Tuesday, August 16, 2011

My Favorite Songs I Really Have on Vinyl


LYRIC O' THE DAY:
The world is a vampire sent to drain
Secret destroyers hold you up to the flames
--Bullet with Butterfly Wings, Smashing Pumpkins






So I received this totally wicked blog award from the fabulously avatared Cherie over at Ready. Write. Go.  She is one multi-talented lady--stop by her blog for reviews, writerly wisdom, and make sure you check out her art.  Thanks Cherie!


After I received notice that my blog was on fire (and confirmed that it was not a literal fire) I felt the need to butcher any song with fire in the title.  Kings of Leon was the obvious first victim, so I changed "This Sex is on Fire" to "This Blog is on Fire."  Not a chart topper, but a catchy tune.  And since I couldn't let that go, I started thinking about all the songs with fire in their title and changing them to celebrate blogs.  For all the house music fans there's "My blog, my blog, my blog is on fire."  Old school rock and roll aficionados get "Goodness, gracious, great blogs of fire."  For those who appreciate the attempt at political commentary by Billy Joel in the late 80s, "We didn't start the blog on fire."  And who could forget that Johnny Cash classic?  I've fallen into a burning blog of fire, indeed.


That's when I realized how important music is to me.  I'm always listening to something when I write/run/cook/drive/bathe/kill zombies.  Music can completely alter my mood--it's cheaper than Prozac and doesn't leave me with cotton mouth.  One of my favorite musical activities is playing records in the basement with hubs and the kids.  I'm not sure when my vinyl fascination started--I think I bought a bunch of old records on a garage sale, later realizing that I had no way to play them.  But thanks to nostalgia and the internet, I was able to buy a sleek fancy turntable at Best Buy.  Before that, we relied on my parents' old one which was about the size of a couch and had the acoustic appeal of the tin can telephone.


I love the sound of music on vinyl--it seems different somehow.  The pops and scratches and white noise whisper to me a secret only those with turntables know.  Not to mention that album covers were truly works of art.  Hubby really embraced this hobby; he seems to enjoy going to musty smelling used record shops and communing with hippies over the merits of vintage things.  Explains a lot about his attraction for me.  We have probably about 500 albums now, and it was darn hard to pick just a few.  I sense recurring installment here.  So with no further ado and in no particular order, here we go:


Paradise by the Dashboard Light is my favorite Karaoke song of all time.   This is the first album I think I ever saw--it was in my brother's collection and it scared the holy bejeezus out of me.  Strange that now I like books with burly men riding motorcycles in graveyards.  Subliminal messaging a la Meatloaf.


Whip It is my four year old's favorite song.   I also desperately need one of these hats. 
Judy is A Punk was my intro to the Ramones.  I admit, when I first heard the song, I thought it was Julie is a Punk, so I was a bit disappointed when I got the album and that was not so.  But I can sing it any way I like.
Are you experienced?  I wasn't, but damn after this album I wanted to be.   Jimi Hendrix was a shining guitar god.
Superstition.  Actually, this whole album is amazing.  And Stevie was on Sesame Street, which is the mark of true greatness.
Norwegian Wood.  I have so many Beatles albums and it was hard to decide, but I love the sitar in this song so much.  This cover is a mess, but the album is fine.  And John looks at you, no matter where you move.  Freaky.
Me and Bobby McGee.  Love, love Janis.  Something about her Port Arthur misfit story resonates with me; it's like real-life fiction.  Gone too soon.
Run to the Hills.  I have a heavy metal fixation, and Iron Maiden was one of the first I listened to.  And it has the awesome VH1 cat video to go with it.
Living Loving Maid.  Led Zeppelin was proof I should have lived in another decade.
I Stay Away.  Beautiful.  Haunting.  Was a song for one of my characters, so close to my heart.


