The students, from Concord National School in Barangay Basak San Nicolas, vomited at least five times after reportedly drinking a bottled coffee drink, which was distributed as sample at the school past 3 p.m. Wednesday.
According to Kenneth Siasar, hospital administrator of CCMC, the patients are now in stable condition.
But he was a real person. And he was a real person who loved breakfast. I, myself, am a boring-ass white boy who read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas at age 14 and became enthralled with Thompson’s ability to file while seemingly actively snorting whatever powder was around. And I also love breakfast. So I’ve gotten obsessed with this quotation about Hunter S.Thompson’s breakfast (I also read the Vegas book when I was 14).
“I like to eat breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every twenty-four hours, and mine is breakfast. In Hong Kong, Dallas or at home—and regardless of whether or not I have been to bed—breakfast is a personal ritual that can only be properly observed alone, and in a spirit of genuine excess. The food factor should always be massive: four Bloody Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crepes, a half-pound of either sausage, bacon, or corned beef hash with diced chiles, a Spanish omelette or eggs Benedict, a quart of milk, a chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of Key lime pie, two margaritas, and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert… Right, and there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours and at least one source of good music… All of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and preferably stone naked.”
(Binge watching season 2 of Narcos while I write, I’m continually impressed by the outrageous sweaters worn by cocaine kingpin Pablo Escobar.)
I view Hunter S. Thompson the way I view all writers talking about their supposed routines: They’re just baiting someone stupid enough to try to recreate them into personal or mental ruin. And yet, the breakfast beckoned to me. How could it not? The sheer amount and variety is completely insane. The food alone is enough to stop one’s heart, let alone the drinking and the dessert cocaine.
So I decided to try to conquer it, this Mt. Olympus of breakfast. My attempt at the breakfast took nearly five hours, inspired a minor argument, and was consumed as close to naked as I could get with a photographer and several other assistants around. I couldn’t be alone for the breakfast—I had a photographer, several people helping with the cooking, and other people that just wanted to gawk—but I cherished my few alone moments and understood why he would have valued his alone time. At times I had to lay down. Once, I vomited. Other times, I wish I had. I think I learned something. Definitely I learned about the limits of my endurance.
Hafford goes into all the details of this 5-hour marathon.
Finishing the breakfast, or coming as close as I did, more or less confirmed my suspicions. This was not a mortal amount of food to eat. Hell, this was not a mortal amount of food to describe eating. I wouldn’t characterize myself as shocked that Hunter S. Thompson would eat (or say he ate) breakfast like this, but I would say I’d be surprised if he did this more than once in his life. This type of eating requires a hotel because it’s elaborate and you couldn’t really find that solitude or nudity anywhere else. Preparing the food took an hour just by itself. One could picture him, cigarette clamped in jaw, growling the order into the phone. One could also picture the person taking the order asking if he needed two place settings.
WJAR-TV reports (http://bit.ly/2cmW89E) it happened Saturday afternoon near a fishing area in Point Judith.
Authorities say the man dropped his phone and got stuck up to his chest when he bent down to retrieve it.
Narragansett firefighters and environmental police spent most of the afternoon trying to free him before the tide came in. After about 2 1/2 hours, they were able to remove him with the help of olive oil.
The man went to a hospital to be treated for hypothermia and a small injury to his foot.
I learned to roll my own cigarettes in jail, because tobacco in a pouch was about 90 per cent cheaper than TMs (tailor-mades).
I was so terrible at it, I spent a couple of my hard-earned jail dollars on a contraption that would roll them for me
That was 1982.
The New Zealand Herald reports that young people are labouring under the false impression roll-your-own cigarettes are healthier than manufactured ones because they are more “natural”, when they could actually be at least as hazardous and more addictive, researchers say.
A study by Smokefree researchers at the University of Otago also found some people would find roll-your-own(RYO) cigarettes less appealing if the rolling papers were a mustard yellow colour.
