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In some countries in Africa homosexuality is punishable by death, if you survive the gay-bashing you’re likely to get when you’re found out. Some of the most egregious haters are clergy from the various Christian denominations (along with people from other denominations and none, I suppose). So, it’s always a joyous day when a Ugandan newspaper reports the various activities in which Pastor Kiweweesi allegedly engaged with boys from his church.
Even if you’re not interested in such things, read the article simply for the grand fun of the colourful language in which the alleged activity is described. The headline is: Kiweweesi Bum Sex Scandal Deepens. It goes on from there.
You won’t regret it!
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I listen most afternoons at 5 pm to the afternoon news and interview show PM on Radio 4. Today they changed a little bit of the program, in which I was intensely interested. They’ve modified the weather forecast.
Now those of you in the U.S. or in Singapore might wonder what the fuss is about. I gather that Singaporean weather forecasts are pretty much the same every day, and weather forecasts in the U.S. generally focus on a small metropolitan area in which the weather is mostly homogenous.
Here in the United Kingdom, weather forecasts on the radio and TV have generally been delivered as a story. In order to keep the Scots, Welsh, and Northern Irish happy, sometimes the forecast begins with those, other times, and perhaps even most times, the forecast begins with Southeast England and East Anglia, corresponding to Kent, Surrey, Sussex, Hampshire, Essex, Suffolk, and Norfolk counties and the London Metropolitan Area. But, what often happens is the one’s ears glaze over when the weather forecast starts, only to snap to attention when it’s too late and your area has already been mentioned.
A few weeks or a month ago, a woman wrote in to the PM program stating that the current weather forecast was very easy to forget to listen to; she wondered whether other formats would work better. So some experiments were conducted, including:
After trialling each of these, and consulting within the BBC and the Met Office (=USan Weather Bureau), the last alternative was selected. Peter Gibbs, the head of weather broadcasting for the Met Office services for the BBC, (also a hottie for those who are into men like him—unfortunately, he’s already taken), went on PM and explained how and why the new style forecast was being trialled. If it works well, and people like it, it’ll probably replace the current story weather forecasts on radio. The PM host asked for comments to be left on the PM Blog.
I heard the forecast, and I liked it. I was able to concentrate long enough to get the gist of what will be happening here tomorrow. However, when I went to the BBC PM blog website to comment, I discovered that one has to register to leave a comment.
No problem? After filling out the form, you have to also verify your email address by clicking on a link in an email that the blog will send you, presumably automated. What PM didn’t seem to anticipate is that so many of its readers would not already be commenters that the comment verification email mechanism would be overwhelmed and is probably down for the count. I asked for the verification email to be sent 27 minutes ago. Nothing yet. Normally these emails arrive almost automatically.
Of course, when I finally get my email, finish registering, and make my comment, I’ll have a short approving phrase for the weather forecast and a rant about not anticipating this kind of load.
#BBCPMBlogFAIL
Let no one tell you that being a bar girl is easy and victimless. I am really sad after reading this story.
An old man lived alone in a New Jersey suburb of NYC. He wanted to plant a tomato garden, but it was very difficult work, as the ground was hard. His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison. The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:
Dear Vincent, I am feeling pretty sad, because it looks like I won’t be able to plant my tomato garden this year. I’m just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. I know if you were here my troubles would be over. I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days.
Love, Papa
A few days later he received a letter from his son.
Dear Pop, Don’t dig up that garden plot. That’s where the bodies are buried.
Love, Vinnie
At 4:00 the next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area to a depth of three feet. They scanned the area and dug up and removed some rocks and an old shopping cart. They didn
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I think that this entry in the RISKS list yesterday might be right up your webdesign alley.
October 11, 2009 28th Sunday in Ordinary Time
Sermon delivered at St. John the Evangelist, 10 am.
Readings: Wisdom 7:7-11; Ps. 89; Hebrews 4:12-13; Mark 10:17-30
In the name of God, the one, the Undivided Trinity. AMEN.
I am currently reading a book called Monk Habits for Everyday People: Benedictine Spirituality for Protestants. That
I missed this one last month, but gladly share it today. Prof. Harvey Cox, about to retire as Hollis Professor of Divinity at Harvard University, exercises an ancient right and connects it with modern concerns.
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I had an inspiration, sat down at 5:15 pm, and had my sermon for Sunday finished by 5:45. Thank God for that!
As usual, I’ll post it on or after Sunday.
Now, off to a birthday party.
Today’s chemistry lesson … complete with misspellings showing that the author is not interested in his English classes…
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…in very good order. He brought back some old pictures, so of course I scanned one and did a bit of cleaning-up on it.
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…there is a welcoming party waiting for him on our bed.
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It was Saturday, and I awoke with some eye irritation, probably from a piece of the hard crust that forms in the corner of your eye when you’re asleep. This is always annoying, and made me feel pretty awful. Blood sugar was good this morning, though, and thus I had an interesting day.
