American Ebola soldiers are next. Militarization of American health response. (Don’t vomit in public if you value your freedom).

I posted this meme yesterday, and it grows truer each day.

Ebola Flag10

Another excuse (pretense) for the Feds to bring down some whoopass on the citizenry and hence, another avenue for nationalistic police response which will sternly cite “American safety and security concerns” as the unarguable methods for increasing governmental intrusion into our lives.

Be careful you don’t vomit in public. You might find Federal MD’s rigged up in airtight scrubs and armed with machine guns breaking down your door and taking you away to the great mysterious quarantine ward in the mountains.

Barack Obama has been the worst thing this country’s ostensible myth of personal liberty has ever seen.

The Pentagon will train a 30-person expeditionary medical support team to provide immediate assistance to civilian health professionals in the U.S. if additional Ebola cases arise, the Defense Department said Sunday.

Defense Secretary Chuck Hagel ordered his Northern Command Commander, Gen. Chuck Jacoby, to assemble a 30-person team that will spend a week undergoing specialized training in infection control and personal protective equipment at Fort Sam Houston in Texas. The training is expected to begin within the next week and will be provided by the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, Pentagon Press Secretary Rear Admiral John Kirby said in a statement.

Posted in L1

“One big family” – understatement posing as assholesnide or blubberingstupid?

Sometimes, especially on Facebook, it’s hard to tell if someone is being assholesnide or just blubberingstupid.

“One big family”

A master of understatement or the most passive aggressive jibe ever.
You decide.

big family 1

Posted in L3

The politicization of Ebola is the contagious projectile vomiting of the chattering class.

Such Ebola craziness that grips our psyche.

I don’t think I’ve seen quite the collective clenching of rectal muscles across the populace in quite a long time.

It’s like Invasion Of The Body Snatchers IRL, except the enemy is not sleep, it is dusty Africans with red eyeballs and projectile missiles. There is nothing quite as magnificent as a coldly utilitarian microbe to disrupt our sense of peace and complacency and to evoke the most strident and lunatic paranoia’s.

Being of the INTJ, scientific-minded persuasion, I find it difficult to palate that moment when it’s apparent most people around me are reacting in purely emotional, superstitious and unthinking frightful manners of myopic pedagogic reactivity.

I cannot help it.

I’m not an emotional reactor. I don’t allow emotions and fears to paint my opinions. An opinion is a preciously intelligent human asset. I don’t tolerate abandoning our high-level cranial appraisals of life for raw, primitive, autonomic reactions to perceived danger without the benefit of rational, analytic thought.

The Ebola “plague” is one such trigger that separates the clear-minded from chicken little hysteria.

This casts me into a role of uncomfortable duality in which I find that I commiserate with many people while concomitantly disagreeing and clashing with their sense of impending doom.

I agree with them about Ebola on several levels.

Yes, it is a frightening, lethal virus.
Yes, it poses a danger to Americans.
Yes, the American government’s reaction, and in turn, that of its representative health infrastructure, has been pathetic, repressed, moronic, short-sighted, ulterior, thoughtless, and bureaucratic.

And I disagree with them as well.

No, Ebola will not become a pandemic.
No, Ebola will not fulfill the ancient predictions of global pestilence.
No, Ebola will not become airborne.
No, Ebola will not lay waste to humankind.

Too many people have privately, blindly, politicized this viral outbreak and they continue quite happily exaggerating its dangers in order to add more sheen to their anti-Obama (ie, “Obola”) fetish. They are invested in this chain of “logic.” It’s quite predictable now that I find the greatest purveyors of “Ebola is coming to get you” paranoia plot lines are similarly the same people who secretly relish the thought that gradually, this administration’s already tarnished coat will turn to shit brown the more fierce and deadly the Ebola outbreak becomes in the United States. I am convinced this breed of Ebola-adulating ideologue cheers on the bad news in the privacy of their own infantilized Obama-hating anti-science minds.

Of course the American government is stinking up the hospital room. But it merely highlights the ineffectiveness of a federally response to a local health emergency that is best managed by local experts and professionals. We don’t need Federal fearmongers perpetuating the ignorance of the chattering classes.

The Ebola virus has been a source of great fodder for my evil Photoshoppery. On this note, I unveil my latest in accordance with this post.

Ebola Flag10

Posted in L7

All I Want To Do Is Not Talk (apologies to BRMC).

I hate talking.

