It Has Not Escaped Our Notice #796

This peculiar notice in Santiago de Chile is reported by our erumpent egregious intrepid correspondent Dr A. C. of that fine city.
Strange situation

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It Has Not Escaped Our Notice Special Double Issue

Dr R. W. of Toronto sends this image, with the rider “I’m sure there’s a joke in this photo somewhere. I’m equally sure that I don’t know what it is.”
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And in other news, Canis Primus Croxorum found this sign on the North Norfolk Coast Path, recently.
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Who says dogs can’t read?
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Music

It will not have escaped the notice of either of my readers that I have been somewhat absent of late. Absent in more than one sense, as I have been fighting off a rather vicious episode of depression caused mainly by a somewhat abrupt switch of anti-depression medication. Recovery has been slow and steady, and I’d like to thank the many people who’ve contacted me with messages of support. As one of the Men In White Coats told me (note: not all the MIWCs are men, and none of them wears a white coat. Another illusion shattered, what?) I am an overachiever who’s been overachieving; I don’t need to forever feel I have to prove myself; I should take on fewer activities; learn to relax etcetera and so on and so forth in like fashion. After all, Oh L, I have just turned fifty and can now join Austin among the ranks of the golden oldies.

One area of my life, however, seems to have gone on regardless of mental state, and that’s music – which seems to occupy a different part of my brain. In January – just as the clouds were gathering – I joined a rip-snortingly good classic rock covers band called Stealer.

Even when I was at my most drug addled, paranoid, featherbedded by valium as I weaned myself off citalopram, tried and failed to cope with mirtazapine, before going through the whole thing again with sertraline, I went to the Secret Location where Stealer rehearses, week in, week out, toting my keyboard rig, and learning the many complex and serpentine riffs that characterise the music of Deep Purple, among other things. Even in the dark depths of Mordor whatever it was, when I was doing little more than being asleep, those rehearsals gave a much-needed structure to my life.

All that hard work is coming to the apotheosis of its zenith, however, as Stealer is about to start playing live, in front of actual people. Our first outing is a small local music festival on Saturday, after which we gig furiously and very loudly on our own account. Do come and see us.

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It Has Not Escaped Our Notice 2ex30741 – 1

This topical tip in the Eastern Daily Press was spotted by Mr M. P. of Cromer to whom we owe an immense debt, I’m sure.
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Holocaust

Israel has just celebrated its Independence Day, hot on the heels of Holocaust Memorial Day. This resonates with me, as my grandparents and two aunts (infants at the time) perished in Auschwitz. The resonance increases with the idea that such gross violations of human rights should never be allowed to happen again. Never again, we say, when remembering the Nazi extermination camps.

But, if we are human, that never again should apply anywhere that human rights are violated. Israel – much as I support its existence – is not entirely blame-free, it has to be said – but there are many other countries that are far, far worse. I don’t have to make a list. The International Courts have begun to stretch their new-fledged wings with rulings against Charles Taylor, a ruler of Liberia, for abetting human rights violation in a neighbouring country; and Thomas Lubanga, a warlord in what we are now meant to call the Democratic Republic of Congo, for recruiting child soldiers. Such rulings can only be applauded – but tempered with the knowledge that these are piddling drops in a vast and bloody ocean. Most of the time the best one can do is shrug and make donations to charities whose aim is to relieve the suffering of those affected – what else can one do?

New has reached mes oreilles, however, of systematic violations of human rights so mechanised, so extreme, so unbelievably brutal, that I simply had to write about them. I refer to North Korea. It was the editorial in this week’s Economist – entitled, provocatively, Never Again – linked to this truly shocking article – that raised my consciousness.  I knew North Korea as a country ruled by an hereditary Stalinist régime with a nuclear capability. I was much less aware that the Kim dynasty has a system of gulags that make those of Stalin or Hitler look almost friendly. People can be locked up for infractions as innocent as listening to a foreign radio broadcast, or failing to dust a portrait of Kim Il-Sung. They are locked up for life – and so are their families, right down to their grandchildren, according to a theory of guilt by association, and the racist doctrine that guilt is hereditary. The racism goes deeper – North Korean women near the border with China who are suspected of having been made pregnant by a Han Chinese man face forcible termination. I could go on, but I’d be parroting the article – go read it yourself.

What, then, is to be done? I have a feeling that we cannot sit back and do nothing, or, if something, to be distracted by North Korea’s nuclear capability or the forlorn hope that the new dictator will be any better than his forbears. In the same way that those were guilty who, in 1930s Britain, sat back while in the full knowledge of the unfolding Holocaust, we cannot – now we know what’s going on – do nothing. In the face of such knowledge, to do nothing makes us all guilty.

Commissions of enquiry, sanctions and working groups – the kinds of remedies proposed in the Economist – are pointless. Yes, we went to war in Iraq on the base of – at best – misinformation, and we are still at war in Afghanistan for motives that nobody can really remember any more. The appetite for warfare is understandably very slim. But the case of North Korea is different. Here is a régime whose policies must be offensive to anyone who counts themselves a member of the human race, and with whom no amount of sanctions or diplomatic shuffling will get anywhere at all. If we are to count ourselves as human beings, we must agree that in North Korea, régime change is not just desirable, but necessary.If there were ever a case for a just war, this is it.