We are the champions.  Always made me smile to see all the jocks from my little hometown singing this anthem.  God Bless Freddie Mercury.
Voodoo People.  Prodigy is your place for songs to dance to until you throw up.
Talk Dirty to Me was part of my hair metal fetish.   Not sure what the attraction was, all the dudes were prettier than I was.  Eyeliner on men, sexy or silly?  Discuss.
Gold Dust Woman.  I have an irrational obsession with Stevie Nicks.  I think I may be her illegitimate magical love child.
Should I Stay or Should I Go?  I think this album started my alternative phase.
Red Barchetta.  I didn't know what a Barchetta was before this song; it sounded sort of like a demon of Beowulf proportions,  and you never know with Rush.   Hubby made me add this one.  He has almost all of Rush's albums on vinyl.
Jack and Diane.  My budding adolescence summed up in one song.    And a shout out to all the girls who wore Bobby Brooks.  That caption is talking to me, baby.
Rio.  Probably one of the first videos I saw--yes, I witnessed the birth of MTV, at least when my family got cable.  And Simon Le Bon on that yacht still makes me want to dance on the sand.
Add it up.  One of the first songs I heard that had a naughty word in it.   Thought I was a real badass listening to this one.  Actually, I still do.
Electric Co.  A song about ECT.  Gotta love Bono,  he's politically vocal with a good beat that's easy to dance to.
Jessie's Girl.  I had the hugest crush on Rick Springfield when he was on General Hospital with that lovely feathered hair of his.  Saddens me to see this news.  Go back to your soap roots, Rick!
Space Age Love Song.  These guys had the best hair, which I tried to emulate with many cans of Aqua Net.   I was downright flammable for most of the late eighties/early nineties.
Crazy Train.  The return of the Oz with Randy Rhoads.  Easily one of the greatest guitarists of all times.
Rapper's Delight.  The first "rap" song I think I ever heard.  And the scene in the Wedding Singer makes me happy.  Everybody would be a lot better off if currency was measured out in meatballs.
One.  I saw these guys in Des Moines pre hair cut and Napster.  And they were awesome.
Back in Black.  Although Angus in his plaid uniform left a bit to be desired, I like to think he opened the door for my highlander fixation.
Satisfaction.  I still can't get no.   
Afternoon Delight.  The naughtiest song that sounds so nice.
Dedication.  These guys were my first boy band.   Scottish dudes in jumpsuits.  What more could you want?

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Terror on the Toilet


  LYRIC O’ THE DAY:
What happened to the girl I used to know?
You let your mind out somewhere down the road.
--Don’t bring me down, The Electric Light Orchestra
I just returned from a refreshing week of vacation.  I saw 11 states and a myriad of bathrooms ranging from the good, to the bad, to one that made my five year-old son break down in tears.
My quadriceps still ache from hovering over toilet seats that I found less than inviting to my lily-white loins.
So this week for Sunday myth busting, I veer from folklore myth to urban legend.  Because before I invest in this device, I have to know:  

Can you really get a disease from a toilet seat?
First of all, a toilet seat, or any other hard and non-living object, is an inhospitable environment for most organisms, viral and bacterial.  If dry, most organisms will die within minutes of being left without their host.  Even the very contagious parasitic diseases like crabs or scabies will die within 24 hours and are unable to adhere to the smooth surface.  An added bonus is that they are visible to the naked eye. 
But what about the wet toilet seat?  I guess the follow up question is “wet with what?”  Urine is actually a sterile fluid.  But in other liquid suspensions, theoretically, things could live a little longer.  One study showed that gonorrhea in secretions lived for 2 hours on a toilet seat.  Herpes virus for four.
Ew.
But before you place an order for the Sanicone, let’s talk about the joy of skin. Unbroken human skin is a remarkable defense against germs.  Even if you touched a herpes blister directly, the likelihood of transmission would be nil without a break in your skin.  So sitting on a toilet seat, even a wet one, may make you nauseated, but won’t leave you with lasting illness.  But what if it was blood on the seat?  Well, I would hope most would back away from a toilet seat covered in blood but in the heat of the moment, things happen.  However, the CDC in its brochure on blood exposure relates that there is no known risk for Hepatitis B, Hepatitis C, or HIV transmission from blood exposures to intact skin.
In fact, there are very few proven case reports of STDs transmitted via toilet seat--none for herpes, HPV (the virus that causes genital warts) or HIV.  Two case reports of possible toilet transmission of gonorrhea have been documented--one in 1939 from two patients in a hospital sharing the same urinal (one was infected) and another of an 8 year-old girl using an airplane toilet.  She wiped visible purulent fluid from the seat and then cleaned herself with the same hand.  Which is an epic fail of Bathroom 101.
In 1979, two researchers published a study in the New England Journal of Medicine called The Gonoccocus and the Toilet Seat.  Sort of like The Princess and The Pea, only a totally different sort of mattress problem.  The study authors found that as soon as the organism dried out, it was dead.  But what about that two hours that it took to dry?  That is what is called theoretical risk.  This is where laws of transmissability of disease come into play.  In order to spread disease, two basic things are necessary:  
#1 Enough germs to spread the disease (i.e. the inoculum) 
#2  A way to get into the genitourinary system, the bloodstream, or other orifice. 
This NEJM study is a perfect example of #1.  The authors took cultures from 72 public restrooms and found no gonorrhea present.  Moreover, 38 attempts to culture a toilet in a venereal disease clinic also revealed no STDs.  The study authors concluded that the toilet seat was not a viable mode of transmission, largely due to lack of a significant inoculum.
To address #2, the basic use of a toilet seat comes into play.  In other words, the areas that carry contagion are not necessarily those areas in direct contact with the seat.  I don’t know how you use the toilet, but I try not to rub my naughty bits all over in wild abandon on an unfamiliar toilet seat.  Assuming that your skin is intact where it is in contact with the seat, there is very little possibility of disease transmission.  
Even Dr. Abigail Salyers, the former president of the American Society for Microbiology has said, “To my knowledge, no one has ever acquired an STD on the toilet seat -- unless they were having sex on the toilet seat!”  To which I issue a desperate plea to the masses (and pop music icons):