I try to talk as little as possible. I abhor the phone and I avoid gatherings. I despise opening my mouth. At times, many times, depending on situations, I can’t be sure what exactly I will say. I have no control over my words. It’s as if my mind is way behind (or way ahead of) my voice, my larynx, my fucking lips. It’s frustrating.

I’m the worst public speaker in the world. I would put money on this. All my money. All of it, every last mute penny.

I find it easier to write everything out.

I try to say “A” and “B,” according to what my brain formulated, but by the time the verbiage is transacted and processed and spewed out my mouth, it sounds like “A” turned to “C” before morphing into a muttered and soiled hybrid of “B” and “a,” a cacophonous mess that makes no sense.

I really despise being forced to express myself verbally. I find it frightening and formidable and I, who takes great pains to appear halfway intelligent, am stupefied when my utterances betray the disjointed ramblings of a complete short-bused moron.

I hate talking with every ounce of my soul!

I can never judge or plan what I words flee me like an arsonist flees a house when it catches fire. Spoken words are my enemy of frustration.

What I could write on paper, my flowery silent thoughts, turn to mush when given sound. My tongue, molded, uncooperative, shapes meandering gibberish. Talking drains me.

Even when I have something to say, talking drains me. I don’t like to squander my energy speaking. It’s dumb. Who needs phones, who needs meetings, who needs human companionship?

Everything we do involves talking talking talking talking, incessant fucking talking. We do nothing but chatter like nervous, inane little monkeys. We have little to say, but who cares, we love to talk.

I was interviewed about 2 years ago, thanks to ill-advised attention I received because of this blog. The interview was held via Skype. It was the worst disaster ever in this history of mankind. I sounded confused, disorganized, unfocused. After the interview wrapped, I wanted to pull my tongue out and set it on fire for its grave betrayal of my good name. To this day, I have never listened to that interview. I just cannot. I cannot fathom listening to myself talk. In fact, I sorta broke my word by taking the link down from my site only a month or so after the interview. Broken promises are born of mute frustration.

Talking is alien to me, much as murder would be to all normal people. I do it poorly. It spears my lucidity.

I hate talking.

Why do people enjoy it so much? I can’t express smoothly in verbal fashion. Meetings at work leave me speechless and I defer to emails to truly express myself to my utmost ability.

There are maybe 3 or 4 people in the world I feel comfortable speaking to. In certain situations, I actually can be eloquent. In such rare moments, everything I think is flawlessly converted to spoken words with confidence, certainty and absolute assertion.

It’s rare, like the dodo bird.

All I ever want to do is not talk.

Posted in L2

Médecins Sans Frontières, a horrendous taste of hope.

Politics and petty paranoia’s aside, I feel nothing but awe and admiration at the work that Doctors Without Borders does. Their selfless and fearless missions, as evidenced by their recent immersion in the West African Ebola hot zones, speaks to an altruism and courage that I can’t even come close to approaching personally. The medical professionals portrayed in this video have chosen to battle a brutal pathogen rather than lazily sink into a leisurely and complacent ennui zone of First World myopia. How can we hold that against them? They are the best humanity has to offer in a world ravaged by fear and suspicion and the tendrils of death.

Frontline episode about Ebola fighters

Posted in L2

Louise Troh is fine but Nina Pham is sick. What Ebola shenanigans?

Well, I don’t claim to be any great forensic, medical investigator. In fact, I don’t claim to be one at all.

I suppose that would be a cool gig, though, but my emetophobia might be a hindrance if success was dependent on my ability to wade through pathogenic detritus and traces of randomized and splattered bodily fluids. It would be interesting stuff and it’s why I wonder, when reading about the raging Ebola wildfire (now that is hyperbole, but if the news and every other talking head with our ear can do it, why not I?), about something curious as the medical saga has unfolded before our eyes.

I wonder about something, and I don’t believe I’ve seen it voiced publicly, especially in the wake of the news that the first American-born case of Ebola transmission was confirmed infamously belonging to Nina Pham, a cute 26-year-old nurse who had the misfortune of having to treat Thomas Eric Duncan, America’s first immigrant-born Ebola case at Dallas Presbyterian Hospital before his death last week.

