Well done to the Washington Monthly for devoting a whole issue to torture. But fine words butter no parsnips: what are the punditerati, minor beltway functionaries and party hacks planning on actually doing about it?
When beer’s as necessary to you as this you’ve got a problem.
But bad news for drinkers: beer may soon become a luxury, not a necessity:
A worldwide shortage of a key beer ingredient, hops, is causing beer prices to spike…Why the shortage now? It’s a classic sift of agricultural supply and demand. “There was a glut of hops, which caused low prices, which caused a lot of people to go out of business,” says Ralph Olson, owner of Hopunion, a Washington state supplier of hops to brewers across the U.S. “Now, there’s a shortage.”
The news gets more bitter for beer drinkers. Recent corn subsidies have lured surviving farmers away from hops, leaving only 118,000 acres worldwide dedicated to growing it. Worse yet, last year’s crop was thinned by a drought in Australia and excessive rains in Europe. “I’m scrounging around the world,” says Olson, “and there aren’t many out there.”
This NZ ad answers a conundrum that has vexed humanity for far too long. How far from the beach can you go before swimwear turns into underwear?
Another conundrum – accident, murder or remorseful suicide? A senior Manchester police officer clears the UK government of involvement in CIA rendition flights; some time later evidence is admitted that shows that the UK actually did cooperate in US torture:
Todd’s investigation concluded last June that there was no evidence to back the claim. Last month, however, Britain admitted one of its remote outposts in the Indian Ocean had twice been used by the United States as a refueling stop for the secret transfer of two terrorism suspects
Classic mangled Ebay English, courtesy of Aimai at If I Ran The Zoo:
“There is really bona fide pottery barn outlet wares trading on eBay, pottery barn outlet wares that can emphasize any region of your dwelling. No, most of the product traded is not artificial, but you will have to be cautious. As with any rebate site there will be masses that desire to take reward of unaware shoppers. Below, I prefer to assist you to dialect your bathroom with this product. More….”
Haven’t we all wanted to dialect our bathrooms at some time or other? I know I have.
Ooh, pretty. Stunning microscopic photography from the Wellcome Image Awards
For those masochists who insist on prodding the nagging bad tooth that is world news, heres’ something to keep your anxiety level at a screamingly high pitch. The New Yorker writes about the thousands of children, unpersons guilty of no crime, held in private US immigration jails: so much for bringing your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to be free:
Families were placed in former inmate cells. Each cell had a twin bed or a bunk bed with a thin mattress, a small metal or porcelain sink, and an exposed toilet. Generally, mothers and very young children stayed together in one cell, fathers in a separate cell, and older children in another. Husbands and wives were not allowed to visit each other’s cells. Masomeh told me, “For three days, Majid had a fever, and I wasn’t allowed to go to in and ask, ‘How are you?’ ” The cell doors were metal, and each had a window two inches wide; the floor and walls were bare, except for a shatterproof acrylic mirror. Doors were to remain open during the day, but they were wired with laser-detection alarms that were triggered when anyone came or went at night. A 2007 report by two advocacy groups—the Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service and the Women’s Commission for Refugee Women and Children—noted that if a child sleeping in a separate cell woke up at night and went looking for his parents the alarm would sound, and only C.C.A. staff members were allowed to respond.
The guards at Hutto conducted as many as seven head counts a day, during which all detainees, even toddlers, were supposed to remain in place, usually by their beds, for as long as it took to complete the count. In practice, this meant that detainees might be in their cells twelve hours a day. (When head counts were not taking place, detainees could assemble in the common area within their “pod” of cells, where there were couches and two televisions.) Last March, an immigration lawyer named Griselda Ponce testified before the U.S. District Court in Austin about conditions at Hutto, and told of an occasion when the five- or six-year-old daughter of a woman she was interviewing had to go to the rest room. The captain on duty told the girl that she could not do so during a head count. Ponce said that the girl made “six or seven requests,” and was rebuffed each time; after about fifteen minutes, the girl “smelled of urine.”
As world recession and shortages start to bite and mass migrations intensify, this is only going to get worse.
On to infinitely less weighty issues: British newspaper critics reveal the worst that insulted stars have thrown at them, including an imaginary ball of fishhooks. Oh the poor loves. How they suffer.
What’s cooler than being cool? Ukeleles. Lord knows we need cheering up and if this doesn’t do it you haven’t a cheerful bone in your body and there’s no hope for you.
A brace of ukeleles for your lunch break: first the Ukelelelelelele (sorry, can’t stop spelling it) Orchestra of Great Britain does Isaac Hayes’ Shaft:
Who knew the ukelele could be goshdarned funky? Kiwi ukeleleists are no slouches on the toetapping front either: here’s The Wellington International Ukulele orchestra with Outkast’s Hey Ya:
Hah, that’s you earwormed.