Those scenes in J.R. Ward’s novels are fiction.  Sex in a public bathroom is NOT hot.
What’s more likely to get you in a public bathroom are diseases spread by your hands--influenza, streptococcus, staphylococcus, bacteria that cause diarrhea, and hepatitis A.  But these things are far more likely to show up on the counters, faucets, and door handles. Microbiologists have found that steering wheels have 100 times as many bacteria per square centimeter than a toilet seat does.  Still, I guess if you touched the toilet seat, then ate a bag of Cheetos (you have to lick your fingers with those things), badness could happen.  But if your immune system is healthy and you employ simple hand washing, the likelihood of transmission is minimal.
And what about those toilet seat covers?  Peace of mind only.  And useless if the toilet seat is wet.  Which is why the Maine legislature refused to make toilet seat covers mandatory in public restrooms in 2009.
My next road trip I will plop down free of worry.  You, too, can rest assured that you won’t contract a disease from a toilet seat.  However, snakes in a toilet bowl are a completely different story.

            Carpet python found in a Townsville, AUS toilet.

                            Always check the bowl.    

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

I need some focus.

LYRIC O’ THE DAY:
If I could hold them in my hand, I'd make them understand
I'm not a haunted mind
I'm not a thoughtless kind
--Late at Night, Buffalo Tom
It's the last day of my vacation, and I am trying to focus.  
I have a cup of coffee, a bottle of diet coke, a sweating glass of unsweetened tea, and some LaCroix coconut sparkling water to accommodate any and all beverage desires.  I have snacks, ranging from the salty to the sweet.  The bathroom is just around the corner, with its pristine and inviting cushioned toilet seat.  I will need it soon.
Supper’s in the crock pot and the water logged meat needs no attention for another three hours.  Kids are at day care.  Hubs is killing insects out at the farm.
Yet I stare at my manuscript, mind blank except for a nagging voice that tells me I should go clean out my underwear drawer, because that may help me fill this plot hole.  As sick as it sounds, cleaning and organizing things is my guilty procrastinating pleasure.  There's nothing like alphabetized CDs and a color coded closet to soothe my aching prefrontal cortex.

Perhaps my home needs feng shuied?  The flow of creative energy is stifled, I know it.  I should shampoo the carpets; move the couch.  Damn, these seaweed snacks are surprisingly tasty.  If I do Kegels, will that increase the duration of "pee-free" periods?

JULES!  FOCUS!

In my daytime job, I am involved in the quality improvement drive in healthcare.  One thing that comes up over and over with medical errors is the tendency of humans to become so absorbed in a task that they miss other vital issues happening simultaneously.  They call it selective attention--and this is a little video to exemplify it:
T

So that makes me think. . .
Maybe I'm being too focused on being focused.  Or I need to feed my muse some bananas.
What do you do when you need to focus?

Monday, August 8, 2011

I've been Liebstered!