Despite following various safety protocols, Pham still developed a suspicious fever on Friday night. She promptly “turned herself” in to hospital examination at Texas Health Presbyterian Hospital, and her gloomy Ebola-positive results were revealed on Sunday morning. There have been a plethora of syringe-sharp arrows of public debate and finger-pointing about how and why she was infected. Essentially, no one knows, so all theories are pure conjecture. The hospital reflexively placed the “blame” on Pham with the assertion that she didn’t follow protocols diligently, and the predictable uproar from Nurses Associations and a tremulous American public has ensued with the collective inference that perhaps the protocols are not thorough enough to repel the Ebola contagion.

Who knows. That is not my point, and I don’t care how Pham contracted the virus. All that matters is that she did. Somewhere in her disinfectant/sterility personal chain of interactions with Duncan, viral particles found their way through institutionally demarcated barriers, as laid out by “health professionals,” and found their way into her bloodstream. Despite a full-body robe, a face hood, a chlorine bath, these procedures were compromised.

Regardless of how it happened, the fact remains she was infected in spite of generalized precautions that usually protect health care workers against most pathogens. One can thus scarily conclude that, at the very least, Ebola represents quite a virulent germ with efficient channels of infectious nature. Pham, by all accounts, is a vigorous and careful nurse, traits that I must imagine are greatly enhanced when treating a high-profile death-reservoir like Duncan.

But how is it that Louise Troh, Duncan’s estranged baby-mama from years ago, has not fallen ill following his arrival at her apartment from Liberia on September 20? They had fallen in love 20 years ago, and coincidentally, just days before he fell ill from Ebola, he flew to America for the first time to marry Troh (according to most accounts) after a lengthy long-distance rekindled courtship.

Pictured below are Louise Troh and her nephew, Jeffrey Cole (courtesy, UK’s Daily Mail).

Louise Troh and Jeffrey Cole

In the week after his arrival (and presumably, cohabitation with) at Troh’s, he was admitted to Texas Health Presbyterian Hospital as the celebrated first confirmed case of immigrant American Ebola. Troh and Duncan, engaged to be married, reunited after a long separation, spent days together after he became symptomatic with the virus, the period of greatest infectiousness. Anybody in their right mind would quickly conclude this couple represented the highest percentage probability for human to human transmission imaginable. Duncan, infected, feverish, suffering from abdominal pains, spent hours in close proximity with Troh, probably doing what couples do. Everything from kissing to sharing cups and utensils to sexual intercourse…if there is a surefire way to contract a virus, it would be to engage in the intimacies inherent to all couples.

Yet, Troh is asymptomatic. Pham, “protected” beneath layers of rubber and plastic and disinfectant suds, is ill with Duncan’s virus. Troh, his soon-to-be bride, seems to be fine.

What gives?

My question, simply, is: what does Louis Troh know? Has she been interrogated? That is a term I do not use lightly, for this should be a criminal investigation. If she does not fall ill, I can only presume she had no contact with her long-separated fiance/boyfriend who she welcomed happily back into her life.

He said: ‘I can tell you that Louise just began to thank God and broke out in praise when she heard that they were giving Eric the experimental drug.
‘She was so deeply relieved that they could begin that. It has cheered her tremendously.’
Earlier Pastor Mason told MailOnline of the family’s relief at having been moved from the Ivy Apartments – which Ms Troh describes as an ‘apartment of sickness’ – to a secret location within city limits.
Ms Troh, who has a 19-year-old son by Mr Duncan, left Liberia more than a decade ago after a falling out saw the couple split.
It has been reported that they renewed their relationship following a visit by Ms Troh to Monrovia earlier this year.
But, although they spoke of marriage Pastor Mason said that they had only actually reconnected recently over the telephone.

Why would she avoid contact her with fiance?

If Troh does not become ill, I believe it speaks not of the mysterious elusiveness of the Ebola virus; it speaks tons of the mysterious elusiveness of human conscience.

Posted in L6

Misanthropy v2.0

Very true words at Return Of Kings in an essay entitled The Value Of Being A Loner.

Pierces my heart for its truth and glimpse into my soul.

I’m a good-natured loner. I am very good-natured.
Being good-natured and a loner, both alienating traits in themselves in this cynical, shallow age, spells your island existence of banishment.

Suffering no fools, distraught with perception and clarity that makes you the focus of ridicule and incomprehensibility.

ROK’s conclusion:

Being a loner, as I said earlier, is a prideful test of strength, both of your character and of your mind. If you feel you are surrounded by fools and charlatans—well then, welcome to the human experience: the world has always been like this, and you are among the rare few who sees things clearly. As such, your surest source of happiness lies in devoting yourself to a project or projects that will keep you productive and employ your creativity. In this way you will not depend on other people to pass your time, for that is always a dangerous endeavor, especially if they look good in a dress and heels.

