Information Overload

They've said Ignorance is Bliss. What you don't know won't kill you. None the wiser. Quite often it's true.

I was doing a little online research when I came across a news article stating that back in '91 some pharmaceutical companies were pedaling a series of innoculation shots aimed at a target market of infants 6 months of age. Standard procedure. Everyone gets them. It is common knowledge that the public school system won't allow a child to attend unless these shots are administered.

What parents didn't know was, in addition to the introduction of weakened or dead pathogens the infant is supposed to develop an immunity to stave off, the whole premise of vaccines, there also contained an antibacterial chemical preservative called thimerosal which happens to be... mercury.

Make an appointment.
Step into the office.
Wait for an eternity.
Roll up a tiny sleeve.
Tiny little pinprick.
Wailing.
All done!

These were not trace levels of mercury. These series of innoculation shots contained 87 times the daily maximum experts heeded warning of the amounts consumed in fish. Mercury is a substance that wreaks havoc on bodies and neurotransmitters, often causing autism and retardation. Young children are 4 or 5 times more sensitive to mercury than adults because their little nervous systems are still developing. There are new cases of developmental disorders popping up everywhere. As are lawsuits. All the money in the world isn't going to right the kid, though.

It was an issue of storage and demand. Since doctors have finite storage space in their offices, individual vial servings - vessels that didn't require this mercurial preserving agent - took up valuable cool, dark real estate. The best option was to go bulk. Bulk is cheaper. Going bulk requires repeated needles going in and out of a larger, reusable vial. Since the chances of contaminants tainting the vial are increased, they added a little preventative measure. Mercury!

It's in our fish!
It's in our shots!
It's in the air we breathe with "clean" coal plants! Cuz Bush says so!
Mercury!
It's disabling your kids!



I was at Stratenger's with my behemoth assed friend Fatty last night. We were both exhausted. Not enough sleep from the night prior. Over a basket of fries and collective delirium, we were on the topic of Disgusting Human Factoids. Topics included:
1. The Mohel that Worker had found online several days ago.
2. A huge penis that caused a loss of consciousness.
3. An operation that slices the legs from the ass to the ankle that once the legs were reassembled, they resembled a pair of seamed stockings.

The Comrade: Herpes.
Fatty: Fuck off!
James the bartender: I would NOT allow anybody to put his lips to my son's penis.
The Comrade: Lips would suggest something gentle; we're talking teeth!
Fatty: [after a period of deliberation] Dude! You can't cut a clean line in chicken fat with your teeth!



At work the other night I was talking to Militia Man. He is the boyfriend of my current boss, Kim. I learned that Militia Man had served in the Canadian Armed Forces, something he often exclaims: "saved my life". As a youth he was a hooligan. Actually, he's still a hooligan. He was brought into a militia which he cannot speak about in any detail, or I'd have to be killed. As it's not my time yet, I hold off on asking him any detailed questions. Columbia did slip out. He could have been talking about the record company.

After his military/ militia work he made the natural transition to becoming a chef. He now hocks beer for a local brewery in which he has a financial stake. The Comrade thinks his beer is ass and everytime she see him, she tells him so.

The Comrade: Are you still selling that swill that I will never recommend to anyone because it tastes like ass?
Militia Man: Yup.
The Comrade: Can I offer you a drink?
Militia Man: I'll have a glass of wine.
The Comrade: Of course you will.

Militia Man was telling me about a Haitian dishwasher he'd worked with once. The dishwasher explained a sideline he was paid handsomely for.

Militia Man: Oh?
Dishwasher: I go around to different bars and bet black guys that my cock is bigger than theirs?
Militia Man: Seriously? And you'd win?
Dishwasher: Every... time.

There was a not so slight problem, though. The Dishwasher's dingaling was so enormous that A) women would leave screaming from a bedroom and B) everytime he was just enjoying his own company all the blood would rush to the area causing him to pass out. He needed corrective action.

He flew to Switzerland, home of Unusual Operations. And received a penile reduction. He's happy as a clam now. Well, maybe not a clam.

My friend Death has a boyfriend who in the height of passion announces, "I love how my sausage feels in your clam!"



I'd mentioned in a previous post that James, the bartender from Stratenger's, the lovely bar that allows smoking-smoking-smoking for a one time membership fee of $10 (for their not-so-exclusive club), has cerebral palsy. This disease had created a malformation of the tendons in his legs. When he was a child he was subject to an operation that sliced him from the bottom of his bottom, straight down to the top of his ankles. On both legs. The flesh was spread open and the tendons were surgically re-aligned. James is now a very accurate human barometer. Everytime it is about to rain, James needs to double up on painkillers. When I was in they hadn't quite kicked in yet.



I was downloading music yesterday. In my search parameters were My Morning Jacket, a band I'd heard and scribbled down from Indie Pop Rocks, and M83, a band I'd heard about from an old lover. The former is really quite listenable. They'd been at it for quite a while; making music. I was urged to download yesterday because while at work last night I'd caught one portion of a Morning Jacket song where the warbly singer ardently sang something about his love being lost in the space between the wall and the bed. Good enough for me! The latter? Good Lord.

M83 is lush, epic electronica. Their strong suit is not lyrics. Musically, they just happen to make absolute sense to my body. They tap into the finer bits of certified 80's electronic Bontempi rhythms, slow, in the order of New Order. It makes my little heart go pitter patter. Oh, and lucky, lucky me! They're coming to town in April!


When I woke up this morning I looked outside to see that all evidence of the snowstorm that hit a couple of weeks ago had vanished. I was a little sad that it had all gone away. During that last snowstorm, Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, and I had taken a walk along the bike path that runs parallel to the Don Valley Parkway, a fun to drive highway route that can speedily take one north out of the city. North is the direction towards water that may or may not be safe enough to splash around in, but it sure feels like being in the womb when I'm in it, anyway. And it smells great.

Along the DVP is the Don River. A pretty brook when moving; a filthy cesspool when stagnant. In the warmer months ducks congregate in certain areas. Everytime I cross the bridge that creates a canopy over the DVP and the Don River, I always look for the ducks. Even in the winter.

I think of Holden Caulfield, my sweetie, from A Catcher in the Rye.

Holden had earnestly asked where the ducks go in the winter. No one could tell him because no one really knew. Also no one had time for such petty, insignificant concerns. Time was money.

Where did the ducks go?

Walking along the riverbank, during the last snowstorm, there was a duck-made grotto that Ack had noticed.

The Comrade: [quietly to herself] Holden! They're still here! Their feet don't freeze in the water; I checked! They don't leave! They don't fly south! They stay right here!

Ignorance isn't always bliss.