-making concoction, the nectar of the gods, Dexedrine. And I took it, as I was told. I didn't need prodding.


My mother was born physically disabled, a fact that she blamed for not being able to become a Big Star. And I believe this has some basis in reality, since she was once asked to sing and play back-up at the Grand Ole Opry by some Nashville talent-scout; the request later withdrawn when her disability was discovered. (I also believe my mother's ferocious drive was partly DUE to her disability and attendant feelings of inferiority, a fact she often confessed to me in her more vulnerable, teary, alcoholic moments.) The Grand Ole Opry debacle plunged her into extreme self-hatred; she took more lovers, she piled her platinum hair even higher on her head, she lopped several alarming inches off of her already-short dresses. And, she decided, she needed to DO SOMETHING with ME: Goddammit, fix your hair, put on make-up, you can't go out like that. At our house, it was hillbilly vs. hippie couture, every day. Lacquered, sprayed, Clairol-bleached hair vs. untamed hair flying in the breeze. Miniskirts vs. jeans. Pointy-Laura-Petrie-bras vs. none at all. She was perpetually furious with me. She believed my hippie-fashion was a personal insult, directed at her, mocking her.


Similarly, my mother couldn't believe I did not want to go onstage, did not want to marry rich, did not want to do the things she believed she could have done if non-disabled: What's the matter with you? she would scream in her many alcohol/amphetamine-induced rages, Don't you understand you could have the whole fucking WORLD?

The whole world? Talk about delusion. I was a pretty average kid, I made average grades, I could sing in harmony if it wasn't too hard, but that's about it. I could write well enough, but you can't be a star doing that. ("Men can, but women can't," she told me.) I didn't realize until years later, how these rages were drug-induced. By then, of course, I was having them myself.

And finally, the weed. My mother found the weed. The rage, the insanity, the screaming, the smashing of delicate objects, the gnashing of teeth, the threats and the reality of violence. I won't dwell on the details. But I confronted her at last: Excuse me, but you have been plying me with DRUGS, you realize? "This is a much less harmful drug than the ones you are taking every fucking day!"

Marijuana, I loudly, proudly and correctly informed her, is an HERB.

~*~

My years in the counterculture continued blurring the drug/herb boundary. I had one of the most profound, spiritual and mystical experiences of my life (and that is saying something) under the influence of a plant, peyote. I also puked my guts out and thought I was dying, which centers the mind amazingly. Consequently, I began to educate myself about the medicinal qualities of herbs, and began a job filling up bulk herbs at the local co-op. I visited communes, and talked about herbs with the back-to-the-land people. And all the while, I never stopped taking drugs. And my focus narrowed. My favorite drug of all? The legal one: alcohol. Which, you will remember, is made from plants, fruits, herbs.

Of course, you all know the story by now. Pretty typical Movie Of The Week stuff: it caught up with me. Down and out in various places... New York City, Oakland, Berkeley, San Francisco, Fort Myers, rural Indiana, urban Ohio... like the expression goes, wherever you go, you take yourself with you. Oh Mama, can this really be the end?

And so, like a convert, I went the other way, seemingly overnight. Straight edge. I was a zealot for recovery. I think this is often necessary for people in trouble, so I won't apologize for it, but I can see the humor in it now... engaging in major self-recriminations and existential angst over whether I should take a wayward antihistamine or single Tylenol. (Usually, I would end up refraining.) I even gave up coffee and tea, although it took me several years to stop smoking tobacco (but yes, I eventually did that, too). And during this time, I also refused all herbs, remembering that yes, marijuana is an herb. Herbs ARE drugs.

And that's the thing...many, many drugs come from herbs. I realized at this point that my boundaries were blurred for a reason. There is no boundary... there is no spoon.

You are ALTERING YOURSELF. With whatever substances you choose, be they "natural" or "unnatural"--and I was zealous in my recovery, in being UNALTERED.