LYRIC O' THE DAY:
Shout when you wanna get off the ride
--Sour Cherry, The Kills


I was Liebstered this weekend.  And no, that’s not a position from the German version of the Kama Sutra or something that needs antibiotics to be cured.  It’s a bit of blog love passed to me by the fabulously sublime Suze over at Girl Wizard.  Suze has become my one-stop shop for finding the beauty in things mundane and re-examining this thing we call life.  Beware, she'll make you think.
So what does Liebster really mean?  It comes from German and there are multiple translations, ranging from favorite to dearest to sweetheart. . .and that gave me the biggest warm and fuzzy.  This award is meant to give the blogger with less than 200 followers a little spotlight.  It's like getting a virtual Valentine, without the groping.  Although technically, you still have to put out. . .as in blogging posts and such, of course.  
                   Digression:  I called my kids liebsters all 
                   night, until my four year old emphatically 
                   told me he was no lobster.  
Now I pass the Liebster to five other bloggers who have made my life a little more entertaining.  They’re welcome to give some crustacean love to another five bloggers if they desire:
Chandara Writes. Love her horror/thriller fixation.
Laila Knight.  Writing fantasy with a sense of humor.
LAGEOSE.  Dry and evil wit--and nothing is sacred.
Tara Tyler.  A writer and a poet.
Christine Murray.  A writer who has room in her heart for more than words.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Buried Alive as a Voodoo Zombie

