Just a plant.

Check out this children’s story, called “It’s Just a Plant.” I think it addresses marijuana prohibition pretty well, despite (as someone elsewhere pointed out) a bit of racial profiling that I’d rather not see there.

For the history of marijuana prohibition, here’s a good historical account. The rest of the FAQ is a pretty interesting read, too. Disclaimer at the top of the FAQ notwithstanding, I know that it has been translated into several languages, and I do not know of any document more detailed. If you do, by all means let me know; I’d love to read it.

Edit: Oh, heh. Read also what people are saying about the book, as well as the author’s response to a Congressional attack of “It’s Just a Plant.”

Three sides to every leak.

Mary O. McCarthy, she of the unfortunate last name and a veteran CIA employee, has allegedly leaked classified information to the press – or, some would say, blown a whistle. She got fired for this immediately, “stripped of her security clearance and escorted from the building” to paraphrase Tom Ashbrook of On Point. I just listened to mostly reasonable debate on the radio, but was taken aback by the self-righteousness of Senator Kit Bond, as well as of some of the callers. I noticed that one of the callers wouldn’t even call Ms. McCarthy by her name, referring to her as “her” and “she”. (The caller was male and from the south, possibly a coincidence.) Bush supporters practically pissed themselves eulogizing the decisive action taken by the CIA to stop the leaks emanating from it like air from a balloon with holes in its seams. There must be legal consequences for this sort of thing, they said. We’re at war. And even if we weren’t at war, we still need to be able to keep a secret.

I’ve read allegations that President Bush actually authorized a leak of classified information. Can you believe it?!

Question for the class: if the latter allegations are true, what are the legal consequences for the President?

Sunday, rainy Sunday.

As I just wrote on IM, “You know you’re an academic when, case #254: you’re STUCK IN YOUR OFFICE on a SUNDAY because the door latch is broken.” Totally serious. I can’t even get to my printout! Aaaaaaiiie!

Someone from Facilities is supposedly on their way over. In the meantime, an update.

Elliott, the car I’d had for eight years, has bit it. A stupid accident of the sort that… you just stand there and laugh. Who woulda known that going at ten miles per hour could crumple up the hood and front to the point where the car would be pronounced totaled?

Well, it happened. Nobody was hurt, thank goodness. They’ve taken the car away. We have a rental, and have purchased another car – although we won’t have it for a few more days. A Honda Fit. It’s supremely odd to have bought a new-new car, but given available options and our needs, this was the prudent thing to do.

I’m full of nervous energy. The project is two months and a bit away from conclusion. There are at least three papers to write before then, and it would be good if they didn’t suck. And then the dissertation, which I cannot WAIT for, but which will undoubtedly bring procrastination demons with it. It’s like the boss level in a video game: slay the procrastination demons (who look suspiciously like those wraith guys from Mordor), get to the golden cup – or the degree, as it happens.

It’ll All Be Fine. Now, if only my brain could turn into a brain again… *pokes the mushy puddle with a stick*

*mushy puddle EATS the stick*

Ack.

Hey, you know what I’ve discovered? Stephen King isn’t all that bad. I have practically swallowed up the first two books of the Dark Tower series, which is not so much horror as dark-fantasy-meets-pulp. Its protagonist is a gunslinger named Roland. I’m happy to report that yes, he does in fact have enough qualities to be That Roland, and so reading King is officially dissertation work. iWin!

Now I am freed by way of Facilities’ help over the phone. Time to go where the internet isn’t, and make another attempt at writing a certain proposal.

Have patience with the news reporters.

This is mostly a reminder to self, as I’m running out of said patience.

BBC, today: “Man ‘took 40,000 ecstasy tablets’”.

For two years, he took five tablets every weekend, rising to an average of 3.5 tablets per day for the next three years, then soaring to 25 tablets a day over the next four years.[…]

When he saw doctors at the addiction centre at St George’s Hospital, Tooting, south London, he was still using cannabis, and said he had previously taken solvents, benzodiazepines, amphetamines, LSD, cocaine, and heroin. […]

[Dr Kouimtsidis] told the Guardian: “This is probably an extreme case so we should not blow any observations out of proportion. But if this is what is happening to very heavy users, it might be an indication that daily use of ecstasy over a long period of time can lead to irreversible memory problems and other cognitive defects.”

Stop with that, already! “Might be an indication”? The guy’s use surpassed the previous known lifetime-use record twenty times over; he’s used a bunch of other substances; so spare me singling out MDMA for scaremongering. If I drank 25 cups of drip coffee a day for years, I’d have paranoid delusions too.

I love it how they take an extreme case and do a News Story on it, without putting it into perspective.

(Edited to add: The Guardian reported this as well; and Mindhacks has a response to the Guardian article much along the lines of mine, only more substantiated and less sputtering.)

Happy birthday, papa.

You would’ve been 69 years old today. Instead, you’re five and a half years gone.

So many things on my mind, but the one that keeps surprising me – you’re an inspiration. You’ve taught me, by example, what to do – and what not to do.

Perhaps I’ve grown into how our relationship had changed, how my understanding of you had changed, in those last few years. I used to do things despite you and your stubborn will (that’s what you get for passing on your genes), but now I do them to honor you. Ironically enough, you still wouldn’t approve of some key choices I’ve made. But that doesn’t matter, it would still be nice to share them with you, and argue until we’re hoarse and it’s way past bedtime.

You are the reason I want to believe in the possibility of meeting you again someday.

Jewish lore says (or so I’ve heard, anyway) that the living are allowed to summon the dead for a year after death, whenever, to help with the grieving process; and that then it’s time to let them go where they will. Wherever else you might be, you’re in my blood, and I can summon that part of you whenever I damn well please. Happy birthday.