~*~

Perhaps it's because one of my endocrine glands failed on me in my late 30s, and I then needed (deep breath) DRUGS, that I changed my mind. Possibly, just age. Also, a weariness of dogma, as I tried hard at one point to be a doctrinally correct Catholic, and failed at that too. Suddenly worried that I would have a baby in my 40s (not my idea of a good time), I went and got my tubes tied. And then I confessed, like a good Catholic.

"Why are you telling me this?" asked my very cool priest, shocking me. He was supposed to yawn, look at his watch, and wave me out of the confessional while simultaneously making the sign of the cross, like he usually did.

"Huh?" I asked, "Aren't I supposed to tell you?"

"You are supposed to be honest," he sounded tired. I could tell he was weary of parishioners deliberately doing stuff and then scurrying in to tell him about it.

Was he saying I was dishonest? I suddenly felt shame, and then I WAS honestly contrite.

Ashamed of what?--I thought later. And then I knew. Having my cake and eating it too. Having my tubal ligation and fancying myself a "good Catholic." Availing myself of medical science, and then bragging about being ALL NATURAL.

There is not one righteous, said the Apostle Paul, no, not one.

~*~

And so we get to the current ideological scuffle in Blogdonia. In this corner, we have Elaine Vigneault, holding forth on antidepressants. The argument started on FEMINISTE, where she stated:

My theory is that many people’s depression is anger turned inward. Anger is a powerful emotion that can be both destructive and constructive. Anger that is unjustly aimed inward becomes debilitating depression, but justified anger aimed outward towards things like injustice can be a powerful motivator. I think if more people embraced this view and used their anger as a motivator, we’ve have a revolution and possibly a better world.

There’s a saying, “if you’re not mad as hell, you’re not paying attention.” And another one “ignorance is bliss.” I think both are true. I think happy people are people who wear rose-colored glasses and don’t see reality clearly. That’s not to say happiness is ignorance; I’m saying that constant bliss can only be achieved through drugs, ignorance, or some other form of blurred reality. Occasional bliss is available for anyone willing to accept it: puppy pictures, flower bouquets, a compliment to or from a stranger, a familiar tune, a tickle, a love note, a memory… But constant bliss… that’s not real.

And in this corner, we have several people who believe she is behaving like a sanctimonious prig. Plain(s) Feminist writes:

Look - I am skeptical when it comes to the medical monster that is our health care and pharmacological system. I have had anti-depressants practically forced on me and refused them all the same. But I would never take my own experience and decide that it is universal and that everyone else is completely deluded, which is what Vigneault is doing here (to a commenter who says that anti-depressants helped them, she replies "I’d argue about whether they really did the trick or if you just believed they did..."

Life is never Either/Or, except when people make it that way. It doesn't have to be. We all expect to be able to have our tubes tied, our broken bones set, and our nasty tumors surgically excised. Expecting not to cry every minute or cower in the closet of a Motel-6, is a very basic matter of survival, on that level. And yet, we don't quite see it that way, do we? Our modern life causes these problems, Elaine (and many herbalists I have known) like to say. Well, stop the presses. The broken bones, the tumors, the cholesterol, my thyroid, are likely the same. Our environments shape us. Every day, I talk to old people who had their health destroyed in the textile mills; they have odd cancers, tumors, and mesothelioma. Fibers are forever lodged in their bodies. I suppose we might say our modern life, the need for clothing, has caused this, as it surely has. And Elaine is wearing clothes right now, too, as you are, as I am. Someone, somewhere, is paying for that. Their eyes squint and strain; they develop strange spots on their lips from licking dyed threads, every day. Do we deny them health care? Of course, many people would like to. But right now, the American policy seems to be, do it to Julia, don't do it to me. Destroy the health of the people in Mauritius, Mexico or China, do not destroy ours.

~*~

Our modern life has messed us up, no question. But only a cruel philosophy denies comfort to those afflicted, for whatever reason. Yes, we must clean up the system; BigPharm is corrupt, money-grubbing, and lying. But I use it, too. As we all do.

As Dorothy Day said, I am here to comfort the afflicted and to afflict the comfortable. And with all due respect, Elaine, as well as many other people in my own profession, have it very confused.