LYRIC O’ THE DAY:
Defunct the strings of cemetery things.
With one flat foot on the Devil’s wing.
--Living Dead Girl, Rob Zombie
It’s Sunday Myth Busting time again, and this week takes me to another horror movie icon--the zombie.
Probably the first literary nod to the zombie was in 1929 with William Seabrook’s The Magic Island.  This sensational account of Seabrook’s experiences in Haiti is felt to be one of the first places the word “zombi” appeared in print.  But it wouldn’t be until the Night of the Living Dead’s debut in 1968 before the classic zombie movie changed the undead forever.  
Currently, zombie love is everywhere.  Even the CDC got into the craze.  Modern zombies are created by things like radiation exposure, parasitic diseases, and viruses.  The lurching, brain-eating zombie of George Romero’s time has been replaced with cunning creatures that can outrun you, like in 28 Days Later.  But did you ever wonder if zombies could be real?
It’s time to take a trip into Voodoo lore.  Voodoo grew from roots in the West African religion Vodun.  The slave trade brought Vodun overseas and it is still heavily present in Haiti and the Dominican Republic, as well as in America in the deep South.  Vodun values a supreme being, but has no single religious text.  It centers around spirituality and sacrifice, as well as beliefs in dark and light magic.  If a person commits a moral violation according to Vodun, they may be targeted by a Vodun sorcerer called a Bokor.  A Bokor can capture the soul and control the physical form as punishment.  
                     Tah-dah, you’ve created a zombie.
There have been many accounts of zombies existing, especially in Haiti, which seems to be zombie central.  Up to a thousand new cases of zombification are reported each year there.  However, actual case studies have revealed many of these “zombies” to be people suffering from neurologic or psychiatric disease, such as catatonic schizophrenia, anoxic brain injury, and fetal alcohol syndrome. 
The most controversial case of a “real zombie” was a Haitian man named Clairvius Narcisse.  Narcisse walked into Haiti’s Albert Schweitzer Hospital in 1962 spitting up blood and suffering from kidney failure and high fevers.  He was proclaimed dead by two U.S. trained physicians two days after his admission and buried by friends and family.  Eighteen years later, a man claiming to be Narcisse appeared with a story that he was resurrected from the dead three days after his burial in 1962 by a Bokor who kept him as a zombie slave.  Unfortunately, the resurrected Narcisse was never proven to be related to the original, although he gave detailed descriptions of childhood memories that supposedly only Clairvius would know.  Narcisse claimed his brother called for his zombification after a dispute over family land, but by that time, his brother was dead and that story could not be validated.  Without DNA evidence, many believe this is a case of mistaken identity or a fraud perpetrated to swindle the family of the real (and dead) Clairvius Narcisse.
When Harvard anthropologist Wade Davis heard of the story, he went to Haiti looking for answers.  He published his accounts in the book The Serpent and The Rainbow in 1985, asserting that the myth of the Haitian zombie could be explained by pharmacology and the use of certain psychoactive plants.
In Davis’s book, he described a substance made by Bokors--coupe poudre or “zombie powder”.  The victim of zombification was exposed to the powder, which upon analysis was found to contain toxins, human remains, and other noxious items like ground glass.  One of the toxins that was consistently present was something called tetrodotoxin, a paralytic neurotoxin that several marine animals (like puffer fish and harlequin toads) use to subdue their prey.  Initial symptoms include numbness of the lips followed by dizziness, incoordination, tremor, difficulty breathing, respiratory failure and seizures.  Coma and death can occur in as little as 18 minutes.  At sub-lethal doses, the body is essentially paralyzed--including the muscles that control breathing and heartbeat.  The victim may appear dead, but is lucid and aware of their surroundings, unable to communicate.
        There’s no antidote.  That’s some bad, bad sushi.
If the victim is not examined thoroughly, it could be possible to believe they were dead.  Of course in the modern era, people who die are generally embalmed.  Exsanguination and organ removal pretty much guarantees the dead are dead.  But we’re talking Haiti in the 1960s, and bodies were not always embalmed before burial.  So it’s possible that after a pseudo-death, a victim could be buried alive.  Now on to Davis’s zombie resurrection.
The victim is retrieved from the grave by the Bokor and given another concoction made from the “devil’s cucumber”--a species of plant that contains atropine and scopalamine--chemicals known as anticholinergics.  These substances cause the heart to race, the blood pressure to rise and may produce such marked dilation of the pupils that the victim has painful photophobia.  Other neurologic effects include a lurching gait, delirium, psychosis, and amnesia that can last for several days.  Interestingly, “devil’s cucumber” is also known as jimson weed or locoweed here in Nebraska, and occasionally people will ingest it for its hallucinogenic effects.  Unfortunately, too much may be deadly, causing seizures or kidney failure.  To keep a zombie docile, they would have to be redosed frequently.
So on to myth busting.  The effects of tetrodotoxins occur within six hours and by twenty hours at the latest.  If the person survives 24 hours, they should recover.  Paralysis generally affects the diaphragm, the big muscle that makes you breath.  Slowing the respiratory rate to such a speed where medical personnel could not detect it would also mean marked decrease of oxygen to the brain.  Most people would die if this condition persisted for any significant length of time.  But for sake of argument, say the “deceased” was raised within a couple hours.  Even then, such oxygen deprivation would most certainly result in marked brain damage.  Which, depending on whether you feel zombies are a physical or psychological being, could give some validity to the myth.
Davis was immediately called out by the scientific community because he could not validate the effect of his zombie powder on rat models.  Most of his samples of zombie powder had little if any tetrodotoxin in them, which he attributed to different mixtures and potential loss of the toxin during analysis.  In addition, his methods of investigation (which included exhuming the body of a child to make a zombie powder) were considered less than ethical.  Davis responded that the pharmacology was only part of the mystique of the zombie; there had to be a strong cultural belief that would make a person believe in the possibility of becoming undead, and that belief alone could be enough to produce a zombie state.
In Narcisse’s story there was also a flaw--he claimed to have been fed a salt-free diet for his zombie years.  In folklore, if a zombie is fed salt, they will awake.  Unfortunately, humans need salt, and without it will die a very real death.  This was actually a method of torture and execution in the middle ages.
So to sum up, there are pharmacologic agents that could be used to debilitate someone to the point where they may be confused with the dead by a layperson.  And in societies where there are not official rules for handling a corpse, being buried alive could happen.  But the human body is unlikely to withstand several hours of oxygen deprivation that would occur with the use of these agents.  The use of the devil’s cucumber over time would also lead to significant morbidity and likely mortality, making resurrection as one of the movie-style zombies that George Romero made famous impossible.  
It seems this myth is dead wrong.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Top Ten Things Learned on My Family Vacation (and it's not over yet. . .)