I decided that I needed to clean some of the pots and pans that had been accumulating grease deposits for a while, so off to the DIY store at the Elephant I went. Bought two boxes of Brillo, two different types of pot cleaner, and some caustic soda for the upstairs bathroom (hair gets down in the trap and there you have it…).
I cleaned the enamel casserole pot first. It had lots of brown gunk on the bottom, burned on. The pot cleaner (kind of a paste, applied with a web cloth) seems to have softened the gunk—then the Brillo pad and a little elbow grease removed it. I was amazed. It’s still a bit the worse for wear, but it’s clean. I followed that with a shine on our Moka espresso pot, and that cleaned up too. It is amazing how accomplished doing this kind of thing makes you feel.
I kvetched to my friend Fraffie Welch in Marblehead about the awful Tesco corned-beef hash I had a few days ago after reading her column in the Marblehead Reporter. She replied saying that Prudence hash is the best canned hash around. Unfortunately, this isn’t available here in the UK and I don’t think it would be a good idea to get another appetite that can only be satisfied by hauling cans back from the US. So, I made my own.
Sliced some raw potatoes and parboiled until they were nearly done. Saut
As most of you will be aware, I’m a diabetic and constantly have to go to the quack for this checkup or that checkup. For my foot I go to Kings College Hospital Diabetic Foot Clinic. For diabetes itself, I am currently attending the Diabetic Clinic at St. Thomas’s Hospital. I go to my own GP for prescriptions and anything other than diabetes.
A couple of months ago I got a letter saying that I had an appointment with the lipid nurse at the Diabetic Clinic at St. Thomas’s. OK, no problem. That’s all the letter said. No instructions about what to bring (urine sample, perhaps) nor restrictions on whether I could eat before the appointment.
The rest of the background to this is that, while taking simvastatin my cholesterol has been normal to low (for a diabetic) and my ratio of good to bad cholesterol has also been very good. So seeing the lipid nurse or doctor isn’t top-of-mind for me.
Yesterday I turned up at St. Thomas’s at around 11:05 am, saw the receptionist, then went to wait. The nurse’s assistant came out and took my blood pressure (127 /71!) and weight (not so good). To the waiting room again, where a few minutes later the lipid nurse emerged and called my name. Into her office we went. She is from a middle European country and had the accent to match.
She started by asking a few questions which others had asked me before in the clinic, and the answers to which were on her computer. Then she said, “You’ve been fasting, haven’t you?” I said, “No, I haven’t.” “Why not?” “The letter I got didn’t request me to fast and the time of the appointment (11:30am) wasn’t conducive to fasting, anyway.”
She looked at me: “You should have known when you made the appointment that you needed to fast.” “Hold on,” I said, “First, I didn’t make the appointment—the clinic made it. Second, I’m diabetic, on insulin at night, so morning fasting could be dangerous for me.” She was wearing my last nerve very thin indeed. She then ordered me to fast whenever I come to the lipid doctor or nurse.
Then she came to my record and asked me whether I had any family. I mentioned that I was married in a civil partnership. She said, “There’s nothing here to allow for a civil partnership. I’ll put you down as ‘Cohabiting’.” I replied, “No you won’t! Civil partnership is equivalent to marriage, so you will put me down as married.” Nerve is now even thinner.
She then said, “Do you have brothers and sisters?” I replied, “Yes, one of each.” “We must make sure they know that they are at risk for diabetes and hypertension genetically.” I looked at her and, as calmly as I could, said, “My brother had a heart attack at the very same age I did, with angioplasty and a stent, just as I had. He was at the same time diagnosed with diabetes. I think he knows already. My sister is well aware of my brother’s and my situations, so I’m certain she knows of her own risk as well. In any case, they both live in America so the NHS won’t be taking care of them anytime soon.”
She then proceeded to lecture me on the evils of bariatric surgery, telling me about the grim side effects and promoting the virtues of simply eating less and exercising more. I had really had enough, and told her that I had been lectured like this for the last 50 years or so, and none of it was helpful enough to help me to lose weight. I know all this. What I need is help to lose weight, and bariatric surgery is my last hope of outside help bar wiring my teeth shut; it has also been shown that certain types of bariatric surgery assist in fighting off insulin resistance in your body, even before weight loss has begun.
She ended the appointment by giving me a ticket to have blood drawn for lipid testing, saying that the fact that I hadn’t fasted didn’t matter, really. Some other tests would be run and when she got the results she would send them along to me. I told her: “I already get enough bumpf from the NHS—please don’t send me the results unless I need to follow up on them in some way or other. She countered: “We like to keep our patients involved in their treatment.” I had to be firm: “Let’s save the NHS some money and not send results unless something or other needs to be done, please. Thank you.” Reluctantly, she agreed.