The real value in being a loner is the absence of the collective burden of delectable human conformity of the lowest order. Not a bad trade-off.

Posted in L2

“…we have is no definite contact, no definite symptoms” and how the pestilence might unravel.

Now if this is an Ebola thing, count me alarmed. Definitely more alarmed than the little collective panic attack here in L.A. today.

I have not generally been very worried about this inflated viral affair. I believe the transmission vectors and lethal nature of the disease demonstrate a pathogen that is not terribly threatening to the general population. The American chicken little act has been a bit overblown and I find it most amusing.

However, according to authorities, a Texas deputy who merely served a quarantine order at the apartment where Thomas Eric Duncan fell ill (before his death this morning), is exhibiting worrisome symptoms that have caused him to be hospitalized and screened for the virus.

If the deputy does in fact test positive for the Ebola virus, just how the hell was he infected?

The deputy went to an urgent care clinic in Frisco, a northern suburb of Dallas, after falling ill and was exhibiting enough symptoms of Ebola to trigger a preliminary screening, Frisco fire Chief Mark Piland said. He did not specify the symptoms and said test results were expected back within about 48 hours.
The clinic initially reported having a patient who claimed to have had contact with the man diagnosed with the disease in Texas. But federal and state officials said there’s no indication the deputy had any direct contact with Thomas Eric Duncan, who died Wednesday morning at a hospital.
“The latest information we have is no definite contact, no definite symptoms” of Ebola, Dr. Thomas Frieden, director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, said of the deputy during a Wednesday afternoon news conference.

Bold is my own doing.

The worst thing we could learn is that Ebola infects arbitrarily and asymmetrically. Crossing my fingers that this deputy just had a bad burrito plate.

Identified as Sgt. Michael Monnig in this local ABC affiliate news item.

Monnig had accompanied county health officials Zachary Thompson and Christopher Perkins into the Dallas apartment where Thomas Eric Duncan had been staying when he fell ill with Ebola.

“Initial reports from the urgent care facility indicated the patient had direct contact with the Dallas ‘patient zero’; however, Frisco firefighter-paramedics now report the patient says he had contact with the apartment and family members related to the Dallas ‘patient zero’ prior to the apartment being decontaminated,” said city of Frisco spokesperson Dana Baird.

The deputy had been ordered to go inside the unit with officials to get a quarantine order signed on October 1. No one who entered the apartment that day wore protective gear.

According to Christopher Dyer, president of the Dallas County Sheriff’s Association, Monnig said he was feeling sick to his stomach before his visit to the clinic. Dyer expressed concern for Monnig and his family.

Posted in L3

Five more teens killed in an Orange County accident. Who, what to blame. The OC culture of fast and loose driving?

A very sad and frightening (especially if you’re the parent of a driving-age teen) story here in SoCal over the weekend.

It is an occurrence that is wrong on so many levels that it necessarily leaves the rest of us with a modicum of common sense bewildered.

About 2 o’clock on Saturday morning, an older model BMW with six teens was returning from Knott’s Scary Farm, the renowned annual Halloween fright-fest hosted by Knott’s Berry Farm that has grown to great acclaim and become the obligatory autumnal draw for young kids all over the Los Angeles/Orange County metropolitan area. The driver, Bradley Morales, 16, lost control of his speeding BMW as it traveled south on the 5 freeway in the city of Irvine. The car struck an embankment and caught fire, killing all 5 passengers, leaving Morales solely to contend with some tragic miscalculations for the rest of his life, not to mention the burden his parents must endure for they ultimately are responsible for the choices of their minor child. Wait until the lawsuits begin flooding in. They will most likely be working the rest of their lives to pay off all the wrongful death settlements.


To further confound the nonsensical nature of this avoidable tragedy, local Los Angeles blog, laist, reports, by way of KCAL9, that Morales had a history of speeding. According to Arlene Moreno, sister of Brandon Moreno, 14, who was killed in the crash, “Every time. Every person who went into his car with him. Everyone told him to slow down.” Apparently to no avail.

In addition to Morales and Moreno, the other passengers, all killed, were Jennifer Campos, Jennifer Bahena, Matthew Melo and Alex Sotelo. In addition, laist posted this photo of Moreno and Morales (on the right).