Otago’s professor of public health, Richard Edwards, published a letter in medical journal BMJ in 2014 saying evidence showed RYO cigarettes “are at least as hazardous as any other type of cigarette” and pointing to animal research suggesting they were more addictive.
“Any notion that loose tobacco is more ‘natural’ is severely undermined by evidence that the concentration of additives is higher in loose tobacco, at about 18 per cent of dry weight, compared with 0.5 per cent for factory made cigarettes,” he wrote in his letter.
“Some of these additives, including sweeteners such as honey, sugar, dextrose, and sorbitol, often at much higher concentrations than in factory-made cigarettes, potentially make the product more acceptable to children. The high concentration of other additives would probably surprise RYO cigarette smokers.”
The researchers at Otago published their findings in the international journal Tobacco Control.
It’s a trifecta of citizenships for me and Sorenne – Canadian, American and now Australian — and a deux-fecta for Amy as we attended our citizenship ceremony on Saturday morning.
We didn’t even know it was Australian Citizenship Day (a U.S. thing too, which is ironical because the three of us are also Americans), but there were 492 of us in a community centre — with another 500 of supporting friends and family, although we decided to keep ours a personal affair — who were welcomed to the Australian family.
Special thanks to Amy and Sorenne, and many others, who have stuck with me while I adjust to the next phase of our life.
We’ll be celebrating tomorrow, in sub-tropical Brisbane, by spending the day at the arena, playing and coaching ice hockey.
And many thanks for all the kind messages we received in response to our citizenships.
We are quite fortunate, and grateful.
(before and after pics; are we different? that’s a softball question lobbed up there for your amusement)
Further to the on-going discussion of farts comes word that of all the hideous weapons devised during World War II — Little Boy, the Doodlebug, the bouncing bomb — the British secret service came up with the silliest.
Concealed in brass perfume sprayers or little gelatine grenades, the devices were designed to contaminate enemy officers with a “highly persistent smell suggestive of personal uncleanliness”.
In an exchange that could have been taken from a Monty Python sketch, a British military intelligence officer sent one of his US counterparts the complete plans for an olfactory weapon known as “S liquid”. The S was short for “stench”.
Based around skatole, a compound with an intense faecal reek produced by bacteria as they break down meat in the gut, it was intended to make Nazi officers the objects of mockery and contempt and sow alarm and confusion in their meetings.
On August 4, 1943, as the SOE was ramping up its campaign of sabotage in German-occupied France, Wing Commander TR Bird told Stanley Lovell of the American Office of Strategic Services (OSS), a predecessor to the CIA, how to make the obscene formula.
“Up to the present, our employment of evil-smelling substances has been mainly for the purpose of contaminating individuals’ clothing,” he wrote. “Since the air in any ordinary public meeting room is generally free from smell, almost any strange smell which cannot readily be accounted for would arouse suspicion which might easily culminate in fear or even panic.”
The officer appended sketches of an antecedent to the modern joke-shop stink bomb, which would release a gust of skatole when pierced with a pin, and a miniaturised cologne atomiser to be “carried about secreted in the hand or pocket”.
He also discussed the smell given off by the “stinking ant” found in South Africa, whose smell was thought to induce extreme nausea.
The papers were uncovered in the OSS archives near Washington by Mary Roach, a Californian science writer, during her research for Grunt, her book about science and the American military.
The 39-year-old man surnamed Zhang from Henan told a Beijing court that he simply couldn’t hold it, the Beijing Times reports. Rather than try to make it to the bathroom, Zhang took a dump right beside the poor victim’s bed. Think of it as a trade?
This being the age of CSI, the critical clump of evidence turned out to be Zhang’s downfall. Beijing police extracted DNA from the poop and matched it to Zhang, who already had a criminal record, receiving a 3-year prison sentence for theft in 2008.
This time, it doesn’t look like Zhang will get off so easy. Thanks to that fateful dump, he has been charged with a whopping 286 cases of theft and 1 case of robbery over the past 4 years. It’s not clear how Beijing police managed to link Zhang to 300 odd thefts, we assume that he didn’t leave his calling card at each one.