Those who are familiar with the “Carry On…” movies will remember the Matron, Hattie Jacques, who was a blunt, no-nonsense head nurse in many of the films. The Lipid Nurse reminded me of the Matron, so sure of what she knew and imposing it on everyone else in the hospital. It goes to show you that a good “bedside manner” is vital when doctors or nurses are dealing with patients; how much brighter and useful would this appointment have been if the Lipid Nurse’s manner had been helpful instead of confrontational.
I emerged, had my blood taken by a lovely nurse (all the nursing staff who do the routine vital signs in the Diabetic Clinic are a joy, especially the dishy young man who was also in the Cardiac Intensive Care unit when I was recovering from my heart attack) and then marched back to the bus for the trip home and to lunch in the church Drop-In. I was not best pleased.
…and many happy returns of the day.
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As you may be aware, years ago I earned my crust in the market research biz. It’s an interesting profession—reviled by those who are called away from their dinner tables by interviewers but much prized by politicians and product marketers (dubious recommendations, I suppose…). The statistician was a person ensconced in a hidden-away office in the corner who cooked up ways of statistically sampling populations so that the surveys that resulted from the polling were representative of the entire population.
A gentleman named Nate Silver has done a statistical analysis of the situation for gay marriage bans, with a special concentration on the state of Maine, as its vote is coming up in a month or so. His conclusions will give hope to those who are working to defeat the ban.
…and many happy returns of the day.
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Tyler is an angmoh kid—a Caucasian living in Singapore. He has lived in China and the US as well (I think he’s American by birth). He’s blond, cute, and can speak Mandarin, English, and Singlish!
You don’t believe me? Watch this!
…I rediscovered this clip from George Carlin about the little things in life that are funny. If I said, “Have you ever found yourself in a room and you don’t know why you went in there?” it wouldn’t be funny. George Carlin could read the telephone book and he’d be funny.
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Freemasonry, I admit, has its secrets. It has secrets peculiar to itself, but of what do these principally consist? They consist of signs and tokens which serve as testimonials of character and qualifications, which are conferred after due instruction and examination.
These are of no small value. They speak a universal language and are a passport to the support and attention of the world. They cannot be lost so long as memory retains its power. Let the possessor of them be expatriated, shipwrecked or imprisoned; let him be stripped of everything he has in the world, still their credentials remain, and are available for use as circumstances require.
The good effects which they have produced are established by the incontestable facts of history. They have stayed the uplifted hand of the destroyer; they have subdued the rancor of malevolence and broken down the barriers of political animosity and sectarian alienation.
On the battlefield, in the solitudes of the uncultivated forest or in the busy haunts of the crowded city, they have made men, of the most hostile feelings and the most diversified conditions, rush to the aid of each other with special joy and satisfaction that they have been able to afford relief to a Brother Mason.
Worshipful Brother Benjamin Franklin, 1778
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…and many happy returns of the day!
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When I was in middle school, I had my first same-sex sexual experience (my first sexual experience as well). But homosexuality wasn’t discussed. In fact, I suspect that most of us, gay or straight, wouldn’t have known what the word meant.
Things have changed. God, have they changed! I am so envious of the kids who not only know what homosexuality is, and who know they are gay or lesbian, but who also come out at school, and are allowed to do so.
Thank goodness for the people who fought for lesbian and gay equality years ago—these advances would not have happened without you!
I had given notice at Quantime in New York to move to Market Facts in Chicago. While I was serving out my notice, both Quantime and Market Facts asked me to go to Phoenix to do some work there with a client who was having some problems with a Quantime product. My first time in Phoenix (and, so far, my only time in Phoenix). It was a few weeks after the Episcopal Church’s General Convention had met there.
I remember that the evening we got there it rained cats and dogs (which is out-of-the-ordinary for Phoenix, I think). So I went to the client’s office building, which towered over most of the rest of Phoenix (I won’t say who it was but it is a big company—gold faucets in the Gents’, and so on).
I was sitting working at a computer terminal and looking out over the city while I worked. On the horizon I saw what I thought was some sort of cloud in the sky. However, as time went on it seemed to get closer and closer and turned brown. I asked the client what it was and he shrugged and said, “It’s a dust storm. We get them from time to time.”
Some dust storm. It moved rapidly toward the building and, suddenly, the entire skyline of Phoenix had disappeared into a brown haze of dust and dirt. This continued for a few minutes and then, as suddenly as it had arrived, it departed.
At that point I swore never to move to Phoenix. I guess I’ll have to say much the same about Sydney—although, to be fair, our former flatmate Wyn MSNed me this morning and said that it had never happened before in his experience.
I’ll probably still give Sydney a miss (except for a long-hoped-for sightseeing trip).
Polygamy happens in many societies; polyandry in relatively few. If you’d like to hear why women shouldn’t be polyandrous, but it’s OK for men to be polygamous, read this article. But if you think I would agree with it, please don’t.
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…but for how long, only $DEITY$ knows.
…and many happy returns of the day.
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