At the expense of stating the obvious, I think we can safely surmise these kids were all Hispanic, but more pointedly, Mexican-American. And this is a laundry list of WTF’s that makes most people shake their heads:

-Why was a 16-year-old driving a car full of minors at 2 in the morning?
-Why was a 16-year-old without a driver’s license or learner’s permit driving a car with 5 minors and no adults?
-Why would someone buy an unlicensed 16-year-old a car, or at the very least, lend it to him for an overnight trip to Knott’s?
-Despite the driver’s reputation, why did at least the parents of one passenger allow him to drive with such a risky driver?
-Did any of the parents involved exert the smallest trace of strict oversight of their children’s lives?

I don’t know what to say. As tragic as this is, one cannot help but wonder whether or not stronger parenting of any of these children might have prevented or lessened the death toll somewhat. And then there is the ethnic angle. I was thinking of writing about the cavalier fatalistic attitude intrinsic to the Mexican temperament. In that context, this accident and deaths are not so baffling. As Mexicans, we tend to throw fate to the wind and let it fall where it may. This manifests as really thoughtless, impulsive, rash behavior that leaves White laist readers puzzled. It’s the curse of such a culture of machismo. We don’t fret or worry about possible bad fortune, and furthermore, we don’t even try to address it proactively because that is just unheard of! The concepts of “neurotic” and “Mexican” are so difficult to utter in the same sentence that I almost choke at the thought. When your world is one whose decisions and momentum is infused with such fatalistic nihilism, why worry or fixate on sensible limitations that attempt to control that which is beyond our’s…?

I thought of writing about that but really, horrible crap like this happens all the time, across every ethnicity. In fact, just last year, also in Orange County, three Filipino teens were killed when a Saudi Arabian 17-year-old boy without a driver’s license lost control of his speeding car. Orange County’s wide, modern streets entice reckless speeding, evidenced by the glut of high-speed fatalities involving expensive cars. The upper middle class trappings of abundance and parental spoiling don’t help.

Posted in L6

Kelly Atlas, Direct Action Everywhere, and the wrath of the new Urban Physically Undifferentiated Class.

A few months ago, internet masculinizer and man-empowering cyber-gladiator Heartiste kicked off what appears to be a side project gloomily entitled Goodbye, America (in a photo). As the name implies, this is a photo blog which posts an amazingly incessant parade of photos demonstrating assorted crimes against nature as embodied in fleshy women, spindly men, and all their liberal, vegan, gender-bending affectations. It’s quite entertaining.

During the course of some online perusing this evening, I chanced upon a photograph that would embody America’s downfall, as mythologized in “Goodbye America.”

First, the photo. Then the agonizing, soul-wrenching backstory.

food violence

The photo is lifted from the home page of Direct Action Everywhere, an ambitiously lethargic over-civilized tome of tired socially crusading left-wing pet causes rolled into one steaming pile of hairy lesbian armpit congealed fury. The photo tells us all we need to know about this caricature of a local grass-roots coastal California movement redolent of smug aspersions and conceits.

Now on to the next descending level of this spiraling, dizzying maelstrom into the bowels of liberal hell. “Direct Action Everywhere” has a member by the name of “Kelly Atlas.” She has created a franchise in which she makes a spectacle of herself by barging into restaurants where meat is served and commencing to spew her vegetarian spiel amid crocodile tears and embarrassing laments in which she mourns the evil and barbaric treatment of…birds. Poultry.

Once the monologue is mercifully over, she and her DAE protein-challenged minions pull out signs proclaiming a sophomoric PETA-style slogan, “It’s not food, it’s violence.”

In this rather blush-inducing video, she marches into a suave foodie eatery in San Francisco called Bluestem Brasserie, and becomes boygirl emotional and weepy over a poor creature, Snow, which is really just an anthropomorphicized bird.

Let the red-faced affair begin.

Now that slogan.

It’s not food, it’s violence.

One predominant trait of the new urban, physically undifferentiated class, is the denial, most of it willful, of primal human nature, something most of them find horrifically distasteful and which, it appears, they seek to erase in the matter of 2 Birkenstock-wearing generations. It is this animal core that harks back to our uncivilized, utilitarian nature that the new urban physically undifferentiated class seeks to subvert and culturally ostracize.

But the ironic thing is…Atlas and her mincing toadies have stumbled upon a half-truth.

Food is violence. It always has been. I don’t care how many tattoos you wear on your emaciated pale shoulders. Food is violence.

Posted in L7