LYRIC O’ THE DAY:
She is the substance of my dreams, a spectra in the wind
--Psychomania, The Damned
Ah, vacation.  In my mind’s eye, gentle waves lick the shore of a sugar-sand beach.  I hold an umbrella topped concoction in one hand, a romance novel with a cover celebrating man nipple in the other.  
I’m set to recharge my inner gypsy.
Hubs and I haven’t had an official getaway for over five years--since back in the B.C. era (Before Children).  But this week, we packed up the cooler, a pile of electronic toys to amuse and delight the senses of little boys, and enough inflatable beach gear to make the Macy’s Thanksgiving day sponsors shudder with envy.
We’re on vacation.   
However, to get to the beach from my beloved landlocked home requires a trek of Griswold style proportions.  I have traversed eight states in four days.  Which translates to about twenty-three hours of driving/riding so far.  Time in a confined space, especially when any minute, a hard turn could result in being crushed by six boxes of Capri Sun, a Nike bag filled with coloring books and a boogie board, will teach you a lot about yourself.  
For instance, I can’t read in a car.  Gives me a raging headache.  And despite a fashionable neck pillow in the shape of a giant letter “C” I am unable to sleep bolt upright in the passenger seat of a Jeep with questionable shocks.  Hubs, being the self-appointed driver, is not much of a conversationalist.  He grips the steering wheel white-knuckled as dually trucks with naked lady mud flaps and those obnoxious rubber testicles hanging from their back axles try to kill us.  That means I’m forced to entertain myself. 
So around hour eleven, delirium set in, along with ass numbness.  In retrospect, they could have been one and the same.  I had a vision, and here it is:
Top Ten things learned on my family vacation (and it’s not over yet. . .)
10.  A gym membership costs about $30 a month.  A good pair of running shoes about $100.  But the quadriceps strength to hover over a truly disgusting bathroom toilet in an Oklahoma truck stop is freaking priceless.  I knew I was doing those lunges for something.
9.  Twelve hours of SpongeBob Squarepants sends me into a near homicidal rage.  If I ever find you, you moronic yellow cleaning implement, I will scrub every toilet from here to Pensacola with you and laugh at your screams.  And that goes for your little starfish, too. 
8.  I am a goddess of cougar proportions to redneck adolescents.  I know this because a toothless dude in the gas station winked at me as his mom chain-smoked in their Reliant K-car outside.  I was wearing a tank top, flip flops, and what was left of a bag of Doritos.  Hubs was curiously not threatened.
7.  If you sit long enough in one position, your entire lower body will go numb.  Do NOT attempt to shake out the pins and needles while in the passenger seat because your husband will scream at you to sit back down, truckers will honk at you, and the Louisiana State Patrol will not understand the need to restore circulation to the lady parts.
6.   After sixteen hours in a car, you don’t notice there’s blood on the door of your hotel room until it’s way too late.  Hubs tried to reassure me that it was just ketchup, but I know better, the splatter pattern was all wrong.  I didn’t bring my gun, but at least I had my bed bug spray.  Actually, I may be more scared of the bed bugs.  
5.  I have the bladder of a hamster.  There’s a lot of things I will do, but peeing in a Big Gulp cup at 70 mph because Hubs doesn’t want to exit the interstate is not one of them.  I still have some pride.
4.  Slim Jims and Pixie Sticks make a poor substitute for a meal.  When mixed with a Red Bull and E-Z Cheez, a vision from the spirit world will visit you on a desolate Oklahoma highway, precisely at the same moment the radio station plays that song by Europe for the twenty-third time.  Then again, it could have been a Chupacabra.  They love hair metal.
3.   After you commune with God via Pixie Sticks, Satan will communicate with you in a different manner via your bowels.  That one won’t be near as pleasant, and will occur just when you have left the most pristine restroom of the journey.  You will be forced to share a two holer with a one-armed dude named Jo-Bob at a truck stop in Mississippi who will tell you about the joys of catfish noodling.
2.   Hubs finds joy in posting vile vacation photos of me on Facebook with cute little tags, like “Mommy drooling” or “My beautiful wife with a bacon mustache.”  But revenge is a dish best served in a Big Gulp cup.  And he thought it was just old Mountain Dew.
1.  There is a wandering tribe of porn dependent interstate travelers that need an adult novelty store every ten miles.  Several thousand square feet of prime billboard space is dedicated to advertising the carnal delights.  Then again, maybe the dude beside you on I-10 is just buying that blow up doll to fool the people in the HOV lane. 

Happy Friday!  And for all you traveling this summer, hope you have a safe and inspiring journey.