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Now that Apple has Boot Camp, my friend Glen did this mockup of what the online Apple Store would look like if they sold Windows XP along with their Macs. It notes, helpfully: "You’ll need to add this option to run Minesweeper, Notepad or anything ending in .EXE."
(Here‘s what the original page looks like.)
Last week I wrote about what happens when some kids take Ritalin. (Delusional parasitosis, aka crank bugs.) This week the New Yorker caption contest reveals what happens when their teachers take the drug:
"I see small people."
There are already many reasons to do Ritalin. It improves focus, mood, and motivation. It’s also stronger than blow and, with health insurance, cheaper than Starbucks. But in case you haven’t heard, it produces hallucinations too, free of charge. According to the Times last week:
Dr. Kate Gelperin, an F.D.A. drug-safety specialist, [said] that the agency had discovered a surprising number of cases in which young children given stimulants suffered hallucinations. Most said that they saw or felt insects, snakes or worms, Dr. Gelperin said.
Dr. Gelperin described the case of a 12-year-old girl who said that insects were crawling under her skin. Another child was found by his parents crawling on the ground and complaining that he was surrounded by cockroaches.
Fun times.
The specificity and commonality of the delusions are striking. One could be forgiven for blaming South Park as a common priming stimulus. In a particular episode, Cartman takes Ritalin and sees an insect-like Pink Christina Aguilera Monster crawling around. Perhaps this cartoon creation, this media meme, has burrowed into the psyches of kids across the nation.
Or not. What should be more striking is the recency of the reports of these delusions. Common stimulants (coke, meth, Ritalin, caffeine) block neurons from deactivating the neurotransmitter dopamine. An excess of synaptic dopamine can cause psychosis. Doctors have even given a name to the particular wig-out reported above: delusional parasitosis. Speed freaks have a name for it too: crank bugs. According to a 1969 article in the Journal of Psychedelic Drugs, "It is common to see speed freaks with open running sores or scabs on their faces or arms as a result of picking or cutting out these hallucinated crank bugs." Word to the wise: if you ever catch one, I hear they go great with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.
But you don’t need drugs to see bugs. This article titled "Insects in Psychiatry" explains: "Insects have profoundly influenced our culture through time, and it is therefore not surprising that they feature prominently in some psychiatric disorders." The author draws the history of delusions of parasitosis in the med mags back to a pub date of 1894, years before vitamin R was invented, and even longer before Christina Aguilera infested our lives.
Remember Tuskegee? No, not the huge explosion in Siberia (caused by one of Nikola Tesla’s experiments–wink wink.) That was Tunguska. In the Tuskegee Syphillis Study (1932-1972), hundreds of poor black men in Alabama were given shitty treatment for syphillis to see what would happen. In bad faith, the men were told they had "bad blood." No diagnosis, no informed consent.
Earlier this month, science writer Rebecca Skloot made a couple of blog posts covering the ethical implications of a new study. PolyHeme, a blood substitute, is being tested on unwitting ER patients, mostly in inner-city hospitals. The bizarro blood is creating bad press.
Meanwhile, testing on brown people has gone global, and human guinea pig positions are being outsourced overseas. Jennifer Kahn has a story in the March issue of Wired called A Nation of Guinea Pigs (not to be confused with Jeffrey Kahn’s story in the March issue of Seed called The Case for Human Guinea Pigs) about how big pharm uses the population of India for cheap drug trials. They receive informed consent, but, as one doctor in the article says: "Nine out of 10 times, the patient will just ask me to make the decision about the trial for him. So what role do I play? Am I a physician, concentrating on what’s best for the patient? Or am I a researcher interested in recruiting patients?"
Now, where did I put my PharmAmorin?
Psychologist and writer Lauren Slater published an essay in the Times a few days ago with a warning to psychotropic pill poppers: "Buyer beware." Hype followed by disappointment fills the historical landscape of pharmaceutical wonderdrugs, from chlorpromazine to Ambien. She notes: "I’m surprised we haven’t yet created chemical cures for those mourning their chemical cures."
Oh, but dear Lauren, we have! On March 6, The Onion reported: "The Food and Drug Administration today approved the sale of the drug PharmAmorin, a prescription tablet developed by Pfizer to treat chronic distrust of large prescription-drug manufacturers." Side effects include "ignoring the side effects of prescription drug medication."
Snarky aside: Slater is a great writer, and I’m sure she’s a great psychologist, but I’m glad she’s not a psychiatrist. She writes, "I like the idea that human hope has a half-life of about 10 years and is fully excreted in two decades". I like the idea of a doctor who understands what half-life means.
What happens when you lock a woman in a tiny room with a mannequin for 11 days? This:
Mom never fully recovered from this experiment. Neither did Mandy. (She disappeared in 1998; the last time I saw her she was modeling a dress made of pretzels for my friend Yvonne in an art show. (My mannequin, not my mom.))
Full transcript, plus outtakes, after the jump.
This month Fortune magazine produced a retrospective on the cubicle (née the "Action Office.") Here’s the lead:
Robert Oppenheimer agonized over building the A-bomb. Alfred Nobel got queasy about creating dynamite. Robert Propst invented nothing so destructive. Yet before he died in 2000, he lamented his unwitting contribution to what he called "monolithic insanity."
Oh, come now. Without nuclear weapons, we wouldn’t have had Miss Atomic Bomb. Without dynamite, how would we remember Jimmie Walker? And, no cubicles, no Office Space. Important contributions, all.
Abstract expressionism, on the other hand, deserves another look. I believe Jackson Pollock’s last words were "My bad." The man had a point.
Today, March 14, is Pi Day. (Get it? 3.14?)
Almost as exciting, today is also Steak and Blowjob Day. This year, I thought I might take the time to reflect on a Momus song titled "Coming In A Girl's Mouth." In the first line he asks, "What is the cultural meaning of coming in a girl's mouth?", and he spends the rest of the song trying to answer that question. A noble cause.
You must read the lyrics, but they alone do not convey the full brunt of the song's humor. The voice is soothing. The tone alternates between playful and heartfelt. I believe the main accompaniment is a toy harpsichord. Superficially, it could be a children's song. (It's even funnier when you know what the guy looks like. Here's a photo of Momus with my friend Ken.)
In any case, in light of the theological issues Momus raises, I asked a member of the clergy for comment on the lyrics. During our discussion, he noted that, in terms of filth, it is the one who ejaculates who would be considered dirty (temporarily), rather than the recipient. So the sperm consumer is "off the hook."
Now, in light of the theological issues raised by 3.14159…, maybe I'll sit down and rewatch my DVD of Pi.
I’m disappointed in this week’s finalists for the New Yorker caption contest. They are:
A.) “I think the Manhattan skyline is getting suspicious.”
B.) “I just wish we could talk about something other than global warming.”
C.) “Well, that was abominable.”
I don’t get A. I think I get C, but it’s not very funny. [BTW, when I was young I thought it was the abdominal snowman.] B is pretty funny but a bit pedestrian. I bet 1000 people submitted similar lines. I much prefer the one I sent in:
"Do all the frozen sperm banks offer seasonal specials?"
The most obvious, and yet unprintable, caption, of course, would have made reference to snowballing. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if The New Yorker received submissions on that theme. I can only imagine relative obscurity of the term among their dignified readership as an excuse for not selecting one of those; surely prudishness would not have stopped them, as they are not the New York Times.