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Pippa Middleton’s Guide to Sex and Cooking

I’ve finished the draft of ‘The Beowulf Effect: Fossils, Evolution and the Human Condition’ and I have packed it off to the publisher. If you’d like a sneak preview, let me know and I’ll send you a pdf.

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It Has Not Escaped Our Notice #1,527

This example kindly sent in by regular reader M.G., the picture taken at Legoland in San Diego, CA.
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Mmmm. Couldn’t eat a whole one.

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Nonself

My journey of self rediscovery with mirtazapine, as dissected below, was not to last. Although I had the side-effects of this potent tricyclic – drowsiness, dizziness, very loud dreams – I was experiencing none of the benefits. Unfortunately, one of the problems with antidepressants is that they can enhance your mood – that is, make you even more depressed and/or anxious – before you get better.

A month down the road and I was back to violent mood swings, paranoia, even some mild self-harm (there, I said it.) The problem was that the local shaman seemed unable to comprehend that I needed some extra help to get through this mire, and it took a six-hour stake-out of the local Accident and Emergency ward (that’s the ER, for readers in the colonies) for me to attract the notice of the Mental Health Professionals.

So, a month down the line, and – at last! – I get phone and personal support from people who don’t look like nurses, but regular blokes with whom you’d happily share a pint of the old Thunderjugs down the Dog and Ferret – and I see an actual psychiatrist, who (huzzah!) didn’t waffle on about behavioural cognitive bollocks, or respond with my utterances of Proposition X with responses such as ‘So, you feel that Proposition X?’ notwithstanding inasmuch as which I had made it quite clear that those who went down that road with me shouldn’t be surprised to get a smack in the gob. No, my psych eschewed such woolly-minded ether-bothering and got straight down to business – there are no such things as thoughts and feelings, there are only drugs, and my problem was simply getting the right ones.

So, this is what happened – the psych said that the mirtazapine in which I had been placing such hope for a month obviously wasn’t my thing, and I had to go back to serotonin reuptake inhibitor similar to my old tried and trusted citalopram.

A month of my life I’ll never see again (not that I’d want to, it was mostly horrible.)

Back to square one.

So now I’m on 50mg sertraline:

A sertraline molecule, recently.

As you can see from the picture this looks reassuringly unlike a tricyclic and rather different from the citalopram that kept me going for years or the serotonin whose reuptake it is meant to inhibit. I have had precisely one (1) dose so far (I’ve counted … and if you were in my current state, you’d appreciate how difficult it is to count up to one, rather than the three or possibly five that is typical for palaeontologists.)

But wait, there’s more. I also have a side order of lorazepam to curb the anxiety attacks … and some zopiclone to help me sleep. I haven’t had sleep, what you’re really call sleep … for … goodness. Ages.

Let’s hope it works this time. I am a little irked that (a) my shaman prescribed mirtazapine and then effectively left me to get on with it; (b) he didn’t tell me of the support services that existed to keep me on the straight and narrow, and to reassure my family that I will get better.

Eventually.

If they can only decide on which pills I should take. The red ones? Or the blue ones? Both at once? Neither? Something else instead? I’m so tired I can hardly twitch galvanically in response.

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It Has Not Escaped Our Notice #4,466

This vaguely disturbing notice sent in by the ever-flocculent Professor Trellis of North Wales. I think it speaks for itself. What it’s saying, though, is another matter.

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Tang

As you are no doubt aware I edit Futures, Nature‘s weekly foray into the many worlds of science fiction. This week’s example is a disturbing tale of computer love – just the thing for Alan Turing’s centenary year – and comes from Grace Tang, who in real life is a graduate student at Stanford. This is Ms Tang’s début appearance in Futures, and I hope there’ll be more.

I write, however, concerning a different Tang entirely, and that’s virologist Dr Julian Tang, who first deluged me with a story when he was working in Hong Kong, whence he moved to Singapore. I use the word ‘deluge’ advisedly. Julian has, over the years, submitted literally dozens of stories, and despite my best efforts to keep them out, I have published ten of them – assuredly (I haven’t counted) more than any other single author, even Professor Trellis of North Wales – and I shall soon publish Julian’s eleventh. The first story Julian sent that I actually published was called From Mars with Love, back in November, 2008.

Julian is a one-man volcano of imagination: I tend to reject his stories not because they’re no good (very far from the truth) but because I want to give everyone else a chance. If I asked him, I expect he could fill the column single handed. I have long thought it a shame that I am practically the sole reader of most of his fiction, so for some years I have been egging him to publish his mighty oeuvre in a small anthology, so that others could also enjoy it.

This oeuvre has finally hatched, and you can now buy it from Amazon and presumably all other good retail outlets. In it you’ll find much that Julian first aired in Nature – but much else, besides. From Mars With Love and other Short Stories contains no fewer than fifty-four bite-sized brain bombs. That’s one for every week of the year, with two left over for spares. His fiction often seems light – fun and frolicsome – but if you stop to think about it, a darker edge often emerges. I recommend From Mars With Love and other Short Stories without reservation, hesitation, or deviation.

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